The day was clear, the sun casting its golden light across the pastures of the Old Town, where villagers spread through the fields, tending the wheat that shimmered like pure gold beneath the rising glare. The wind carried the scent of damp soil, while children's laughter mingled with the neighing of horses and the clatter of farming tools.
At the heart of these lands stood the old man Reis Fenderland, watching over his holdings with eyes still sharp despite his years. He was a man of presence, bearing a past heavy with glory—one of the greatest knights the Old Continent had ever known. His name was spoken in every corner of the kingdom. He had seven sons, and every soul in the town held him in respect, whether sworn to his banner or merely a humble farmer.
What set Reis apart was not only his mastery of war, but the blessing he had been born with—a magical mark carved into the palm of his hand, shaped like a stone that pulsed with a singular energy. The stone was part of a complex arcane order: every person in this land was born with a stone of a certain color, each hue bound to one of the four elements of nature. Yet secrets lay buried beneath this system—hidden threads that governed it—each element bearing a silent intruder, an unseen influence whose effects upon its bearer were never wholly predictable.
House Fenderland carried a sigil of its own: a flame edged in gold. It was no mere ornament, but a story—and the stories of ancient houses are told only when their time comes.
Reis loved his lands. He loved his sons and his people. He preferred to sit among them, listening to their tales as though he were one of them, despite the fact that no royal blood flowed in his veins. Still, he was noble enough to stand among the knights who had bent the course of history. Born in an age when kings were shaken from their thrones, raised among swords, he had learned the art of war at the hands of one of the greatest knights who ever lived.
Yet for all its storied past, House Fenderland was not among the most influential families of the Old Town. Power—political and economic—rested in the hands of four houses: foremost among them House Blalord, followed by Selselier, then Rivanais, and lastly, Fenderland.
That day, his son Okin oversaw the farming. Broad-shouldered and powerfully built, his body had been shaped by years of hard labor. Nearing the end of his third decade, he wore a thick beard and a stern expression that spoke of strength and authority. Like his father, he was a formidable knight—but where Reis was legend, Okin was practicality itself, a leader upon whom everyone relied.
Upon one of the hills where the lands of Fenderland stretched wide, the youngest son, Arthur, sat holding an ancient book recounting the Massacre of Veil. He should have been lost in its pages, yet his mind refused to settle. His gaze drifted instead to the training yard, where his brothers Jonathen and Lewis were locked in brutal practice.
Both possessed their blessings—and wielded them well. Magic flowed from them as naturally as breath: one commanded the wind, the other bent plants to his will. Arthur watched in awe, his heart tangled with emotions he dared not voice.
He envied them.
For Arthur had been born with a dormant stone—unlit, lifeless, empty. No light. No power. No magic at all. It set him apart. Marked him. Made him an outcast.
Yet he was no weak boy. He had inherited Reis's knightly spirit, and despite his youth, he could stand against his brothers in single combat. Still, he always lost in the end.
Lost in thought, Arthur did not notice Jonathen vanish from sight—only to lunge at him moments later with a wooden spear, testing him. At the last instant, Arthur twisted aside, caught the shaft, and hurled it back to Jonathen before he could crash into the hillside.
Laughter erupted from Lewis and Jonathen alike. Jonathen scoffed, saying,
"Same as ever—dreaming of discovering the world and all that. Still sailing through those strange fantasies of yours? You won't take a single step without a blessing, Arthur. You'll never be a knight. But… let's grow stronger together."
The words struck Arthur like an open hand across the face. He felt their weight, but said nothing. Instead, he joined the training, fighting with a ferocity born of defiance, even knowing he could not defeat them.
When the day drew to a close, the family gathered for supper. Reis sat at the head of the table, fashioned from fine beechwood and carved with the sigil of the house. Though the table was full, it lacked three of Reis's sons, away on a practical journey of their own.
At last, Reis broke the silence, his voice deep and steady.
"I have spoken with Diana. I have decided it is time to send Arthur to the Knights' Academy. I do not know how long you intend to hide, Arthur. I know your dreams seem beyond reach for one such as you—but I trust you, my son. Forge your own glory."
Shock spread across Arthur's face. He rejected the idea at once, shame flooding him for being blessingless. Yet he could not refuse his father's command. Family came first. And so he agreed—hesitant, fearful of failure.
When Reis finished speaking, his brothers erupted into cheers, urging him on, encouraging him, even though they all knew this path would be far harsher than it appeared.
In this world, one born without a blessing was nothing more than an outcast. Such people were often exiled… or killed… or sold as slaves in the black markets. Arthur was spared only because of House Fenderland's standing.
But in the eyes of the common folk, he was no exception.
To them, he was merely Reis's son—a boy without worth, without a future, deserving only of death.
What none of them knew was this:
darkness hides possibilities beyond imagining…
and one born without a blessing
may yet become the one who changes the world.