The first time Kael realized he didn't matter was on the day of his Marking.
Sunlight filtered through the high stained-glass windows of the Arcanum Cathedral, breaking into thousands of colors across the polished marble floor. The air smelled of sanctified incense and rusted blood — old magic, sealed into tradition. Every pair of eyes turned to him, some bored, others pitiful. He walked the long aisle alone.
Children of noble blood had gone before him, one by one. Each had placed their palm on the Soul Prism, and in a flare of color, their Arcane Affinity revealed itself: crimson flame, ocean blue, gold for light, violet for shadow. A chorus of gasps, applause, pride. Applause for them.
Now it was his turn.
Kael's fingers trembled as he extended his hand. He wasn't afraid of the Prism — he was afraid of the silence. The kind that had swallowed his name his entire life.
The moment his skin touched crystal, he felt a faint warmth. Then—
Nothing.
No glow.
No hum.
Just silence.
The Seer blinked. Once. Twice. Then stepped back without a word.
From the gallery, someone laughed. A short, stifled cough of amusement, like watching a trick go wrong.
"Nullborn," a voice murmured.
Kael stood still, hand still pressed against the glass. He waited. Begged silently. Please, just a flicker. Just once… I want to be seen.
But the Prism did not respond.
The High Arcanist — a tall man in robes woven with aether-thread — waved him off.
"Next."
Just like that, it was over.
---
That night, the sky rained silver needles. Tiny ice shards drifting down across the outer district, where the city of Vaelheim bled into slums and forgotten wards. The nobles called it the Fellweather — a seasonal storm caused by wild leyline surges. But out here, it simply meant the roofs would leak again.
Kael sat beneath a shattered awning behind the guildhall stables, cradling his knees to his chest. His fingers traced meaningless symbols in the mud. Symbols that should've burned. Should've lived.
He whispered to the night.
"Why was I born if I wasn't meant to be anything?"
The wind answered with silence. But in that silence… something stirred.
He opened his eyes.
The stablemaster's apprentice, a brutish boy named Joren, had stumbled drunk out into the alley, laughing, chasing a terrified scullery girl with a broken bottle in his hand.
Kael's first instinct was to look away. He always did.
But then... he saw it.
A thin red line.
Thread-like. Faint. Wrapped around Joren's body, pulsing gently with his rage. And... Kael could feel it.
He lifted a hand, fingers uncertain, and made a motion — as if plucking a string on a harp.
Joren's laughter twisted into a scream. He dropped the bottle and fell to his knees, clutching his head, eyes wide with sudden, uncontrollable fury.
The scullery girl fled. Kael didn't stop her.
He stood slowly, heartbeat roaring in his ears.
That wasn't a coincidence.
He stepped toward the fallen boy. Red lines coiled tighter around Joren now, erratic and wild.
Kael raised his hand again and tugged — gently.
Joren screamed louder, then collapsed.
Silence returned.
Kael stared at his fingers. They trembled, but not with fear.
With clarity.
He could see threads. Not physical. Not magical, in the traditional sense. But connected to emotion, thought… will. And if he could see them—
He could control them.
Not flame.
Not ice.
Not shadow.
Something deeper.
The boy the world had called "Nullborn" began to laugh, softly.
---
Atop the cathedral spire, a man in a crow-feather cloak watched with eyes that didn't blink.
He whispered into the wind, "Another Threadweaver is born... at last."