Finn sat on the worn wooden bench near the courtyard, watching the late morning sun cast long shadows across the stone paths. It felt like just yesterday that he had woken up in Hearthstone Orphanage, confused, disoriented, and struggling to adjust to a body that wasn’t his own.
But now, yesterday felt like it had been months ago
The realization hit him harder than expected. He had seen himself grow, in small ways—learning about the world, bonding with Cosmo and the others, understanding magic even if he couldn’t use it. But at the same time, he felt stuck.
While the other kids advanced, shaping fire, air, or light to their will, he remained the same.
The frustration built until, almost on cue, his UI flickered to life.
Notice:
10 months, 3 days.
- Magic Affinity: [???]
- Rank: Normal
- Abilities: None
- Status:
Suggested Action: Reevaluate expectations. Or don’t. Your choice.
Finn stared blankly at the text.
“…Excuse me?”
He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the words remained. Magically Inept (Prolonged).
His jaw clenched as he muttered under his breath, “
The UI flickered, another response appearing.
Response:
Encouragement
Finn exhaled sharply through his nose. “Wow. Thanks. Incredibly helpful.”
The UI disappeared before he could argue with it further,apparently deciding its job was done.
Finn ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. He needed to stop worrying about time—progress wasn’t something he could force, right?
Even so… seeing the time elapsed spelled out in cold, unfeeling text sent a weight pressing down on his chest. Almost a year.
His thoughts were cut short when the familiar voice of Alistair carried over the courtyard.
“All right, everyone, gather up,” Alistair called, his tone even but carrying his usual edge of authority.
The children filtered in from all corners of the orphanage, some lingering near the training dummies, others setting aside books or wooden practice weapons. Finn filed in alongside Cosmo, Talia, Wren, and Nyx, their curiosity piqued.
Alistair stood at the center of the courtyard, arms crossed, his sharp gaze sweeping over them. “Today’s lesson will be a little different,” he began. “Instead of practice, you’ll be hearing from three visitors—adventurers—who once stood exactly where you are now.”
The murmur of excitement rippled through the group.
“Adventurers?” Wren’s eyes lit up. “Like, real ones?”
“As opposed to fake ones?” Nyx said dryly.
Cosmo grinned. “I bet they have awesome stories.”
Finn felt his stomach twist. He wanted to be excited, but a small, nagging voice at the back of his mind whispered,
He swallowed the thought as three figures stepped into the courtyard.
At a glance, they weren’t much older than teenagers, probably in their early twenties. But something about the way they carried themselves—confident but at ease, hardened yet approachable—made it clear that they had seen more of the world than any of the children before them.
Alistair gestured toward them. “Meet Dain, Rowan, and Seri.”
Dain, was a broad-shouldered warrior with an easy grin, his arms crossed over his chest. His auburn hair was shaved close on the sides, and a large bronze pauldron rested on his shoulder. “Hey, kids,” he said, his voice carrying a natural charisma. “Been a while since I stood where you are. Hope you don’t mind us crashing your lesson.”
The second, Rowan, was leaner, dressed in dark leathers,
The last, Seri, stood slightly behind them. She was quieter, her dark cloak fastened with a silver clasp. Her warm brown eyes scanned the group with quiet intensity, her posture seemed relaxed yet ready for anything..
The children whispered among themselves, some in quiet awe, others trying to size up the trio.
“A-are you all bronze rank?” Talia asked, her curiosity piqued.
“Just hit bronze a few months back,” Dain confirmed, tapping the small guild insignia
“Wait, if you were here before,” Wren asked, tilting his head, “who was your instructor?”
The question made Rowan chuckle, glancing at Seri. “That’s a story for another day.”
Dain produced a small crystal, and a device that looked oddly similar to a projector. “Anyway, instead of just talkin’ bout stuff, we figured we’d show you something.”
Seri nudged Dain out of the way, and adjusted the device for a moment until the small arcane device began to glow, projecting a floating image into the air.
The courtyard fell into a hush as the past came to life before their eyes.
The Hearthstone Orphanage of years past shimmered into view—familiar, yet different.
The buildings were less worn, the training dummies newer, and the courtyard full of different faces.
The children watched in wonder as ghostly images of Dain, Rowan, and Seri—years younger—ran through the same halls, sat in the same study room, sparred in the same training yard.
“Whoa…” Cosmo whispered.
Finn felt his chest tighten harshly.
Something about watching the past unfold made his own progress—or lack of it—feel painfully real.
This was them, years ago. Learning. Struggling. And now? They were adventurers. They had grown.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Once again, Finn found himself wondering if he would ever make progress.
The recording faded, and the trio smiled at the younger kids’ reactions.
“Pretty cool, right?” Rowan asked.
“It’s like looking at ghosts,” Nyx muttered.
Dain grinned. “Yeah, well… just goes to show, even small, magicless kids like us grew into something.”
A harmless comment, but to Finn, it was a weight crashing onto his shoulders.
His hands clenched into fists, his head pounding.
Notice:
Finn barely registered the text before his vision blurred with frustration.
Then Wren picked the worst moment to make a good-natured joke, and said something that shattered the moment completely.
“See, Finn? You’ll catch up eventually,” he said, nudging him with an easy grin. “Even the runt of the litter grows up.”
His pulse hammered in his ears. He could feel it—the tightness in his chest, the heat crawling up his spine.
Wren was still smiling, oblivious. Just a joke.
But wasn’t that the problem?
They all thought it was funny.
Like his struggles were a temporary setback,
Finn’s nails dug into his palms.
Something inside Finn snapped.
The storm came all at once.
Wren had been at Hearthstone longer than most. His earliest memories were of clutching a worn blanket, eyes glued to the orphanage gates, waiting for parents who never returned. Each day chipped away at his fragile hope until Alistair, solemn and gentle, told him the truth. His parents were gone—lost to the dangers of adventuring. The weight of finality crushed him, leaving him hollow and adrift.
Days blurred together as Wren withdrew, his world painted in muted grays. But then came Cosmo, a boy with boundless energy and a grin that never faltered. Cosmo didn’t give him time to wallow; he dragged Wren into pranks, games, and late-night talks under the stars. Slowly, the fog lifted. Talia, with her soft-spoken kindness and steady presence, became another anchor. Even when Wren’s brother left to chase glory as an adventurer, leaving Wren behind, he found solace in their little group.
Wren often thought of his older brother, an adventurer who had earned his bronze rank and ventured into the world seeking glory and purpose. Wren admired him but felt the sting of loneliness each time his brother left. There were no bitter feelings—Wren understood that adventuring was a calling, a life his brother had chosen—but the absence carved a quiet ache in Wren’s chest. It made him feel isolated, even within the warmth of Hearthstone. This solitude only deepened his desire to protect those around him, to ensure that no one else felt as alone as he once had.
When Cosmo brought Finn into their circle, Wren was skeptical. Finn was younger, smaller, and struggled with magic. But Wren saw something familiar in Finn’s eyes—a quiet despair, a longing to belong. It reminded him too much of his own reflection in the mirror. Wren teased Finn not out of cruelty, but to push him, to toughen him up the way Cosmo had done for him. Each jest was meant as encouragement, a way to say, “You’re one of us.”
Yet, beneath his playful exterior, Wren worried. He noticed Finn’s growing frustration, the way his shoulders tensed during lessons, the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. Wren wanted to help but didn’t know how. So, he relied on humor, hoping laughter would fill the gaps he couldn’t bridge.
And now—chaos. Finn’s magic erupted like a dam breaking, raw and unchecked. Wren’s mind reeled as purple lightning crackled through the courtyard. His breath caught in his throat. This wasn’t just magic; it was anguish unleashed. Every sarcastic remark, every playful jab, echoed in Wren’s mind like accusations. He thought of every moment he had called Finn “runt” or teased him for his failures. Each memory now felt like a misstep that had led to this moment.
Tears pricked Wren’s eyes as guilt washed over him in waves. He wasn’t angry at Finn—how could he be? He was furious with himself. He had wanted to be a support, a friend, but all he could see now was the pain he might have caused. His heart pounded as he whispered, “I’m sorry,” though the storm’s roar swallowed his voice. In that instant, Wren felt paralyzed, rooted to the spot as shame and remorse overwhelmed him. Instead of stepping forward, he shrank back toward the wall, shoulders hunched, unsure what to do, guilt constricting his every thought. He wanted to help, but fear of making things worse held him in place. And so, as Finn’s chaotic magic surged, Wren remained frozen, a silent promise forming in his mind that he would find a way to make this right—someday, somehow.
The courtyard erupted into chaos as Finn's magic surged, crackling through the air like a tempest. Violent arcs of violet lightning twisted and snapped, illuminating the courtyard with an otherworldly glow. The ground trembled beneath his feet, cracks spiderwebbing across the stone as tendrils of arcane energy lashed out in all directions.
A swirling vortex of purple and indigo surrounded Finn, his small frame barely visible through the storm of raw power. His eyes glowed with an unnatural brilliance, pupils lost in an endless sea of violet light. The magic felt wild, untamed—far beyond what any normal-ranked child should possess. Sparks danced along his fingertips, each one carrying a charge that hummed with dangerous potential.
The children screamed and scrambled for cover, panic gripping their young hearts. Wren's eyes were wide with horror, guilt and fear etched across his face. Cosmo grabbed his arm, dragging him away from the swirling maelstrom. Nyx and Talia shielded their eyes from the blinding flashes, their breaths shallow and rapid.
[UI Alert: Arcane Affinity Activated – Unstable State. Recommended Action: Cease Magic Use Immediately.]
Alistair's expression turned grim as he extended both hands, summoning shimmering shields of light that enveloped the children in protective bubbles. The light flickered under the strain of Finn's chaotic energy, but held firm. He gritted his teeth, feeling the raw pressure of Finn's magic pushing back against his own.
“Finn, stop!” Alistair commanded, his voice steady despite the turmoil. But Finn couldn’t hear him. His mind was consumed by the torrent of emotions fueling the storm—anger, frustration, and a deep-seated thirst for something he couldn’t quite name.
Alistair's brow furrowed in concern. If he tried to suppress Finn's magic directly, the backlash could severely harm the boy. He needed another way.
As Finn's magic spiraled further out of control, the air itself seemed to warp around him, the courtyard distorting into a surreal landscape. The adventurers—Dain, Rowan, and Seri—stared in shock. Dain tightened his grip on his sword, but Seri placed a hand on his arm.
“We can’t interfere,” Seri whispered. “This is... something else.”
Then, a low chuckle echoed through the air, sending chills down every spine.
“Yes child, let it all go,” a disembodied voice purred, smooth yet crackling with untamed energy.
A shadowy figure began to coalesce above the courtyard, tendrils of darkness writhing like serpents. Two glowing crimson eyes pierced through the gloom, and a wide, sinister grin stretched across the void.
“Ah, little spark,” the figure crooned, its voice dripping with amusement. “You feel it, don’t you? The power. Limitless. Free. Why fight it?”
Finn's breathing grew ragged as he fought against the seductive pull of the voice. His magic surged stronger, arcs of lightning striking the walls, leaving scorch marks in their wake.
“Embrace the chaos,” the god whispered. “Let it consume you. Tear down the chains of control. Power at any cost... isn't that what you crave?”
Finn flinched. Somewhere deep within him, something stirred. A memory? A fragment of his past self? It whispered promises of power, of never being weak again. But even through the haze of magic, Finn felt a sliver of doubt.
“No...” he muttered, though his magic said otherwise.
The God of Chaos chuckled darkly. “You say no, but your magic screams yes. Why deny yourself?”
As the god's influence intensified, Finn's magic grew wilder, feeding off the chaos it created. Alistair's protective bubbles began to flicker, strained under the mounting pressure. Panic spread through the children as they huddled together.
Then, softly, a warm light began to glow amidst the storm.
Talia stepped forward, her small hands trembling but resolute. She extended them toward Finn, a gentle, golden light enveloping her fingertips. Her voice, soft but steady, cut through the crackling energy.
“Finn... it’s okay. You’re not alone.”
The warmth of her magic reached out like a soothing balm, threading through the violent arcs of Finn's chaos. The violet lightning crackled in protest, but the golden light did not waver.
“Please, come back,” Talia whispered. “We’re here. I’m here.”
Finn's eyes flickered, the violet glow dimming slightly as her light touched him. His breathing slowed, the storm beginning to subside. The God of Chaos hissed in displeasure, the shadowy form flickering.
“Foolish girl,” the god spat. “You and your measly light cannot snuff out chaos.”
Talia's eyes narrowed. “Maybe not... but I can remind him who he is.”
Finn's magic wavered, the arcs of lightning sputtering as his mind fought for clarity. A single tear slid down his cheek as the storm within him began to settle.
With a final burst of light from Talia's magic, the courtyard grew still.
Finn, who had been levitating, fell to his hands and knees, breathless and exhausted, as the shadowy figure of the God of Chaos dissolved into nothingness.
Alistair lowered his hands, the protective bubbles dissipating. He approached Finn, placing a steady hand on his shoulder.
“It’s okay, Finn. You’re safe.”
Finn nodded weakly, his voice barely a whisper.
“I just... wanted control.”
Alistair sighed softly. “We all do, Finn. But real strength comes from mastering yourself, not just your magic.”
Talia knelt beside Finn, her warm light still flickering gently around her. She offered him a small, reassuring smile.
“We’ll figure this out together,” she said.
Finn managed a faint, grateful smile in return.
The God of Chaos presence still lingered just beyond the veil, watching with an amused grin.
“Next time, little spark... next time.”
What was your favorite part of this chapter? (1 response)