Flameless boy
---
Prologue: The Flame That Never Was
49th Belt, Yaisha Mothership
The sparring hall was quiet—
save for the crackle of torches mounted high above.
Flames danced freely, roaring and retreating with each breath of wind.
Atiya stood alone at the center.
Fists clenched. Brow furrowed. Breathing uneven.
A ring of elders watched from the gallery above.
Their silence pressed down like stone,
their judgment louder than any words.
At the front sat Yaishna Yaisha—
arms crossed, lips tight, eyes sharp.
She had been patient.
But now, even her silence tasted like disappointment.
> "Focus," she said.
"Call it. Your flame."
Atiya closed his eyes.
Heat stirred in his chest—
slow, thick, like a boil refusing to burst.
He could feel it.
The legacy of Yaisha.
The birthright of every bloodborn child of flame.
And yet… nothing.
His breath caught as he forced his hand forward.
A spark flickered at his fingertip.
It twitched—
and died.
He tried again.
But what stirred inside wasn't fire.
It was something else.
Cold. Slippery. Shifting.
A pressure built behind his eyes, clawing at the inside of his skull.
His fingers trembled.
The air around him warped.
Space bent—folding like crumpled paper.
A marble tile cracked beneath him—
no, it folded inward.
A scream echoed from above.
Yaishna leapt down before the others could react,
pulling two observers away from the forming tear in the floor.
Threads—translucent, veined, alive—
unwound from Atiya's shoulders.
They shimmered, tense and humming,
as though sewing the room itself to his trembling bones.
The torches blew out.
Silence returned.
But this time, it suffocated.
Atiya collapsed to his knees, gasping.
Yaishna approached slowly.
She knelt beside him—
voice quiet, but firm.
> "That… was not a flame."
Atiya didn't look up.
> "I tried," he whispered.
"I did everything right."
She placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
Not gently. Not cruelly. Just… truthfully.
> "I believe you.
But that thing inside you—whatever it is—
it is not Yaisha."
His voice cracked.
> "What if… I can manipulate space?"
She sighed.
> "Well. You surely can."
She stood, brushing dust from her cloak.
> "You're returning to ANSEP tomorrow.
Say hello to the Commander for me—it's been a while."
Her footsteps echoed as she walked away.
The torches re-lit themselves, one by one.
Atiya remained kneeling,
alone in the flickering glow.
---
Atiya Yaisha.
Second son of the great Yaisha line—
a family renowned for their dominion over flame magecraft.
But unlike the others,
he bore no fire.
A disappointment.
Though none dared say it aloud.
Instead, his gift lay elsewhere:
spatial manipulation. Thread-weaving.
Rare. Dangerous. Unnatural.
It should have made him exceptional.
But all he felt was hollow.
The flame was never his.
And even his sister—
the greatest of their bloodline—
watched him now with quiet concern.
> "Flame consumes," she once said.
"Thread remembers."
Now, his thread only trembled.
> "Yeah," Atiya muttered.
"I just want to rest."
---
It was well past midnight when Atiya's phone buzzed with a sharp pop.
A summon.
From his sister.
> "Her whims again, I guess. Fuck, it's the middle of the night… Can't she let me sleep for once?"
Grumbling, he dragged himself out of bed. He never wanted to go. But when Yaishna called, saying no wasn't really an option.
The walk to her office was cold and quiet. The Yaisha estate always felt emptier at night — wide halls lined with silent portraits, shadows stretching too far. The heavy doors to her office were never locked, but still, he hesitated. He called out softly.
No answer.
Then the doors creaked open on their own.
Moonlight spilled in, casting silver lines across the chamber — flames painted across the walls flickered as if alive. At the far end, seated behind a black desk carved from obsidian and voidwood, was Yaishna Yaisha. The Redflame. His sister.
She didn't look up. Her black hair hung loosely over her shoulder as she carefully folded a sheet of paper, precise and slow. Her expression, as always, was unreadable — composed, distant, like the calm center of a faraway fire.
Yaishna was like a box with no lock — you knew something was hidden inside, but never where to begin prying.
Still, Atiya admired her. He always had.
> "This isn't like you," she said without looking up. "Didn't think my little brother was a sore loser."
Another voice chimed in before he could respond — low, dry, amused:
> "That was entertaining," said Zelaine Roseblood, leaning against the window frame. "I haven't seen someone flop that dramatically since you tried spellcasting last winter."
She was dressed in deep maroon silks, poised like a noblewoman caught in an old painting — all elegance and ice. Her crimson eyes gleamed with smug delight.
Atiya groaned inwardly.
> "Hello, Vampy. Lovely to see you," he muttered. "Rooting for me again, I see."
Zelaine tilted her head, unbothered.
> "Of course. I adore your consistency. Always aiming for mediocrity, and still falling short."
> "You dragged yourself out of bed just to flatter me? I'm touched."
> "Oh my," she sighed dramatically, "this poor vampire hasn't tasted blood in days. What shall she do?"
Atiya leaned back with mock concern.
> "Cute? I don't see any cute lady here. Are you sure vampires don't suffer from vision loss?"
Zelaine smirked. Her nails tapped lightly on the sill, and her gaze sharpened — a sliver more real, more biting.
Yaishna, still folding the paper, finally sighed.
> (Did he forget I summoned him? Am I background noise now?)
She glanced at Zelaine.
> (And what is she even doing here? I didn't call her… Must be one of her whims.)
Then, calmly:
> "Both of you. Stop."
She didn't raise her voice — she didn't need to. The words landed with the weight of command.
Silence followed.
Atiya slumped into the chair across from her, exasperated.
> "Alright… seriously. Why'd you call me?"
Yaishna looked up at him, unreadable.
> "I just wanted to know if you were down."
Atiya blinked.
> "You woke me up in the middle of the night… to check on me?"
> "If you were asleep," Yaishna replied, "you wouldn't be here."
He exhaled. Fair enough. Annoyingly fair.
> "Well, now I'm here. Can I go?"
Yaishna hummed — then:
> "Absolutely… no."
> Of course. There's always more.
> "So what now?"
Yaishna placed the folded paper aside and finally stood.
> "There's something I want to show you."
From the windowsill, Zelaine added smoothly:
> "Oh? Are you finally kicking him out?"
Atiya didn't bother replying.
> "No. Certainly not," Yaishna said.
> Was that "certainly" really necessary? I'm your brother.
Without another word, she raised her hand. A tiny flame sparked into existence above her palm — pink and quiet, but pulsing with power.
> "We'll talk somewhere else."
> "Where—?"
> "Teleport."
The flame burst outward in a soft wave. Space folded in on itself — and before Atiya could think, the room was gone.
---