Chronicles of the Untalented

The taste of sleep clung to Silas as he stirred awake. His body felt heavier than usual, as though it resented the idea of facing another day. For a moment, he lay there in silence, eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening to the stillness of the room. There was no sound of birds. No warmth from the sun. Just the chill of stone and the soft ache in his chest.

Eventually, he forced himself to get up.

His legs carried him down the creaking wooden stairs, the same path he took every morning. In the small kitchen, he found what he always did—half a loaf of stale bread, its edges dry and cracked.

He tore off a piece and chewed slowly.

There was no joy in eating anymore.

Once, in another life, he had known flavor—salt, spice, warmth. Things that made food more than survival. But here, in this world, food was fuel. Nothing more. The people born in this land had no memory of culinary pleasure. The concept of enjoying a meal was foreign to them. Just like Silas.

Just like everything he was.

When he had first transmigrated, Silas had clung to the childish hope that he was the protagonist of some grand tale. A chosen one. A hidden power waiting to awaken. It was a comforting illusion—until the orb rejected him. Until he was told he had no magical talent at all.

Now that illusion was dead too.

He would not become a hero. He would likely die outside the city walls, another nameless corpse devoured by monsters. Not even with glory—just terror and silence.

He blinked the thoughts away and tossed the remaining bread aside. It didn't matter.

He needed to check in with someone. Anyone.

Even his mother.

---

His feet guided him through the cramped alleyways of the city. The buildings leaned on one another, built close for warmth and defense. Every inch of land mattered here. Every step was familiar.

He found her exactly where he expected—just outside the city's inner barrier, in a patch of withered soil.

Eira stood hunched over a field of struggling crops, her face pale, her eyes ringed with deep shadows. Her hands moved slowly, fingers brushing the brittle leaves of half-alive plants. An earthen effigy pulsed faintly at her side—a dull brown crystal embedded in a wooden pendant. Its glow was weak, but constant. It never stopped working. Neither did she.

She didn't turn when he approached.

"I knew you'd come," she said, voice hoarse but calm. "The field told me."

Silas hesitated. "Your effigy's still running?"

"It always is," she answered, finally turning to face him. "Even when I sleep. Otherwise, the harvest dies."

She looked at him more closely now, as if only just seeing the wounds behind his eyes.

"What happened to you? Are you alright?" she asked. "I... I heard about what happened during the ceremony. I'm sorry I couldn't check on you sooner."

Silas looked down. "No talent," he muttered. "None at all. I'm not exactly broken... but my path forward is."

She stepped toward him, gently pulling him into a hug. It was stiff, uncertain—two strangers pretending to be mother and son.

"I'll fix it," she whispered. "I'll pull some strings, get you an effigy. Even if your talent is dormant or weak, you'll have a chance. You'll be fine."

Silas looked at her.

"Really?"

"I'll handle it," she said firmly. "You just go. Find your friends. You're young—you should be out in the city, not worrying about all this."

Then she pulled away, already turning back to the fields. "But you need to leave. I can't afford to split my focus for too long. If I do... the entire crop could fail. And then it won't just be us who suffer."

He nodded. "Alright."

---

Silas left without another word.

The hug had felt strange. Her presence, even more so. She'd rarely been around while he was growing up—always working, always with her hands in the soil, her soul tangled in the life of the plants. He hadn't come to her for comfort. He had only wanted to let her know he was alive. If he hadn't, she likely wouldn't have noticed his absence.

His home no longer felt like a place he wanted to return to.

And Cassian would be unavailable—deep in effigy refinement Showing up now would be reckless. Dangerous, even.

So Silas turned toward another friend. Anyone else.

Someone who wasn't tangled in duty. Someone who could remind him, even briefly, that he still had a place in this dying world.