The rejection lingered in her soul. She had placed so much hope in it, especially since it was probably the first interview she’d had in a long while. When she was younger, people still came to interview her. But after she passed a certain age, it dwindled to nothing. Perhaps because of the prejudice that a girl past twelve who still hadn’t been adopted would bring nothing but trouble.

  Now that she thought about it, she smiled bitterly. It must have taken real effort from Elra to convince the mages to interview her. She had known that before, but when the hectic rush settled, the realization struck harder.

  All that effort gone. Because of you.

  It was the same voice she used to speak politely to others, to laugh awkwardly, to say everything was fine even when it wasn’t. And yet now? It was the voice that judged her for the circumstances of her birth. A voice that was sweet to others but poisonous to herself.

  She didn’t argue with it. Because even when it was toxic and self-destructive, it told her the only thing she wanted to hear.

  The cold, hard truth.

  Even if it was ungrateful to reject other people’s kindness, that was all she wanted—for them to speak plainly to her, not to wrap their words in poisonous pity or suffocating compassion.

  She lay still, her eyes tracing the faint lines where the wall met the ceiling, as if searching for cracks that weren’t there.

  Nothing had changed.

  The same blanket folded at her feet. The same breath of night air slipping in through the narrow window. The same hush clinging to the room while everyone else slept.

  But it felt different.

  As if the space around her had stretched slightly wider, making room for something that would never arrive.

  She put on a mask of denial, telling herself it was okay despite the voice of reason blaming her. She wore it with shame and told herself that it truly would be fine.

  Even when it wouldn’t.

  She sat up slowly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet, but she didn’t flinch. Her shoulders curled inward, but she held them still.

  She caught her reflection by accident.

  The girl in the mirror looked too familiar—slight, pale, her coat draped over narrow shoulders. Silver hair fell in even lines, still neat from earlier. The kind of neatness meant to be seen by someone who never chose her. Everything about her had been prepared for them. Every strand brushed, every fold smoothed. But it hadn’t been enough. Not for them. Maybe not for anyone.

  There was a hollow place behind her ribs, a small, quiet crack where hope had slipped through. But she was still standing and trying.

  Because something in her held on. Magic was still there. Distant. Unreachable. But beautiful enough to follow.

  A memory surfaced, quiet and uninvited, like dust rising in still air.

  She remembered how the morning felt. The chill in the air that clung to her sleeves. The way the light fell through the tall windows. There had been whispers. Shoes scuffing on stone. The faint scent of old ink and polished wood.

  Her routine had been the same. Wash basin. Folded sleeves. Braided hair. She had lined her shoes neatly by the bed the night before and placed her hands just so in her lap as she waited for the bell. It had all felt important, like the shape of the day mattered, like being ready would make a difference.

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  She remembered brushing dust from the windowsill and tucking in the corner of her blanket again, just in case someone checked. She hadn’t spoken. No one had. But she’d seen the glances—curious, distant, not unkind, just expectant.

  Then Elra’s voice had come from the front of the hall, calm and composed.

  “Come along, all of you. It's time.”

  The words had floated down the corridor like something heavier than they should have been.

  The hallway had felt quieter than usual as they walked. Full of omen that pressed against your thoughts. Each footstep echoed longer than it should. The stone beneath her feet felt colder, smoother. She remembered the sound of the door opening at the end. The hush that followed.

  She remembered seeing children go in and out of the testing room, some with blank expressions, others with small, secret smiles. Most said nothing. They returned to their seats, their faces unreadable. Most of them didn’t talk afterwards, as if speaking about it might unmake whatever had just been measured.

  Then her name had been called.

  The room was small. Neat. Clinical in the way quiet places sometimes were. Its stone walls were clean, lined with a shelf of instruments she didn’t recognize. A long table stretched down the middle, and at its far end stood a man in uniform—gray coat, silver pin, gloves too clean to belong to this place.

  She noticed how little light reached the corners. How the candles didn’t flicker.

  There was a rug beneath her shoes, soft but thin, just enough to muffle sound. A small stool waited near the center.

  She sat when told.

  Everything from that point had felt slower than it should.

  It was simple. Just a touch of the rods. They would pulsed faintly in response, measuring the mana within.

  No one was told the numbers aloud, but you could always tell by the examiner’s eyes.

  She touched it.

  The rod barely stirred. Just a speck of light. Brief and faint like a fire trying its best to stay alive.

  “She has something. It’s there. But... very faint,” the man said, adjusting a small dial on the device. He glanced at her hair, then back at the rods. “I assumed as much, given the color. Still, always best to confirm. She has Faintborn’s Blessing.”

  No one really knew where it came from. It wasn’t a sickness. Wasn’t something you could catch or cure. Just a quiet flaw in the weave, a flicker where a flame should be. Those born with it could live, learn, even smile like anyone else. But when it came to magic, the spark barely answered.

  She wasn’t the first. The silver hair marked it early, though not always. Some showed signs later. Some never did. But the test had confirmed what everyone suspected.

  She didn’t cry. But something in her chest folded in on itself.

  Like the world had tilted slightly and no one else noticed. Like being handed a word she didn’t fully understand, but knowing, somehow, that it would follow her for the rest of her life.

  Elra adjusted her collar. The air stayed still.

  But everything inside her had gone quiet in a way that didn’t feel like peace.

  “You can still learn. It just means the path is longer. And steeper.”

  And suddenly, things made sense.

  The whispers that stopped when she entered a room. The games that never had space for one more. The glances—curious, quiet, edged with something she hadn’t known how to name. The constant rejection.

  They hadn’t needed to be told. Her hair had said enough. And now the test had confirmed it.

  The memory faded, slipping back into the quiet it came from, leaving her once again in the present. In the still room. In her own skin.

  Maybe she shouldn’t hope to become a mage.

  Maybe it had always been foolish, a child’s dream clung to too tightly, stretched too thin. The path wasn’t just steep, it was carved into stone she couldn’t climb, built for others with more light in their hands.

  She wasn’t one of them.

  Not strong enough. Not fast enough. Not enough. There were other paths. Simpler ones. Routes where no one asked for magic, where no one expected anything to glow.

  She looked at the light slipping in through the window. The moon hung there, distant and steady, watching.

  And just like that, she remembered.

  The pull. That ache she could never name, only feel. The unexplained hunger, the kind that lived beneath the ribs and never left.

  She didn’t want to command armies. She didn’t want to be feared.

  She just wanted to touch the thing that lit the sky and made silence feel holy.

  To wield something as beautiful as that light.

  Her hand tightened around the edge of her cloak.

  She stood, quiet and steady.

  The room was the same, with cracked walls, creaking floor, and uneven curtains, but something inside her wasn’t. But the silence no longer pressed against her. It waited with her.

  Even if she would most likely fail. Even if her body fought against her. Even if the world had already decided she couldn’t.

  She would still try.

  Because trying was the only thing no one could take from her.

  She gathered her things, the cloak, the hidden pouch, her worn shoes—each motion careful and certain. She fastened the cloak, let the moonlight rest on her shoulders one last time, and stepped toward the door.

  This time, she didn’t hesitate.