The morning mist clung low to the cobbled paths of Duskwater Hollow, soaking boots and blurring boundaries between road and earth. Roosters crowed half-heartedly in the distance, their calls muted by the fog. Cael brushed a stray lock of brown hair from his face and blinked twice before stepping into the street.
He didn’t belong here. Not really.
But then, he didn’t belong anywhere.
The Hollow was small—smaller than most of the outposts dotting the northern veins of the continent. It had one vein-node, a single flickering tower of pulseglass that hadn’t been recalibrated in over a decade. His father used to say the tower hummed louder when you were close to an awakening. Cael had spent dozens of afternoons with his palms pressed against its side, hoping for something. Anything.
He was still waiting.
Today was the day of testing, and also his 16th cycle. In most towns, that meant a celebration. In Duskwater, it meant a gathering in the chapel courtyard where the old Guildmaster would conduct the Vein Test—a rite to determine whether a child’s blood held magic or not. If it did, they would be assigned a path. If not...
Cael didn’t like to think about the “if not.”
He had been tested twice already, the town elders had hoped he was a late bloomer but each test that came and went cemented further that was not the case.
He adjusted the straps on his satchel and walked faster. His boots left shallow imprints on the wet stone. The entire Hollow felt hushed. Still. Even the vendors hadn’t yet opened their stalls. A storm must be coming.
The only building with any sign of life was the Guildhall.
He reached it just as the bell tolled six times.
A dozen other teenagers stood in line—some jittery with nerves, others smug with expectation. Dressed better than him, most of them. Embroidered tunics, family crests, and clean boots. Cael had sewn the hem of his shirt himself, and it still hung unevenly.
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He slipped into the back of the line. No one greeted him.
He was used to that.
“Cael.”
A voice cut through the murmuring. He turned and saw Aelric, a broad-shouldered boy with sandy hair and a cruel smile. The Guildmaster’s son. He leaned lazily against a column, arms crossed.
“You sure you’re supposed to be here?” Aelric grinned. “Heard your old man’s Vein was grey. Unranked. Didn’t even flicker when he died.”
Cael said nothing. There was no point.
“Maybe you’ll light up,” Aelric continued, sneering. “Just a flicker, maybe. Or maybe it’ll do what your sister’s did.”
The line went quiet.
Cael stepped forward, slow and measured. “You can talk about me all you want. But don’t talk about her.”
Aelric raised his hands mockingly. “Easy, Hollow-born. Don’t crack before the test.”
Before Cael could answer, the heavy oak doors creaked open. A man with silver hair and eyes like flint stepped forward—Guildmaster Morren, cloaked in ceremonial blue and bearing the Testing Rod.
“Inside,” he said. “One at a time.”
The line shuffled forward. Cael’s heart pounded in rhythm with his steps. His breath fogged in front of him as he entered the Guildhall. The air inside was thick with incense and the static tang of unspent magic.
The testing chamber was plain. Stone floors. A dais. And in its center, a raised pedestal with the Testing Rod anchored within—a slender length of pulseglass shot through with veins of silvery thread. It shimmered faintly, alive with residual power.
“You know the rite,” Guildmaster Morren said. His voice was cold. “Place your hand on the Rod. Focus. Let the system see you.”
Cael swallowed.
He stepped forward. The moment his fingers touched the Rod, a quiet chime rang out—soft, barely audible, like a bell underwater.
And then—nothing.
No flicker. No flare. No surge of pulse. Just silence.
The Guildmaster frowned.
“Wait,” Cael said, voice tight. “Let me try again.”
“This is not a matter of will,” Morren said. “The Rod sees what is there.”
“But I—”
“Enough.” The Guildmaster turned. “Veinless.”
The word dropped like a stone.
Cael stood there, hand still on the Rod, cold blooming in his chest. Behind him, he heard the snickering of the others. Aelric’s laughter came last, sharp and cutting.
The Guildmaster sighed. “You may stay in the Hollow, but you will not train. Nor will you join a guild. If you wish to be useful, apprentice yourself to a craftsman or leave before winter.”
Cael stepped back, hands shaking. “What if it’s wrong?”
Morren’s gaze hardened. “It isn’t.”
Cael left without another word.
---
The sky had darkened by the time he reached home. The cottage sat at the edge of the Hollow, pressed against the tree line. His mother was gone—long gone—and his father’s grave was still unmarked.
He sat on the wooden stoop, staring into the mist.
Above him, the stars were beginning to pierce the gloom. One flickered—brighter than the rest.
For a heartbeat, he thought he heard a sound.
Ping.
A faint tone. Not from the sky.
From inside his head.
> [UNRECOGNIZED THREAD DETECTED…]
[CALIBRATING SYSTEM INTERFACE…]
[ERROR: UNREGISTERED VEIN. SYNCHRONIZING ANYWAY.]
He stared at nothing.
And yet—something had begun.
