The sound of pages turning echoed softly through the silent library.Dim lamplight flickered over rows of neatly arranged books, the scent of aged paper thick in the air. A small boy sat alone—his frame delicate, black hair loosely tied at the back in the fashion of nobility. Crimson eyes, focused and solemn, betrayed a mind far older than his years.His fingers moved slowly, carefully turning each page—sometimes flipping back as if afraid he had missed something important.
— "Vain, are you not coming out of the library? You've been in there for two days."
The boy looked up. A tall man stood atop a marble step, half-shrouded in light from the stained-glass window behind him. His attire was noble—refined, though lacking the gaudy excess others wore.That was his father—Ilidan Delan Samuel, head of House Delan, the noble lineage that safeguarded the arcane knowledge of the Velk Empire, where Black Magic reigned.
Vain said nothing. He turned back to his book.
His father sighed, voice quieter now.— "Ever since that day… you still haven't let it go?"He paused, then added:— "Vain… you cannot use magic. That's a truth you must learn to accept."The man turned to leave, footsteps fading down the grand stairway.— "It's never too late to choose another path" he said over his shoulder, before disappearing into the shadows.
His last words lingered in the air like dust suspended in stillness.
A single tear slipped down Vain's cheek—but no sound followed. No sob.Only silence, like the vast emptiness inside him.
Every child in Velk was born with the gift of channeling mana. Every child—except Vain.Not a single magic circle. Not even a flicker of flame.And he had tried—gods, he had tried—again and again, for years.
Worse still, he adored magic. He read every book, devoured every scroll. He was the firstborn of House Delan—the House of Knowledge. The irony cut deep.
He clenched the book in his hands.
A memory rose, unbidden:A cold winter morning. He stood before the family's Arcane Council.They asked him to recite the most basic summoning spell—one even a five-year-old could perform.He failed. Again. And again.After the fifth attempt, one of the scholars scoffed:— "A boy with no magic, reading spellbooks? What for?"
Another day—children training in the courtyard, hurling sparks and illusions. Vain watched from the shade.A servant girl gently draped a cloak over his shoulders.— "You shouldn't catch cold, young master… You're not as strong as little Lord Ervan."
Ervan—his cousin. Same age. Already summoned three of the seven Binding Spirits.
Did it hurt? Of course it did.For a ten-year-old, suppressing emotion was almost impossible.Vain hurt—badly.But still, no sound came.No wail. No cry.Just the burning ache in his chest.
He wanted to cry.He wanted to scream.But he whispered instead, only to himself:— "Don't cry."
His body trembled with the weight of unshed grief—then stilled.A long breath escaped him.He placed the book down gently, wiped the tears still falling, and stood up with the oil lamp in hand.Without a word, he moved deeper into the library, toward the furthest shelves where forgotten tomes lay buried in dust and shadows.
And from that moment on, the fading ember in his heart flickered to life again—A stubborn flame that refused to die, lighting the narrow path ahead.
— "If I cannot cast spells," he whispered, "then I will learn everything about them—more than anyone who's ever lived."