The night sky above Elyskar shimmered with six great constellations, each pulsing like a heartbeat in the heavens. Beneath their glow, deep in a quiet village at the edge of the Verdant Reach, a child's first cry pierced the air.
Inside a humble wooden home, two parents wept with joy. A healthy boy. Their firstborn. Yet their tears quickly mixed with confusion.
There was no mark on his face.
The midwife checked again. No glowing sigil on the forehead, the cheeks, the chin—nothing. A silence spread in the room, heavy and unspoken. Then the boy was turned over, and gasps followed.
On his back, between his shoulder blades, two intricate wings glowed faintly with celestial light. They weren't feathers or symbols of flight, but ethereal patterns—sigil lines woven in a shape no Syntari had ever borne.
"What… constellation is that?" the midwife whispered, her voice trembling.
The parents said nothing. They did not know. No one did.
In Elyskar, every child is marked on their face by one of the Six Constellation Gods. That was the law of the stars. That was how the world worked.
But this boy was wrong.
Still, his mother cradled him. His father kissed his brow. Whatever he was, he was theirs.
They named him Lucian.
And while the village whispered, while the elders frowned and the children stared, Lucian grew. Slowly. Quietly. Loved deeply by his family, and distrusted by everyone else.
The older he became, the brighter the wing-shaped sigil glowed.
By the time he could speak, other children would not. They called him cursed. A freak. A godless child. Even though he smiled. Even though he tried to play. Even though he never once used his power—because he had none.
Not yet.