The tiny village of La Gratiasa slept beneath a veil of mist, its twisted rooftops barely visible above the fog. The old church hung on the edge of town, its cracked stone walls soft-glowing in the morning light. There's where they found me—a scrawny baby, wrapped in tattered clothes, left like an offering on the step. The priest, an old, grizzled man with a beard that resembled twisted wire, scooped me up and baptized me Veilstorm. Yeah, named after the legendary hero, Veilstormis Capilitis, the guy who was supposed to have slain a thousand beasts with one blow. That's a really cool name, right? Too bad it was just a story the old drunk made up to keep me from asking questions.
The church was not just a location to recite prayers—it was a sanctuary, a home for kids like me who had nowhere else to go. Orphans, we all were, raised on stale bread and wild tales. I heard Veilstormis story so many times as a kid that I could recite it in my sleep. But there was always something missing from it. Who brought me to this doorstep? Why me? I'd stare up at the crooked wooden ceiling in the black of night, questioning, but never did they form.
The surprise: in a world where mortals were capable of harnessing Fantasia—that abhorrent magic that enables you to hurl fire or summon storms—I possessed nothing. No glimmer of the divine, no godly gifts, no whiff of power. The rest of the children at the church? They'd flaunt, bending Fantasia into gleaming spheres or little puffs of air, laughing as I watched helplessly. They'd nudge me around, call me "Blank," and I'd just roll with it. What else could I do? I was nobody.
One night, I just couldn't stand it anymore. The taunts, the pitying looks from the priest's eyes—I grabbed a sack, loaded it with a loaf of bread, and I ran. La Gratiasa's forest beyond was dark and thick, the kind of country you'd hear beast howls echoing through the trees. I didn't mind. Anything was better than staying.
Big mistake. I had not gone far before shadows changed—bandits, three of them, coming out of the bush like wolves. There was a guy with a scar across his smile as their leader. He grabbed me by the collar. "Church brat, huh?" They'll ransom you for a nice sum." I tried to tell them—that I was no one, that the church would not spend a penny on me—but they weren't listening. When no gold materialized, Scarface spat and cursed selling me into slavery. My heart sank. This was it.
Then, out of nowhere, the bushes exploded. A little boy—untidy-looking, with greasy hair and turbulent eyes—blasted into the clearing. He didn't make a sound, he just ran. The bandits laughed at first, but that soon ceased. He charged like a blur, fists pounding against Scarface's jaw, a kick sending a second man sprawling. The third drew a knife, but the wild kid stepped aside, picked up a stick, and knocked it across the man's head. They were down, cursing in the dirt, within seconds.
I just stared, mouth open. He turned to me, breathing hard, and grinned—a sharp, crooked thing. "You're welcome," he said, like it was no big deal. Then he jerked his head toward the trees. "Come on. Woods ain't safe."
I didn't know who he was or where he came from, but one thing was clear: my useless days were over. Something was starting—something big
The wild child that saved me? His name was Cryst. Weird, right? I thought so too, but it fit him— jagged and sharp, like his actions. We hung out after that, prowling the woods like two feral dogs. We'd snatch berries from thorny bushes, stuffing our mouths with sweet ones and spitting out sour ones. But the ultimate treat? Bread. Not the stale, stone-hard kind from the church—real, soft, golden bread we'd pilfer from houses on the edge of the village. Cryst was a ghost, in and out before anyone blinked. Me? I was clumsy at first, but he didn't mind.
He learned soon enough I couldn't mold Fantasia. Didn't so much as flinch. "Forget that magic junk," he'd say, smiling. "Your fists'll do the talking." So he trained me—trained me to duck, weave, and punch hard. Day after day, we'd box in the dust, him laughing every time I got hit, me grinning when I managed to land one. Soon I was sneaking into houses right beside him, snatching loaves as quiet as a ghost. We were invincible, two ragged bread thieves living wild and free.
Until we pushed our luck too far.
One day, we stumbled upon this huge house on the edge of the woods—old, creaky, windows dark. Abandoned, we figured. Jackpot. We broke in, and man, it was a goldmine. The pantry was stocked—loaves of bread, jars of jam, even some dried meat. We tore through it like a couple of starving wolves, filling sacks with as much as we could carry. I was halfway through a bite of warm bread when the front door burst open.
A knight stepped in, his armor gleaming as if a storm cloud had swallowed the sun. He had a sword at his side, evil-sharp, and the symbol on his chest screamed royal. Not some village guard—high-rank, the kind who'd toss kids like us into a dungeon and lose the key. My stomach dropped. Cryst's eyes went wide, but he whispered, "Move!"
We scrambled for the window, scaling a bookshelf like rats. Books tumbled, shelves wobbled—I grasped the sill, Cryst close behind. Then my stupid hand knocked over a glass vial. It dropped to the floor and shattered, ringing out as loudly as thunder. The knight's head snapped up, his sword screeching free as he charged us.
"Go, go, go!" Cryst yelled. I hauled myself out, diving into the bushes below in a splinter of leaves. Cryst sprang after me, somersaulting in mid-air like some crazy acrobat, landing in a crouch. The knight's boots boomed nearer, his sword slicing through the window as he roared something we didn't stay to discover. We tore into the woods, branches whipping at our heels, hearts thudding like war drums. We ran until the house was just a spec but little did we know what came ahead........