The Cost of Legacy

It was such an urgent ward, she said.

Couldn’t be delayed, she said.

Sorcerer Akalis Badania, who could draw moonlight into woven shape, rend through enemies with a gesture, and once silenced an entire Triad council with a single look, needed him to deliver a glowing paperweight across town.

Because no one else could possibly carry it.

Galir walked, shoulders stiff, boots loud against Lunavin’s gleaming upper roads, clutching the small wooden box in one hand like it might bite him if he let go.

“Delicate enchantment,” she had said. “Too unstable for the usual runners.”

Right. He might have been born unblessed, but he wasn’t stupid. Though honestly, maybe that was the problem. If he’d just smiled a little wider or kept his mouth shut like a good little magic-less, maybe people would stop trying to handle him like he was going to crack.

The truth was obvious. The whispers that hushed when he entered a room. The way servants moved with a speed that only happened when they were hiding something under urgency.

Today was the ceremony.

His new brother’s awakening.

Kade.

Bright eyes. Brighter grin. The boy made sunlight look washed out.

Galir scowled, shifting his grip on the box. Can’t have the disappointment ruin the celebration, he thought. Wouldn’t want the unblessed absorbing too much light by accident.

He passed beneath the towering archways of the upper market, the stone here veined with real light that pulsed faintly underfoot, magic-activated, naturally. Everything in this part of the city hummed with quiet opulence, from the enchanted lanterns overhead to the shop windows that displayed shimmering wares with delicate sigil-threads curling behind glass.

And then there was him.

Galir Badania, walking with the proud, practiced indifference of someone who knew exactly what people thought of him and chose to rise above it.

He heard them.

The subtle whisper. The sidelong glances.

There were only two unblessed in Lunavin.

And the other one, a seamstress who hadn’t left her home in fifteen years, wasn't out walking the promenade like she belonged here.

Galir passed a pair of coated sorcerers mid-conversation. One looked up, paused, and gave him a glance full of discomfort.

He met the woman’s eyes and raised a brow, slow and challenging.

The woman quickly looked away.

Unblessed, yes. Powerless? No.

He pushed open the shop door.

A delicate chime rang, a real one, not magical. The scent hit him immediately: burning herbs, infused paper, and ozone. Good quality. He’d give them that.

The shop was compact but tasteful. Racks of minor wards and enchanted pendants sat arranged like precious jewelry. Every item was brimming with carefully woven threads of energy. Nothing crude here.

The merchant stood behind the polished counter, slim and balding, with rings on every finger and a tunic so lined with heavy thread it nearly glowed. His smile was tight.

“You’re from House Badania?” the man asked, voice neutral in a way that made it anything but.

Galir didn’t bother answering. He reached into his coat, pulled out the sealed box, and set it gently on the counter.

“The ward you commissioned,” he said, voice clipped. “Customized array, attuned to your order. It will keep your upper levels shielded from any noise for the next three years. Five if you hang it directly against the eastern walls.”

The merchant didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for it.

He studied Galir instead. His eyes flicked up to Galir’s red hair, his face, noting all the similarities he shared with his mother, the quality of his clothes. Then up to his face again.

“I was told someone from the House would deliver it.”

Galir blinked slowly. “And I did.”

“I meant… someone qualified.”

Ah. There it was.

Galir smiled thinly. “If you think I delivered the wrong item, feel free to test it.”

The merchant lifted the lid carefully. A shimmer of golden light spilled out, the sigil glowing faintly in the perfect pattern of Flame of Form ward. Not just functional, beautiful.

Galir recognized his mother’s work. Of course it was perfect.

The merchant clicked his tongue. “Well. It’s… smaller than I expected.”

The way Galir leaned in made the man take half a step back.

“Enchantment complexity isn’t measured by size. Though I’m sure you’re used to that disappointment.”

The man’s nostrils flared. “You’ll forgive me for assuming your mother might deliver it herself. Or at least send someone with a formal title.”

“She sent someone who knows how to carry it without destabilizing the sigils,” Galir said, voice sharp. “Someone who can speak for her. Someone who’s done this enough times to know when a client is fishing for a discount.”

The merchant raised his hands, faux-innocent. “I just worry about quality, is all. The last batch had a few… inconsistencies. You understand.”

Galir smiled wider. “And yet you keep coming back. How strange.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then the man reached beneath the counter and produced a lacquered coinbox. He set it down with exaggerated care and clicked the clasp open, drawing out the precise stack of silvers.

Galir didn’t move to take them.

“I’ll remind you,” he said evenly, “that your agreement was sealed under a formal oath. Disputing the price now violates that contract.”

“Of course,” the merchant said too quickly. “No dispute at all. I was just voicing concern.”

“Good,” Galir said.

He took the coin pouch, tucked it inside his coat, and turned to leave.

“You do represent your name well,” the merchant said, just as Galir reached the door. “In certain... capacities.”

Galir didn’t turn or answer.

He just stepped out into the bright Lunavin air.

The door shut softly behind him.

****

He walked the winding street in silence for a time, letting the light-veined road guide his feet. The coin pouch was heavy at his side.

Of course his mother kept him away from the ceremony.

Of course she thought it would hurt him to watch Kade shine.

But what she didn’t realize, what none of them did, was that he didn’t need magic to burn.

He had a flame of his own.

Even if no one else could see it.

Soon, he reached the gate.

It was sealed, as it always was these days, guarded against unknown enemies who stole children from the city.

The pale stone rose before Galir like a monolith, unmarred by time or weather.

It gleamed too brightly under the midday sun, casting harsh reflections across the stone plaza.

Deep in the central arch, an intricate silver sigil flickered with threads of living light.

His eyes followed its pulsing cadence. The slow, steady rhythm was just as he remembered.

Galir stepped forward, boots echoing in the wide emptiness. This part of the gate was always quiet at this hour; the market folk rarely lingered near the outer wall. No reason to, unless you were scheduled for a Calling. Or nostalgic. Or stupid.

Apparently, he was all three.

He reached the base of the gate and rested a hand against its smooth, cold surface. Once, this had been his sanctuary, a place of anticipation and hope.

When he was younger, he'd run all the way from the house, hair tousled, cheeks red, heart loud in his chest. Because the gate’s sigil had flickered in the pattern that meant return. That meant his father was coming home.

Sorcerer Elsen Badania.

The man who had answered five Callings, defying a tradition where one was both duty and burden enough. His name was whispered with reverence all over Lunavin.

The crowd would gather at the steps just beyond the arch. Galir remembered their voices like waves, excitement building as they waited for the moment the gates opened.

And then they did.

And there he’d be. Tall. Burned from sunlight, smiling like the world owed him another.

He would sweep Galir up in one arm, lift him high, the whole city watching, pride shining off them both like a second sun.

A hero. A father. A legend.

And Galir had been his son.

People used to look at him differently back then. Like he was next. Like they were just waiting for the light to stir and mark him the same way it had marked both his parents.

He could feel it, even now. The weight of those expectations, like invisible hands pressed against his back, pushing him forward.

Except the magic never lit. Not on his sixth year. Nor his seventh. Nor eighth. Nor ninth.

There came a point when they stopped hoping.

The pride in their eyes turned first to pity.

Then to something worse.

Suspicion.

The Mother Moon did not err. If the gift had skipped a child from two powerful bloodlines, there had to be a reason. A fault in the soul. Something... wrong with him.

Galir curled his fingers against the stone.

He could remember the exact moment it changed. When one of the gate guards, who used to ruffle his hair, took a half-step back instead. As if lack of magic could spread on contact.

He hadn’t come to cry. That would’ve been useless.

He came to remember.

And to make a promise.

A quiet one.

He pulled his cloak aside just enough to rest a hand on one of the two hilts strapped beneath it. Real swords. Iron. Weighted properly.

He’d trained with them in secret at first. Then, in daylight, when it became clear no one cared enough to stop him.

Magic wasn’t the only way to survive a Calling.

Galir would prove that. Without light.

Let them look down on him for it. Let them sneer.

He would still walk through this gate.

He turned as footsteps approached. Light ones, bouncing. And another, heavier and measured.

Adar.

Galir didn’t recognise him at first.

Adar was tall now, taller than Galir, though he could still remember when he wasn’t. Back then, Adar had been easier to ignore, a brat all bark and tantrums. Now he was practiced and perfectly postured. He wore his blue hair clasped back, not a strand out of place.

The coat was the real insult. Gold. Embroidered. Cut in the pattern reserved for those who had served a Calling and returned victorious. Symbols earned by blood and mastery.

Adar hadn’t earned it. That much, Galir knew.

And beside him, the other man was older. A sorcerer proper, coated in the same gold, though he wore it like armor, not costume. His eyes locked on Galir with that same clinical disgust he had grown used to, like he might be contagious.

"Galir," Adar said, with a false smile. "Didn’t expect to see you here. Well... not near the city gate, anyway."

Galir folded his arms. “Adar. What an impeccable coat, one might almost forget what it was meant for.”

Adar laughed too quickly. “Oh, this? Just something I wear when accompanying proper sorcerers. You understand.”

Galir didn’t respond. He let the silence stretch long enough to sting. A flat stare to show how stupid he found the excuse.

The older sorcerer raised a brow but said nothing.

Adar glanced at the swords. And found an opening. “Training with blades, are we? Let me guess. Going to try out for city guards?” He grinned. “I hear they love desperate types.”

“Funny,” Galir said. “Last I checked, sorcerers weren’t required to be comedians.”

“Come on, Galir. Don’t be like that. It’s just strange, is all. You were born with the mark of greatness. Now you’re playing with steel like a gutterborn mercenary.”

Galir’s jaw tightened. But he didn’t rise to it.

He turned without a word.

“Touchy,” Adar said, louder. “I suppose the unblessed don’t handle criticism well.”

Galir walked past them.

And then, shoulders bumped.

A deliberate nudge hard enough to make Adar stumble half a step.

He didn’t look back.

No one could say Galir couldn’t be the bigger person.

But some people, Adar, just made it so damned difficult to be.

****

Adar hated Galir.

Nothing in that petty, childish way that other students hated one another for stealing food or winning duels.

This was different. This was just.

Because once, Galir had everything.

Badania. That name alone had weight. Reverence. The sort of legacy that could hush a room. Elsen Badania, the legendary sorcerer who answered five Callings before dying in the wilds, was spoken of like he’d personally met the Mother Moon and returned carrying her favor.

And Galir? He had done nothing. Nothing except be born from a womb that happened to carry power, and a name that made people cheer.

Adar, on the other hand, had talent. Real talent. His magic had awakened early, Flame of Form, refined, precise, and golden. Yet somehow, even when his light first shone to life before Galir’s did, still, no one cared.

They were too busy waiting. Watching. As if any second, the wonder boy would finally light up and outshine them all.

Except he didn’t.

And still, Galir had acted like he was better. Not overtly, no. He was one of those types, quiet and righteous. Always taking the high road, scolding Adar for teasing some sensitive, weepy brat who couldn’t take a little fun. As if Galir wasn’t looking down on them all the entire time.

As if his shoes weren’t already on the pedestal they’d carved for him.

But the years had passed. No blessing light came.

And Adar had smiled. Because finally, people began to see what he’d seen all along: Galir wasn’t better.

He was broken.

Unblessed.

Judged by the Mother Moon herself and found lacking.

So why, Adar thought now, fuming as he followed the unblessed down a narrow, half-deserted alleyway, why did he still walk like he mattered?

Galir moved like he wore a crown. That ridiculous red hair waving behind him like a banner, his posture straight, shoulders squared as if the gods had personally invited him to exist.

The older sorcerer who had accompanied Adar had simply let him go with a vague excuse. Adar had caught the glimmer in his eyes, Go ahead, that look had said. Teach the Unblessed some manners.

He would.

Galir turned the corner at the edge of the alley, reaching the stone-lined intersection that split into the lesser city’s outer edges. It was quiet here. Few witnesses. Fewer complications.

Adar grinned.

And then Galir stopped.

Turned.

Those grey eyes fixed on him, sharp and aware.

Of course he knew.

He always knew.

That damned look. That holier-than-thou expression. Like Adar was the problem. Like he was the one who needed to justify himself.

Adar’s pulse quickened. Magic stirred, called by thought and will. Pale yellowish light shimmered in the air around his hands, humming in harmony with his breath.

Flame of Form. Clean and mathematical. Superior.

It pulsed outward, a soft buzz crackling in the alley’s still air. And oh, it felt good. Magic had always felt right. Like Adar was meant to wield it. Like the world itself was a mechanism, and he had the key to it in his veins.

“Not going to beg?” he sneered.

Galir remained calm. Not even a twitch.

Fine. He’d fix that.

He focused his intent, and the yellow light flared.

Six blades formed in a perfect row, long, needle-like spears of translucent energy. They glowed brighter for an instant, then launched forward with a crackle of sound and air.

Each followed a path of pure geometry. Straight, flawless.

Adar waited for the flinch. The panic.

What he got was…

Movement.

Fast. Liquid-fast.

Galir slipped between the spears with an ease that shouldn’t have been possible. He moved like a shadow, his body angling with just the right twist, the right lean, dodging the magic as if he’d seen the angles before they formed.

The first time could’ve been luck.

The second was insult.

Adar’s heart jumped into his throat, but he snapped more light into place, forming a cluster of dagger-blades this time, shorter, faster. Closer together. Impossible to dodge.

Or it should have been.

But Galir was already in motion. Again. Quicker than thought.

And then… pain.

A fist collided with his nose, blunt and brutal, and Adar staggered backward with a yell, clutching his face. The light of his magic broke, vanishing in a shimmer of dispersal as his focus shattered.

Blood poured down his lip, hot and iron-slick. Shock froze him in place.

“Predictable,” Galir said, his voice maddeningly calm. “You never change.”

Adar looked up, dazed and furious, pressing his sleeve to his nose. Galir stood above him, not even winded, not even tense.

Just… there.

Smirking.

Smirking.

“You’re dead,” Adar spat, through the copper tang. “You just struck a Marked. You’ll rot in the Red Tower for this.”

Galir tilted his head. “Sure,” he said. “Go ahead. Tell everyone.”

He crouched slightly, meeting Adar’s glare.

“Tell them you, a sorcerer, were outmatched by an Unblessed's fist. I’m sure they’ll love that.”

Adar froze.

He felt it then. The cold truth.

He couldn’t tell anyone. Not without making himself the punchline of every joke.

Every sorcerer in the city would know he’d been taken down by a boy with no magic and apparently no fear.

Galir stood. Brushed his knuckles on his cloak.

“You’re still exactly who you were in school,” he said as he turned away. “Small. Loud. And easily broken.”

And then he walked off. Just… gone.

Still insufferable. Still full of that same impossible pride.

And now, somehow, justified.

Adar cursed him. Cursed his bloodline, his stupid red hair, and his stupid family name.

He turned and hurried the opposite way, one hand on his nose to hide the blood. Hoping, praying, no one saw.

Because there was nothing worse than losing.

Except losing to someone who was supposed to be nothing.