As each noble child stepped forward, Ether felt his pulse quicken. The ceremony had become a rhythm—a slow, deliberate march of names, glowing spheres, and whispered fates. Yet the crowd's mind was still caught on her—Sara of the Barony Jorem. Even now, hushed voices traded guesses about her potential, her lineage, her destiny.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ether noticed his mother, Lady Hera, sitting with her hands folded in perfect poise. But behind that calm mask, her gaze was distant, her brows drawn ever so slightly together, as if she too was lost in heavy thought.
Then, a voice rang clear through the hall.
"Ether of Duchy Sephera—step forward."
The words echoed in his chest like a drumbeat. His feet moved on their own, carrying him toward the massive, silent Book of Icor. The crowd's murmurs faded into the background.
He placed his palm on the sphere.
No blinding light. No trembling air. Only a faint pulse beneath his hand, and the quiet scratching of runes forming across the open page.
The old man leaned forward, reading. His lips curled slightly—not in mockery, but in something unreadable.
"Young Ether… you have the fate of a—"
He paused. The silence stretched. Someone in the audience coughed.
Then, in a measured tone, he continued:
"Strength: D-
.Stamina: D–.
Agility: F–.
Magic: H–.
Magic Control: C.
Intelligence: B+."
The words dropped into the still air like stones into deep water.
The words cut deeper than any blade.
To the boy who had always dreamed of mastering the miracles of magic—To the boy who admired it more than the stars—To the boy who had wished, for as long as he could remember, to stand beside his father as an equal—It was a cruel verdict.
Magic had abandoned him.
Ether's face became still, the spark in his eyes snuffed out in an instant. The air in the hall shifted; the once-bustling crowd fell silent.
On the left, Lady Hera sat frozen, her usually serene features clouded with something heavier—sorrow, and perhaps guilt.
Beside the king stood the Duke—Ether's father—who, for the first time in the boy's life, wore an expression not of pride, nor stern resolve, but disbelief.
For Ether, it was as though the sky itself had collapsed. His chest felt hollow, his heart sinking into a depth from which he feared it might never rise.
Why?
Why… why… why…
What was happening? Why was it like this?
Ether couldn't focus on anything—the walls, the crowd, the great sphere before him—all of it blurred into a haze. Somewhere deep inside, he was waiting… waiting for a voice to pull him out, to tell him it was a mistake, that this was only a nightmare and would soon fade.
The voice came—but not the one he hoped for.
"Return to your seat," the Emperor said, his tone sharp.
Ether blinked, barely comprehending. The Emperor's gaze held a faint glint… not of pity, but of something far colder—loathing.
The hall's atmosphere shifted like a sudden drop in temperature. Moments ago, the crowd had been alive with murmurs and awe. Now it was tense, shocked.
They had heard the whispers—this was the first time in the empire's history that anyone had scored below G.
And they were staring at him.
Ether walked back to his place, his movements stiff, almost mechanical.He stood there, unmoving, like a statue carved from stone.
It was as if the whole world had crumbled around him.Sounds faded.The murmur of the crowd, the echo of footsteps, even the voice of the Emperor—gone.Colors dulled, shapes blurred. He neither saw nor heard nor felt what happened next.Or perhaps… he simply didn't want to.
The ceremony went on without him. The prince and princess stepped forward, their evaluations met with polite applause and prideful whispers—but Ether's mind was far away. He had wanted to witness their moment, to see how they compared, but his heart refused. It was easier not to look… not to know.
At last, the ceremony ended. The heavy doors of the hall opened, and the children filed out into the bright marble corridor.
Lady Hera was waiting there. The moment she saw him, she moved swiftly, her gown brushing the polished floor.She had once seen her son as a boy brighter than the sun itself—full of wonder, questions, and a hunger for the impossible.But today… he was like the moon on a starless night—cold, pale, and hollow.
And then she saw them.Tears. Silent and unrestrained, tracing down his cheeks, leaving faint glistening trails.The sight pierced her like a blade.
She wanted to speak, to tell him it would be all right, that fate was not yet sealed.But the words caught in her throat.All she could do was reach for him, her hands trembling, as the weight of his sorrow settled heavily in her heart.
He didn't speak. He didn't move. But she could feel the slight tremor in his small frame, could feel his pain through the shallow, uneven rhythm of his breath.
She held him tighter, as though by sheer force she could shield him from the judgmental eyes and whispered words all around.
In that moment, there was no grand hall, no nobles, no ceremony—only a mother and her son, and a grief too heavy for words.
A few hours later, in the quiet streets of the capital, the creak of a rusted bicycle chain broke the stillness.A young boy with messy brown hair and a rough, windburned face pedaled quickly, a satchel of newspapers bouncing at his side. One by one, he tossed them onto doorsteps, the folded pages slapping against cobblestones.
For those who picked them up, disbelief settled in almost instantly.The front page was split clean down the middle, as though two entirely different worlds had been printed side by side.
On the left was the story of a girl from a humble barony within the Duchy of Sephera—her evaluation nothing short of miraculous. Her name was written in bold ink, framed by praises and speculation, the headline declaring:
"The Blessed Girl."
On the right, the tone shifted to something colder, sharper. The article told of a boy of the highest noble standing, yet cursed—at least in the eyes of the public—by the very magic he had once dreamed to wield. His evaluation was laid bare, the cruel summary branded above his name:
"The Boy Hated by Magic."
For some, it was just news.For others… it was gossip worth whispering about for weeks.But for one boy—whose name was now on every tongue—it was the weight of a thousand eyes he would never escape.