The next morning, the scent of golden sunlight and warm bread filled the kitchen.
Zorya stood at the stove, a simple apron tied loosely around her waist, her long dark blue hair swept over one shoulder like a river of midnight. The gentle hiss of oil in the pan, the soft crack of eggshells, the clink of a wooden spoon against the side of a bowl—it was all so ordinary, so small.
Her hands moved almost without thinking, stirring the pot of porridge, flipping the bread on the griddle. The steam curled in the air, drifting toward the small window where sunlight spilled in, golden and soft, catching on the dust motes that danced lazily in the morning light.
She could hear Thalassa's small feet padding across the floor upstairs, the quiet creak of the floorboards as her little sister shuffled out of bed. Vair's voice drifted down faintly, humming a tune she couldn't quite place as he finished fixing the roof—as if the storm had never happened.
Zorya's thoughts wandered as she worked.
Another morning. Another day in this strange, quiet world. Another day… without powers.
The Mirathiel tree's blossoms still shimmered in her mind, those strange, otherworldly petals shifting in the wind. It had been years since it appeared in the neighbor's yard—grown tall and wild, its blue and purple petals glowing faintly at night like fragments of a dream. No one knew where it had come from, or why. It was just… there, an unspoken presence in their lives.
Her brother had called it a weed of the gods once, in one of his teasing moods.
Zorya flipped the last piece of bread, golden and crisp. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the metal of the kettle: scarlet eyes catching the light, dark blue hair flowing down past her knees like a midnight veil.
A beauty of the dawn, some had called her. A beauty she never quite felt she owned.
She sighed softly, setting the food onto plates—porridge sprinkled with honey, bread warm from the griddle, a small dish of wildberries.
Just as she set the plates down, the door creaked open, and Thalassa came running in—hair a wild pink tangle, cheeks flushed with sleep, her small arms swinging as she plopped into her chair.
"Morning, Zorya!" she chirped, grinning, her eyes sparkling. "Look! My Marblossom has a new flower!"
She held up a small potted plant, a cluster of delicate pink blooms nestled among thick green leaves. The petals glowed faintly, like drops of starlight.
Zorya smiled softly, setting a spoon by Thalassa's bowl.
"You've got a real garden growing in here, little dumpling," she said gently.
Vair's footsteps sounded from the stairs, his usual teasing grin already stretching across his face as he walked in, ruffling Thalassa's hair on the way.
"Careful, Thal," he joked. "One day you'll wake up and find the whole house swallowed by your jungle."
Their father entered a moment later, his hands calloused and smudged with grease from the workshop, his smile tired but warm.
For a moment, it was just a quiet morning—sunlight filtering through the window, the sound of laughter and the clatter of spoons.
Zorya sat quietly, her scarlet eyes distant, the weight of her own stillness pressing down on her chest.
She watched her family—their laughter, their chatter—and wondered:
What am I, if not one of them? What am I, without power?
The question hung unspoken in the air, like the scent of the Mirathiel blossoms drifting through the open window, soft and strange and sweet.
After dinner, as the sun sank lower into the horizon and painted the sky in hues of gold and violet, Zorya slipped away from the kitchen. Her bare feet padded softly across the worn wooden floor as she made her way to the back of the house—where the warm glow of lantern light spilled through the crack beneath the heavy oak door of the workshop.
The air shifted as she entered, the scent of oil, metal shavings, and burnt wood washing over her in a wave.
Her father's workshop was a place of both order and chaos, a world of tools and gears and half-finished dreams. The walls were lined with shelves crammed with metal parts—springs, bolts, cogs, and wheels—all meticulously labeled in her father's neat, spidery handwriting. Ancient, yellowed blueprints curled against the edges of the walls like parchment vines, their edges blackened by candle soot.
On the long workbench lay a half-assembled clockwork bird, its copper feathers gleaming under the lantern's flickering glow. A few feet away, a battered toolbox sat open, its contents spilling out in a tangle of pliers, wrenches, and hammers.
The workshop smelled like old iron and warm wood, and the air hummed faintly with the whisper of magic—Vair's magic, she thought, as a thin coil of metal twisted itself into a perfect spiral on the table, guided by unseen hands.
Her father stood by the forge, the soft crackle of embers glowing beneath the iron grate. His figure was sturdy, shoulders broad from years of work, the sleeves of his linen shirt rolled up to his elbows. His hair was peppered with grey, and a thin scar traced the curve of his jaw—a quiet mark of a life spent in hard labor and gentle care.
His hands, large and calloused, moved with surprising precision as he shaped a delicate gear on the anvil, tapping it gently with a small hammer. Sparks bloomed like fireflies in the dim room, flickering before fading into the dusk.
For a moment, Zorya just stood in the doorway, watching him.
The light caught on his weathered face, the lines carved deep by years of laughter and sorrow, and for a fleeting instant, she saw him not as the strong, steady father who held their family together—but as a man, worn and tired, holding the weight of their lives on his back.
"Zorya," he said, glancing up as if he had sensed her presence all along. His voice was warm, edged with a gentle rasp that reminded her of sandpaper smoothing wood. "Need something, little one?"
Zorya hesitated, then shook her head slightly, her dark blue hair slipping over her shoulders in a silken wave.
"Just… looking," she said softly, her voice almost lost in the crackle of the forge.
Her father smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and turned back to his work.
For a while, she simply watched—the soft clang of metal, the careful grinding of stone, the quiet hum of energy in the air. It was a small world in here, a world of creation and quiet persistence, far removed from the worries that gnawed at her heart.
If only I could belong to something so certain, she thought. If only I could build something with my hands, too.
After a while, she straightened and smoothed her skirt.
"I'm going outside for a bit," she said quietly.
Her father grunted an acknowledgment, not looking up from the gear he was carving.
Zorya slipped out into the night, her dark hair trailing behind her like a shadow. The air outside was crisp and cool, the sky above a velvet canvas scattered with stars.
The Mirathiel tree glowed faintly in the distance, its blue and purple petals swaying gently in the night breeze, almost as if it were breathing.
Zorya took a deep breath, the air sharp in her lungs, and started down the worn path, her footsteps light as whispers on the earth.
The streets were quiet as Zorya walked alone, the wind tugging at her dark blue hair like a playful spirit. It shimmered in the dim moonlight, flowing down her back in long, silken strands that almost kissed the ground, catching the silver glow of the night.
The cobblestones beneath her feet still held the warmth of the day, but the air was cool and sharp, carrying the scent of brine and salt. The distant, steady crash of waves called to her—low and constant, like a great, ancient heart beating against the shore.
She reached the port just as the tide began to roll in, the sea lapping at the worn stone piers. The boats, tethered to their moorings, creaked softly, swaying like drowsy giants in the cradle of the water. Lanterns swung gently from their poles, casting golden circles onto the inky waves.
Zorya sat down on a low stone wall, folding her hands in her lap, her eyes tracing the horizon where the stars melted into the sea. The water glowed faintly beneath the moon's watchful eye, shifting from deep blue to glimmers of silver and violet. The world felt vast and endless here, a quiet expanse where the weight in her heart seemed to dissolve.
Her mother had loved the sea.
"Whenever you feel lost, talk to the sea," she had once whispered, brushing Zorya's hair back with gentle hands, her smile warm as summer sunlight. "It listens better than anyone else."
Zorya's scarlet eyes softened. She could still hear the echo of her mother's voice in the wind, see the soft crinkle at the corners of her eyes when she laughed. Her mother had named her youngest daughter Thalassa—the sea itself—because she believed the ocean could wash away all sorrow, all pain.
It had become a quiet ritual, ever since her mother's death. A small comfort in the shifting, uncertain days.
She took a deep breath, the salt air filling her lungs, and let the words flow softly from her lips.
"I'm still… waiting, Mama," she whispered, the words trembling slightly in the night air. "I still don't know what I'm meant to be. Everyone else… they have their place, their gifts. Vair has his powers. Thalassa too. But me? Nothing. Just a girl who watches and waits."
Her fingers twisted in her skirt, her eyes shimmering. The sea glimmered back at her, quiet and endless, holding her secrets in its deep, unknowable depths.
"I don't want to be left behind," she added, her voice breaking like the waves against the shore. "But I don't know how to catch up."
The sea answered in soft sighs, waves kissing the rocks with a patient, timeless rhythm.
The night wind brushed against her cheeks, carrying the scent of salt, the murmur of distant gulls, and the memory of her mother's embrace.
Zorya closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself drift with the rhythm of the waves. Her hair tangled in the breeze, a dark river flowing down her back. In the moonlight, she looked like something otherworldly—beautiful in a quiet, untouchable way. Dark blue hair cascading past her knees like midnight silk, scarlet eyes like the last rays of the sun before it slips beyond the horizon, her skin pale as dawn's first light, her features carved with delicate grace.
But Zorya did not think of herself as beautiful. She simply was—lost in the spaces between moments, between powers, between people.
When she opened her eyes again, the sea still listened, as it always had.
As Zorya stood up, brushing the sea breeze from her skirt, she heard the sound of boots crunching against the cobblestones. She turned her head slightly, and there he was—her brother, Vair.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and steady as a mountain, he had an air of quiet strength about him, as if the weight of the world sat comfortably on his back. His hair was a tousled shade of dark brown, windswept from hours of work, and his sharp, silver-grey eyes—like tempered steel—gleamed softly in the moonlight.
He was carrying a small canvas bag slung over one shoulder, the faint clink of metal cogs and gears inside. His hands were rough, smeared faintly with soot, a thin scar trailing across one knuckle—a quiet testament to the hours he spent helping their father in the workshop.
"Zorya." His voice was warm, like the embers of a blacksmith's forge—steady, familiar. "Out talking to the sea again?"
Zorya offered him a faint smile, the wind catching at her dark blue hair as it swirled around her like a river of midnight.
"It's quiet here," she said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Feels like it's listening."
Vair let out a low chuckle, the kind that rumbled from deep in his chest. He stepped up beside her, glancing out at the dark waves lapping at the shore.
"The sea always listens. It has nowhere else to be," he said with a smirk, though his eyes softened as they rested on her. "Unlike me. I'm headed to the market—need to pick up some cogs for the automaton project. Dad's been driving me crazy about the timing mechanism."
She glanced at the small bag on his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. "Cogs again? I swear, you and Father could build an entire city with all the gears you collect."
"Maybe we will," he replied with a mock shrug, his voice light, though his eyes glinted with something more—pride, perhaps, or a quiet dream. "One day, we'll build something that lasts."
Zorya tilted her head, watching him for a moment. Vair—her Vair—always seemed so strong, so sure. With his two powers, with his talent for crafting and invention, he was the star pupil at the Althameris Academy. A second-year student, already recognized as one of the most promising in his field.
And here she was—powerless, standing at the edge of the world, feeling small and hollow.
She felt the familiar ache in her chest, the tightness that came when she thought of the future.
Vair, sensing her silence, turned to her with a lopsided grin. "Hey. Don't get too lost in that head of yours. You're going to the Academy too, you know."
"In five months," she murmured, her voice soft as a falling petal. "If I even have a power to show them."
He reached out suddenly, ruffling her hair with a warm, rough hand, mussing the midnight strands until they tangled like wild ivy.
"You'll be fine, Zorya. Powers or no powers, you've got something none of us do." His eyes sparkled with a rare, quiet fondness. "You've got that stubborn spirit. Just like Ma."
Zorya's breath caught in her throat.
For a moment, the wind seemed to pause, and the sea whispered softly at their feet.
Then Vair stepped back, slinging the bag over his shoulder. "I'll see you back home. Don't stay out too late, or Dad'll get worried."
He offered her a little wave and strode off down the road toward the market, his figure growing smaller with each step.
Zorya watched him go, the words lingering in the cool night air.
Just like Ma.
She turned back toward the sea, her scarlet eyes reflecting the moonlight. The waves murmured on, endless and patient, as if they held all the answers in the world.
Zorya closed her eyes and let the wind carry her silent thoughts away.