The wind always came first.
Before the sun crested the low hills surrounding Lowreach, before the village bells rang, before the day truly began, the wind slipped through narrow streets and over worn rooftops. It whispered through tall grass and rattled loose wooden shutters, restless yet deliberate, as if searching for something it had once known.
Eryndor Vale stood alone at the edge of the training field, watching it move.
The field was little more than a stretch of hardened dirt bordered by cracked stones and aging posts—remnants of a time when effort had been believed to matter more than talent. At this hour, it was empty. No voices. No footsteps. Only the wind and the faint scent of damp earth.
Eryndor tightened his grip on the practice blade.
The weapon was dull and nicked from years of use, too light to be considered real, but it was all he had ever been permitted to wield. He stepped forward and swung.
The blade cut through the air.
Again.
And again.
Each motion was precise. His stance steady, his breathing controlled. Years of repetition had carved discipline into his body, even if the world refused to acknowledge it.
Because discipline meant little in a world ruled by elemental cores.
By the age of twelve, most children in Lowreach had already awakened their elemental affinity. Fire sparked eagerly in young palms. Water bent and splashed at a thought. Earth answered with solid certainty beneath eager feet.
Eryndor had awakened nothing.
At fifteen, people had stopped offering sympathy.
At sixteen, they had stopped asking questions.
Now, at seventeen, his fate was assumed.
Footsteps approached from behind, slow and familiar.
"You're up early again."
Eryndor lowered the blade and turned. Kael stood a few paces away, arms crossed, dark hair tousled by the breeze. A faint shimmer of heat radiated from his skin—subtle, instinctive. Fire affinity. Strong. Stable. Awakened right on time.
"Could say the same about you," Eryndor replied.
Kael shrugged. "Habit." He hesitated, then added, "Besides, tomorrow's the awakening ceremony."
The words settled heavily between them.
Eryndor glanced toward the horizon, where the sky was beginning to lighten. "Yeah."
Tomorrow.
The final chance.
Awakening ceremonies were never meant to create miracles. They confirmed what the world already knew. A core that had not awakened by now rarely ever would.
Kael shifted, clearly uncomfortable. "You ever think," he said carefully, "that it might still happen?"
Eryndor was quiet for a long moment.
He had thought about little else for years.
"I think," he said at last, "that if nothing happens tomorrow… at least I'll stop wondering."
Kael frowned. "That's not how you should—"
"It's fine," Eryndor said, offering a small, practiced smile. "Really."
Kael studied him for a moment longer before turning away, the faint heat around him dissipating as he left.
The smile faded the instant he was alone again.
Eryndor sheathed the practice blade and sat at the edge of the field, elbows resting on his knees. The wind brushed past him, cool and gentle, tugging lightly at his hair before slipping away.
He closed his eyes.
Just once, he imagined what it would feel like to answer it.
Not with force.
Not with brilliance.
Just with recognition.
Something stirred in his chest.
So faint it was almost nothing—a subtle pressure beneath his sternum, like air drawing inward instead of flowing out.
Eryndor's eyes flew open. His hand pressed instinctively against his chest.
The sensation vanished.
Only his heartbeat remained, steady and unremarkable.
He exhaled slowly, letting out a quiet breath. "Getting ahead of yourself," he muttered.
Tomorrow would decide everything.
And whether the world realized it or not, the wind had already begun to watch him back