As dawn broke, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, a young figure moved rhythmically in the secluded training ground nestled within the heart of the Steelhart estate. Thirteen-year-old Lucius Steelhart, his eyes narrowed in intense concentration, executed a solid—but slightly ragged—series of sword slashes, his arms shaking just as he finished the third swing. Each movement spoke of his stubborn determination—though by the fifth cut his forearms were burning, and he fought not to let the sweat make his grip slip.

His twin brother, Caelum, watched with a playful grin, coaxing a small breeze with an experimental wave of his hand. The wind swirled, deviating Lucius’s sword just enough to miss the straw dummy.

“Really, Cael? Again?” Lucius exhaled, sweeping a lock of hair from his sweat-drenched forehead. He couldn’t help but admire the effortless way his brother manipulated the wind, a stark contrast to his own meticulous swordsmanship.

“What can I say? A gentle breeze can refresh the mind,” Caelum chuckled, his eyes gleaming like the evening’s first stars.

Lucius cracked a half-smile. “Right. Refreshing enough to trip me up.”

He set his jaw, stepping into a combat stance. “Fine, if it’s a challenge you want, it’s a challenge you’ll get.”

The twins circled each other, the air crackling with anticipation. Lucius’s grip tightened around his blade, his green eyes locking onto Caelum’s. Across from him, Caelum’s fingers wove faint trails of shimmering energy, his smirk unshaken.

“Ready to admit defeat, Lucius?” Caelum’s voice danced on the breeze.

“In your dreams, Cael,” Lucius retorted.

He lunged—half-wondering if he was too slow—then forced himself forward. His mind, however, flickered beyond the training ground—to the looming Awakening.

In Aetheris, every child’s thirteenth birthday is sacred. It is on that day they undergo the Awakening, when their latent Mana stirs to life.

Commoners journey to grand cathedrals in every major city to stand beneath the vaulted arches of the Draconic Order—who teach that the first spark of power is a gift from the mighty dragons of old.

No one knows if the dragons truly guide human blood, but their legends fuel pageantry and faith.

What if he failed? Would he shame the Steelhart name?

Caelum conjured a puddle beneath Lucius’s foot. “Too slow!” he teased.

Lucius skidded, but instead of faltering, he used the momentum to tackle Caelum. They tumbled, Lucius’s knee jarring against the stone; he sucked in a quick breath before rolling aside just in time as a barrier spell crashed where he had been.

Caelum winced, pushing himself up. “That one’s going to bruise,” he muttered with a grin.

Lucius offered a hand. “Aim better next time.”

Back on his feet, Caelum dusted himself off. “I always aim to please,” he smirked.

They resumed their spar, blades clashing, spells flashing. Their spar felt half training, half friendly scuffle—interrupted by bursts of laughter when a spell fizzled or a blade clipped a pant cuff.

Caelum sidestepped Lucius’s feint with a chuckle. “Always too serious.”

“And you’re always too reckless,” Lucius shot back, parrying a gust of wind.

A nearby dummy exploded into straw and wood from a stray spell. Lucius flinched. Caelum gave a sheepish shrug.

“Do you always have to go overboard?”

“Hey, better the dummy than your face,” Caelum grinned.

Lucius sighed but couldn’t help smiling. Despite their constant sparring, there was a rhythm to it—a familiarity that spoke of years fighting side by side.

As they paused for breath, Lucius glanced toward the castle spires. He blew out a nervous breath, tugging at his collar. “One day left,” he murmured.

Caelum flopped onto the grass, arms spread. “You worry too much. The Awakening will reveal what it will. Can’t change fate by overthinking it.”

Lucius sat beside him. “You don’t get it. Father—he expects...”

“Perfection? Yeah, I noticed.” Caelum picked a blade of grass and twirled it with mana, making it glow softly. “But that doesn’t mean we have to lose ourselves chasing it.”

Lucius watched the glow. “Mana’s everything in Aetheris. Even farmers use it. If the Awakening doesn’t grant me something strong...”

Caelum blew the glowing blade into the air. “Then we deal with it. Like we always do.”

Their laughter drifted into the air again, but the weight between them never quite lifted.

Suddenly, the clack of boots echoed across the courtyard.

Lord Dominus Steelhart approached, his dark uniform crisp, silver trim gleaming. His presence brought with it a tension that silenced even Caelum.

“Father,” the twins said, straightening instantly.

Dominus’s steely gaze swept over them. “Enough. You’ve trained well today. The Awakening approaches.”

Lucius swallowed hard. “Yes, Father.”

Dominus turned, but paused briefly. "Lucius, your form has improved. Caelum, your creativity remains unchecked."

There was no smile, no warmth, but the words held weight.

Lucius stood stiffly as Dominus strode away, his boots echoing like a closing verdict. That had been praise—however slight—from a man who rarely wasted words.

And praise from him meant something.

Not every child in Aetheris got to Awaken in the grandeur of their own estate. Only the wealthiest or most powerful—like the Ducal Houses—could summon the Order’s highest priests for a private rite. It was supposed to be an honor. But to Lucius, it felt like standing on a stage with nowhere to run. A single misstep, and he’d fall not just in his father’s eyes—but in everyone’s.

Lucius blinked. Praise? From him?

Caelum raised an eyebrow. “Did that just happen?”

Lucius nodded slowly. “I think so.”

“Huh. Must be a sign the world’s ending.”

They grinned, but the quiet settled again.

Caelum nudged his brother. “Hey, Luci. Whatever happens, we’re still brothers, right?”

Lucius gave a soft smile. “Always.”

“Good. Because if you get a boring talent like Mana Knitting, I’m never letting you live it down.”

Lucius chuckled. “If you get Mana Pranking, you’ll be locked up by sundown.”

They laughed together, shadows stretching as twilight fell.

In the distance, The castle bell tolled, its somber chime echoing across the grounds like a warning. Lucius’s fingers curled tighter around the hilt of his training blade, the worn leather warm from his grip. He stared at the horizon, where the last light of day bled into dusk, and tried to ignore the flutter of doubt in his chest.

Lucius swallowed. “I don’t want to mess up.”

Caelum nudged him with an elbow. “Then try not to, will ya?” he whispered back, then let out a forced laugh.

A cold draft swept the courtyard stones beneath their feet—damp, rough, and unforgiving.

Beside him, Caelum’s gaze lingered not on the sky, but on his brother. His usual grin had faded, replaced by something quieter—measured.

“I’ll be ready.”

Lucius closed his eyes against the gathering dusk. “I hope he’s right,” was the last thought that flickered through his mind.

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What do you all think should the awakening talent for Cael and Lucius be?? Waiting for your lovely comments.

Still reeling from last night’s bell tolling like a warning, Lucius felt the same chill in the courtyard stones bite at his ankles as dawn broke. Remembering Caelum’s promise—I hope he’s right—the morning of the Awakening felt heavier than any armor he had ever worn.

Lucius hugged himself against the chill, the stones biting through his tunic.

He stood beside Caelum in the courtyard where they had once sparred and laughed. Now, silence reigned. The circle of family, nobles, and robed members of the Draconic Order surrounded them, their expressions reverent and watchful. Behind them, the high banners of the Order fluttered—red and gold emblazoned with a coiled dragon—its gaze piercing. Lucius couldn’t look at it without feeling small.

And this awakening day, that ritual was theirs, and the Steelhart twins, born on the same fateful dawn thirteen years ago, would be its rarest subjects: the first twins to be born on the day of awakening in a century.

He shifted on his feet. “You nervous?”

“Kinda,” Caelum admitted, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.

Kinda? Just… Kinda? That stung. Lucius turned away before Caelum could see the look on his face.

A priest stepped forward, robes shimmering with mana-infused thread. “Let the mana of Aetheris recognize your blood, your soul,” he intoned. “Let your truth be revealed.”

As the priest raised his staff, Lucius swallowed hard. Commoners traveled to grand cathedrals for this rite—but here, beneath the ancient banners and noble eyes, it was just them.

Twins. On the day of Awakening. The rarest event in a century.

And Lucius had never felt more alone.

The priest’s staff flared—and Lucius’s knees trembled so badly he thought he’d fall.

Lucius blinked and looked sideways at Caelum, voice small: “Brother—?”

Caelum’s shoulder bumped his side, voice a soft tremor: “You okay?” And Lucius could only nod, a lump clogging his throat.

The mana surged, splitting in two currents. Light flared around Caelum, wind teased loose strands of his hair. He reached out—finger trembling—then drew it back, cheeks pink as he swallowed. The priest’s voice broke: “Mana Sovereign.”

Lucius managed a shaky smile—until the second current struck him. It wasn’t light or warmth, but the absence of both. His body went rigid. The air around him dimmed. It felt like someone had slapped him in the chest—cold, empty. A terrified whisper: “Mana Exile…”

Lucius’s knees buckled.

“Impossible,” someone muttered. “A Steelhart?”

He looked to Caelum—but his brother’s glow felt impossibly far away, like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, and Caelum was already flying.

Then came the boots. Familiar. Measured.

Lord Dominus Steelhart strode forward, face unreadable. He looked at Caelum, nodded once. “You honor our name.”

Then he turned to Lucius. His eyes, always cold, now turned sharp. “You... are not my son.”

Lucius’s throat constricted. He bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. He froze. “Wait—Father, I—”

“Enough!” Dominus’s voice struck like a blade. “Return to your chambers, take what little you possess, and leave. By sundown. Or I will have you removed.”

Lucius stared, mouth dry. “Cael—” He turned to his brother. “Please.”

Caelum’s palm lifted—an instinct to grab Lucius’s hand—then fluttered back to his robe. He bit his lip, shoulders shuddering, voice cracking: “I’m… sorry.”, His voice cracked. He swallowed and couldn’t meet Lucius’s eyes.

That single fractured apology cut deeper than any curse.

Lucius stared at him—at the brother who’d promised they’d face this together. Now even he looked away.

Fine, Lucius thought bitterly. If I’m on my own… then I’ll do what I have to.

Lucius turned and walked.

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Hours passed. The estate blurred into shadows behind him. In his magi-bag clinked 100 gold and 80 silver coins—plus the 30 gold he'd slipped from Caelum’s satchel while the crowd pressed in.

Guilt clawed at him—but need was louder. He tucked the coins into his pouch, hands trembling so hard a few clattered free before he snagged them again.

He crossed the threshold of the Steelhart estate without looking back.

The world beyond smelled of pine and cold soil. The mana-rich forest loomed ahead—alive with glowing fungi, whispering winds, and creatures who fed off magic. He walked until his legs burned, stopping only when he collapsed beneath the twisted roots of an old willow.

He tried to light a fire with mana. Nothing happened. Not even a flicker. He stomped the cold from his feet, cheeks stinging from the chill.

He knelt and pressed his blistered palms to the rough stones—wincing—wishing for a spark. When the first flicker finally leapt to life, he let out a strangled breath and stared at it like a miracle.

Above, stars pierced the canopy. Alone beneath them, Lucius shivered—not from cold, but from the echo of his father’s words.

He thought of his mother. Of her quiet strength. How she used to braid his hair when he was younger, whispering old lullabies in Draconic. He hadn't even gotten to say goodbye.

Tears threatened, but he forced them back.

He couldn’t let himself feel lost—wouldn’t, not here in the dark.

A rustle. Eyes blinked in the dark beyond the firelight. He grabbed a stick. Nothing approached. Maybe the creatures felt the void around him. Maybe they were just waiting.

He stared at his hands—empty, powerless.

The dragons were supposed to guide bloodlines. Bestow gifts. But Lucius now wondered—had they turned their gaze away from him completely?

But something stirred within the silence.

A pull.

Like gravity turned inward. Like he was no longer a part of the world’s magic, but its absence. And maybe that meant he had power of a different kind. Unseen. Unwanted. But real.

He leaned back against the bark, letting the fire warm his feet.

He hugged his knees and whispered into the dark, “I hope… one day they’ll see I’m not nothing.”

Behind him, shadows flickered.

And far away—back in the Steelhart estate—Caelum stood alone in the training yard, wind swirling at his heels. His shoulders slumped as he stared toward the forest where shadows swallowed his brother. And he said nothing.

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Should Cael have betrayed Lucius? What of their promise? What are your Views on Cael And Lucius? Waiting for your lovely comments.

As the last embers of Lucius’s fire faded in the wild, the Steelhart Estate blazed with celebration. Nobles from across the Kingdom, entourages in tow, had come to honor the new Steelhart prodigy. The feasting hall shimmered with color and mana-infused lights; tables groaned under sumptuous dishes, magical delicacies, and rare potions that pulsed with inner light.

Caelum, draped in a robe that shimmered like the dawn, sat stiffly at the head table, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his robe, foot tapping so fast it almost upset a goblet. He caught sight of a platter of candied tarts—the one he and Lucius used to sneak—and for a heartbeat, his stomach fluttered with the memory. He clenched his fist under the table, heart pounding so loud he was sure everyone could hear it. A neighbor’s elbow nudged him back to reality: this isn’t a game.

Each cheer felt like a needle in his chest. Every “All hail our Mana Sovereign!” made his throat tighten. He wanted to wrench off the robe, dash to the forest—and find Lucius.

Midway through Lady Argavain’s ornate speech on “the glory of Sovereign bloodlines,” Caelum’s gaze drifted—to a carved ridge in the mahogany table where he and Lucius used to tuck stolen tarts and whisper jokes during fastidious dinners. His heart ached as he recalled Lucius’s bright laugh, the way he’d elbow him under the table.

When the herald bellowed, “All hail our Mana Sovereign,” Caelum wanted to scream, to tear away the light that crowned him and run to his brother. But his father’s shadow loomed too close, and his tongue froze. He hadn’t chosen silence—he’d been shackled by it.

Amid the clinking of goblets, Caelum’s parents beamed with pride. Yet triumph warred with guilt in his chest. He had longed for this moment of recognition—this nod of approval that had always eluded him. And now that it was his, its sweetness curdled into ashes on his tongue.

That night, after the last carriage rattled away, Caelum slipped into the library, breathing so quietly he thought the books might hear. Candlelight pooled at his feet; the heavy grimoire lay open. He glanced at its dusty pages, heart thudding like a frightened bird.

He hadn’t moved when it mattered. When Lucius reached for him, Caelum’s silence had been the cruelest answer.

Caelum closed his eyes, voice wobbling as he pressed both hands to the book’s spine:

“I—I promise, Luc… I’ll fix this. I’ll learn every spell I can find—just to bring you back. I swear on our blood, I won’t let them win. I’ll make them see you’re not nothing.”

His words trembled off into the hush, but in his chest, a spark of resolve caught flame.

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Far away from nobility’s trappings…

From the comforts of family… Lucius found a different sort of richness—the unforgiving yet strangely liberating life of the wild. Over the days, he discovered that his Talent of Mana Exile was not just an anomaly; it was a profound state of being.

Lucius's first days in the wilderness were a shock to his system. His teeth chattered as soon as night fell, and every rustle in the underbrush made his heart leap. He’d never slept anywhere but feather-beds before, and now he fumbled with his cloak like it was a puzzle—tugging it tighter around his shoulders, battling the tremor in his hands as he tried to settle on a patch of moss. every pang of hunger reminding him how alone he was. The comforts of his past life at the Steelhart Estate seemed like a distant dream, now replaced by the harsh realities of survival.

Yet, as the days passed, the forest that once seemed so unforgiving began to reveal its secrets. Lucius's Talent of Mana Exile, which had initially felt like a curse, slowly showed itself to be a unique gift. The wild beasts, once a source of fear, now gave him a wide berth, their instincts warning them away from his mana-less aura. The plants that had resisted his touch now yielded their bounty with ease.

In this newfound peace, Lucius found the strength to face his trials. Though water was scarce and the wild beasts shunned him, he drew upon the survival skills he had honed in his youth. He gripped a thin wooden practice sword—its tip nicked from his earlier training with Caelum—and crouched behind a mess of roots and rope.

He’d only half-remembered that soldier’s diagram of a snare and tied the branches at a wonky angle. Before standing up, he tapped the rope with a twig, flinching when it snapped—in case it was set off already. He waited for the opportunity to prove that even without mana, he could thrive.

Minutes turned to an eternity as Lucius waited, his heart pounding in the silence of the forest. The wolf, a creature of the wild, sensed the anomaly of a manaless void and hesitated. Its instincts screamed danger, yet curiosity drew it closer—a fatal flaw in the unforgiving wilderness.

Lucius, with each measured step, lured the wolf towards his trap. The dance was delicate, a game of life and death played out under the moon’s watchful eye. The wolf, lacking the fox’s guile, failed to perceive the snare laid out for it until it was too late.

The snare jerked tight and the wolf yelped. Lucius’s breath caught—he dropped his sword and, without thinking, hurled a stone that barely cracked its flank. The creature crumpled with a soft thud. Lucius pressed both hands over his mouth, heart hammering as he backed away.

The forest, once a symbol of isolation, became his crucible, forging him in the absence of mana. It taught him to trust his instincts, to observe, and to master the mundane art of trapping.

The slain wolf presented a new challenge—food. Lucius had never faced such a raw and visceral task. His noble blood recoiled at the thought, yet his hunger was relentless. In a moment of sheer necessity,  he dared a glance at the beast’s side and recalled a soldier’s off-hand tip: “If you must, drink deep.” With shaking fingers, he pressed his lips to the wound—then recoiled at the coppery taste. He stumbled back, retching into the ferns. He spat it out into the underbrush, sick to his core

This act, so alien to the teachings of the SteelHart Family’s Arcane Library, opened Lucius’s eyes to a new realm of possibilities. If his body could absorb Mana in its purest form, what other secrets of survival awaited him in the depths of the abyss?

Lucius's groundbreaking discovery of consuming beast blood and meat, absorbing their Mana, became his lifeline. Each day, as he ventured closer to Greenwood, he felt the surge of strength within him grow. The forest, once a daunting expanse of unknown dangers, now served as his hunting ground. He harvested mana cores from the beasts he felled, a bounty he planned to trade for coin in the city.

That night, he pressed his back against a gnarled oak, hugging his cloak like a ragged doll. He thought of mother’s laugh at the sight of his bad pun—the one they shared over stolen candied tarts, his favourites. A small, shy smile flickered on his lips before the forest’s chill stole it away.

Greenwood, under the rule of the Greenwood Duchy, represented a stark contrast to SteelHart's domain. As a city of freedom and a member of the Peacekeepers faction, it stood in opposition to the Warhawk Faction to which the SteelHart Family belonged. For Lucius, it was a safe haven, away from the watchful eyes of his former family and the closest town he could reach—a four-day walk through the forest surrounding the Steelhart estate.

His journey to Greenwood was marked by the slaying of low-tier beasts, from which he extracted mana cores and consumed their blood raw, roasting the meat over a flame. Though the trek was perilous, his Talent of Mana Exile provided him with an unexpected shield, deterring most close-combat beasts. However, he remained vigilant, as mid to long-range attackers occasionally tested his defenses, only to flee when he drew near.

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Upon reaching Greenwood’s outer gate, Lucius squinted at the wrought-iron sign hanging from the stone arch:

Entry Fee: 50 coppers

Still clinging to his noble identity, he approached the noble’s entrance—five days’ hard march since his disownment—and was halted by two city guards. Without the crests or carriages typical of nobility, he lifted the SteelHart emblem for them to see: two crossed swords behind a dragon’s wing, silver and red, symbols of martial prowess and Warhawk allegiance.

“It is the Crest of the SteelHart Family. I am Lucius SteelHart, the son of—”

Before he could finish, the taller guard spat, “SteelHart, you say? So you’re that manaless brat they’ve been gossiping about.” The shorter guard snorted.

For a heartbeat, both guards stared at the crest—amazement flickering in their eyes. Then the taller guard’s lip curled.

“Entry’s a silver now,” he said, producing a lone silver coin from his pouch and holding it up like a verdict. “Double for worthless nobodies like you.”

Lucius’s heart thudded. “But—Is… is it not fifty coppers? I—It says fifty on the gate behind you,” he protested, voice tight, and jabbed at the sign behind them.

The guards exchanged triumphant grins. The shorter one leaned in, voice dripping contempt:

“Manaless, eh? Lower than any commoner—and even our slaves get more respect. Look at you—nobility to nobody in a heartbeat.”

The taller guard kicked at a boot in the dirt.

“We commoners may bow to no one—but we sure as steel don’t bow to manaless fallen lords. Pay the silver, brat, or scram.”

Lucius’s fingers trembled as he drew the coin. Each metallic clink felt like the final toll of his shattered status. He forced himself to hand it over.

“Welcome to Greenwood,” the shorter guard barked as the gate groaned open. “Try not to lose that coin—wouldn’t want our manaless brat climbing back up the ladder.”

Lucius stepped through, the weight of that single silver pressing on him far more heavily than any purse of gold—a bitter confirmation that, in the eyes of the kingdom, he had gone from noble heir to worthless nobody.

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At the GoldCrest Bank—its stone façade looming opposite the Hearthfire Inn’s warm glow—he registered a Magi-account under the name ‘Luc,’ depositing his life savings and keeping only nine silvers on hand.

The evening’s cool air brushed against Lucius as he, now ‘Luc,’ made his way down the cobblestone streets of Greenwood. The GoldCrest Bank loomed large and imposing, its facade a testament to the wealth it held within.

With a silver coin—the last of his immediate funds—Luc secured a room at the Hearthfire Inn. It was a simple luxury, but for him, it was a fleeting taste of comfort he hadn’t known since his world had turned upside down. The room was modest yet clean, with a bed that promised solace for his weary body.

As he settled into the soft linens, the reality of his situation settled in. This was the last night he would indulge before his true journey began. Tomorrow, he would face the mercenary guild would be his next destination—not a grand arena of epic confrontations, but a place where he would take measured steps to establish himself. There, his lack of mana would be noted, perhaps with curiosity, perhaps with disdain. It was no turning point in his tale, but another step on a long road.

He tightened his fingers around the hilt of his practice sword and remembered the soldiers’ stories of Adventurers—free spirits who roamed the realms, choosing their own fate. He reminded himself that among Adventurers—those free-spirited wanderers he’d heard of—maybe even someone like him could find a place.

For now, he allowed himself this small luxury, a momentary escape before stepping into the unknown.

Luc's eyes closed, the promise of dawn waiting patiently for his awakening—a dawn that would see 'Luc' rise, ready to embrace whatever fate had in store for him.

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What is with those Guards? Why such oppression of those without Mana? Waiting for your lovely comments.