Chronicles of the Untalented

Silas found himself drifting through the narrow, crooked streets, guided more by memory than intention. The air was heavy with that usual, metallic stillness that blanketed the city—oppressive and quiet, like everything was holding its breath.

He stopped in front of an old building sagging under its own weight, its bricks cracked, roof half-slanted, and a rusted sign above the door that once read "Hall of Writ", though half the letters had long since faded away.

Calling it a library was generous, Silas thought. In a city where survival meant everything, no one had the time—or reason—to write stories. Most books here were manuals: survival guides, effigy usage instructions, monster bestiaries. A few were picture books for children—written long ago, when there was still such a thing as laughter.

But this place wasn't about the books. It was about the person inside.

He sighed and pushed the heavy door open.

A loud crash greeted him.

"Velira?" he called, stepping into the musty dimness.

From behind a leaning bookshelf, a girl appeared, scowling as she rubbed her elbow. A ladder lay knocked over beside her.

"Oh, what gave you the idea that barging into someone's home is a good plan?" she snapped.

Silas raised a brow. "I was going to ask if you were okay, but seeing how quick you are to yell, I no longer care."

"Charming," Velira muttered, brushing cobwebs from her shoulder.

Silas glanced around. Dust clung to every surface. The shelves were cluttered, and motes danced in the shafts of cold light filtering through broken glass.

"Do you ever clean this place?" he asked, dragging his finger across a desk and inspecting the thick, grey coat of grime.

Velira shrugged. "Not really. But since you're here and already judging me—want to help?"

"Why not?" Silas said with a shrug. "I've got nothing better to do."

---

They began slowly, in silence at first.

Silas picked up a small cloth and began wiping down a window that hadn't seen light in years. It smeared rather than cleared, the grime too deep for a single pass. Velira was on her knees sorting through a pile of scattered pages, half of which were too brittle to touch.

"You know," Silas said eventually, brushing off the edge of a wooden table, "when are you refining your effigy?"

"Tomorrow," she answered, her voice distant. "I got Water Path, remember? Got my materials two days ago."

He paused. "That's soon."

Velira stopped, her hands resting on an old book's spine. "What happened to you, Silas?" she asked without looking up. "Why are you covered in bandages?"

"You weren't there for the ceremony?"

"No. I went before your group and left early. Avoided the crowd."

He lowered his eyes. "Something went wrong. I had no talent. Not just low aptitude—nothing. I... lost control."

Velira stood and walked over, watching him for a moment with unreadable eyes. "That's... rare. Bizarre, even. Lack of mana is common, sure. But no talent at all? That's supposed to be impossible." She spoke the last part under her breath.

"Yeah," he said. "Tell me about it."

A quiet passed between them—just the sounds of scraping wood and shifting paper.

"Anyway," Velira said, trying to lighten her tone, "let's get back to it. You said you'd help."

Silas gave her a small smirk. "Like you couldn't have done this in a day without me?"

"I could," she said matter-of-factly, "but I'm too lazy for that."

---

They worked for over an hour. Dust rose in clouds. Shelves were shifted. Books were reordered—slowly, carefully. Silas found a bent candlestick behind a drawer; Velira uncovered a children's book with a hand-drawn monster that made her laugh for the first time that day.

Their conversation returned in light trickles—half-sarcasm, half-comfort.

The library grew warmer, less oppressive. The dust still hung, but there was space to breathe now.

When they finally stepped outside, the air felt different. Not lighter, not better—but less lonely.

---

As Silas left, he paused just beyond the doorway. He looked back at the crooked building, then down the road where the city disappeared into mist.

He thought of Velira.

She always smiled—quiet, dry, tired, but real. And Silas had always known she'd carried more weight than most. Her parents had died years ago, too far outside the city to be recovered. No burial. No gravestone. Just silence.

She had survived alone. Learned to read alone. Learned to hunt, beg, work, and eventually secure a place of her own—however small, however broken.

Now she was about to refine an effigy and walk the same path that killed her family.

And still she smiled.