The silence in the orphanage dormitory was suffocating.
Kael Aranthi lay beneath his threadbare blanket, the coarse fabric scratching his skin as muffled laughter and drunken singing drifted through the cracked window. The Awakening Feast raged on without him—just as he'd expected. Martyn's sneering voice rose above the noise, thick with ale and malice.
"Did you see his face? Like a kicked dog! Stone knew he was gutter scrap!"
Kael clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists. The memory of the Obsidian Stone's cold indifference burned behind his eyelids. No spark. No tremor. No rush of power. Just the priest's bored dismissal:
"No affinity. Next."
As if sixteen years of waiting had meant nothing.
He rolled onto his back, staring at the cracks in the ceiling plaster—the same ones he'd traced every night for years. Tomorrow would be the same as yesterday. Thin porridge. Backbreaking chores. Watching the Awakened stride toward futures he'd never have.
A flicker of movement caught his eye.
The moth.
It lay on the stool beside his pallet, one wing charred beyond repair, the other trembling feebly. He'd scooped it up earlier, cradling its broken body in his calloused hands, feeling the fragile pulse of its life. Useless. Just like him.
Outside, the crowd erupted into another cheer.
"To the Awakened! To the future!"
Kael turned his face into the straw pallet, the sharp pricks against his skin a welcome distraction.
Dawn came gray and unwelcome.
The orphanage matron, Mistress Helvia, didn't even glance at him as she barked orders.
"Awakened, report to the Temple Annex. The rest—marsh duty. Kael. Barnel. Sedge. Toolshed. Now."
No surprise. The un-Awakened were beasts of burden, fit only for the dirtiest labor.
The marsh stretched beyond the city walls—a festering wasteland of reeds, stagnant water, and lung-rot. Kael waded in, the cold mud seeping through his worn boots. His rusted sickle snagged on the stubborn reeds, the blisters on his palms splitting open anew with every hack and pull.
Hack. Pull. Bundle.
The sun climbed higher, baking the stench into his skin.
Hack. Pull. Bundle.
Martyn was probably in some clean workshop, learning to shape his Fire. Lissa, with her Water affinity, had already been apprenticed to a perfumer.
Hack. Pull. Bundle.
And Kael?
Nothing.
Just the endless reeds. The sucking mud. The weight of his own worthlessness.
The sound of hooves was unexpected.
Kael didn't look up. Nobles rarely came this way unless to gawk at the laborers.
"Which one of you's Kael?"
The voice was rough, impatient.
Slowly, Kael straightened, wincing at the protest in his spine. A wiry man with a scarred lip sat atop a plain but well-kept carriage, the chestnut mare stamping impatiently.
"Why?" Kael's voice was hoarse from disuse.
The man snorted. "Lady says she's got use for you."
A murmur rippled through the workers.
Kael's grip tightened on the sickle. Use? What use could anyone have for him?
The carriage window slid open.
A young woman gazed out at him—sharp-featured, her dark brown eyes assessing. Her mahogany hair was braided tightly, pinned with plain silver. No frills. No pretenses.
"The kind that pays," she said, her voice crisp. "And doesn't involve drowning in swamp rot."
Kael wiped the sweat and grime from his forehead. "I'm un-Awakened."
"I know." Her lips thinned. "That's the point."
A beat of silence. Then she leaned forward slightly.
"I need someone to handle things that react badly to magic. Books that burn when Fire-touched turn the pages. Relics that shatter under an Earth-bound's grip. A butler who won't set the curtains on fire by accident." Her gaze swept over him. "You're not an idiot, are you?"
Kael exhaled. "No."
"Good." She leaned back. "Get in. Or stay here and die of lung-rot. Your choice."
The window snapped shut.
Kael looked down at his filthy hands. At the sickle. At the endless marsh.
Then he dropped the tool into the mud and climbed into the carriage.
The manor wasn't what he expected.
No gilded towers or manicured gardens. Just weathered stone, high walls, and an air of quiet menace.
Inside, the air hummed—a low, unsettling vibration that set his teeth on edge. Witchlights flickered in sconces. Tapestries shimmered with strange constellations. A suit of armor in an alcove seemed to watch him as he passed.
Mrs. Borin, the stone-faced housekeeper, led him to a cramped alcove beneath the stairs.
"Wash. Thoroughly." She wrinkled her nose. "You start now. Lady Elara's study needs cleaning. Touch nothing but the tools provided. If it glows, hums, or looks at you, leave it. Report anomalies. To me."
The study was a cavern of secrets.
Books bound in strange leathers. Artifacts pulsing with inner light. A desk cluttered with scrolls and instruments he couldn't name.
Kael picked up a soft brush and got to work.
Dusting. Polishing. Avoiding the crystal paperweight that made his skin prickle. The tome that whispered as he passed. The obsidian shards that seemed to pull at him from across the room.
Hours later, the door opened.
Lady Elara stood in the threshold, her dark gown severe, her gaze sharp.
"This seal," she said, lifting a brass cylinder from the desk, "requires precision. An Awakened could shatter it with a stray thought." Her eyes locked onto his. "Can you follow instructions?"
Kael swallowed. "Yes."
"Good." She set it down. "Tomorrow, you open it."
Then she left, the door clicking shut behind her.
Kael exhaled.
He wasn't a servant.
He was a tool.
And for the first time in his life, that meant something.
Author's Note:
Not every story begins with a spark. Some start in the quiet aftermath of its absence. When the world declares you empty, where do you find your worth? Sometimes, the most potent power isn't the flame, but the hand that remains steady in its presence – untouched, unburned, and uniquely capable of holding what fire destroys. True purpose often emerges not from the roar of awakening, but from the quiet necessity of the void.