The Kingdom of Vandor was known as the city of light. Its tall marble towers shone so bright during sunrise that travelers said the gods themselves watched from above. It was a land of divine blessings, where magic flowed through the air and strength was the greatest honor.
In the heart of this kingdom lived the noble house of Vandor, a family blessed by the gods of angels. Their sons were born with glowing hearts, divine flames gifted by heaven itself.
Every son… except one.
Lucen Vandor was the youngest of four brothers. He had soft silver hair, calm red eyes, and a heart that didn't shine.
When he was born, the temple priests whispered to his father, "This one's heart does not glow. Perhaps his light will come later."But the light never came.
His mother didn't care. She held him gently and said, "Not every star shines the same, Valen. Some glow quietly."His father, Lord Valen Vandor, said nothing. His silence was heavier than anger.
As a child, Lucen lived surrounded by beauty, gold plates, velvet beds, and servants who bowed every time he entered the room. But when his brothers trained in the courtyard, surrounded by holy fire and angelic symbols, he watched from the balcony, a small figure clutching the railing, wishing he could join them.
"Lucen!" his brother Daren, the oldest, called out once. "Come and play with us!"Lucen smiled and ran down the stairs. But when he reached the courtyard, his father stopped him with one hand on his shoulder.
"Not now," Valen said. "You'll get hurt."
Lucen looked up. "But I want to try."
"You can't even summon light," his father said quietly, so only he could hear. "Don't make a fool of yourself."
That night, Lucen sat alone in the training hall after everyone had gone to bed. He tried to summon a spark. He whispered the same prayers his brothers used. But nothing came.
Growing up as the youngest son of a famous family should have been easy. He had everything: food, clothes, lessons, tutors, but he never had peace.
At the Royal Academy, where the children of nobles learned magic, Lucen became a joke.
"Hey, look!" one boy shouted during practice. "The candle went out again!"Laughter filled the room.
Lucen stood silently, his hand still stretched out, smoke curling from his fingertips. He'd tried to summon a small flame spell, but it fizzled before it even formed.
Every lesson was the same. Every attempt ended in pity.
He wasn't bullied for being cruel or arrogant; he was pitied for being useless.
His brothers tried to help. Cael sneaked into his room one night with a book of basic flame spells. "Here," he said. "These helped me when I was learning."Lucen smiled gratefully but never told him that he had already memorized every page.
Daren, the eldest, taught him sword basics. "If magic fails you," he said, "your hands will not."But even with a sword, Lucen's grip was weak. His arms ached after only minutes.
And his father? Valen only watched from afar. His eyes, cold and disappointed, said everything.
One evening, after another failed magic exam, Lucen was called to his father's office. The room smelled of parchment and candle wax. Valen sat behind his desk, a man of strict posture and quiet fury.
"Lucen," he said, without looking up from his papers. "I've spoken to your teachers. They say you lack progress."
Lucen swallowed. "I'm trying, Father."
"You've been trying for years."Valen finally looked up. "Do you know what it means to be a Vandor? It means carrying light for others. And you," He stopped himself and exhaled sharply. "You have no light."
Lucen felt the words like a knife. "Then I'll make one soon."
Valen's expression softened for a brief second, almost pity, then hardened again. "You can't make what isn't there."
Lucen left the room quietly, but that night, as the moonlight hit his window, he clenched his fists and whispered, "I'll show you."
Each of his brothers grew stronger with time. Daren, the eldest, was called The Radiant Blade; his sword glowed like sunlight. Cael, the second, could summon wings of fire and heal wounds with divine magic. Vorth, the third, led soldiers to victory at sixteen, his flame shining pure white.
And Lucen?
Lucen became known in the capital as The Dim Flame.
He hated that name, not because it was cruel, but because it was true.
Still, his brothers never turned their backs on him. They loved him, even when he couldn't love himself.
One summer night, the four of them stood together watching fireworks explode above the royal lake. Lucen stared quietly. "Do you ever think the gods make mistakes?" he asked.
Cael laughed. "The gods? Never."
Vorth smiled gently. "But maybe they leave some things unfinished, so we can finish them ourselves."
Lucen nodded, though he didn't believe it. Deep down, he thought maybe he was the mistake.
When Lucen turned sixteen, it was time for the family's sacred tradition, the Trial of Hearts. Every son would show the power of his heart to the temple, proving their worth as descendant of the gods.
Lucen's father tried to stop him from joining."You will only embarrass yourself," Valen warned. But Lucen refused to back down. "I have to try."
The day of the trial was bright and hot. The temple was packed with nobles and priests. Incense filled the air as his three brothers stood in a line before the altar, light glowing from their chests like miniature suns.
Daren went first, and the air shimmered gold. Cael's wings blazed into existence, drawing gasps. Vorth raised his sword, and divine fire rippled through the floor.
Then came Lucen.
He stood trembling, surrounded by silence . The priests whispered. His father looked away.
Lucen pressed a hand to his chest and whispered, "Please… just once."
Nothing.
The crowd began to murmur. Someone laughed quietly.
Then, a flicker. A small, wild spark burst from his chest, red, not gold. It crackled violently, unstable. The priests stepped back, alarmed. "That's not divine mana!" one shouted. "It's corrupted!"
Lucen's body burned with pain. The flame grew hotter, brighter, until it exploded outward. The floor cracked. The altar shattered. And then, silence.
He fell to his knees, smoke rising from his skin.
When he looked up, everyone stared at him with horror. His father stood at the top of the stairs, face pale. "Enough," Valen said coldly. "You've done enough shame today."
But Lucen didn't feel shame. He felt alive.
For the first time, his heart had answered.
That night, doctors wrapped his burned arms, but the glow under his chest remained faintly red, pulsing, rhythmic. He had awakened something, not divine light, but something else entirely.
He tried calling on it again, and when the flame answered, it filled him with warmth and pain. It burned his veins, tore at his breath, but he smiled through it.
It wasn't holy. It wasn't beautiful. But it was his.
The scholars would later call it the Ember Heart, a heart that traded life for strength, that could burn brighter the closer it came to death.
Lucen didn't know that yet. He only knew one thing: he finally had power. And power, to him, meant proof.
The years that followed were hard.
He left home before dawn one morning, leaving only a note on his pillow: I'll return when my fire can light your world.
He traveled across villages, deserts, and ruins, training wherever he could. He fought wild beasts, learned from mercenaries, and even studied under mages who practiced forbidden arts. Each fight left him scarred, but stronger.
His body bore proof of every failure, scars across his chest, burns along his arms, but his eyes had changed. They no longer looked empty. When his mana flared, his pupils glowed red, like embers ready to burst into flame.
And though his strength grew, a quiet sadness followed him wherever he went matter how far he traveled, he still heard his father's voice in his mind: "You have no light."
But one night, as he sat alone by a campfire, he whispered, "I don't need light anymore. Fire's enough."
He smiled faintly and stared at the dancing flames.
Years later, when word reached him that Vandor's king was holding a Grand Tournament to gather the strongest warriors from the kingdoms, Lucen looked at his scarred hands and laughed softly.
"Maybe this is it," he said. "The world's finally going to see how bright a dying ember can burn."
He picked up his sword, blackened at the edge, its hilt wrapped in old bandages, and walked toward the horizon.
Behind him, the fire crackled. Ahead, the wind carried the sound of distant bells.
The journey of Lucen Vandor, the boy without light, had only just begun.