Chapter 1
In the kingdom of Veyndral, the night sky glowed with rivers of magic, colors bending and twisting in the heavens like living silk. Here, children wielded magic as early as their fifth birthday—lightning crackled in playrooms, fire danced over dinner tables, and wolves were ridden like steeds through the forest.
But for Eryndor, son of the High Witch Serathia, the world felt like it was made for everyone except him. At ten years old, he had nothing. His brothers commanded storms, his sister spun illusions so vivid you could taste snow or smell roses. But Eryndor? He couldn’t even light a candle without a match.
Whispers clung to him like gnats:
“The witch’s son without magic.”
“He’s cursed, poor thing.”
He never answered back. His life was a quiet shadow in a house of stars.
That night, as the blood moon rose fat and crimson over the horizon, he slipped away. No note. No explanation. The air was thick with the metallic scent of magic and danger, but Eryndor didn’t care. Anything was better than the constant reminder of his failure.
The forest loomed like a cathedral of black trees, their twisted branches clawing at the sky. He climbed one and sat among its ancient limbs, the wind cutting his cheeks, the moon painting him in red sorrow.
“Why have you forsaken me?” he whispered to the void. “Why am I so weak? Why did you make me like this?”
The forest answered not with words, but with movement
