The morning sun filtered through thin linen curtains, casting golden stripes across the worn wooden floorboards of the orphanage dormitory. The scent of bread and boiling herbs drifted in from the kitchen below, mingling with the earthy aroma of the surrounding forest.
Max sat cross-legged on his straw mattress, his small hands resting on his knees, eyes closed—not asleep, but focused.
He had discovered something new.
The ambient mana in the room trembled slightly, swirling around him like dust motes in sunlight. His mind touched it, not like a mage pulling from a well of stored energy, but more like a sculptor shaping clay directly from the earth.
A flicker of thought, and a tiny flame appeared above his palm. It hovered, stable and bright, yet cool to the touch. Another breath, and it extinguished without a trace.
He smiled.
There was no incantation. No internal circle. No need for refinement. Just will, imagination, and control.
He'd spent every free moment testing the boundaries of what he could do. Each day brought something new—enhanced reflexes, sharper hearing, even temporary invisibility by manipulating light around his body. He was limited only by his creativity.
Yet he played dumb when around others.
"Max, hurry up!" came a voice from the hall. It was Talia, one of the older orphans. Barefoot and bright-eyed, she poked her head in, curls bouncing. "You'll miss morning chores again and get the broom punishment."
Max blinked, cleared the air of residual mana, and grinned. "Coming."
The orphanage itself was humble—stone walls patched with wood and thatch, built into the side of a hill near the forest edge. The caretakers, a stern former soldier named Bran and his wife Liora, were kind enough. Bran limped from an old war wound but kept the place in order like a barracks. Liora brewed herbal tinctures and sometimes sang to the younger children when the wind howled too loud at night.
Max didn't mind the routine. Chores gave him time to think. Meals gave him energy. And the other children? They were noisy, strange, and terribly predictable—but they kept him grounded.
In many ways, this life was the most peaceful he had ever known.
Later that afternoon, Max found himself wandering beyond the orchard fence, where the trees gave way to rocky outcroppings and moss-covered boulders. A stream trickled nearby, its water clear and cold. He crouched beside it, running a hand through the flow—and then willed it to rise.
The water obeyed, arching upward into the shape of a sword before collapsing back with a splash.
He furrowed his brow. The shape had held for only a few seconds.
"More focus," he muttered. "More detail."
He tried again—this time, not just imagining a sword, but feeling the shape. The weight. The intent behind it.
This time, the blade formed fully—a translucent, liquid copy of a short sword, hovering in the air. The edge gleamed faintly. He grinned and gave it a swing, sending droplets spraying into the grass.
It dissolved after a few moments, but that was enough.
That night, he returned to the attic, book in hand, flipping again through the passages on mana theory. Something caught his attention—an ancient margin note scrawled in different handwriting.
"To shape is to know. To know is to imagine. Imagination is the highest circle."
Max stared at the words.
Most mages spent their lives trying to master twenty Circles. They memorized elemental pathways, refined their mana, and submitted to the rigid hierarchies of magic.
But he could skip all of that.
He could imagine.
Still, there was more to this world than magic alone. He had begun mapping out the orphanage's surroundings. There were ruins hidden beneath the hills. Strange stones with runes half-buried in the roots of ancient trees. Old, forgotten statues with worn faces and crowns of moss.
Avalith was ancient. And secrets lay beneath its soil.
He would find them.
The next day, while helping Bran chop firewood, Max saw something unusual—two strangers on horseback approaching the orphanage gate.
One wore a deep blue robe marked with white rings—a mage. The other wore reinforced leather armor and had a spear strapped across his back.
"Visitors," Bran muttered. "Haven't seen any in weeks."
The mage dismounted and approached, his face obscured beneath a cowl. Max sensed his mana before he spoke—a rigid presence, coiled like rope.
"I come on behalf of the Academy," the mage said. "We are surveying magically inclined children in the region."
Bran narrowed his eyes. "The Academy doesn't usually send recruiters this far west."
The mage smiled faintly. "We've expanded our reach."
Max stood silently nearby, watching.
He didn't fear discovery—but he didn't like attention.
The mage glanced at the children. "We'll conduct a test. Simple, non-invasive. Those with Circle potential will be offered scholarships."
So that's how they find new blood.
Bran nodded. "Fine. But only if they volunteer."
When Max's turn came, he placed his hand on the mage's crystal orb without hesitation.
Nothing happened.
The orb remained dull.
The mage frowned.
"Hmm. Strange. You look… sharp. But no spark. Perhaps a late bloomer."
Max suppressed a grin.
Of course the orb didn't react.
He didn't use Circles.
As the mage departed, Max watched the horses fade into the trees. He could've easily passed the test. Could've summoned flame, shaped wind, even floated the orb into the sky. But why would he?
The moment he stood out too early, he'd be watched.
For now, anonymity was his greatest weapon.
Let the world think he was ordinary.
Until it was time not to be