The volume "Political Mana-graphy of Aethel," which had been imposed upon me as mandatory daily reading by my mother, Nahfdia XII, finally rested closed in my hands. The end of the pages brought that familiar melancholy, the same I felt the first time I read it, years ago, even younger than I am now, at nine turning ten. My name is Carlos D'Sinoparis, and the book's lines spoke of distant realms, of impregnable mountains and hidden jungles, of a divided world with its own grand names. I, however, was just Carlos D'Sinoparis, a common name, like those of so many other humans in the city. Sometimes, I found myself fantasizing about a long elven name, with numbers and titles, like my parents' names, Allundir III, The Nephew, and Nahfdia XII. A name that would connect me to something greater than the bustling streets of Sinoparis, that would make me feel less... common.

My father, Allundir III, The Nephew, was a fair-skinned elf, with coal-black hair and melancholic eyes, always enveloped in the ancient scent of parchments and inks. He moved with the silent grace that only elves possess, a contrast to the harshness of his history. His mana core had been destroyed long before I was born, an accident that, in a way, exiled him from his own people, but brought him into my mother's arms and into the freedom of Sinoparis. He no longer had mana, but his wisdom was a bottomless well, and his tales, narrated in a soft voice, were my favorite books.

My mother, Nahfdia XII, was a rarity. An elf without mana. Not by accident, but by birth. Her hair was like polished silver threads, and her eyes, a vibrant green, saw the world with a practical clarity that fascinated me. She was the foundation of our home, the quiet strength that anchored us. My daily studies, though sometimes tedious, were her way of ensuring I honored knowledge, even if it wasn't with blade or spell, like many. "The mind is our greatest core, Carlos," she always said, with a gentle smile.

Our home in Sinoparis wasn't a grand mansion, like those I had read about in my father's books, but it was a home. The dark wood creaked softly under my feet, and the smell of dried herbs mingled with the aroma of fresh bread from the kitchen and the scent of flowers from the small garden my mother cultivated. Books were everywhere, piles on shelves, open on the table, as if each page held a secret waiting to be discovered.

My routine was a dance between studies and curiosity about the streets of Sinoparis. I learned about the history of kingdoms, about complex trade laws, and about magical theory that, to me, always seemed more like a song than an exact science. In the city, magic was an everyday spectacle. I walked the streets and saw conjurers lighting lamps with crackles of blue flames, or enhancers with muscles rippling under their skin, serving as guards in gem shops. Diversity was the rule. Bearded dwarves bargained with elegant elves, humans of all colors laughed in noisy taverns, and even some of the "excluded creatures," those described as wild and dangerous in books, walked with a silent dignity, their gazes holding stories I could only imagine. Sinoparis was freedom and acceptance, a place without the prejudices that seemed to suffocate the rest of the world. To me, it was just Sinoparis.

But my mana was different. It wasn't Fire, nor Water, nor Earth, nor Wind. I was "Non-Elemental," a term that, as a child, made me feel as if I were an error in the great tapestry of magic. I remember the first time it happened, I must have been about five. I was trying to reach a toy high on the shelf, and it simply... floated to my hands. My parents looked at me with a mix of surprise and concern, but soon taught me it wasn't a mistake, but a gift. A subtle and weak Telekinesis, used only as support.

Over time, I realized that my mana didn't manifest like others, in flames or gusts of air. It was closer to the essence. I could "touch" mana directly, perceiving its invisible lines, its energies, and even the impurities that most didn't see. It was as if I saw the magical world behind the physical, a lens that showed me the invisible knots and threads that bound everything. This vision beyond the physical drew me to alchemy, where mana was not a hammer or a shield, but an ingredient, a catalyst, a breath of life in inert matter. My father, with his own destroyed core, and my mother, without mana, understood my path. They saw the potential of an elf who could converse with mana in a way that defied known rules, and for that, I needed a mentor.