The week Arthur's core revealed itself was a whirlwind. The tension in House Northwing, once a subtle smoke, had become an invisible fire licking the corridors. The day of young Arthur's elemental evaluation ceremony was supposed to be a landmark of celebration, but the air hung heavy with anticipation and a dull foreboding. James', his brother's evaluation, had been merely perfunctory; at the moment of his awakening, everyone already knew his natural affinity for Fire, and the surprise of that day, years earlier, had been the revelation that, at eight years old, he would not only inherit his father's flame, but also his mother's water. With Arthur, however, destiny wove a different melody, and a mystery hung over the promise of his own power.

In the great hall, where sunlight peered through the tall windows, Arthur, recently turned eight, trembled. Not from cold, but from an anxiety that squeezed his chest. James, beside him, seemed a statue of confidence, his prodigy's aura almost shimmering, reminding everyone what a Northwing should be. Garling, seated in his Count's chair, wore a stone face, his eyes searching for any sign of greatness, any hint of the power he so valued.

The Arch-Mana Tamer, an elderly man with white hair and piercing eyes, gestured. In his hand, a simple, pale white leaf, exuding a fresh aroma. "Young Arthur Northwing, concentrate. Feel the flow of mana. Let it find its way to the core." He extended the leaf to Arthur. "Now, channel your essence into this leaf. Let your affinity reveal itself."

Arthur closed his eyes, the small leaf resting in his palm. He tried to invoke the image of water dancing like his mother's, or the destructive force of fire. He pulled mana to his center, feeling a faint warmth, different from what the masters described for the more "noble" elements. It was light, subtle, almost a whisper, and concentrated in his hand.

Then, he opened his eyes. The Arch-Mana Tamer, Gondrik, observed the leaf. It wasn't burned, wet, muddy from earth, or even cut, characteristics that would betray affinities for Fire, Water, Earth, or Air. The tension in the hall was almost palpable, an oppressive silence. No one saw anything. For an instant, despair began to creep into Arthur: I have nothing. I am nothing.

Gondrik frowned, a hint of veiled disappointment in his gaze. "Nothing?" he murmured, almost to himself. A sigh of disappointment began to spread among the nobles and servants.

But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the leaf in Arthur's palm began to move, not from a tremor of his fingers, but from an invisible breeze that stirred it. The breeze intensified, subtle, but constant. The leaf, then, began to twist, to dry, to crumble into powder, until the breeze carried it away, dispersing it into the hall's air.

Gondrik, the Arch-Mana Tamer, who until then seemed resigned to the absence of manifestation, widened his eyes. Not with admiration, but with surprise mixed with frustration. "Air," Gondrik announced, his voice neutral, but the word resonated like a verdict in the hall's silence. "Primary affinity for Air." He shook his head slowly. "What weakness! What subtlety! Air usually tears and shreds, not reduces to dust without a trace!"

A muffled murmur spread among the nobles and servants present. Air. Wind. Agility, evasion, distraction—the 'weak one', they said. It wasn't the vibrant resonance of a James who manifested flames and torrents of water. It wasn't the unwavering strength of Earth. It was... Air. And Air with such a... discreet Wind.

Garling, in the Count's chair, couldn't hide the twitch at his lips. His eyes moved from Arthur to James, a silent comparison that cut the air. James, in turn, couldn't contain himself. A low, mocking laugh escaped his throat, and he stepped forward, a cruel smile on his thin lips.

"Wind, Arthur? Considered by many the weakest," James scoffed, his voice a condescending hiss. "I thought you'd at least have mother's Water. What a pity." The gleam in his eyes was the childish arrogance Arthur detested.

"Enough, James!" Louis's voice, strong and imperious, cut through the air. She moved to Arthur's side, her gentle hand resting on his shoulder, a subtle barrier between him and Garling's disapproving gaze. "A core's talent isn't measured only by brute force."

Garling stood, the ceremonial sword beside the throne creaking slightly. His steel eyes fixed on Arthur, ignoring Louis. "A Northwing must be strong, Arthur. Not a whisper in the wind." He turned abruptly to the Arch-Mana Tamer. "Let his training begin immediately. We need this 'affinity' to be useful, not an embarrassment."

The following days were torture for Arthur. Garling's disappointment hung like a dark cloud. James never missed an opportunity to mock, and the mansion, once a home, became a labyrinth of pitying glances and heavy silences. Arthur trained with Air, feeling its subtlety, its ability to manipulate the Wind, but the constant comparison with James suffocated him. He felt like a failure, a point of dishonor in a lineage that demanded greatness.

Meanwhile, the shadow that haunted the Far North County materialized. Whispers about Garling's corruption scheme—the diversion of precious minerals, the selling of information, perhaps even dark pacts to maintain his position—turned into open shouts. The Count had neglected the safety of his own people in exchange for power and wealth. The mines were dry, the coffers empty, and the loyalty of vassals, once unwavering, crumbled.

The night the blow came was cold, the same one when the thunder had been a premonition of Arthur's birth. But this time, it wasn't the promise of life, but the certainty of death. Screams erupted from the main courtyard, mixed with the clang of metal and the crackle of magic. The Northwing fortress, once impregnable, seemed to crumble under its own rotten foundations.

Louis ran through the corridors, breathless, with each step feeling the Healing mana in her core tingle, but there was no healing for the chaos that settled in. She found Arthur huddled in a corner, his eyes wide with terror as the castle walls trembled with explosions.

"Arthur! My son! You must go!" Her voice was hoarse with despair. She pulled him close, hugging him with almost painful force. The smell of smoke and blood invaded her senses. "They... they want to destroy everything."

Her hand trembled as she showed Arthur the opaque opal ring on her finger, the same ring that had been her wedding gift, which carried a hidden pocket dimension, an ancient secret of her own family, hidden even from Garling. She touched it to her son's chest, her tear-filled eyes fixed on his. The ring pulsed slightly, like a small beating heart, responding to the boy's frightened mana.

"This ring... a safe place. Don't ask how. Don't ask why. Just enter!" Her voice was a desperate command, love and despair mingling.

Arthur, in shock, felt the ring's silvery mist envelop him. The last sound was his mother's heart-rending scream—and the world, then, fell silent. A deafening explosion shook his entire body, and then, a total silence. A silence that weighed more than any noise, filled only by the echo of that scream.

He didn't know how long he stayed there. Minutes? Hours? Days? The darkness was complete, the stillness oppressive. When, finally, a faint light flooded him and he was expelled back to the outside world, Arthur fell to the ground, coughing, his lungs burning with the smoky air.

What he saw paralyzed him. The Northwing mansion was a calcined husk. The once imposing walls were in ruins, the grand corridors now smoking rubble and twisted bodies. The air was thick with the acrid smell of ash, burnt flesh, and blood. He staggered outside, his small feet tripping over debris, his eight-year-old eyes desperately searching for any sign of familiar life.

And then he saw her. His mother. Countess Louis Northwing. Fallen amidst the rubble of what had been the great entrance hall. Her body was... unrecognizable. Violated. Destroyed. Her brown hair, once like noble wood, was now singed and tangled with dirt and blood. Her eyes, once full of love, were empty, fixed on a distant point in the gray sky.

Arthur felt a scream trapped in his throat, a sharp, suffocating pain that made him fall to his knees beside her. The ring was the only thing left of her, the proof of her final sacrifice. With a broken heart, he took the ring from his mother's inert finger, holding it like an amulet.

Neither Garling nor James were seen among the bodies. Neither alive nor dead, their fates uncertain amidst the carnage.

Turning his back on what had once been his home, Arthur Northwing, the eight-year-old dispossessed young count, the Air user who had barely begun his journey, felt a new affinity open within him: the cutting wind of loss. The Far North Lands were in ruins, and he was alone in the world.