There was no wind in Lorne today. Not even the crows dared to cry.
The sky, as ever, was blanketed in gray ash—the color of mourning, the color of stillness. It had hung there for years now, since the end of the Mana War. Some said it was the gods' judgment. Others claimed the sky itself had gone hollow after the last of the Ascendants burned the heavens.
Caelum Thorne didn't care about gods or skies. His world was smaller, rougher, and far more unforgiving.
His fists cracked against the post again—bare knuckles against hardwood, over and over. Blood had dried over old bruises, but he kept punching. Behind him, a wooden sword leaned against the training stump, ignored. The sword was for precision. But sometimes, pain was better.
"You trying to bleed yourself dry before you starve?" came the familiar growl.
Caelum turned. Old Marek stood there, hunched, leaning on a cane made of a beast's femur. His coat fluttered behind him like a tattered war banner.
"You're up early," Caelum said, breath short.
"Too old to sleep, too smart to waste the morning pretending I'm still young. Unlike you."
Marek hobbled over and dropped onto a stump across from the boy. He grunted as his bad knee bent. "Still no spark?"
Caelum shook his head.
No red aura of Vira Core. No flicker of Lux Vein. The twin currents of mana flowed in all others, but Caelum had never felt them. Not once.
"No alignment," Marek muttered, chewing on a toothpick. "Fifteen. Most boys your age are already Ironflow or Veinkind. You're not even a Core Flicker."
"I still have fists," Caelum muttered.
"And so do the pigs. You want to wrestle them for slop next?"
Caelum looked at his bloodied knuckles. "If I have to."
That gave Marek pause. He grunted again, this time with a ghost of a smile. "You're your mother's son, alright."
The boy flinched, but didn't argue. His mother had died when he was eight. The last memory he had of her was her body shielding his from fire. An Elementalist's fire. A Lux Vein user gone rogue.
That was the day Caelum swore he would become someone who didn't need to be protected.
Even if he had no current.
Even if the world laughed at him.
Far off, a horn sounded—sharp, long, and unfamiliar.
Marek stiffened. "That's the eastern road."
Caelum wiped his brow and stood. "A caravan?"
"Maybe. Or another Arcanum raid."
Caelum didn't hesitate. He grabbed his wooden sword and sprinted through the trees.
The eastern road split through Lorne like a scar of stone and mud. A caravan had stopped on the outskirts—three large, ornate wagons with crimson banners, gold runes etched in circles. The insignia of the High Arcanum shimmered: a sun pierced by a thousand threads.
Caelum slowed as he joined the small crowd of villagers. Soldiers stood around the wagons, their armor humming faintly with Lux Vein enchantments. One of them, a tall man with half his face masked in obsidian metal, barked orders at a boy who'd wandered too close.
Then she stepped down.
The air seemed to tighten.
A girl—no, a young woman—in a high-collared, dark-blue coat with silver trim. Her long, pale-gold hair was braided back tight, and a crystalline staff hung on her back. Her gaze was cold, calculating, regal.
Caelum had never seen someone so… other.
She was nobility. Mana nobility. Her every breath sang with Lux Vein.
"My name is Serapha Vale, Seeker of the Arcanum," she announced, her voice clear as ice. "This village was marked for sweep testing. We seek rare mana signatures. Present your youth for relic alignment."
Whispers rippled through the crowd. Sweep testing was common in the outer villages. The Arcanum was always hunting talent, especially after the war.
One by one, teenagers were lined up before a floating relic—a silver orb etched with runes. Those who touched it either shone red (Vira Core) or blue (Lux Vein). A rare few glowed violet—dual-natured, potential Echoborn.
And some didn't glow at all.
Caelum stepped forward when his turn came.
Serapha looked him over with the faintest tilt of her head. "Name?"
"Caelum Thorne."
"You are past standard alignment age. Why are you here?"
"I wanted to try."
Her lips didn't move, but her eyes said everything. Waste of time.
"Place your hand on the orb."
He did.
The orb shuddered—then went still. No glow. Not even black.
Nothing.
Gasps rippled through the villagers. A few laughed under their breath.
Serapha's brow creased faintly. "Unaligned."
"I train every day," Caelum said. "I fight. I learn—"
"You have no current. No Vein. No Core." She turned away. "Next."
He stayed there for a second longer than he should've. His hand twitched.
Then he turned and walked away—slow, deliberate, fists clenched.
Marek found him back at the stump hours later.
"I told you not to go," the old man said, sitting beside him.
Caelum didn't look up. His sword lay forgotten. His fists were bandaged now, wrapped tight.
"I touched it," Caelum said. "It didn't reject me. It didn't even flicker. It just… stopped."
Marek frowned. "What do you mean stopped?"
"It was like it went quiet. Like it was waiting for something."
Marek didn't answer. He stared at the woods in thought.
"You think there's something wrong with me?" Caelum asked.
"Not wrong. Just different."
"Different doesn't win wars."
"No," Marek said. "But sometimes it survives them."
Far behind them, in the third wagon of the Arcanum caravan, Serapha Vale sat alone.
The relic orb hovered silently before her, dim but pulsing slightly.
She wrote in her logbook without looking:
Subject 27 – Caelum Thorne. Unaligned. No Vein. No Core.
Anomaly: Orb ceased pulse entirely during contact.
Unregistered response. Recommend observation.
She underlined the last sentence twice.
And outside, ash fell from the deadened sky like snow.