In the land of Valmyra, where magic flowed like rivers through every living thing, there existed a family whose name was spoken with awe—and fear. The House of Elvaron. They were not just magicians; they were legends. Fire, shadow, storm, and light bent at their will. It was said that the blood of the First Flame ran through their veins.
So when Aeren Elvaron was born under the crimson eclipse—a sign of unmatched power—whispers spread like wildfire. "He will be greater than his father," they said. "He will eclipse them all."
But by the age of twelve, Aeren had not conjured a single flame, not stirred a gust of wind, not even lit a candle with a whisper of magic. In a family of stormcallers and spellweavers, he was... ordinary.
The shame of his powerlessness was a shadow over him, stretching longer each year. His siblings soared through the skies and danced with lightning. Aeren swept floors in the great hall, dodging the sneers of his cousins and the disappointed silence of his parents.
But deep within him, something ancient stirred. Not fire. Not light. Something older than the elements themselves.
One day, when a forbidden relic in the family's vault awakened in his presence, everything changed.
His journey had begun—not as a prodigy, but as a failure.
Not with power—but with purpose.