The House Valeris carriage, polished and imposing, gleamed conspicuously in the muddy, well-worn yard of the Orphanage of the Compassionate Heart. It was a sight Kael, and indeed the entire orphanage, had grown accustomed to over the last six years. The imposing vehicle served as a constant, silent reminder of the difference between Kael's visitor and the life he actually led.
Inside the humble stone entrance, a helper named Mara greeted Lady Elara. At fourteen, Elara had blossomed into a young woman of severe grace, her dark blue hair now meticulously pinned in a noble style. Yet, her eyes held the same warmth they had six years ago. She was fond of Mara and Sister Aven, recognizing them as the true guardians of her secret.
"He's by the fountain, My Lady," Mara whispered conspiratorially, offering a gentle smile. "Playing with Lian and Soren. Being impossibly serious, as usual."
Elara's face broke into a relieved, genuine smile—the one she never showed at House Valeris. "Thank you, Mara."
She stepped into the sun-dappled courtyard. Near the small, mossy fountain, a group of boys was engaged in a fierce game of tag, their yells echoing off the stone walls. Kael, lean and quick at six years old, was easy to spot, moving with a strange, fluid logic distinct from the other children.
"Kael!" she called, her voice bright with a warmth reserved only for him.
Kael's head snapped up. His legs pistoned, and he dropped the game instantly, running to her with an exuberance he never showed the Matron or the other children. He slammed into her legs, his arms wrapping tightly around her waist.
"Elara-Sis!"
Elara hugged him back, burying her face in his hair, the familiar scent of woodsmoke and clean linen replacing the carriage's cloying lavender. "My Little Star. Are you keeping trouble at bay?"
"Mostly. Lian tried to convince me to eat mud again," Kael murmured against her skirt.
"And what did you tell him?"
"I told him mud has terrible caloric density and poor mineral structure for human consumption," Kael replied, deadpan.
Elara snorted, a laugh bubbling up from deep in her chest. "You and your serious words. I swear, you speak like an old, cranky Master Weaver sometimes." She crouched down, meeting his eye level, her touch a grounding force. "I learned a joke this morning. Want to hear it?"
Kael nodded eagerly, the shadow of separation already receding in his eyes.
"Why did the wizard wear a glove?" she asked, wiggling her fingers.
Kael frowned, thinking hard, his mind racing through possibilities. "Because the cold affects the precision of his runic hand gestures, leading to casting degradation?"
Elara laughed again, tapping his small nose. "No! Because he had an itchy hand and didn't want to curse anyone by accident!"
Kael's small smile spread into a wide, luminous grin. "That's a good one, Sis. Tell me another."
The laughter faded as Elara's expression grew serious. She guided him to a secluded stone bench. The sun felt suddenly cold.
"Kael, I won't be visiting for some time," she said softly, her hand stroking his hair, memorizing the texture.
Kael's face fell instantly, the light dimming. "Why, Sis? Did I eat too much of the bread last week? Did Brother Alastair say I couldn't have visitors anymore?"
"No, silly thing! You can eat all the bread you want," she insisted, giving his hand a reassuring, desperate squeeze. "I am going away to school. I am going to the Astraea Academy for Arcane Studies—the most prestigious school in the Empire. I need to become strong."
Kael looked up at her, confusion warring with raw admiration. "Strong? But you are already the strongest. You can open jars that Matron Aven can't."
Elara smiled sadly. "Strong in Conceptual Weaving, Kael. I need to be strong in the ways of our world so that I can protect the things I care about. My family. My brother. You."
She knew the bitter truth: Kael had shown no Conceptual Filter whatsoever. His mind lacked the innate, rigid structure required to interact with the world's magic. He couldn't feel the Weave, the energy that bound their reality. She was determined to master the Weave so she could one day secure Kael a powerful, stabilizing Conceptual Anchor—the only way a "Hollow" foundling could survive.
Kael leaned back, his gaze fixated on the small, Light-Catching Rune carved into the side of the bench—a simple enchantment to keep the stone warm. The rune had a tiny, hairline fracture, which Kael could see made the energy flow inefficiently, something he noticed instinctively, purely logically. "When I go big, I will also join that school! And I will protect you!"
Elara laughed, a light, genuine sound that masked her aching heart. "Yes, you will, my brave little star. I know it."
"Is Lord Alastair also at the school?" Kael asked.
"Yes. He is already there," she replied, suppressing a wince. Alastair, now seventeen, was in his third year. His parting letter to her had been blunt: Do not embarrass House Valeris with unnecessary emotion.
After a few more minutes of quiet promises and a final, tight hug, Elara said her goodbye, the ache of separation a physical pain. She sat in the carriage, watching Kael until the driver pulled away, the image of his small, forlorn figure burned into her mind.
Kael walked back to the fountain, his small shoulders slumped, the joy drained from the day. He stopped short as Ren, a boy a year older with sharp features and a condescending sneer, stepped directly into his path. Ren was an undeniable prodigy, having displayed an impressive Conceptual Filter at five.
Ren was often envious of Kael, not because Kael was powerful, but because Kael, who had nothing to offer the world of magic, was universally liked. Children flocked to Kael's quiet, logical presence.
"Well, well, Kael of the no-House," Ren drawled, his friend Jaron snickering behind him. "I heard you telling your pretty noble sister you want to go to Astraea."
Kael, a child of few words, simply looked at him, his dark eyes steady. Every word Kael spoke, though, seemed to command attention, making him strangely magnetic.
"You know, nobles can just waltz in through connections," Ren continued, puffing out his chest. "But for people like us, Kael, we need to show talent and hard work just to enter the exam. You know you don't have a Conceptual Filter, right? You're a Hollow." The word was spat out, a condemnation.
Ren held up his hand. He articulated a single, silent command, drawing on the ambient Weave. A small, vibrant wind-tornado shimmered in his palm, swirling dust and leaves in a miniature vortex, showcasing his power. "See this? Can you do this?"
Kael shook his head, looking more bored than impressed by the inefficient display of energy.
"You can't," Ren crowed, swelling with pride. Jaron, taking his cue, shoved Kael playfully, but hard enough to hurt.
Kael, instinctively, shoved back.
Ren, enraged by the lack of fear and the audacity of the physical retaliation, let loose a focused blast of wind.
"Get out of my way, Hollow!"
The concentrated gust of air slammed into Kael's chest. He didn't just stumble; he flew backward, hitting his head sharply against the edge of the stone fountain. The world tilted and went dark in a blinding flash of white.
Ren and Jaron stared at Kael's motionless form, their faces suddenly pale with panic. Sister Aven's sharp, distressed voice was already calling from the door.
Kael awoke in the infirmary bed. The smell of dried herbs was thick and sweet in the air, and a soothing, cool cloth rested on his throbbing forehead.
He was alone, but the room was not quiet.
In the sudden, absolute silence of his mind—a silence far deeper than the absence of sound—a voice spoke. It was not a voice of emotion or sound, but one of pure, cold certainty, like a complex calculation reaching its inevitable, undeniable conclusion.
"Hello, Kael. Initiating systemic recalibration."