"In this world, magic is everything.
But if one is not born with it…
are they worth remembering—or erasing?"
In the glittering heart of the Elynthian Monarchy—where the soil sings with mana and the skies shimmer with arcane light—magic is not merely an art.
It is bloodline.
It is breath.
It is survival.
From the gleaming spires of crystalline cities to the wild, sacred forests of mana-rich land, the Elynthians have long claimed dominion over spellcraft. Theirs is a birthright gifted by ley lines older than empires—veins of ancient energy that pulse beneath their boots, feeding even the most mundane spells with unimaginable potency.
Here, magic determines your worth.
And among the nobility, to lack magic is to lack existence.
But even in paradise... anomalies are born.
The cursed few.The forgotten.The Nulls.
Souls tethered to bodies with no flame—where others roar with mana, they whisper. Their cores register between one and five percent of magical capacity. To the rest of the world, they are an embarrassment at best... and a threat at worst.
Once, the Monarchy tried to erase them.Assimilation. Exile.In some darker chapters—execution.
But fate, ever cruel and amused, has a strange sense of timing.
Tonight, it delivers one to the highest echelon of the aristocracy.
The Birth
The grand chamber of House Meijer—one of the Three Noble Houses seated closest to the Throne—is awash in soft blue and crimson etherlight. Incense burns gently from carved dragonbone sconces. Silken drapes rustle as night wind crawls through enchanted windows.
And from within, the air holds a different weight: anticipation.
The cries of a woman echo through the marbled halls. The Duchess, Kalydyn Meijer, is in labor—guarded by robed midwives, chanting priestesses, and highborn attendants. Beside her bed, a High Priest of Stayne stands cloaked in ceremonial white and gold, cradling a Mana Quantifier: a crystalline device designed to detect magical resonance.
Draped across the chamber walls are banners bearing the sigil of House Meijer—a blooming orchid laced with flame, denoting elegance and power.
A child is born.
The Duchess pants, tears mixing with sweat. Her child—a girl—is lifted into the soft light. Small. Breathing. Alive.
The High Priest kneels and presses the quantifier to the infant's chest. The device begins to glow, scanning for resonance.
Everyone holds their breath.
The numbers appear.
The room stills.
The High Priest's eyes widen. "Madam... her core registers at... one percent."
Gasps ripple. A stunned silence follows.
One of the retainers, Sir Don Kengun, clenches his jaw.
"The daughter of Archmage Marnix Meijer… is a Null?"
Whispers from the midwives. The light dims, as though reacting to the shock in the air.
The Duchess, pale and trembling, stares at the priest. "W-what? That can't be right. Check again."
But the device does not lie.
The maid Noelle, her tone soft but clear, breaks the silence: "My… she holds the same eyes as Sir Marnix…"
Golden eyes. Flecked with crimson.
Eyes that open for the first time, blinking gently toward the ceiling, unaware of the disappointment churning around her.
A child born to a house of legendary mages, nobles, scholars… born without power.
Destiny, it seems, had faltered.
The Spark
Years passed.
In a quieter, forgotten wing of the manor—far from courtly dances and arcane lessons—a young girl rested beneath the hanging ivy of an indoor garden, nestled in her maid's lap.
She was Wilhelmina. But her family had shortened it early. Mina.
Barefoot, wrapped in a pale-blue shawl, she had grown from sickly infant to observant child. Thin, quiet, and often overlooked—save by Noelle, her ever-watchful guardian. The older woman, now something between a servant and surrogate mother, sat with her beneath the shade of enchanted trees whose leaves never fell.
A worn book rested on a nearby stone table.
"The Red Vanguard," Mina whispered. "Please. Again?"
Noelle raised a brow, then chuckled. "This is the fourth time this week."
"I don't mind..." Mina said, curling up closer.
Noelle sighed, ruffled her hair, and opened the tome. "Fine, then. But this time—you'll read the last lines with me."
And so she read aloud the tale of Ifo the Red, a lone swordsman who stood against the undead legions during the Thirteen-Day Eclipse of the Mana Wars. A man with a cursed blade and a burning heart—known for his defiance, his sacrifice… and the tragedy that became his legend.
The air seemed to hush as the story ended:
"On the thirteenth night, as the last of the undead fell, the Red Vanguard knelt before the broken city of Elynthi and whispered—not for himself, but for the souls he'd slain—'Let my sword be their lullaby… and let them rest.'"
Mina mouthed the final line with her.
Eyes wide. Bright. Burning.
Noelle looked down at the girl.
"…You're always so taken by that line."
Mina nodded slowly. "He wasn't trying to be remembered. He just… didn't want anyone to be alone. Not even the ones he had to kill."
Her voice barely rose above the rustling leaves.
"But no one remembers the ones like him. Do they?"
Noelle paused. Her expression softened.
"…Not enough, love. But maybe that's why people like you keep remembering."
And there it was again. That faint, flickering glow.
A crimson glint behind golden irises. Not magic. Not quite.
But something older. Something raw. A will that refused to die quietly.
The Monarchy called her broken. Her family whispered waste.
But deep within, something stirred—stubborn and ancient.
A spark.
And sparks, when pressed long enough… become flame.
But the world does not love a Null.
In the great halls of House Meijer—where even dust motes shimmer with residual spellwork—Wilhelmina is an absence, a stain on the family crest. A girl born of greatness, but without the flame to prove it.
Among dozens of half-siblings and cousins, all sired from noble blood and magical pedigree, she alone is denied a wand.
While the others learn to bend flame and command lightning, Wilhelmina is relegated to remedial training—physical drills meant to "discipline the mind," they say. But everyone knows what it really is.
A cage.
A place to tuck the embarrassment away.
And sometimes… it becomes a gauntlet.
CRACK.
FWOOSH.
BLINK.
She ran as she ducks too late—a bolt of static grazes her shoulder. Her skin stings, not from the spell, but from the shame that follows. Laughter echoes across the courtyard.
"Where ya goin', Null?"
"C'mon! Be our training dummy again!"
"Don't run! Nulls don't get to run!"
They grin like wolves. They cast sparks like fireworks. They think their cruelty is a game.
A streak of flame cuts inches from her arm. Another child hurls a gust of wind, knocking her flat. Her palms scrape across stone. Her breath shakes—but she does not cry.
Wilhelmina says nothing.
No pleas. No apologies.
Her silence is a shield.
She stands again, scraped and bruised. Her golden eyes flick toward them.
There's a flash—barely visible—but in that quiet, smoldering stare…
A spark.
Crimson.
Faint. But growing.
Yet despite the cruelty of day, there is still a place where peace finds her.
A soft bed.
Gentle fingers running through her hair.A breath like perfume, warm and steady.
She rests her head against her mother's chest.
For all her absence from the manor, Duchess Kalydyn Meijer never once forgot the girl she gave birth to. Each time she returned from her courtly duties—grueling, diplomatic, suffocating—her first act was always the same:
She came for Mina.
"They gave you a hard time again, didn't they…?" she whispered, brushing aside her daughter's hair.
Wilhelmina doesn't answer with words. Her head simply nods once. Slowly. And in that rare closeness, she lets herself cry—not loud, but quietly, hidden against her mother's warmth. Because here, for once, she is not a Null.
Just a daughter.
Kalydyn holds her tighter, a whisper pressed to her crown."No matter what they say... no matter what you lack...You will always be loved."
And in that embrace, for just a fleeting moment, the world forgets.
Discovery of Lineage
The Manor of Meijer is vast—a fortress of tradition, legacy, and wealth. And yet for Wilhelmina, it is often a prison made of marble and judgment. Adults pass her in the halls without greeting. Some sneer. Others avoid her entirely, as if her lack of mana were contagious.
She has grown used to it. Stoicism is now part of her armor. But still, the stone walls whisper secrets she longs to hear.
There is one place she always returns to.
Her balcony.
From there, she can see the great Elynthian River curling past the side of the estate. Trade ships drift lazily along the current, their sails etched with the emblems of distant guilds. It's her quiet world, far from spiteful words and spark-flung games.
Books line her shelves—gifts from Noelle, her ever-loyal maid and guardian. Stories smuggled past the house librarian, curated just for her.
And today, a new volume arrives.
She gasps. "Finally… Tropico–Elynthia, Volume 51!"
Her fingers tremble with excitement as she peels back the gilded cover. The smell of pressed paper. The feel of the spine. She curls into her favorite lounge chair, breeze cooling her cheeks, and dives into the pages.
This volume is different.
It has illustrations—rare, precious additions that make the histories feel alive. This edition focuses on The Seven Arch-Mages: the monarchy's champions of spellcraft and statecraft, legends in their own time.
And then—
There he is.
"Marnix Meijer"
The Arch-Mage of Molten Blades.
A full page etched with his portrait. Even in black and white, he seems larger than life. Tall. Broad. Windswept hair. A steel gaze that burns with humility.
He wore no ceremonial robes during his coronation—only a plain linen shirt, purple trousers, a red sash, and leather boots.
No jewels. No pretense. No pomp.
Among the peacocks of nobility, he stood like a flame in the wind—bare, unbending, brilliant.
She reads faster.
His legendary feat: Gambit's Ridge.
Abandoned to delay a battalion of Imperium Legionnaires while his unit retreated.By the time reinforcements arrived, he was found sitting on a stone—alive, surrounded by the mangled and broken.
His only words: "What took you guys so long…?"
Wilhelmina blinks. Her hands shake.
Tears fall.
But she's not sad.
She is proud.
The man in the story—calm in chaos, selfless in sacrifice—he feels familiar, like a ghost she always wanted to meet. The same brows. The same golden eyes. A quiet, warm power behind them.
For the first time in years, she feels it: a deep and quiet connection.
"That's my father."
But the joy fades as she reads the last line.
Marnix Meijer—missing in action. Last seen twelve years ago during a classified mission for the Monarchy. Status: unknown. Officially presumed inactive.
She stares at the words, unmoving. The wind stills.
A footnote mentions he was replaced by a new Arch-Mage: Ozul Hagedorn—his protégé.
She doesn't even bother to turn the page.
Her father is gone.
And yet… she feels him. Somehow, she knows that if he were here, none of the things said to her would matter.
She wouldn't be just "the Null girl."
She would be his daughter.
And in that moment, as her tears dry and the wind rises again—Wilhelmina stands.
The spark within her chest burns brighter.
Let them cast spells. Let them mock and scorn.
She has a name. A legacy. A will.
She is Wilhelmina Meijer.
A Null, yes. But not empty.
She is a page unwritten. A sword unsharpened.
A flame waiting for breath.
And someday…
The world will remember her.
—Wilhelmina Meijer—lived her life not as a daughter of nobility,
but as a contradiction within it.
To be born into House Meijer, one of the Three Great Houses under the Elynthian Monarchy, was to be carved from war and wrapped in power. The Meijer's were more than nobles—they were a dynasty of generals, champions, and magical tacticians. A family whose bloodlines commanded entire Royal Divisions, whose children were expected to wield spells before they could read.
Power was the blood of House Meijer. And Wilhelmina was a clot in that flow.
A Null—a child without magic—within a clan built to dominate the arcane battlefield.
And yet, she was not discarded outright. Because even in a nest of hawks, one dove defended her.
Kalydyn Meijer. Her mother.
A noblewoman from the frigid Northern Reach, far from the central lands of Elynthi. She was a Duchess by title, but her authority came not just from her marriage to Marnix Meijer—the famed Arch-Mage—but from her own strategic mind and political sway. Kalydyn held a majority stake in Meijer war-factories, funding the very weapons the House used to wage its wars.
Her love for Marnix had been genuine. A rare union not forged by politics, but passion.And when he vanished—mysteriously, silently—the knives turned toward her.
Jealous cousins. Greedy elders. Political vultures.
They waited.
Plotted.
And when the time was right, the Meijer inner council voted to exile Kalydyn.
Their excuse was thin. "Realignment of influence."
But everyone knew the truth: without Marnix, she was a lioness surrounded by hyenas.
And so she was stripped of title.
Exiled.
Returned to the North from whence she came.
Alongside her went Noelle, her sister by blood and Wilhelmina's maid in soul. The one woman Mina had trusted most in the world, vanished in the same breath.
Just like that, Wilhelmina was left behind. She wanted Wilhelmina to be brought alongside her but, the House had other plans, they wouldn't let a Noble born-Null like her roam free.
Alone.
In a den of wolves.
Only one man remained who dared stand beside her.
Sir Don Kengun.
The manor's iron-handed enforcer. A man forged in Meijer tradition, yet tempered by honor. Once a comrade-in-arms to Marnix himself, Don had sworn to look after his daughter should anything befall his friend.
And so he watched over her. Silently. Without warmth, but not without care.
But peace never lasts.
Not for the weak. Not for the ones born beneath the crest of shame.
The Chapel Incident
The chapel of the Meijer Manor was a place of solemnity. A vault of old stone and sacred flame, dedicated to Stayne, the Celestial of Stars. It was said she had gifted the world half her magic before vanishing during the Rapture, her memory enshrined in silver-lit marble.
It's such an admirable act of the God's.
Ten-year-old Wilhelmina knelt quietly among the congregation. Her hands folded. Her eyes closed.
She didn't ask for power. Or vengeance.
She only asked for understanding.
Beside her sat Amos—her elder half-brother, born from a different mother but of the same bloodline. If Wilhelmina was the family's shadow, Amos was its golden son. Talented. Beautiful. Cruel.
He leaned in. His breath warm, his voice venom.
"Maybe if you pray hard enough," he hissed, "the gods'll give you a second soul."
She didn't move.
"You really are a Null, huh? Born useless. Meant to die in silence. Just like the rest of your kind—"
CRACK.
A sound like a dry branch snapping.
Gasps followed.
Amos stumbled back, reeling. His cheek now marked by the smallest, weakest fist he'd ever been struck with. Wilhelmina's hand trembled in the air.
Golden eyes.
Crimson spark.
He recovered with fury in his blood.
"You filthy—worthless—Null!"
He lunged.
Fists fell like hammers. She curled up on the stone floor, silent even under pain. Not from weakness—no. From defiance.
Until finally—
"Enough!"
The chapel guards tore them apart. Silence reclaimed the room, but whispers spread like disease.
In the guard's hall, Don Kengun stood before them. Arms folded. A face made of stone.
"You've embarrassed this House again," he said flatly. "Fourth time this month."
Amos, still seething, barked out—
"She hit me first! She struck first!"
Kengun's eyes narrowed.
"Because you provoked her. Do you want your father to hear of this?"
The blood drained from Amos's face.
"N-no… he wouldn't."
"Good. Then we understand each other."
He turned to Wilhelmina now.
She stood still. Chin high, though her eye was bruised.
"As for you… you must stop this," he said. "They already see you as filth. I can't protect you forever. Your mother is gone. Noelle is gone. If I fall… you'll have no one."
Wilhelmina said nothing. But her gaze met his.
Unwavering.
"Just behave," he said. "And perhaps they'll let you attend a boarding school. Somewhere else. Far from here."
Her voice was small. But not weak.
"Will it be different there? Or the same?"
Don paused.
He didn't answer.
Not because he couldn't.
But because he knew.
The candlelight danced along the ridged stone walls of her forgotten corner of the estate.
She sat in solitude, surrounded by the remnants of a life that was no longer hers. Trinkets once belonging to her mother—Kalydyn's brooch, a faded scarf from Noelle, and a box of old parchment documents sealed by gold-thread ribbon—were scattered before her like memories that refused to fade.
Wilhelmina wasn't playing tonight.
She wasn't reading stories of Red Vanguards or battlefield heroes.
She was studying herself.
Scrolls of Arcane Biology. Medical Transcripts. Theories on Mana Anomalies.
The tomes towered around her in piles.
One lay open across her lap, ink faded but readable in the candle's flickering glow:
"The Mana Core: a spiritual nexus situated behind the solar plexus. The source of all magical function."
She touched her chest—where her core should be.
There was nothing.
She flipped the page.
"Mana Pathways: ethereal conduits running beneath the skin, enabling spellcasting, self-enhancement, and arcane transference..."
She turned to the final page—a chart of her own body. Signed by the estate physician when she was only three.
Mana Core: Dormant. Atrophic.Mana Pathways: Not present.Magical Signature: Below measurable threshold.
Her lips parted slightly.
"…I don't have any of it," she whispered.
Her fingers trembled as they pressed against her veins, searching for something that was never there.
She stared at her hands—small, soft, human.
Powerless.
"Why was I even born here…?"
Her voice cracked. And the question vanished into the dark.
She couldn't stop the tears. Not tonight. Not anymore.
They slipped down her cheeks and soaked the edge of the page. Her breathing became shallow. Ragged. The lump in her throat swelled, but she made no sound.
Only silence.
She wept into her knees, curled in the candle's flickering shadow, as the presence of Stayne, the Prime Celestial, loomed above in quiet judgment. A goddess of stars. Of balance. Of halves.
Half of all things… But what was left for someone born empty?
And yet—even now—even shattered, even forgotten, a small warmth stirred deep inside.
A spark that refused to die.
The Fall of a Name
Wilhelmina never received an explanation.
Only silence. Then erasure.
First her mother—gone.
Whispers claimed Kalydyn returned north, but no message ever reached Mina.
Then Noelle—disappeared alongside Kalydyn. No trail, no reason.
Don Kengun was the last to leave. He didn't even say goodbye.
A reassignment, they said. A transfer to another House.
Each day, someone vanished from her life.
Until all that remained was her room, a single bed, and the ticking clock of inevitability.
Then came the Clerk of the Rosmoss—an old man in gray robes, flanked by two silent assistants. He stood outside her chamber door and read a scroll with dry lips.
"Per Order 59-A, ratified by the Noble Council of House Meijer—Wilhelmina Meijer is to be stricken from the noble registry, on account of magical impurity."
"As a Null, your existence within this bloodline is henceforth classified as a clerical error."
"You are no longer recognized as kin. Your surname is revoked."
She didn't cry. She didn't speak.
"I'm sorry," the clerk added, voice tinged with pity. "You're a good kid. This… isn't personal. But the order comes from the head of House Meijer himself. This is the law. I hope... someday... you forgive them."
The gates of the Meijer Estate closed behind her with a hollow clang.
No carriage waited.
No luggage.
Just a satchel containing three books, half a loaf of bread, and a sealed envelope with no return address.
The guards didn't even look her in the eye.
She walked alone.
Into the wind. Into the cold.
The forest at the edge of the estate loomed vast and shadowed.
Mist curled around the trees like secrets, and rain began to fall—a soft, merciless drizzle that soaked her within minutes.
But she kept walking.
No name.
Only silence, and the crunch of wet leaves beneath her feet.
The End of Wilhelmina Meijer
She paused beneath a tree.
Looked back.
The manor was just a speck now—its towers swallowed by fog, its windows dark. No one came running. No one called her name.
Because there was no name to call anymore.
Wilhelmina Meijer was dead.
That name belonged to someone born to lead armies of magic. To dine among royalty. To bend flames and lightning to her will.
That name was never hers to begin with.
She was no noble. No prodigy. No daughter of destiny.
She was Mina.
A girl made of silence, rejection, and an ember too stubborn to die.
As thunder rolled across the sky and the forest darkened, she pulled the soaked hood over her head. And in her eyes—
golden, tired, resolute—
a faint glint of crimson burned still.
Not bright.
Not yet.
But alive.
A spark.
A warning.
"One day… you'll see. Null or not—I was never nothing."