Origins of Mina Ferrer Orlean, previously known as Wilhelmina Meijer...
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 sacred forests steeped in ley lines, the Elynthians have long claimed dominion over spellcraft. Theirs is a birthright carved into the marrow of their bones—an inheritance older than empires.
Here, magic determines worth. And among the nobility, to lack it is to lack existence.
But even in paradise, anomalies are born.
The cursed few. The forgotten. The Nulls.
Souls without flame. Bodies where mana does not roar, but sputters. Their cores register between one and five percent of magical capacity—an embarrassment at best, a threat at worst.
History remembers the ancient historic purges of assimilation, exile, execution. And yet, fate never ceases to amuse.
Tonight, it delivers one into the highest echelons of power.
The grand birthing chamber of House Meijer shimmered with blue and crimson etherlight. Dragonbone sconces exhaled incense that smelled of crushed petals and smoke. Drapes of enchanted silk shifted as a warm summer wind whispered through the warded glass.
On the walls hung the sigil of House Meijer: a blooming orchid crowned with flame. A mark of elegance. A mark of power.
The Duchess, Kalydyn Meijer, labored on silk sheets. Her cries echoed against marble and ether wards. Around her stood priestesses in silver veils, midwives in linen, and armored retainers sworn to silence.
At her bedside, a High Priest of Stayne clutched a crystalline device—the Mana Quantifier—its facets swirling faintly with pale light. Its purpose was simple: measure the resonance of a newborn's core.
The moment arrived.A child's first cry pierced the chamber.
The midwife lifted the infant, wrapped in white silk, and placed her into the priest's waiting arms. Tiny. Breathing. Alive.
The priest lowered the quantifier to the newborn's chest. The crystal flared, runes spinning in rapid sequence.
Everyone leaned closer. Breath held.
The numbers appeared.
And silence fell like a guillotine.
"…One percent," the priest whispered, his voice cracking. He blinked, then repeated louder, as though trying to convince himself: "Her core registers… one percent."
Gasps rippled.
"No…" Kalydyn's weak voice wavered, her face pale and drenched with sweat. "No, that's—check again! Do it again!"
The priest shook his head, his hands trembling. "The device does not lie, Duchess."
Sir Don Kengun, captain of the guard, ground his teeth. His voice was iron. "The daughter of Archmage Marnix Meijer… is a Null?"
The words hung heavy. Accusation. Curse.
Whispers rose among the attendants. A Null? In House Meijer?
The Duchess's tears blurred her vision. She reached out, fingers shaking, toward the swaddled child. "No… not my daughter. Not Marnix's heir…"
But then a maid, Noelle—her voice gentle, steady as if to soothe—spoke softly: "Look. She bears the Archmage's eyes."
The priest stilled. All turned to see.
The child blinked for the first time. Gold irises flecked with crimson shimmered in the etherlight—eyes unmistakably of Meijer blood.
Kalydyn's breath caught. For a moment, her sorrow bent into fragile wonder. "Golden… like his…"
But around her, disappointment only deepened. To the highborn, eyes were not enough. Bloodlines demanded mana.
A child born of fire and orchid, of spell and song—yet with a hollow spark.
Fate had faltered.
The priest bowed his head. "By decree of tradition, she will be recorded."
His quill scraped across parchment:
Late Summer, June 4th, 1173.Wilhelmina Meijer. Daughter of House Meijer.Core resonance: One percent.
Thus began the life of Wilhelmina, heir to greatness denied by birth.
The child of one of the Three Great Houses—born a Null.
Her existence, from its very first breath, was a contradiction the Monarchy could neither celebrate nor erase.
And in the years to come, that contradiction would define her.
Growing up, Wilhelmina spent most of her days under the quiet yet resolute protection of her mother, Kalydyn Meijer.
Kalydyn—born of northern stock, sharp as the snows and stubborn as iron—was the Duchess who married into one of the Three Noble Houses. Her husband, Marnix Meijer, was famed across the Monarchy as the Molten Blade, an Archmage of searing renown. Together, they were meant to embody the very height of Elynthian might.
But fate was not kind.
The child they were gifted was Wilhelmina, and though her birth bore the golden eyes of the Meijers, she bore no mana worth naming. The whispers of "Null" clung to her name like ash.
Kalydyn endured the sneers. The nobility could not voice their disdain outright, for her marriage had brought her a quarter share of the Meijer holdings—wealth and influence that shackled even the Royal House into cautious silence. But everyone knew: Marnix's disappearance years later would loosen those chains. It was only a matter of time before Kalydyn and her child would be cornered.
Yet for a while, Wilhelmina's childhood unfolded in the shadow of love rather than disdain.
She was a roughhouse from the start. At age three, she staggered across the estate courtyard, laughing, clutching a stool far larger than her frame. Kalydyn had nearly dropped her teacup.
"…By Stayne's stars," she murmured, rising from her chair. "You'll break the furniture before you break a sweat, won't you?"
Little Mina only laughed, wobbling under the weight before proudly holding the stool aloft like a trophy.
Strength, it seemed, was her gift—even if mana was not.
Her earliest years were spent in the Meijer estate nestled near the Royal Manor. The manor's towers loomed always in sight, a silent reminder of power and expectation. Yet her world was smaller: gardens, courtyards, playrooms filled with carved toys she rarely touched. Mina did not crave riches—she craved warmth, and she found it in her mother's arms.
Sundays brought ritual. Each week, Kalydyn took her daughter to the great temple for worship—the Sunday obligation to Stayne, God of Stars and Magic. The bells tolled silver. The air shimmered faintly with the residue of countless prayers.
Nobles gathered like constellations, draped in robes of silk that seemed to shimmer with their own inner light. Kalydyn entered with head high, and the greetings came as they always did—bows, smiles, offerings of gifts meant to curry favor.
But when eyes fell upon Wilhelmina, the light dimmed.
Averted gazes. Tightened lips. Children her age pulling at their mothers' sleeves, whispering questions they were hushed from voicing. Mina did not yet understand. She reached her small hand toward them, bright-eyed, a toddler's joy plain on her face.
No one reached back.
A noblewoman, her voice sweet as poison, once cooed to Kalydyn: "How fortunate you still look radiant, Duchess. Perhaps… time will bless your House with another child."
Kalydyn's grip on Mina tightened that day.
And Mina, though she did not understand their words, understood their silence.
So she smiled harder. Laughed louder. Nuzzled closer into her mother's gown, where she was safe, where she was seen. To her, the temple was never about the God of Stars. It was about the warmth of Kalydyn's arms carrying her through the cold.
In her innocence, she thought that was enough.
But the world beyond her mother's shadow had already begun to decide otherwise.
At eight years old, Wilhelmina Meijer had already grown accustomed to being different.
While the other children of the manor studied spellcraft in sunlit classrooms—chanting incantations, drawing circles of glowing runes—Wilhelmina was elsewhere. She spent her mornings in the training yard, sweating through physical drills with the Meijer Guard.
Her mother had insisted on it.
"A Null cannot shape mana, Mina," Kalydyn had told her once, brushing stray strands of coral red hair from her daughter's face.
"But you can shape yourself. Body before magic, discipline before failure. Remember that."
So Mina remembered. And soon, what others thought cruel punishment became her routine. Two hours of sword forms, dagger drills, and endurance circuits left most adults groaning, yet Mina walked the halls afterward with barely a bead of sweat. The maids whispered in disbelief. Some of the guards even muttered respect.
Magic was impossible. But strength, skill, and grit—those belonged to her.
If training hardened her body, her evenings sharpened her mind.
The great study of House Meijer was often filled with the scent of parchment and candlewax. Here, Mina would sit across from her mother at a carved oak table, a chessboard sprawled between them.
Kalydyn Meijer was a fox of a woman—sharp-eyed, cunning, every word laced with intent. Mina admired her endlessly. Perhaps too much, for in her eagerness to be like her mother, she began mimicking her mannerisms: the tilt of the chin, the quiet smile when calculating, the patient silence that unnerved opponents.
And to Kalydyn's endless amusement, Mina learned quickly. Too quickly.
"Checkmate." Mina's lips curled into a triumphant grin one evening as she toppled her mother's king with the light tap of her finger.
Kalydyn raised a brow, golden eyes gleaming. "Again?"
"Again." Mina puffed her chest, unable to hide her pride. "Mother, I think you're slipping. Maybe you're just… not as clever as you think you are."
"Oh?" Kalydyn leaned back in her chair, folding her arms with mock offense. "You believe you've outfoxed me? That my wit has dulled, child?"
Mina smirked. "It's not a belief if it's true."
For a long moment, Kalydyn only watched her daughter. Then, suddenly—she laughed. Rich, melodic, but carrying a sly edge.
"You're not like other girls," she said at last, ruffling Mina's hair. "Sometimes, I wonder if you're not a boy trapped in a girl's body."
Mina blinked, then grinned wide. "Really? That's awesome. I am awesome, aren't I?"
Kalydyn chuckled. "It was a jest, Mina. Do not take me so seriously." She leaned closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. "Truth is, I've been going easy on you."
Mina's eyes widened in shock. "Lies!"
Kalydyn raised a single finger. With a soft swirl of magic, the chess pieces rose into the air, sliding back into their starting positions. The board was clean once more.
"Test me then, brat," Kalydyn teased, her smile a fox's grin.
What followed lasted scarcely a minute. Mina's pawns fell like dominos, her queen trapped before she even realized, her king cornered in five brutal turns.
"Checkmate."
Mina stared at the board in disbelief. Her hands clenched into fists. "That—That doesn't count! You tricked me!"
Kalydyn leaned across the board, tapping her daughter on the forehead with a painted nail. "Lesson one: never believe your opponent has shown you their full strength. Lesson two: a fox never plays all her cards at once."
Mina pouted, cheeks red, but deep down—she felt it. Admiration. Envy. A fire burning in her chest.
She wanted to be clever like that. No—cleverer.
One day, she swore, she would win without being indulged. And when that day came, no one—not even Kalydyn—would laugh at her victory.
Kalydyn Meijer often marveled at her daughter.
Wilhelmina's hunger to learn, her stubborn will, her bright eyes that never dulled even when the world refused to acknowledge her—Kalydyn loved every inch of it. And yet, in the quiet hours, when no eyes were on her, the Duchess frowned.
Because she knew what was coming.
The knives were already drawn.
For now, she pushed such thoughts aside. If her time was running short, then she would spend it giving Wilhelmina the best foundation possible. She taught her to think like a fox, to stand like a blade, to smile even when the world spat in her face.
Her love for Marnix had been true. No political arrangement, no courtly deception. They had been passion, fire, and magic entwined. But when he vanished—silently, without even a body to mourn—the tide shifted.
Jealous cousins. Greedy uncles. Political vultures.
They circled. They waited.
And when the council of Rosmoss finally gathered, their verdict fell like an executioner's axe.
"The balance of House Meijer must be realigned. The Duchess Kalydyn is hereby stripped of title and position, and shall return to the North, the Union of Kovianyskan."
Their excuse was paper-thin. Everyone knew the truth: without Marnix, she was a lioness penned in by hyenas.
The decision was swift. Brutal.
And so, in the week after Wilhelmina's ninth birthday, Kalydyn Meijer was exiled.
Mina remembered that night vividly.
The sound of her mother's voice, raised but steady. The rustle of silk garments being packed by trembling hands. The heavy silence of the manor as word spread.
She clung to her mother's skirts, crying into them. "Mama, don't go! Please—take me with you!"
Kalydyn's hands shook as she stroked her daughter's hair, golden eyes layered with red concentric rings burning with rage she dared not show. "I would, my little star… but they won't let me. They'll never let you walk free. You were born a Meijer, and they will cage you here."
Mina's cries turned raw. "Then stay! Stay with me!"
Her mother smiled through her tears. A smile that broke Mina's heart. "I cannot."
Noelle, her mother's sister and Mina's beloved maid—her second mother in all but name—was forced to go as well. Mina watched her vanish down the candlelit corridor, her gentle hand waving one last time before the doors closed forever.
Just like that, everything she had left was ripped away.
Kalydyn had wanted her daughter to come with her, but the council forbade it. A noble-born Null could not be allowed to "roam free." She was too dangerous as a scandal, too valuable as a tool.
So Wilhelmina Meijer was left behind.
Alone.
In a den of wolves.
Only one man stayed.
Sir Don Kengun.
The manor's iron-handed enforcer. Broad as a wall, voice like gravel, presence like cold iron, & bald. Once, he had been Marnix Meijer's sworn comrade on the battlefield. And when his friend vanished, he swore an oath upon his blade: to protect the child he left behind.
"From this day, girl," Don told her, kneeling to meet her tear-streaked face,
"My watch over you begins. I'll not coddle you. I'll not lie to you. But I will keep my oath. As long as I draw breath, you will not break."
There was no warmth in his tone, no softness. Yet Wilhelmina felt something anchor inside her chest.
A promise.
Her only shield against the wolves that stalked her halls.
But peace never lasts.
Not for the weak.
Not for the cursed born beneath the crest of shame.
The exile of Kalydyn Meijer was not the end.
It was only the beginning.
In the month that followed her ninth birthday, Wilhelmina's life transformed. Where once she had been the "daughter of Marnix," a curiosity to some and a disappointment to others, now she was simply the Null.
A cursed child.
A living embarrassment shackled to House Meijer.
The corridors whispered wherever she walked. Servants who once bowed politely now offered only shallow nods, their eyes sliding past her as though she were invisible. Children her age—cousins, distant kin, heirs of lesser branches—mocked her openly, their chants echoing against marble pillars:
"Null girl! Null girl! What are you worth without flame?"
Some conjured harmless sparks of fire or threads of ice, just to humiliate her. A few went further, casting minor hexes when no elders watched.
But Wilhelmina endured.
Her mother's voice still lingered in her thoughts. Do not sulk. Do not crumble. The world waits for you to bend… so don't.
So she stood tall, even when her knees trembled. She smiled when their laughter stung. And at night, alone in her chamber, she traced the stars outside her window, whispering: Endure. Endure. I will find you, Mother.
Sir Don Kengun had been reassigned directly under her care. Officially, he was her "guardian and trainer." In truth, he was her shield from the wolves circling her daily life.
Don was a man of iron. He barked orders during training, his voice carrying across the courtyard like a war drum.
"Again, girl! Pick up the blade. Raise your guard. Your stance is weak."
Wilhelmina's small hands ached, her arms burning as she lifted wooden practice swords heavier than her frame should've allowed. But Don never struck her. Never raised his hand in cruelty. When others tried to sabotage her training—loosening straps on her armor, slipping stones into her boots—Don noticed. Always.
And always, the saboteurs disappeared from her sessions, muttering excuses.
He never said the words I protect you, but Wilhelmina knew. She saw it in the way his eyes lingered on the edges of the yard, scanning for threats. In the way his gauntlets tightened whenever noble brats laughed too loudly.
She respected him. Feared him, a little. But trusted him above all.
Unlike her peers, Wilhelmina was forbidden from attending the arcane lectures that filled the grand halls of the Meijer Academy. Instead, she was pushed into remedial "physical classes," a polite term for keeping the Null busy.
While others practiced spellcraft beneath chandeliers of flowing light, she wrestled with soldiers twice her size, ran laps until her lungs burned, and endured Don's relentless drills.
At first, she resented it. She wanted to sit in those classrooms, to learn incantations like the others. She wanted to prove she was more than her cursed blood.
But slowly, she realized something: while they exhausted themselves tracing sigils and memorizing chants, she was building a body of steel. By the time most children collapsed in their chairs, her stride barely faltered after two hours of sparring.
Even Don, who rarely praised, admitted once: "Your endurance is remarkable. Your father would've said the same."
Those words stayed with her.
Each night, when exhaustion claimed her, Wilhelmina clutched at the edges of her sheets and thought of her plan.
Endure until you are grown. Train until you are sharp. Then find the North. Find Mother.
It was the only star guiding her through the shadows.
For now, she endured the sneers, the whispers, the pointed cruelty. She endured being called worthless, powerless, cursed.
Because deep down, Wilhelmina Meijer believed in one truth her mother left her:
"The world may call you Null. But you are not nothing."
The chapel of Meijer Manor was a place of solemnity. A vault of cold stone and silver flame, raised in reverence to Stayne, the Celestial of Stars. It was said she had gifted half her magic to the world before vanishing in the Rapture, her memory carved into marble and candlelight.
Such was the story. A god's sacrifice, immortalized in silence.
Ten-year-old Wilhelmina knelt among the congregation. Her hands folded, her eyes shut.
She did not ask for strength. Nor for vengeance.
She asked only for understanding.
Beside her sat Amos—her elder cousin. If Wilhelmina was the family's shadow, Amos was its sunlit heir. Talented. Handsome. Cruel.
He leaned close, his whisper searing her ear.
"Maybe if you pray hard enough, the gods will give you a second soul."
She did not move.
"You really are a Null," he pressed, lips curling. "Born useless. Meant to die in silence. Just like the rest of your kind—"
CRACK.
Gasps rippled through the pews.
Amos staggered back, hand flying to his cheek. There, faint and red, burned the mark of Wilhelmina's trembling fist. Her hand shook, but her golden eyes blazed.
For a moment—just a moment—there was a spark in her gaze. Defiance.
Amos's face twisted with fury.
"You filthy—worthless—Null!"
He lunged. His fists rained down like hammers. Wilhelmina folded on the stone floor, curling against the pain. Silent, not from fear—nor weakness—but from refusal to give him the scream he wanted.
Only when the guards seized him did the chapel return to its hush. Whispers slithered between the pillars, each heavier than prayer.
Later, in the guard's hall, Don Kengun stood before them. His arms folded, his face unreadable as stone.
"You've embarrassed this House again," he said. His voice carried no heat—only judgment. "Fourth time this month."
Amos, still seething, jabbed a finger at Wilhelmina.
"She hit me first! She struck first!"
Don's eyes narrowed, cutting through him.
"Because you provoked her. Do you want your father to hear of this?"
The words drained Amos of color. His jaw snapped shut.
"Good," Don said. "Then we understand each other."
His gaze shifted to Wilhelmina.
She stood still. Chin high. Her eye bruised, but her stare unwavering.
"As for you," Don said, voice firm, "you must stop this. They already call you filth. I cannot shield you forever. Your mother is gone. Noelle is gone. If I fall… you will have no one."
Wilhelmina did not flinch.
"Just behave," he said. "And perhaps they'll let you attend a boarding school. Somewhere else. Far from here."
She looked up at him, her voice small—yet steady.
"Will it be different there? Or the same?"
Don paused.
He didn't answer. Not because he lacked the words.
But because he already knew.
The Council of the Rosmoss had debated for months. Jealous uncles, wary aunts, cousins with more ambition than compassion. In the end, their verdict was simple, cruel, and clean.
Wilhelmina would be erased.
She never received an explanation.
Only silence. Then absence.
Her mother—gone, cast back to the North.Noelle—gone, vanishing alongside Kalydyn.Don Kengun—the last, reassigned without so much as a goodbye.
Each departure left her with less. Until all that remained was a quiet room, a narrow bed, and the tick of inevitability.
The day came without warning.
An old clerk arrived at her chamber door, draped in gray robes, two silent assistants at his back. His voice was thin, dry, as he unrolled the scroll.
"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."
His lips smacked. The words fell like dust.
"As a Null, your presence within this bloodline is henceforth classified as… a clerical error. You are no longer recognized as kin. Your surname is revoked."
The chamber went still.
Wilhelmina stood there, hands loose at her sides. She didn't speak. She didn't cry.
The clerk shifted, his voice softening. "I'm… sorry, child. You're a good girl. This isn't personal. But the order comes from the head of House Meijer himself. It is the law."
He glanced down, almost ashamed. "…I hope, one day, you can forgive them."
The assistants closed her door for him.
That was the last time anyone in the manor said her name.
The gates clanged shut behind her.
No carriage waited.No luggage was prepared.
Only a threadbare satchel slung across her shoulder.
The guards refused to meet her gaze as they barred the iron gates.
She walked alone.
Into the wind. Into the cold.
The forest loomed vast at the estate's edge, mist curling around its roots like secrets. Rain whispered down, soaking her hair, her clothes, her bones.
Still she walked.
No name on her lips.
Only the crunch of wet leaves beneath her feet.
At the tree line, she turned.
The manor was a distant silhouette now, its towers swallowed by storm clouds. Its windows flickered faintly, but none for her. No one came running. No one called after her.
Because there was no name left to call.
Wilhelmina Meijer was dead.
That name belonged to another child—one born to command armies, to shape lightning, to dine at royal tables. That name had never truly been hers.
She was no noble.No prodigy.No daughter of destiny.
She was only Mina.
A girl carved from silence, rejection, and an ember too stubborn to die.
The thunder rolled. Wind lashed through the trees, pulling strands of coral-red hair loose from beneath her hood.
Her golden eyes lifted once more. Tired. Resolute. About to break.
And deep within them—just a trace of crimson.
Not bright. Not yet.
But alive.
A spark.
A warning.
Her lips parted. A whisper drowned by the storm, yet burning all the same:
"One day… you'll see. Null or not—I was never nothing."