The sparring hall was quiet—
save for the crackle of torches mounted high above.
Flames danced freely,
roaring and retreating in rhythm with each breath of wind.
Atiya stood alone at the center,
fists clenched, brow furrowed, breath uneven.
A ring of elders watched from the gallery above.
Their silence pressed down like stone.
Their judgment was louder than any words.
Yaishna Yaisha sat at the front.
Arms crossed. Lips tight. Eyes sharp.
She had been patient. But now, even her silence tasted like disappointment.
> "Focus," she said.
"Call it. Your flame."
Atiya closed his eyes.
Heat stirred in his chest—
slow, thick, like a boil that never burst.
He could feel it.
The legacy of Yaisha.
The birthright of every bloodborn.
And yet…
Nothing.
His breath caught. He forced his hand forward.
A spark flickered at his fingertip.
It twitched—
—and died.
He tried again.
But what stirred inside him wasn't fire.
It was something else.
Cold. Slippery. Shifting.
A pressure built behind his eyes, clawing at the inside of his skull.
His fingers trembled.
The air around him warped.
Space bent—crumpling like folded paper.
A marble tile cracked beneath him—
No. It folded inward.
A scream echoed from above.
Yaishna leapt down before the others could react, pulling two observers away from the forming tear in the floor.
Threads—translucent and alive—
unwound from Atiya's shoulders.
They shimmered, tense and humming,
as though stitching the room itself to his trembling frame.
The torches blew out.
Silence returned.
But this time, it suffocated.
Atiya collapsed to his knees, gasping.
Yaishna approached slowly.
She knelt beside him. Her voice was quiet. Firm.
> "That...was not a flame."
Atiya didn't look up.
> "I tried," he whispered.
"I did everything right."
Yaishna placed a hand on his shoulder.
Not gently. Not cruelly. Just… heavily.
> "I believe you.
But that thing inside you—whatever it is—
it is not Yaisha."
Atiya's voice cracked.
> "What if... I can manipulate space?"
She sighed.
> "Well. You surely can."
She stood, brushing dust from her cloak.
> "You're returning tomorrow.
Say hello to the Commander for me—it's been a while."
Her footsteps echoed as she walked away.
The torches re-lit themselves, one by one.
Atiya remained kneeling. Alone in the flickering glow.
---
Atiya Yaisha.
Second son of the great Yaisha line—
a family renowned for their dominion over flame magecraft.
But unlike the others,
he bore no fire.
A disappointment.
Though none dared speak it aloud.
Instead, his gift lay elsewhere.
Spatial manipulation.
Thread-weaving.
Rare. Dangerous. Unnatural.
It should have made him exceptional.
But all he could feel was hollow.
The flame was never his.
And even his sister—the greatest of their bloodline—watched him now with quiet concern.
> "Yeah," he muttered.
"I just want to rest."