In the Kingdom of Eldoria, magic was not just a gift; it was the lifeblood of the land. Every child born into the kingdom was bestowed with mana, a manifestation of their potential, a force that shaped their future. From the moment a baby was born, their mana levels were tested, for this determined their place in the kingdom's intricate hierarchy. High mana meant a promising future in the magical academies or among the elites. Low mana, however, was often seen as a curse.
Elara, a gentle and determined woman, had given birth to her son in the early hours of a fog-shrouded morning. The cool spring air carried the scent of blooming flowers and fresh earth, a stark contrast to the anxiety that hung heavy in the small cottage nestled on the edge of the Whispering Woods. Thorne, her husband, stood beside her, his rough hands clasped tightly as he anxiously watched the midwife perform the ritual to measure their child’s mana.
The midwife, an elderly woman named Maelis, muttered an incantation under her breath. A faint glow flickered around her hands, but when the soft blue light touched Lian’s tiny chest, it quickly faded. Her brow furrowed in silence, and for a brief moment, a hush fell over the room. The air seemed to grow thick with tension as both Elara and Thorne waited with bated breath.
Lian’s mana, though present, was so faint it could barely be detected. The midwife finally spoke, her voice tinged with both sorrow and caution. "It is... the lowest I have ever seen."
Elara’s heart clenched. She had dreamed of this moment for so long—the birth of her first child, a son who would carry the legacy of her family and her husband’s name. But she had also known the weight of the kingdom’s expectations. A low mana level meant hardship, social scorn, and an uncertain future. How could she explain to her son the world he was born into?
Thorne, a towering figure whose blacksmith hands had forged the finest weapons in the kingdom, now stood frozen in shock. His deep voice, usually filled with confidence and warmth, faltered as he turned to the midwife. "Are you certain? Is there no chance that—"
"I cannot say," Maelis interrupted gently, her wise eyes filled with a deep sorrow. "The fates are not kind to those with such little mana. The magic runs thin in him, like a flicker on the edge of a flame."
Elara gazed down at her son, his small face peaceful in sleep, completely unaware of the burden his birth had placed upon them. A mother’s love surged through her, fiercely protective. No matter what the world says, you are my son. And I will love you for who you are, she promised silently.
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As the days passed, the harsh reality of Lian’s condition became impossible to ignore. While the other children in the village were beginning to show signs of magic—summoning small sparks or healing grazed knees—Lian remained a silent observer. His small fingers would twitch, but no spark of magic would light up. He could not summon even a trace of the mana that should have been a natural extension of his being.
It became apparent to Elara and Thorne that their son was unlike any other child in the village. While their friends and neighbors had raised children who displayed an affinity for magic, Lian’s abilities remained absent. The village children often asked why Lian couldn’t do what they could, their voices tinged with a mixture of confusion and pity. The other mothers offered well-meaning, if empty, words of comfort—“Maybe he’ll awaken in time,” they would say. But no one truly believed it.
Elara found herself struggling against the tides of doubt. Was there a way to change this? she would wonder, pacing at night in the dim light of the hearth, watching Lian sleep soundly. What if he never shows any magic at all?
Thorne, ever the protector, refused to let despair take root in their hearts. He worked tirelessly in the forge, his hammer ringing out against the anvil in the cool morning air. But even he could not escape the weight of his fears. His pride was not in his work but in the legacy he would pass on. It gnawed at him that his son might never be able to wield magic, a fate unimaginable in a kingdom where magic was revered above all else.
When Lian turned three, the family took him to the local festival of the Harvest Moon, a time when children were tested for their magical potential. The festival was the one time each year that the entire village would gather to witness displays of magic and judge the talents of the younger generation. Though the event was meant to be a celebration, it felt like a cruel reminder for Lian's parents. In their hearts, they knew that this test would reveal what they had feared all along.
Lian stood in the middle of the square, his small body dwarfed by the bustling crowd. Children from all over the village stood in neat rows, waiting their turn to show off their magical abilities. The laughter of the other children filled the air, a stark contrast to the knot of anxiety in Elara’s chest. She held Thorne’s hand tightly, her palms sweating. Thorne’s jaw was clenched, his dark eyes fixed on their son.
One by one, the children stepped forward, their faces alight with excitement as they summoned sparks, flickered lights, and levitated small objects into the air. The crowd gasped and cheered with every new feat, and for a moment, Elara allowed herself to imagine that her son could perform a trick—a small spark of hope in a world that demanded more.
When it was Lian’s turn, he took a hesitant step forward. His tiny hands shook as he tried to summon even the smallest of lights, the way he had seen the others do. His lips moved silently, and his brow furrowed in concentration. But nothing happened. No spark. No glow. The silence was deafening.
The crowd grew still. Whispers rippled through the onlookers. Elara’s heart broke as she saw the pity in their eyes. Thorne’s face tightened in anger, his fists clenched at his sides. But he did not speak. He would not let anyone see the pain that was tearing him apart.
Lian’s face flushed with humiliation. He had tried so hard, but his body refused to respond. He turned away quickly, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. Elara scooped him up in her arms, her own tears threatening to fall as she murmured softly, “I love you, my son. Magic or no magic, you are everything to me.”
As they left the festival early, the village quiet around them, Elara caught a glimpse of the setting sun, casting long shadows over the landscape. The sky blazed with orange and gold, a fiery reminder of the trials they would face.
But in that moment, Elara knew one thing for certain—no matter what the future held, Lian would not face it alone. His journey, however difficult, would be theirs to share. And together, they would find a way through the darkness.