The days after the sweep were colder.
Not by weather—ash always kept the sky dim and still—but by silence. Eyes that used to glance past Caelum now lingered, narrowed with pity or scorn. The village had seen his failure, and that meant he'd become less than nothing.
"Sparkless," they whispered.
It was the lowest slur for someone born without mana. Even beggars with a weak Lux Vein were higher in station.
Caelum ignored them. He always had. But this time it felt heavier, like the weight wasn't just on his back—but inside his bones.
The worst part? He had no one to prove them wrong to.
Each morning began the same. Up before dawn. Stretches. Breathwork. Sword drills. Endurance runs.
Marek didn't comment on the intensity. He just watched, sometimes correcting Caelum's footwork, sometimes handing him cloth for the blood.
"You're chasing something," Marek said one afternoon, as Caelum collapsed against the practice stump, lungs on fire. "But I don't think you know what."
"I need power," Caelum panted.
"You need purpose first. Power's useless without a direction to swing it."
Caelum didn't answer. He couldn't explain it, not fully. All he knew was that he was falling behind, that no one would ever see him as anything unless he carved his name in stone with blood and will.
Three days later, the Arcanum wagons were still there.
It was rare—they usually swept and left—but now they lingered. Their presence cast a long, golden shadow over the village.
Word spread: the nobles were discussing a stay. Something about "a signature irregularity."
Caelum knew that meant him.
That night, he slipped through the edge of the camp.
He'd learned to walk quietly. That much, at least, no mana could match.
The third wagon was warded with runes he couldn't read. But the guards were lax—it wasn't a prison or a treasure vault. Just a noble's quarters.
He pressed against the outer cloth and listened.
A voice inside—a woman's—cool and crisp.
"…He didn't trigger the orb. That's impossible unless he's truly void-aligned. But there's no record of that branch existing anymore."
A second voice. Male. Deeper, annoyed.
"Vale, you're wasting time. He's a peasant boy. Broken relic, perhaps. Or an artifact disruption."
"No," she replied. "The relic still resonates. Just not to him."
Silence.
Then she said something strange.
"He silenced it. As if… absorbing the current without manifesting it."
The man laughed. "So he's a sponge?"
"No. He's something else."
Caelum's heart thundered.
He didn't know what it meant. But he wasn't imagining it. He wasn't useless. He wasn't sparkless.
Something had happened.
He stepped back—
A twig snapped beneath his foot.
A silence cut through the air.
"Who's there?" came her voice. Sharper now.
He turned to flee but—
A gust of wind slammed him back. His body lifted off the ground, flung into the dirt like a tossed rag.
Pain bloomed in his ribs. He groaned, tried to rise.
Boots approached.
Serapha Vale stood above him, staff in hand. Her hair glinted like steel under the lantern light.
"You," she said, recognizing him. "Caelum Thorne."
He coughed, pushing himself to his knees. "I was just—"
"Sneaking. Eavesdropping." Her voice held no anger. Just observation.
He met her eyes. "You were talking about me."
"I was." She lowered her staff slightly. "Did you understand what you heard?"
"Some. Enough."
"Then tell me—what do you think you are?"
He hesitated. "Broken."
Her eyes didn't soften. But something flickered in her expression.
"No," she said. "Just unreadable."
To Caelum's surprise, she didn't punish him. She didn't alert the guards. She told him to return to the village, then left him alone in the dark.
He didn't.
He sat outside the wagon until dawn, watching the runes glow faintly. Something inside him stirred—quiet, heavy, but deep. Like a tide beneath stone.
Maybe he wasn't part of their system.
Maybe he was something entirely outside it.
That terrified him.
And thrilled him.
Later that day, Serapha returned to the village square, this time without her guards. She stood before the training stump where Caelum had resumed his drills.
He didn't stop when she arrived.
"Your form is raw," she said after a minute.
"Better than nothing," he replied.
"You shouldn't be able to stand after I threw you into a tree."
"I've been through worse."
"You're either reckless, or resilient."
"Why not both?"
She didn't smile. But she watched him closely. "You want training."
"I want strength."
"That's not the same."
"It is to me."
She was silent for a moment, then reached into her coat and pulled out a single coin. A silver medallion etched with the Arcanum's sun-and-threads insignia.
"Come to the edge of the camp at midnight," she said. "Alone. No weapons."
"Why?"
"Because I'm going to see if you're truly sparkless—or something the world forgot to name."
Then she turned and walked away.
That night, Caelum didn't sleep.
He didn't know what this meant. If it was a trick, or a test. But something had shifted.
For the first time in years, someone had seen him.
Not as a burden. Not as a mistake.
As a question.