Kael Aranthi stood in line with all the other sixteen-year-olds, waiting for his turn at the Obsidian Stone. The morning sun was already too hot, and his ceremonial robe—borrowed from the temple stores—itched terribly.
"Next," droned the priest.
Kael stepped forward. He'd seen this moment a hundred times—watched from the orphanage windows as boys and girls placed their hands on the stone. Some got Fire, their fingertips sparking to life. Others summoned Water, or made the earth tremble just a little. A rare few got nothing at all.
He pressed his palms to the stone.
Nothing.
A beat. Two.
The priest sighed. "No affinity. Next."
No gasps. No shouts. No lightning or flames or trembling earth. Just the same empty feeling he'd carried his whole life.
Someone in line snickered.
Kael stepped aside, face burning, as the next boy took his place. The stone flared to life—Fire, bright and strong—and the crowd cheered. No one looked at Kael.
He walked back to the orphanage alone, the weight of his own ordinariness settling over him like a second robe.
Tomorrow, he'd wake up. Eat the same thin porridge. Do the same chores.
Nothing had changed.
Nothing ever would.
The dust stirred under Kael's worn boots as he trudged away from the Awakening Plaza. No cheers followed him. No gasps. Just the same empty silence that had dogged his steps for sixteen years.
He kicked a pebble. It skittered across the cobblestones, vanishing into the gutter.
No affinity. Nothing.
The other orphans would already know. News traveled fast in the lower districts—especially the kind that let them laugh at someone else's misfortune. He could picture them now: Martyn elbowing Jory, sneering. "Told you the Stone wouldn't spit out anything for a scrap like him."
The orphanage gate creaked when he pushed it open. The yard was empty—everyone still at the plaza, watching the real Awakenings. Inside, the hearth fire had burned low. A single bowl of lentil mush sat on the table, cold.
Kael slumped onto his pallet. The straw poked through the thin blanket, same as always.
Somewhere beyond the window, a cheer went up. Probably Lissa from the bakery, Awakening to Fire. Or maybe that noble's son with the embroidered sleeves.
He turned his face to the wall.
Kael lay on his pallet, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. The sounds of celebration drifted through the window—laughter, the clinking of cups, someone singing off-key. The Awakening Feast. He hadn't been invited. Not that he expected to be.
A moth fluttered near the lone candle on the stool beside him. He watched it dance too close to the flame, wings brushing the heat again and again.
Stupid thing.
But he didn't blow out the candle.
His hands—empty, ordinary—curled into fists. It wasn't fair.
Martyn had gotten Fire. Martyn, who stole bread from the younger kids and laughed when they cried. Lissa had gotten Water, and she'd already been apprenticed to some fancy merchant in the upper district. Even Jory, who could barely tie his own shoes, had managed to awaken Earth.
And Kael?
Nothing.
The moth hit the flame this time. A tiny hiss, a wisp of smoke. It fell onto the stool, one wing charred black.
Kael sat up.
Gently—so gently—he scooped it into his palm. The moth trembled, its good wing fluttering weakly. Useless. Just like him.
He should crush it. Put it out of its misery.
Instead, he cupped his hands around it, feeling the faint, frantic beat of its life against his skin.
Outside, the singing grew louder. Someone shouted, "To the Awakened!" Glasses clinked.
Kael sat in the dark, holding onto something as broken as he was.
Author's note : "We all have our Awakening Days. Some blaze. Some whisper. Some leave us waiting in the dark. Wherever you are in your story, dear reader, remember: moths survive in places fire cannot reach."