Chapter 1: Awakening
Zephyr walked away from the town square, the crowd behind him fading into a distant murmur. The cobbled streets bustled with people- merchants peddling wares, children tugging at their parents’ hands, groups of teenagers laughing, some sporting the fine robes of noble families.
He kept his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the crisp evening air. He had never liked crowds much. Too much noise, too many people brushing past. It was easier to just go about his day and keep to himself.
The awakening ceremony had been quick. Without any fanfare or shocked murmurs of admiration. Just a flicker of light, a brief sensation in his chest, and then the verdict- a single-node mana core. The officials had barely even spared him a second glance before moving on to the next hopeful.
He wasn’t disappointed, not really. That would have required having expectations in the first place. Zephyr had long since stopped entertaining the idea of being special. He wasn’t looking to be scouted by some noble family, wasn’t eager to climb the ranks of powerful mages. He didn’t want any of the stress that came with it.
Glory? Recognition? Those things were for people who thrived under pressure, who craved competition. He just wanted to do his work, earn his keep, and live without unnecessary trouble.
Still, after four years of repeated failure, it was strange to finally have an active mana core, no matter how weak. He’d basically given up on the idea a long time ago, doing the ceremonies more out of obligation than hope.
If not for Old Bjorn’s insistence, he probably would have stopped altogether. The old dwarf had never let him miss a single attempt, shoving the fee into his hands and pushing him out the door while grumbling under his breath, but never letting Zephyr say no.
Zephyr exhaled slowly, his breath curling into the cold evening air. His boots echoed against the cobbled path as he made his way through the quieter streets. The city walls loomed in the distance, and just beyond them, nestled against the outskirts, was the place he called home: Bjorn’s forge.
Bjorn had taken him in when he was young, after his father had died. Zephyr had a few memories of the man, he remembered his rough voice, his heavy hand ruffling his hair, always writing something at his desk by the window side. His mother had passed away at his birth, so after his father was gone, there had been no one left. It was their grumpy old dwarf neighbour that stepped forward to claim him.