Chapter Text
In a world divided by magic, those born without powers lived lives of quiet toil. The non-magical, often called “Nulls” by the elite wizards, worked as laborers, farmers, cleaners, waiters—doing the jobs too low for those who wielded magic.
Among these was a nine-year-old boy named Donghae, small and wiry, whose hands were always ink-stained from newspapers and fingers nicked from paper cuts. Orphaned when his parents were caught in a magical crossfire no one even investigated, Donghae survived by delivering newspapers to the wizarding homes that towered over the dirt paths he ran barefoot each dawn.
His clothes were threadbare, knees patched and sleeves too long. Sometimes, he stumbled when dogs chased him down winding alleys. His cheeks bore smudges of dust and ink, but he always, always smiled. It was a smile that glowed—pure and untainted by the harshness of his world.
One morning, as the sun barely crept over the eastern hills, Donghae arrived at the grand Lee Manor, an imposing estate protected by invisible wards and shimmering sigils. Normally, a stern maid would collect the newspaper without a word. But today, someone else opened the gilded gate.
A boy stood there—taller, slightly older, with windswept black hair and robes embroidered with silver threads. He looked like magic incarnate. This was Lee Hyukjae, the only son of Minister Lee, one of the most powerful wizarding families in all of Korea.
Hyukjae had never seen someone like Donghae before. So messy. So bright. So human.
“Good morning!” Donghae grinned, holding out the rolled newspaper.
Hyukjae just stared. Mesmerized. There was a warmth in that smile that no fire spell could replicate.
“Um… the newspaper?” Donghae prompted, still smiling.
Wordlessly, Hyukjae took it. Their fingers brushed. Donghae bowed politely and ran off.
The next morning, Hyukjae waited. And the morning after that. When Donghae came, Hyukjae asked awkwardly, “What’s your name?”
“Donghae,” the boy said brightly, “I live by the river.”
Sometimes Hyukjae handed him a small wrapped pastry—still warm. Sometimes, when the wards were quiet, he performed little magic tricks for Donghae: making paper birds fly, creating little sparks of light, changing a pebble into a flower. Donghae clapped and laughed every time.
“You're amazing,” Donghae once whispered.
No one had ever looked at Hyukjae like he was something good. Not just powerful.
But then, one morning, Donghae didn’t come.
Hyukjae waited. And waited. A week passed. Then two. He asked the maid, who only said vaguely, “The boy doesn’t deliver this route anymore.”
But Hyukjae knew. He was gone.
He was twelve, and he learned that day what real loss felt like.