Unblessed

Kade was six.

He sat in his wheelchair at the edge of the porch, with a backpack almost bigger than him on his lap.

He’d been so careful not to get sick this time.

For weeks, he counted every remaining hour, rested without complaint, swallowed bitter medicine without protest.

He was going with them.

They’d promised.

Everyone was going: his brothers, his parents. A summer house by the lake. Laughter. Sunlight. Adventure.

He hadn’t stopped smiling for days.

But on the morning they were supposed to go, his chest began to ache.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Then came the cough. The nurse noticed.

The car door slammed.

His father’s face was pale and tight.

“I told you this wouldn't work,” he whispered to his mother, not quite whispering. “We’ll lose the whole trip if he comes.”

“We’ll try again next time,” his mother muttered. “He’ll understand.”

Kade kept clenching his bag, watching them pack the trunk.

His brothers looked at him with that expression, just… relief. Like they’d avoided a disaster.

The nurse took his bag. He didn’t resist.

He stared at the driveway as the car pulled away.

He kept staring till it disappeared.

He remembered the warmth of the sun on his face and arms.

The untouched bag put beside the door.

The sound of the nurse’s footsteps on the floor as she wheeled him in, soft and rhythmic like a lullaby for ghosts.

He had tried so hard.

He had done everything right.

And it still hadn’t been enough.

****

Kade woke slowly.

The sheets were warm, the room quiet, his breathing even. For a moment, he thought the dream had followed him into waking. He felt… heavy.

But it was only a phantom.

He sat up and looked at his hand. It didn’t shake. His joints didn’t ache. The breath in his lungs didn’t burn. He was here. Whole.

He closed his eyes, then opened them again, and jumped out of bed.

****

He sat in a tree, knees tucked close to his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around them. The early morning air kissed his face, cool, brushing away the last trace of a tear that had lingered on his cheek. He didn’t remember crying.

His magic pulsed gently beneath his skin, the soft light seeping through the fine linen of his sleeves. It flickered in time with his breath. The air should have been cold, but it wasn’t. He wondered if that was just how magic worked. A kind warmth, wrapping around him like a promise.

Below, Lunavin still slept.

The city was quiet. The stone streets were slick with dew, empty of the usual polished carriages and distant conversations. Above the rooftops, the first shy rays of the sun stretched across the horizon like fingers reaching toward something just out of grasp. But the moons still hung overhead, pale and heavy. Two silent watchers who had seen too much.

Kade looked up at them, thoughtful.

He wondered if they watched him too. If they approved of the life he’d been given.

A sound broke his thoughts, a rhythmic thump and breath below. Kade peered down.

Galir.

This was the second time he’d seen him, and again he was training. No sword this time, just drills, precise and brutal.

Kade watched for a while, then dropped down from the tree. His body moved effortlessly, he barely even had to think about it. His feet hit the ground with a soft thump.

Galir didn’t flinch.

"You’re not surprised?" Kade asked, brushing a leaf from his hair.

Galir barely glanced over. “I knew someone was watching. Thought it was a servant.”

He returned to his drills, muscles straining with each movement. The morning light caught the edge of his profile. He looked older in this light. Or maybe just tired.

“Why are you training so hard?” Kade asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

No answer, just the rhythmic sound of fists through air, boots striking stone.

Then, after a long minute, Galir exhaled and stilled. “What do you want?”

“I want to know why you were training.”

Galir’s jaw tightened. His voice came flat and challenging, like he expected to be laughed at for saying it aloud. “To fight alongside the sorcerers during The Calling.”

Kade blinked. “What’s that?”

Galir’s grey eyes widened slightly, caught off guard. As if Kade had just asked why the sky was blue. “You have to know about the beasts.”

“I don’t know,” Kade said, smiling sheepishly. “Everything is kind of… blurry. I am from outside Lunavin, but everything before coming here is hazy. I don’t think I had many days worth remembering, honestly.”

A breeze stirred. His silver-white hair lifted slightly in the light.

Galir’s eyes flicked to it and stopped.

Kade felt it, the shift. The way Galir wasn’t looking at him anymore, but past him. Through him. Something crossed his face, a shadow of thought or memory, there and gone too fast to catch.

Silence stretched.

Then Galir blinked and looked away. His jaw tightened again. Whatever that moment had been, it vanished.

“You remembered your name, at least,” Galir said, voice less edged now.

Kade nodded. “Yeah. Just that.”

Galir tilted his head, studying him with a look Kade couldn’t read. “Don’t you remember him?”

“Who?”

“Our father,” Galir said. His red hair fluttered with the wind. “You look like him.”

Kade frowned, searching his mind, then shook his head slowly.

“No, I don't,” he said with a sad little smile.

Then, brighter, “Oh… but I know you look like your mother.”

“Astounding observation,” Galir said, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “I’m floored,” he drawled.

Kade grinned, undeterred. He saw it, just a flicker, the way Galir’s expression softened at his smile.

“Have you met Bilia yet?” Galir asked, collecting his swords from where he put them to the side of a column.

Kade blinked. “Oh, your little sister? Akalis told me about her, but I haven’t seen her yet. I’ve never had a sister before, you know.”

Galir’s eyebrow rose again. He had a way of looking at people with his head tilted slightly down, eyes narrowed, judgment perfected.

“I thought you didn’t remember anything.”

Kade chuckled and said evasively, “It’s blurry, but I think I had brothers. Two. I don’t think they liked me very much.”

“Shocking,” Galir said dryly. “Are they Badania, too? Should I expect more half-brothers?”

Kade grinned, eyes dancing with amusement. “No, they’re not here. I don’t think you need to worry.”

His magic pulsed again, warm, gentle, like it responded to his joy. His new connection.

“It’s nice,” he said, glancing down at his faintly glowing hands. “The magic, I mean. It’s always kind to me. I think it helps me forget sometimes. When remembering hurts too much.”

Galir’s shoulders stiffened.

Kade didn’t notice. “It even keeps me warm. Isn’t that amazing?”

Galir's face was stony, all the quiet warmth gone. He turned and walking away in sharp, clipped steps.

Kade followed, confused.

“Do you not like magic?” he asked. “I think it’s wonderful.”

Galir froze.

Something in the air shifted between them.

"I don’t have magic to hate or love,” Galir said. The words icy. “I was born of Mother Moon’s bloodline… Unblessed."

The word hung in the air like a sentence.

He frowned. “Unblessed? What does that mean?”

Galir didn’t turn. His voice came back clipped, like he was already regretting saying anything. “It means I was supposed to be something. And I wasn’t.”

Kade hesitated. “Because you don't have magic? But there are plenty of people without magic. Like Renn, the fruit seller… he’s happy.”

Galir turned then, slowly, his expression unreadable. “Renn wasn’t born to a sorcerer’s bloodline. No one looked at him and waited for light.”

Kade blinked, caught off guard. “I didn’t mean…”

Galir cut him off, voice hard. “I don’t care what you meant.”

He let that hang for a beat, then stepped in, gaze burning.

“You’ve got the magic. Fine. But I’ll still be the one who carries our father’s name. Me. Not because it was given to me. Because I’ll take it.” He leaned in, just enough to make sure Kade heard every word. “Unblessed or not, I’m the one who’ll make the world remember Elsen.”

Kade opened his mouth, but no words came. His hands still glowed faintly.

Galir gave him one last look, full of burning challenge, and maybe something deeper, something that hurt to look at.

Kade didn’t argue. The distance between them felt wider now than before.

He stood there as Galir walked away, his footsteps hard against the stone.

The moons had faded. The sun was rising.

And the warmth of his magic, flickering soothingly against the cold sting left behind, felt, for once, like something he needed to apologize for.

~~~

Elsewhere in Lunavin…

The ward had failed sometime in the night.

Hanel arrived as the lanterns along the lane sputtered low, their flames flickering like exhausted hearts.

Overhead, the sky had begun to pale. It wasn’t sunrise yet, but close enough that color crept in around the edges, staining the blackness gray.

The house sat near the outer crescent of Lunavin. That meant it was old.

It had the slumped look of something that had stood too long. More stone than structure. A bowed roof. Cracks spidering along the lintel.

As he approached, Hanel noted a shimmer over the doorway… a ward barely clinging to function.

A faint light. Wrong shape, wrong rhythm. Sloppy work.

He narrowed his eyes.

A scent drifted to him on the air. Magic, frayed at the seams. The kind of spell that burned too much energy to hold together. The tang of ozone, metal, and something else, sigil-burnt limestone, perhaps.

A wooden floorboard creaked.

The door edged open with a cautious squeal, revealing a child.

Round face, wide eyes. Small, maybe six or seven. She froze the instant she saw him. Recognition hit her like a gust of wind.

She knew what he was.

“You’d better fetch your grandparents,” Hanel said without raising his voice. “This thing’s about five minutes from falling apart.”

The girl disappeared.

Hanel didn’t wear the coat anymore. No sigil-threaded, golden cloak declaring his rank.

But people knew. They always did.

You couldn’t miss the faint glimmer of spent spark-motes clinging to his sleeves, or the pressure in the air around him, that subtle heaviness that came from prolonged magic use.

Magic left fingerprints. Intent made real. That’s what they called it.

By the time he stepped through the crumbling gate, the child’s grandparents stood ready.

They looked too proud for people surrounded by ruin. Hope made them stand tall, made them brave. Hanel hated that, hated how easily it could be shattered.

“It started flickering yesterday,” the old man said. “Stone cracked over the hearth soon after. We tried sealing it, but the ward kept buckling.”

Hanel crouched by the threshold and ran his gloved fingers along the etched sigil there, barely a whisper left of power.

The glyph pulsed weakly, flinching at his touch. Improper tuning. The lines were too tight in some places, too loose in others.

This was meant to be a reinforcement glyph. Wall memory, weight-bearing. Common spell. Should’ve lasted ten years if done right.

It wouldn’t last the morning.

Hanel’s brow furrowed. He recognized this.

“Did you pay for this?” he asked, still studying the lines.

The old man hesitated.
“It was half price. From a Marked in the mid-district. Said her nephew worked with the…”

“Golden Tower?” Hanel finished.

The man blinked. “Yes.”

Of course. He’d seen this signature before. Over-designed, under-tested. One of those Golden Tower scribes who thought extra flourishes made better magic. That sort of arrogance got people hurt.

He stood, brushing dust from his gloves.

“I’ll fix it.”

The woman let out a breath, clasping her hands to her chest. “Oh, bless you, Marked. We sent word by runner, but didn’t expect help so fast.”

“No blessing needed.” He peeled off his gloves and tucked them into his belt. “Let’s just get it done.”

With a breath, he summoned light.

It came slow, golden as amber, gentle at first, like a thought given form. It coalesced at his fingertips in swirls and whorls, the kind of structured illumination only true alignment could channel.

No raw burst of power here. Just deliberate motion. Mastery.

He drew the first stroke in the air. It held. Shining.

The second followed, curling around the first. The third locked them together.

Each sigil interwove with the last, the light growing firmer with each motion, until the air was threaded with intention. Power and direction. Each glyph answered the one before. Harmony in lines.

The girl peeked around the corner again.

“Is it burning?” she asked, eyes wide.

“No,” Hanel said, still working. “It’s rewriting.”

“Oh.”

He glanced at her. “Want to see?”

She nodded eagerly, and he turned his palm toward her, letting one of the floating sigils hover close.

It spun gently, casting pale shadows across her face.

“This one’s for weight-bearing,” he explained. “Makes the walls remember how to stand.”

The girl giggled, delighted.

He guided the glyph back into the cluster, then pressed his hand to the stone.

The glowing shapes dissolved inward, absorbed like rain into dry earth.

Stone took to magic slower than air or liquid. It needed time. He waited, hand steady. Let the intention settle.

He added one last sigil, small, nested within the hearthstone. A warming glyph, barely visible. His own design. Nothing flashy. Just… useful.

The girl clapped softly.

The old man tried to press a coin pouch into Hanel’s hand.

“No,” Hanel said, stepping back.

“But…”

“If it flickers again, send for me,” he said. “Not Gudon.”

The old man’s eyes widened. “You know whose work that was?”

Hanel’s lips twitched. “I’ve scraped enough of his mistakes out of doorways.”

The woman stepped forward, placing her hand over her heart. Her voice was quiet, reverent.

“May your light never fade.”

The girl echoed it, in a way that looked more like a two-handed wave.

Hanel nodded to her, and turned toward the dawn.

The ward behind him held. Strong. Silent.

****

The sky had turned a shade of gold-streaked gray,
the kind of morning color that made you forget the night had ever happened.

The three towers of Lunavin caught the dawn like blades, sharp and gleaming in the distance.

Rooftops curved with symmetry, each line etched with purpose.

Each estate perfectly structured. Magic made architecture.

The banners of the Marked stirred.

Lunavin was beautiful in the morning.

But Hanel couldn’t stop seeing the broken sigil on the doorstep of a house two crescents over.

Couldn’t stop feeling the fragile edge of stone that had nearly collapsed beneath his hand.

He turned toward the Badania estate without slowing.

He hadn’t slept.

The signs of overcasting ran deep, ache in the joints, a ringing behind his eyes, the lingering taste of copper on the back of his tongue.

Magic had a cost, always had.

Hanel had paid it often enough to know where the line was.

He just didn’t care anymore.

There was work to do.

And Akalis would be expecting him.