Kazh stood in the courtyard, gripping the wooden sword tight. The midday glow bathed the marble beneath his feet in gold, but the warmth did nothing to ease the cold weight settling in his chest. Around him, the other recruits lingered, their whispers sharp as blades.

  "Why does he even bother?"

  "His power is useless, he should just quit."

  A soldier stepped forward, rolling his shoulders, spinning his sword in fluid, effortless motions. His golden armor gleamed, catching the light like a weapon itself. Bigger. Stronger. Faster. Just like everyone else.

  He smirked. "Come on, Kazh," he taunted, slamming his sword into the ground with a sharp crack. "Make me heavy. Let’s see if that actually does anything."

  Laughter rippled through the others. Kazh kept his face still, hiding the heat rising in his throat. He’d been here before. Too many times.

  He exhaled. Steadied his stance. Power alone wasn’t going to win this fight.

  He reached outward, fingers barely shifting, but the air around his opponent trembled. A shimmer, a pulse, subtle, but precise. The soldier's weapon wavered, dipping lower, his muscles tightening under the unseen weight pressing down.

  A flicker of uncertainty crossed the soldier’s face. It was small, but Kazh caught it.

  It was enough.

  Before hesitation could turn into regained confidence, Kazh moved. Fast, low, weaving into his opponent’s space. He didn’t need to overpower him. He just needed an opening.

  For a moment Kazh thought he had him.

  But then the soldier's grin widened, and in a flash he lunged. Kazh didn’t have time to react fully, he barely raised his arms before the full force of the strike hit him in the ribs. His breath was knocked from his chest, and he crashed to the ground, gasping.

  They all laughed.

  "You see?" The soldier stood over him, turning to the others. His voice was full of mockery. "What good is making something heavy when you can't even stand your ground?"

  Kazh’s teeth ground together, pain searing through him, but he didn’t stay down. Struggling against the ache in his chest, he pushed himself to his hands and knees, refusing to let the laughter take root inside him.

  His power never came quickly enough. Never strong enough. It was always a slow build, a strain on his body that left him exposed when he needed it most.

  The others? They conjured blinding spears of light, wove shields of pure radiance, or moved with the grace of wind. Their powers grew and evolved with age, refining into brilliant extensions of their celestial lineage.

  And Kazh?

  He made things heavy.

  That was it. His body emitted a dim light from his skin, pale and grayish. Not radiant. Not brilliant. Just... wrong.

  It was a faint illumination that flickered weakly at his fingertips and pulsed from his chest when he exerted himself—like a candle in a storm. Even as a child, the elders had said, "His light is strange. It doesn’t glow right."

  He'd tried to believe it would change with time. That one day, like the others, his power would refine into something worthy.

  It never did.

  "Enough," a voice thundered, sharp and commanding.

  Captain Seraph’s presence cut through the courtyard like a blade. His golden eyes, burning with celestial flame, silenced the laughter and whispers in an instant. He stepped forward, observing the scene with an unsettling calmness before reaching Kazh.

  The recruits’ chests tightened. His judgment was final and often cruel.

  Kazh got up, despite the pain gnawing at his ribs. He was quick on his feet, disciplined to the bone. But despite all his training, he always fell behind. The others had gifts that lit up the battlefield. His only weapon was will.

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  Seraph stared down at him.

  "You fight well, Kazh," he said, tilting his head slightly. "Better than most who rely too much on their gifts."

  Kazh blinked, surprised. For a moment, he thought he was being praised.

  But Seraph continued.

  "But fighting well isn’t enough. You can train as hard as you want, but at the end of the day you're just a soldier with nothing to tip the scales in your favor." He shook his head. "And in war, that’s the difference between a leader and a body in the dirt."

  The words hit harder than the blow in the ribs.

  Kazh had spent years refining his technique, making up for what he lacked in raw celestial power. He had told himself that skill could make up for it. That discipline and effort would close the gap.

  But to them, it never would.

  Kazh exhaled, steadying himself. The pain in his ribs was nothing compared to the weight pressing on his chest.

  The courtyard emptied slowly. The other recruits moved on, still chuckling and nudging each other.

  Kazh remained behind, sitting alone beneath the shadow of a broken statue—a marble tribute to a long-dead Ascended general. He stared up at the chipped face.

  How did you earn your light? he wondered.

  His hands curled around his training sword. The faint glow of his own light flickered again—pale, uncertain. He held out his palm, trying to focus the energy, trying to command it. But the result was always the same. A dull shimmer. The light wavered... then dulled.

  He clenched his fist.

  Footsteps approached again. Not Lina. Someone older.

  Instructor Halven, a retired soldier whose body bore the wear of long-forgotten wars, stood near the edge of the courtyard. His robes were worn, his eyes heavy with knowledge and memory.

  "Still chasing a fire that won't catch?" Halven asked, his tone not mocking, just... tired.

  "I don't know if it's fire at all," Kazh replied.

  Halven walked over and sat beside him on the marble bench, silent for a long while.

  "You ever hear of Varim the Dull?" Halven asked.

  Kazh shook his head.

  "Exactly," Halven said. "He made things slower. That's it. Slowed down movement, sound, thought. Useless in drills. Deadly in war. He ended three rebellions. No songs. But those who knew him feared him more than anyone."

  Kazh looked over, surprised.

  "What happened to him?"

  "He stopped trying to be like the others," Halven said. "Started being what he was."

  The old man rose, hands clasped behind his back. "You don't need to burn bright, Kazh. You just need to burn right."

  That night, in the barracks, Kazh couldn’t sleep.

  Most of the recruits had drifted off. The soft hum of celestial energy radiated from their beds as their powers shimmered faintly even in sleep. A ward of light here. A sparkle of wind there.

  Kazh’s bed was dark.

  He sat up and pulled the blanket tighter around himself. Then, carefully, he slid off the mattress and crossed the room, heading for the archives.

  The hallways of the training complex were ancient—built long before his generation. Towering murals lined the walls, depicting heroes and tyrants of celestial history. Most bore halos of golden fire, radiant swords, wings of star-stuff.

  Not one of them had dim light or a gravity-laced gift.

  In the archive chamber, Kazh lit a lantern and pulled a thick tome from the shelves. It was dusty, unread.

  He flipped through page after page—histories of Ascended warriors, treatises on power evolutions, diagrams of gifts refined over centuries.

  Nothing like his.

  No mention of heaviness.

  No dim light.

  No weight.

  Just silence.

  He closed the book with a heavy breath and rested his forehead on its cover.

  What am I?

  By morning, the mission orders were posted.

  The scroll was nailed to the mess hall wall—golden ink on silver parchment. Kazh approached, shoulder still sore, and read silently as Captain Seraph recited the details aloud.

  "Minor realm Vehl-3. Unauthorized deviation from celestial alignment. No tithe rendered. Resistance is to be suppressed. All defiant settlements marked for cleansing. You are to deploy at midday."

  A murmur ran through the recruits. Routine. Another realm refusing the light. Another order to pacify.

  But something in Kazh’s gut twisted.

  They never learn their names, he thought. Just their coordinates.

  He caught Lina’s gaze across the hall. She looked uneasy too.

  Kazh said nothing.

  But as he turned to prepare, the dim light at his fingertips flickered once again—heavier than before. A silent pulse. A tremor in his chest.

  Not pain.

  But warning.