The examination did not end quickly, nor did it unfold with the dramatic flair Steve might once have expected from magic-heavy worlds, but instead progressed with a methodical slowness that reminded him uncomfortably of long debugging sessions, the kind where nothing visibly broke yet everything stubbornly refused to work the way it was supposed to. Alaric Graves moved around the room with practiced ease, his wand tracing precise, economical motions through the air as layered diagnostic spells unfolded one after another, each one probing a different aspect of Steve's condition and each one quietly failing to return the answers the man expected.
Steve remained seated on the bed throughout, outwardly compliant, inwardly alert, tracking the interaction between the wand-driven magic and the external mana lattice the system had constructed around him, noting with growing interest how the spells slid across that lattice without ever properly engaging with it. The magic here was designed to sense internal flow, to listen for resonance within the body itself, and when it encountered nothing but an absence wrapped in something artificial and unresponsive, it hesitated, confused, before dissipating harmlessly into the air.
Graves frowned, not in frustration but in concentration, and adjusted his approach, muttering softly under his breath as he switched from broad-spectrum diagnostics to narrower, more invasive probes. Steve felt each attempt as a gentle pressure, like fingers brushing against the surface of a sealed container, and resisted the instinct to interfere, choosing instead to observe and learn how this world's magic behaved when faced with something it did not recognize.
"This is not suppression," Graves said at last, lowering his wand and glancing briefly toward Steve's guardians, who stood rigidly near the door as if afraid to intrude on the space between evaluator and subject. "Nor is it blockage. There is no damage, no scar tissue, no malformed channels."
"Then what is it?" the man asked sharply, impatience bleeding through the carefully maintained veneer of control.
Graves hesitated, a rare pause that spoke volumes, before answering. "It is… nothing," he said finally. "Or rather, it is the absence of something that should be there."
The woman's shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly at those words, and Steve felt the echo of an old, familiar disappointment ripple through the body he wore, a reflexive response etched deep into muscle and memory long before his arrival. He did not need the system to tell him that this was not new information to them, that this verdict had been delivered in one form or another many times before, each repetition reinforcing a quiet, unspoken conclusion about his worth and his place in the world.
Graves turned his attention back to Steve, his expression softening slightly as he met the boy's steady gaze. "Do you feel anything when spells are cast near you?" he asked. "Warmth, pressure, discomfort?"
Steve considered the question carefully, parsing truth from interpretation. "I feel… proximity," he said after a moment. "Like standing near a fire without touching it."
That earned him a sharp look, one that held more curiosity than skepticism. "Interesting," Graves murmured, making a note on a small parchment that floated obediently at his side. "And when you try to cast?"
There it was, the question that carried far more weight than its simple phrasing suggested.
Steve shook his head slowly. "I don't know how," he replied honestly. "I never have."
The man's lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded, as if the answer confirmed something he had already suspected. "Very well," he said, straightening. "That will be all for now."
The dismissal was gentle but absolute, and as Graves turned to leave, Steve felt a subtle shift in the room, the ambient magic relaxing as the authority anchoring it withdrew. The door closed behind him with a quiet finality, leaving Steve alone once more with his guardians and the unspoken tension that filled the space between them.
Neither of them spoke at first.
It was the woman who broke the silence, her voice low and carefully controlled. "You should rest," she said. "The healer will want to check on you again later."
Steve nodded, accepting the instruction without argument, and lay back against the pillows, watching them from beneath half-lowered lashes as they exchanged a brief, wordless glance before turning and leaving him alone. The door clicked shut, and with it went the last of the social expectations that had pressed against him since waking.
Only then did Steve allow himself to breathe more freely.
He reached inward again, not to summon power but to review data, and the interface responded immediately, projecting a concise summary of what it had learned during the examination. Native spell diagnostics failed. Wand-based resonance incompatible. Ambient mana access stable. External lattice integrity at ninety-eight percent efficiency. No hostile interference detected.
In other words, the system was functioning exactly as intended.
Steve closed his eyes and let the information settle, turning it over in his mind not as a crisis but as a puzzle, something to be understood and, eventually, optimized. This world believed magic was something you were born with or without, a trait as immutable as blood or bone, and the body he inhabited had been categorized accordingly, written off as lacking something essential and therefore beyond consideration.
He had seen that kind of thinking before.
It was inefficient.
A knock sounded at the door, lighter this time, and when it opened, it was not one of his guardians who entered but the healer from earlier, Madam Wilkes, carrying a small tray laden with vials and instruments. She smiled faintly when she saw him awake, though her eyes retained the sharpness of someone who had spent a lifetime noticing what others missed.
"I thought I'd check on you again," she said, setting the tray down and pulling a chair closer to the bed. "Evaluations can be… tiring."
Steve nodded. "I'm fine," he said, then amended, "I think."
She chuckled softly at that and began her work, her movements gentle but efficient as she checked his pulse, examined his eyes, and murmured a few diagnostic charms that produced no visible effect. Unlike Graves, she did not frown when the spells failed to respond as expected, only hummed thoughtfully and adjusted her approach, as if the lack of feedback were itself a form of information.
"You're an odd one," she said at last, not unkindly. "Your body reacts as though it expects magic, but there's nothing there to answer it."
Steve opened his eyes and looked at her directly. "What happens to people like that?" he asked.
She paused, her hand stilling briefly against his wrist, and for a moment, the practiced neutrality slipped, revealing a flicker of something more human beneath. "Most live ordinary lives," she said carefully. "Some… struggle. It depends on their circumstances."
And on how the world treats them, Steve thought, though he did not say it aloud.
After she left, the room fell quiet once more, and as evening light slanted through the narrow window, Steve found himself contemplating the path ahead, the constraints already being placed around him by assumptions he had not chosen and rules he had not agreed to. Somewhere beyond these walls, decisions were being made about his future, about where he would go and what would be expected of him, all based on the conclusion that he lacked something fundamental.
He almost smiled.
Because if this world measured worth by inheritance and instinct, then it was ill-equipped to recognize someone who built his power deliberately, piece by piece, according to rules it did not yet understand. Steve did not need to prove that he could destroy; destruction was easy, even here. What mattered was whether he could create something new in a place that believed it had already defined every possible outcome.
And for the first time since waking in this unfamiliar body, he felt not anxiety, but anticipation.
The system pulsed faintly in response, as if in agreement.