God gifted all humans with the ability to control, conjure, and connect with magic because we were the most intelligent of all creations. But as I failed to cast even the simplest spells and struggled to read the most basic tablets, I knew I had never been touched by God's gift. The church called it a test of faith. And as I repeated my failing incantation, it became clear that, to accomplish my goals, I was going to have to spit in faith's face.
The incense in the church hall stung my eyes as I lifted my hand over the tablet again. Sunlight filtered through the narrow stained-glass windows, painting the stone floor in broken colours. Around me, the other disciples murmured their incantations, some achieving the desired effect — a faint glow across every letter on the tablet — others managing only half, or less. None were failing as miserably as I was, unable to conjure even a flicker of light. Priest Klein, who was presiding over our class that morning, paused at my tablet at the end and gave me the kind of disappointed look he didn't bother to hide anymore.
Why should he? It's not as if he was wrong to feel disappointed. Out of all the priests who served at our village church when I first started, he was the only one willing to dedicate additional time outside of lessons to help the "under-achievers." And yet, despite the subtle improvements I made under his guidance, I was still far behind my peers.
And that name — under-achievers — it always pissed me off. Everyone knew it was just another word for failures, for people who wouldn't amount to anything. Failures who couldn't even use God's beautiful gift.
Maybe they were right. Maybe I really was the worst.
I walked to the second-largest oak tree on the outskirts of the church grounds with my bowl of soup — my usual refuge. There was no point sitting with the other children; their parents had long ensured they kept their distance from the "failure" of the village. Even their passing glances felt like curses, and the games they played every lunch were nothing but cruel reminders of what I could not do.
I sat and looked on.
As I watched, I recognised the game Rin. A simple game that everyone except me had mastered before they could even read. The runners sprinted in chaotic zig-zags and circles while the few chasers flicked little stones at them using basic elemental spells. A hit made the hexagonal magic slip of paper pinned to the runner's chest flare with light, forcing them to switch sides and join the hunt. With the runners allowed only simple barrier magic for defence, it made for the perfect training exercise — which was one of the few reasons the church actually allowed it to be played.
In truth, playing Rin should have been possible for me — at least as a runner. I could raise a barrier when a stone came flying, though it was never how the books described it. It didn't form a smooth, glowing shield. Instead, it was made of lots of smaller shapes, each with six sides, fitted together into something thin and uneven, like it might give way at any moment.
But it never did. Anything that struck it was always deflected.
Chasing was another matter entirely. Elemental magic meant reading the diagrams written into the books, and understanding them was difficult enough on its own. Having to decipher every word while the lines seemed to shift and blur made it impossible. I didn't know how anyone managed it — and I was too scared to ask. By the time I reached the end of the first instruction, the beginning had already slipped from my mind, collapsing into a jumbled mess.
I watched the other children flick their wrists and send stones darting through the air, following motions they had learned straight from the page. I just didn't understand how they could read the stupid fucking book. It made no sense.
I had about half of my bowl of soup left and poured the remainder into a small ceramic container I kept with me. After lunch, I walked to the other side of the church, facing away from the village. The wide expanse of countryside stretched endlessly, rolling fields disappearing into the horizon. Every day after eating, I came here to practice the only spell I could use confidently without a textbook: my defensive magic. I had started this ritual a few days after Priest Klein had taught it to me, so I could strengthen my only spell and be less of an "underachiever."
Even with daily practice, I struggled to make it look like the versions in the books. I wasn't sure if it was because I had missed a step, or if I simply wasn't visualising it correctly—Klein always said visualisation was the key with magic. In the end, it didn't matter. There was no way for me to verify what I was doing wrong on my own. I couldn't read the books well enough, so all I could do was practice what I already knew. I lost sight of my surroundings and focused in.
The edges of my vision blurred, the world around me fading from focus. Colours dulled, shapes softened, and the murmurs of the other children drifted away. My peripheral vision caught only hints of movement at the edges, while every ounce of my attention flowed into the hexagons forming about one and a half arm-lengths away. The magical energy forming the barrier flowed slowly into the shapes I imagined, and the rest of the world receded into shadows, irrelevant to the precise structure I was building.
"Interesting."
I jumped ten feet into the air and let out a high-pitched shriek. Priest Klein had snuck up behind me—or more accurately, quietly walked over while I was lost in focus. When I was deep in the rhythm of shaping magic, him sneaking up on me and simply walking over were practically the same.
"It's not quite how it looks in the books, but it is definitely a barrier. When did you get so proficient at making these, Faul?"
"W… well, I've been practicing every day since you taught me it, sir," I stammered.
I wasn't exactly nervous around Priest Klein—just acutely aware of his towering six-foot-four frame. He straightened a leather strap over his shoulder, lifting a tablet with a motion so effortless it made my chest tighten. My eyes followed the rectangular slab, etched with a single spell, and I couldn't stop myself from imagining its weight. Five kilograms? Ten? More? He carried several at once, and yet the satchel barely dented his shoulder.
Watching him made me understand the old proverb about priest we'd all heard in passing: "one mouth for teaching, two ears for listening to God, and four limbs for carrying as many tablets as they could."
"Yes," Klein said. "It doesn't look exactly like the book describes, but you've applied yourself well. Taking a unique approach to a spell isn't something most people do. Many have their own interpretations of elemental magic, but you're the first I've seen do so with creation magic. Even if it looks weaker than the original, if you continue to apply yourself, I am certain that once you apply yourself properly. You will finally be on par with your classmates. Maybe, with enough work, you could even catch up to Oben."
I kept a smile on my face, but internally I was seething. After all the excruciating practice I'd done, he still undermined my achievements, calling me lazy. I was working harder than anyone else in the class—including Oben. So what if Oben was the best? He didn't put in any effort. I saw how effortlessly he picked up the books and cast spells, while I had to fight for every single movement and incantation. I worked far harder than him, yet Klein treated us as if our effort were equal.
"Yes, sir. I will try my best to keep up my work so I can eventually rival Oben," I forced out.
Klein let out a chuckle. "It's good to have goals to aspire to," he said, jokingly ignoring how awkwardly I'd phrased it.
It was then that the bell began to ring, signaling the end of lunch.
"It was good to speak with you, sir," I said, bowing respectfully, as youth should in private conversation with their elders.
"Yes, well, hurry back to classes now," he replied.
The rest of the school day passed much faster than the morning. We spent the afternoon on mathematics, something I excelled at, and soon the day was over. I quickly left the school and walked back through the village.
As I walked past the centre toward the outskirts, I spotted a beaten-down cob shed. Its walls were cracked and uneven, patched on each side with small stones jutting awkwardly from the ground. Faint traces of elemental magic shimmered along the repairs.
"Reinforcing it with elemental magic is only a temporary solution," I muttered to myself. My parents, of course, seemed satisfied with the solution.
The shack sagged under its own weight, the roof tiles missing in several places, smoke curling from the chimney in a thin, lazy line. Compared to the other homes scattered along the outskirts, it looked worse than most — but there was something familiar in the crooked angles, the stubborn way the walls still held together.
Yes. Unfortunately, this was my house.
I pushed the door open and dropped onto one of the uneven stools, expecting Quentin's usual chaos: shouting, scuffling, banging. But silence stretched across the room, thick and oppressive.
The quiet was wrong.
I froze, listening. Not a footstep, not a whisper, not the usual ruckus — nothing. Even the hearth burned low, its warmth barely reaching the room. My stomach tightened. He was never this quiet when I came home.
I shifted my weight, the floor creaking beneath me. The patched walls groaned softly, the remnants of my parents' reinforcement magic straining as they always did. I swallowed and glanced toward the back of the house. Quentin should have been here. He always was.