Chronicles of the Untalented

The room felt different now.

Once, it had been choked with the weight of ritual and soul-splitting pain. Now, in the quiet, it almost felt hollow. Dust drifted through the low lamplight, and every sound echoed too long.

Silas sat cross-legged on the stone floor, the cool touch grounding him. A scalpel rested in his hand, its edge dulled slightly from overuse. Across from him, Velira twirled a thread of her sleeve absently around a finger.

They were here to inscribe magic.

But Silas's hands trembled.

Velira noticed. "You sure you're okay?"

He paused, not answering right away. "Yeah. Just… remembered something."

The smile he gave her was thin, but not fake. It was the kind of smile someone wore to keep themselves from slipping.

Velira tilted her head. "If it's something important, maybe take care of it first?"

He shook his head. "Not something I have to do. Just something I have to… remember."

He didn't elaborate. She didn't push. That was how their rhythm worked now—space when needed, even in silence.

The memory was a quiet one. Not a face or a place, but a concept.

The scientific method.

A logic from another world. Cold, reliable. A way to bring order to chaos.

And magic, when stripped of its mysticism, was just chaos waiting to be shaped.

With a breath, Silas set the scalpel to the surface of his effigy. His eyes sharpened. His hand steadied.

Velira leaned closer. Her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?"

Silas didn't look up. "Trying something different."

"You're not supposed to mix anything. That's asking for instability."

He chuckled softly. "And yet, here I am. Still asking."

Velira rolled her eyes but didn't argue further. She'd learned that Silas didn't walk the same straight line the rest of them did. He was always on the edge of some thought she couldn't follow—until suddenly it worked, and she was left catching up.

For a while, there was only the scratch of metal on enchanted flesh. The air thickened with the scent of burning chalk, mana, and faint old blood. It wasn't a sacred process—it was closer to surgery. Delicate. Dangerous.

Eventually, both were finished.

They sat quietly, their effigies standing nearby—still, reflective. Each one an extension of themselves, now slightly changed.

Velira rested back on her hands. "You done?"

Silas leaned back, stretching his arms with a soft groan. "Done enough."

They stood, gathering what little they'd brought. Neither said much—there was still a sense of gravity in the room, as though it wasn't finished with them yet.

---

The training grounds were quiet at this hour. Just fading footprints in the dirt, faint light from flickering lanterns, and the low whistle of wind through broken arches.

Silas and Velira stepped in side by side.

Then a voice called out.

"Care for a spar, talentless boy?"

Silas stopped walking.

A figure leaned casually against a stone pillar, arms crossed. Tall. Confident. Well-fed in a place where most people weren't.

Theron.

Even in a city where surnames were useless to most, his carried weight. Graves. A family that mattered.

Velira's eyes flicked to Silas.

His expression had changed.

There it was again—that flicker of something dangerous. The same hunger she'd seen back at the lake. But just as quickly, it was gone. He smiled as if nothing had shifted.

"Why not?" he said.

Velira held her breath.

The match hadn't even started, but something about the air had changed again.

Something sharp was about to happen.