Chapter 1 – The Unmarked
The sky above Caelondia was painted with streaks of gold and violet, a quiet celebration of dawn breaking over the small border village of Ilnar. The fields shimmered with dew, and smoke curled lazily from chimneys. Today, the village would gather — as it did every year — to witness the Rite of Marking.
Vael sat alone on the fence post, arms draped over his knees, watching children run through the square in excitement. The town bell hadn't rung yet, but the whole village was already awake. It was the kind of day that pulled hope out of even the hardest souls.
But not his.
He ran a thumb along the old wooden pendant hanging from his neck — the only thing left from his mother, the only thing that ever felt real in a world ruled by glowing sigils and divine scripts.
"Vael!"
He turned at the sound of her voice. Mireal, his younger sister by two years, came sprinting toward him, barefoot as usual, holding a folded cloth over her arm.
"You forgot your tunic again. You're not walking into the Rite like some scarecrow."
He gave her a crooked smile. "Doesn't matter what I wear. It won't change what's not there."
Mireal's steps slowed. Her face dropped. "You don't know that."
"I do."
She looked up at him, defiant. "Then prove it. Go. Stand on the dais. Let the Light touch you."
"Just to let the whole village laugh when nothing happens? Again?"
Her fingers tightened around the cloth. "You're not cursed. You're not broken."
He didn't respond. Just took the tunic and pulled it over his thin frame.
---
The central square of Ilnar was surrounded by flags stitched with Marking sigils. The Ritekeeper, a tall woman draped in silver robes, stood at the raised stone altar. The crowd buzzed with energy as names were called one by one, each child stepping forward to place their hand on the altar's orb.
And one by one, the air shimmered as Fate Marks appeared on their bodies.
A flame on a girl's shoulder — the Blaze of the Brave.
A shifting spiral on a boy's wrist — the Thread of Insight.
A blooming rose — the Mark of Nurture.
Every mark a destiny. Every glow a future foretold.
When the final name was called, the crowd hushed. All heads turned.
"Vael," the Ritekeeper announced, voice clear and emotionless. "Son of none. Step forward."
He didn't want to.
But Mireal's hand touched his back, gently pushing.
He walked to the altar under a thousand stares. Some were amused. Others pitied him. A few even looked angry — as if his existence offended the order of the world.
He placed his hand on the orb.
Nothing happened.
No light.
No hum.
No mark.
Just silence.
---
He turned without a word and walked back through the crowd, which parted like water around him.
Behind him, the Ritekeeper spoke again. "Unmarked. His Thread is unwritten."
Gasps. Whispers. Even laughter.
But one elder, an old man with faded ink on his arms, muttered under his breath:
"Or perhaps… rewritten."
---
That night, Vael stood outside their cottage, staring up at the stars. Mireal was asleep inside. He traced a line through the dirt with a stick.
He wasn't angry.
Just tired.
But then — something flickered at the edge of his vision.
A single thread of silver light — like spider silk — trailed across the ground. It wrapped around the village elder's house. Then another — blue, thin, barely visible — curled toward the mountains.
And one…
One led straight to him.
To his chest.
It didn't glow like the others.
It pulsed.
Like a heartbeat.
And it whispered:
"Your fate is not missing. It's waiting to be claimed."