The Greenal family was a name etched in the annals of Celestria's history—renowned for their unparalleled magic swordsmanship. Each heir of their bloodline was trained from the age of four, blade in hand, mana in veins, forging a legacy that sang of both elegance and destruction.
But Ansel was different.
Mana never stirred within him. Not a flicker. Not a whisper.
He would watch from the shadows of the courtyard, silent as a ghost, as his half-brothers trained under the blazing sun. Their swords danced with arcs of elemental magic—flames that curled like dragons, lightning that split the air. And in the silence of the cold stone corridors, Ansel could hear the whispers:
"A Greenal with no mana. Useless."
"He shouldn't be here."
"A stain on the bloodline."
He lived in the manor only because Count Veron hadn't entirely cast him out—yet. It was obligation, not mercy, that allowed him to stay. A room at the edge of the west wing, a servant's meal, torn hand-me-downs. That was his inheritance.
By the time he turned five, the torment had grown sharper.
Eldric, the Count's second son, led the cruelty with quiet malice. Cold eyes, precise words. He didn't beat Ansel himself—he let his magic do it for him. A trip spell here, a shocking jolt there. Subtle. Undeniable. And always unpunished.
Serina, the third daughter, was far less restrained.
"You're not even a real Greenal," she spat one morning, pushing him into a muddy path in the inner garden. "You're a shadow pretending to be a child."
Ansel fell, his tunic ripping on a jagged root, knees scraped raw. They laughed and left him there.
He didn't cry.
Instead, he stood and walked, blood trickling down his leg, grime smeared across his pale face. Past the stone halls, through the servant corridors, he found the door he always sought.
His mother's.
Alena opened it before he could knock. She always knew.
"Oh, Ansel…"
Her voice cracked, but she smiled—always smiled. That same radiant, defiant smile that seemed to chase the darkness from the room.
Ansel's own lips curled, however faintly.
"Did you fight a dragon again, little knight?" she teased, kneeling before him, brushing the dirt from his bruised cheek.
He nodded solemnly. "It was a big one today."
Alena laughed softly and pulled him into her arms. Her warmth was the only magic he had ever known.
In that small chamber tucked away from nobility and cruelty, the boy with no mana became a prince in his mother's kingdom.
But beyond the walls of her embrace, the world sharpened its knives.