Damn it all. There wasn’t a single damn thing he could do right. Every time he tried, the familiar sting would shoot through his veins, destroying any hope he had to cast a simple light spell. Even toddlers could do this, and yet he couldn’t.

It was dark, closer to midnight. The only time he would dare to remove his crystals, his lifeline. Here, in the dark, he could practice. He could dare to hope that somehow, someway, he’d magically increased his magic capabilities. And yet, each and every time, he was left disappointed.

Stéphane Demaret, the eldest prince of the kingdom of Aleatia. Every single aspect of Aleatia was built on the power of magic. Not a single citizen was without it, and if they were, they lived in the very dredges of society, kept hidden away from the rest of them. Unfortunately for Stéphane, he didn’t have that opportunity. His jaw clenched, his fingernails digging into the soft skin of his palm. It was an embarrassment. The future king of Aleatia, barely a drop of magic in his veins. He still remembered the day his parents finally came to that conclusion. The sting of his father’s hand momentarily brings him out of his haze.

One more time.

Stéphane slowly raises his hand, closing his eyes. He takes in a deep breath, feeling the air inflate his lungs. With a practiced flair, Stéphane performs the movement with no mistakes. His lips part and he chants, speaking in the magical tongue. “De l'obscurité est venue la lumière.” He chanted, trying to imagine the light slowly growing in his palm. For a moment, he sees a flicker of light through the cracks of his eyes. He opens them, excited, only to watch as it dies.

His shoulders slump. Yet another attempt, ending in a failure. There was no—

He paused, looking up. There, standing in the doorway was a servant. Stéphane’s eyes widen, panic filling him. Oh Gods, did they see me fail to perform a simple spell?