The first time Elior's magic bloomed without his consent, he was crying.
Not sobbing—not loud or messy. Just silent tears running down his cheeks like rivers no one could see. He was eight, alone in the glade behind his cottage, and it had just rained. His mother had told him not to wander too far, but the sadness felt too big inside the house.
He sat on the wet moss, knees hugged to his chest, and whispered into the wind, "I wish I wasn't so strange."
And the flowers answered.
Thousands of tiny bluebells burst into bloom around him, glowing faintly with the shimmer of emotion-born magic. The air turned sweet, the rain paused mid-fall, and the forest held its breath like it knew something sacred had just happened.
He didn't tell anyone.
Years later, at seventeen, Elior still hadn't fully learned how to control that part of himself—the one that made his heart too soft and his magic too alive. But the Academy called anyway.
The letter had come on silver parchment, stamped with the royal seal of the Kingdom of Lirael. An invitation to the Grand Academy of Magical Sciences—a place he'd only heard of in the stories his grandmother used to whisper by firelight.
Now, on the back of a rumbling academy-bound carriage, with his hands clenched around the letter and his satchel of dried herbs and half-read spellbooks, Elior stared out at the unfamiliar city with wide eyes.
So many people. So many emotions.
He tried not to be afraid.
---
The Grand Academy sat on a cliff, carved into stone and starlight. Its towers twisted into the sky like reaching hands, shimmering with protective enchantments that hummed gently as the carriage crossed the final ward line.
A boy his age was waiting by the main gate, leaning against a marble pillar like he owned it. He had fire-colored hair, black uniform robes worn open over his shirt, and a bored look in his gold-flecked eyes.
Elior tried not to stare. He failed.
"Name?" the boy asked, scanning a list on a floating parchment beside him.
"Elior… of Havenwood." His voice came out like a wind chime.
The boy blinked at him, then at the list. "You're the emotional mage?"
Elior flinched. "I… prefer empathic channeler."
"Right. Sorry." The boy scratched the back of his neck. "Kael Draven. I'm your orientation partner, apparently." His tone made it sound more like a punishment than a favor.
"Oh," Elior said, unsure what else to say. He offered a small smile. "It's nice to meet you."
Kael blinked. "You always smile like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to offer someone a daisy crown."
Elior hesitated. "Would you like one?"
For a second, Kael just stared at him. And then—just the briefest flicker of something in his eyes. Surprise. Maybe amusement.
"I'll pass, flower boy."
But he didn't sound cruel when he said it.
---
That night, Elior sat in the dormitory window, watching the stars, petals blooming in tiny spirals on his windowsill where his heartbeat had felt too much. He tried to quiet his thoughts. He didn't belong here—not with people like Kael. Not with mages who conjured lightning and spoke spells like blades.
But then he remembered how Kael had paused at the door earlier, looked back at him for just a second and said, "You know… not bad for a first day. At least you didn't cry."
Elior had smiled again, soft and real.
Because he had almost cried. But he didn't.
Not this time.
Maybe magic wasn't only for the strong.
Maybe it was also for the kind.