Mana was the pride of the elves.
It flowed through their forests, their cities, and their blood.
Even a newborn elf carried more mana than most adult humans.
It was said that to be an elf was to be born already ahead of the world.
Aerin Sylvalis learned early that this truth did not apply to him.
He stood at the edge of the training grove, watching his classmates practice spell control.
Soft green light pulsed around them as mana responded eagerly to their commands.
Vines twisted, leaves danced, and shimmering barriers formed and dissolved with practiced ease.
Aerin's turn had already passed.
Again.
"You may sit," the instructor had said, not unkindly—but without interest.
That alone hurt more than the laughter.
Aerin lowered himself onto a stone bench, resting his staff across his knees. The wood was old, cracked in places, passed down from a branch of the family that no longer bothered remembering his name.
At least it still listens, he thought faintly.
"Did you see that?" a girl nearby whispered, not bothering to lower her voice.
"He barely formed a spell frame."
"That wasn't a spell," her friend replied.
"That was an apology to mana."
They giggled.
Aerin pretended not to hear.
He always did.
His mana wasn't absent.
He could feel it inside him—small, quiet, like a candle flame in a storm.
The problem was that the world expected a bonfire.
Even among the weakest races, his output was considered poor. Among elves, it was shameful.
"Why didn't your family send you to human lands?" a boy asked bluntly as he passed by.
"At least there you'd be average."
Aerin smiled politely. "I'll keep that in mind."
The boy snorted and walked off.
The instructor raised a hand, signaling the end of training. "That will be all for today. Remember—mana is will. If you lack power, refine your intent."
Aerin almost laughed.
If intent were enough, I'd be a prodigy.
As the grove emptied, he remained behind. The silence suited him better than the voices.
He stepped back into the stone circle, tracing the faintly glowing runes with his eyes.
Carefully, he lifted his staff.
He didn't try to force mana out.
Instead, he shaped it slowly—compressing, aligning, reducing waste.
A tiny sigil formed in the air.
Perfect in structure.
Weak beyond belief.
The runes beneath his feet flickered—just for a moment—before stabilizing.
Aerin froze.
"…That's new."
He tried again.
The same thing happened.
The mana didn't resist him. It adjusted.
As if it preferred being handled gently.
A chill ran down his spine.
From deep within the forest, something stirred.
Not mana.
Something older.
Unseen leaves drifted lazily from the trees, though there was no wind.
For a brief moment, Aerin felt the strange sensation of being watched—not by a person, but by the world itself.
He lowered his staff.
The feeling vanished.
Aerin exhaled slowly.
"Must be imagining things."
But far beyond the elven forest…
The balance of the world shifted ever so slightly.
And something that had been waiting a very long time…
Noticed him.