The two thugs stood before their boss, their faces still pale from the memory of what had happened in the alley. The larger of the two wiped a bead of sweat from his brow while the other clenched his fists nervously.
"So..." the boss growled, slamming his hand down on the wooden crate beside him. "You come back empty-handed, with no coin, no valuables—nothing?"
"Boss, we—we had no choice," one thug stammered.
"You had no choice?" the boss snapped. "Two street rats like you couldn't shake down a single boy?"
"It wasn't like that," the taller one said quickly. "We got the boy cornered, but someone showed up... someone powerful. We couldn't move, boss. The air got so heavy we couldn't even breathe. It was like our bones were being crushed."
The boss narrowed his eyes. "Magic?"
The thug nodded. "Yes, but not like anything I've seen. I've heard stories, boss. Legends about a man who walks the night with power beyond reason. Some say he's a shadow, others call him the Phantom. I think it was him."
The boss snorted. "You're just scared and making excuses. No one's seen a phantom. That's a bedtime tale told to keep kids from sneaking out at night."
The two thugs exchanged a glance, fear still etched deep in their expressions, but they dared not argue further.
---
A few days passed.
Veila, her healing practice bustling as always, moved from one patient to the next. Her hands glowed faintly as she mended a sprained ankle, soothed burns, and helped close an infected wound. She was exhausted but kept going, driven by something deeper than duty.
The chime of the door rang as two figures entered—a young woman and a boy holding her hand.
"Excuse me," the girl said. "My brother's taken a fall. I was told this was the best place to come."
Veila turned, her expression warm. "You're in the right place. Come, sit."
As Veila began examining the boy, the girl glanced around, then spotted a familiar figure in the corner, quietly reading.
"That's your brother, isn't it?" she asked casually.
Veila nodded. "Yes, that's Kael."
The girl's smile widened. "I remember him. He was the one my little brother bumped into a few days ago. He… actually smiled."
Veila laughed softly. "That's rare."
"I didn't expect it either," the girl said. "People say he doesn't talk much, but I didn't get any bad feeling from him."
Veila looked curious. "You use healing magic too, don't you?"
"I do," the girl replied. "Not as advanced as yours, but enough to help minor injuries."
"That's a wonderful gift," Veila said with a genuine smile. "What's your name?"
"Mira. And this is my little brother, Banne."
"I'm Veila. Nice to meet you both."
As Veila finished treating Banne's ankle, the two young women continued chatting.
"You should come by again," Veila offered. "Not just as a patient."
Mira smiled. "I'd like that. Maybe we could exchange techniques sometime."
"It's a promise then."
---
Later that evening, Veila and Kael walked home together. The streets were quiet under the lavender glow of dusk.
"You've been busy," Kael said, his voice low.
Veila sighed. "Too many people, not enough time. I'm drained."
As soon as they arrived home, Veila went straight to her room and collapsed onto her bed, asleep within moments.
Kael stood silently in the doorway for a moment. Then, without a sound, he vanished—his body slipping out of space like mist, though no spell had been cast.
He reappeared on the rooftop of their small home, perched like a statue in the twilight.
He recalled Veila's words from earlier.
"You could help people. Use your wind magic in more than just practice. Maybe even join the city guard. Do something with it."
He had turned her down. Not rudely, just firmly. None of those options felt right to him. Helping people with magic wasn't something he could just choose. Not yet.
The rooftop was silent, save for the occasional groan of settling wood and the distant murmur of wind weaving through the old stone streets below. Kael sat near the edge, one knee drawn to his chest, the other leg dangling over the side. The town beneath him slept in peace—lamplight flickering in windows, smoke trailing lazily from chimneys, shadows stretching long and still.
Above, the stars burned cold and clear. The moon, pale and full, silvered the edges of his white hair, making him look even more ghostly than usual. His eyes, however—sharp as cut steel—were distant, unfocused, fixed not on the horizon, but inward.
What exactly am I?
The thought had come again, uninvited, like it always did when the world around him grew too quiet.
He recalled Veila's words from earlier.
"You could help people. Use your wind magic in more than just practice. Maybe even join the city guard. Do something with it."
He had turned her down. Not rudely, just firmly. None of those options felt right to him. Helping people with magic wasn't something he could just choose. Not yet
He flexed his fingers slowly, watching the air ripple faintly. The wind obeyed him easily—it always had. That was the gift people knew. But lately… it wasn't just wind. Not just manipulation. Not anymore.
He remembered the last incident. How time seemed to slow for everyone but him. How space folded, subtly, impossibly, letting him move without moving. He hadn't spoken the spell. He hadn't even thought it. He had willed it—and the world had bent.
Kael closed his eyes, frowning.
"Magic follows rules," he murmured to himself. "Forms. Circles. Intent and consequence."
But whatever lived inside him now… it didn't ask for runes or rituals. It answered only to him. As if the laws that bound all other sorcerers simply broke in his presence.
He inhaled sharply and let it out slow, fogging the cold night air.
And yet, there were no answers. No mentor who could explain it. No scroll or book yet , that he had found. No origin. Just silence. And power.
He looked down at his hand again. It was steady, strong. Too strong.
If I'm not careful, I'll lose myself in it…
A soft breeze stirred the rooftop, rustling his coat.
Kael narrowed his eyes, deep in thought.
There must be a limit. There has to be. Or I'll become something I can't come back from.
He stayed like that for a long time—alone in the hush of midnight—trying to map a power that defied structure, trying to understand the shape of something formless.
Trying, above all else, not to fear himself.