Born Without Magic, Destined to Rule All

[Volume 1# Before Ice Age]

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"Hi, Vonn! Did your magic crawl under a rock again?"

The mocking call rang out over the courtyard like a lash, so loud that it caused a few wandering stares, but not loud enough to command more than fleeting attention. This was Arcvale Academy, after all — the fabled school of elemental mastery, where drama and magic were the norm. Around Zarek Vonn, the air vibrated with power. Runes glimmered across all the ancient stone walls, flowing like liquid light under the dawn sun. Ivory spires, inscribed with the sigils of the masters of old, reached toward the heavens as if calling forth the gods themselves.

The courtyard thrummed with energy. Students in bright robes of the elements danced through the air or blazed across marble tiles. A girl surrounded by flame flew through whirling circles of flame. A boy floated cross-legged, surrounded in a reverberating spiral of stones that circled his body. Another composed a melody of air that swayed the leaves in concord. Magic fresh and vibrant, sang in every breath of the campus — living, breathing proof of what humankind can accomplish and the power of the Star Realm of Lystara.

Except for Zarek.

He was a dead stick in a row of flowering trees. By himself, standing at the fringe of the central boulevard, clutching a worn copy of Basic Elemental Theory: Volume One, the spine worn from repeated use, the corners creased from repeated hopeful perusal. His robes were academy issue, but unadorned — free of any of the elemental crests that decorated his classmates. No flame flickered at his fingers. No water sprang in his hand. No sigh of air ruffled his hair, no rock moved under his feet. He was still. Empty. A walking reminder of defeat.

"Come on, show us something, dirt boy."

Kellan Dross stepped out of a nearby columned arch, his robes elemental, trimmed with the scarlet color of a fire adept. His every movement exuded confidence — the casual arrogance of someone born powerful and praised for it every day since. He flicked his fingers, and fire wrapped around his knuckles instantly, burning like a crouched serpent waiting to strike.

"Even a spark?" Kellan snarled, cradling the flame in his hand as if it were a trophy. "Or are you reserving that for your bedtime story?"

The laughter which followed wasn't cruel — it was careless, thoughtless. The sort that hurt more than open loathing because it bore no actual respect for its object. Zarek didn't flinch. He'd heard it all before. The names. The insults. The constant, banal jabs tossed by those whose magic just as readily as breathing. He merely shifted his hold on the book, bringing it under one arm like a shield, and continued walking.

But Kellan wasn’t done.

“Still pretending you’re part of us?” he called, stepping directly into Zarek’s path. The flame danced higher in his palm, casting flickering shadows across his smirking face. “This is Arcvale, not some farmers’ guild.”

Zarek stopped. Slowly, he raised his eyes. The sun caught in his dark irises, turning them into pools of reflected fire — not from within, but borrowed. Always borrowed.

“You done?”

The question was tentative, but relentless. It paused Kellan — for a moment— before another student spoke up behind, voice thick with sarcasm.

"Oh, the powerless speaks. Shall we clap?"

The fire in Kellan's hand flared forward with a soft whoosh, halting inches from Zarek's nose. The flames danced at his skin, tempting him to wince but he didn't.

“You’re a stain on the prestige of this academy,” Kellan said coldly. “Elementless. Skill-less. Worthless.”

At that moment, silence rippled outward. Not because of Zarek — but because of the woman who walked into view.

Mistress Elira.

One of Arcvale's strongest elemental mentors, every step she took sent a sheet of frost trickling along the stone floor. Her robes resembled flowing glaciers, with silver embroidery that glimmered like the morning dew on ice. She walked by the group with a silence, her eyes casting a fleeting glance at Zarek before moving on — cold, unreadable, and impenetrable.

Kellan smiled. "Even the mentors are disregarding you. That's how low you are."

Zarek did not respond. He had no need to. Words were a waste of breath. He elbowed past Kellan and the others, the crowd opening up before him as he approached the training arena — a large, open coliseum bordered by elemental totems and glyph-carved pillars. Beyond, the actual Arcvale came alive.

Wind adepts danced in soaring aerial combat, leaving wisps of cloud behind them like comets. Earthbinders constructed towering stone barriers in mere seconds, clashing with crackling lightning blades by thunder-mages. The air was heavy with the smell of burned air, churned earth, and ozone. It was madness. Gorgeous, deadly madness — and it was where real talent was honed.

And Zarek? Zarek had none.

No magic glow ever responded to his summons. How the elements lay still when he meditated. No arcane circle of light under his feet. He might read the papers on theory. Learn the sigils. Practice the breathing techniques until his ribs hurt — but still the silence. As if the elements gazed at him… and turned away.

"Hey, Vonn!"

Ren's voice called out across the dueling ring. A silver-streaked third-year sword-fighter with arms of coiled steel, Ren was one of the few at the academy who spoke to Zarek as if he were a person. He waved a smile, spinning twin practice swords in his hands.

"You planning on actually competing this time, or just watching like always?"

Zarek smirked weakly. "Watching. Wouldn't want to spoil anyone's winning streak.

Ren laughed. "Suit yourself!" And he turned, throwing himself into a duel, blades flashing as they clashed with an opponent's earth-forged battle-axe in a shower of sparks and stone.

Zarek hovered on the fringes, the sound of battle humming in his ears like a storm he could never reach. Before he could turn away, a voice slid up beside him — smooth, precise, and icy-cold.

"You don't belong here."

Aven.

A windbinder with sharp, predatory eyes and a voice that cut deeper than any blade. Her uniform bore the golden insignia of the academy crest — a mark of excellence. She regarded him like one might inspect a chipped relic in a pristine collection.

“You’re wasting space someone else could’ve earned.”

Zarek didn’t respond.  He turned and strode, boots crunching on the gravel path as he left behind the arena, the thunder of duels receding from his ears. Beyond the statues of the Founding Adepts. Beyond the fountain where water and fire danced together. Beyond the eyes. The whispers. The hopes he could never fulfill.

At last, he found himself among the gardens.

Hidden away at the back of the academy grounds, the outer gardens were serene — nigh on sacred. The only thing here was silence. The wind dropped to a soft breath. The fragrance of lavender and starbloom perfumed the air. And at its center, the Tree of Whispers — a massive, ancient affair of twisted roots and silver-green leaves that never changed color with the seasons.

Zarek settled to the ground at its base, pushing his back against the rough bark of the tree. This one had witnessed the coming of Arcvale. It had seen generations of adepts rise and fall. If any place could understand the weight he carried, it was here.

He lay flat his fingers to the roots and felt the cool thrum of ancient magic beneath them and whispered:

"Why me? Why am I the only one… who's nothing?"