Chapter 4
A glimpse into the past
The city of Auralyn wasn't always your home. Three years ago, you lived in Vyrndale, a dusty town on the edge of the Starveil Plains, where the sky shimmered with faint magical currents but the days dragged in monotony. You were Arin then too, but a different Arin - one trapped in a cycle of procrastination, self-doubt, and the weight of others' expectations.
You were only fifteen. You were living in a creaky house with your aunt Mirra, who ran a weaver's stall and saw your wild imagination as both a gift and a curse.
“Arin”, she'd say, her hands busy with loom and thread, “your head's full of wonders, but wonders don't fill bellies.”
You were bursting with ideas even then. You'd sketch in the margins of old scrolls - flying ships powered by starlight, gardens that sang, charms that could capture a moment's joy. But those sketches rarely left the page. Doubt was your shadow, whispering that your ideas were foolish, that you'd never be more than Vyrndale's odd dreamer. Your bad habits were already taking root:
Staying up late fiddling with a cracked scryglass your father left behind, losing hours to its visions of far-off places
Starting projects only to abandon them when they got hard
Avoiding the town square where kids your age mocked your tattered cloak and crazy ideas.
One habit was particularly stubborn: perfectionism. You'd spend days on a single sketch, erasing and restarting until the parchment tore, convinced it had to be flawless or it was worthless. Once, you'd tried building a wind-chime that hummed with mana, hoping to impress Mirra. You spent weeks gathering scraps of starsteel from the plains, but when the chime's notes came out off-key, you smashed it in frustration, hiding the pieces under your bed. The failure stung, and the town's whispers didn't help.
“Arin's at it again”, they'd say. “Another broken toy.”
Your room was a cluttered nest of half-finished sketches, scrolls of unpolished spells, and dreams you'd scribbled but never pursued. You'd spend hours lost in illusions conjured by your scryglass, a palm-sized crystal that showed glimpses of other lives, other worlds - anything to escape the nagging voice in your head that said you weren't good enough.
You weren't lazy; you were bursting with ideas. Machines that could weave starlight into cloth, spells that could capture laughter, maps of realms no one had dared explore - your imagination was a wildfire. But every time you started, doubt crept in. What if it failed? What if people laughed? Worse, Vyrndale's elders, with their stern faces and rigid rules, never missed a chance to remind you of your wasted potential.
“Arin”, they'd say, “stop dreaming and do something practical.”
Their words stung, and you'd shrink, letting projects gather dust while you scrolled the scryglass late into the night, chasing distractions. Bad habits ruled you. The weight of those habits felt like chains.
The turning point came one crisp autumn evening, under a sky streaked with violet auroras. You were in your room, scryglass glowing with visions of Auralyn's spires, when a letter arrived, sealed with starbloom wax. It was from an old friend, Lira, who'd left Vyrndale for Auralyn years ago. Her words were sharp but kind:
“Arin, you're wasting your spark in that dusty town. Come to Auralyn. It's a place for dreamers, but only if you're ready to fight for it. Stop hiding.“
Her letter hit like a lightning bolt. You paced, heart racing, the scryglass forgotten on the table.
Hiding. That's what you'd been doing - hiding from failure, from judgment, from yourself. But the idea of Auralyn, a city where creativity was currency and courage was king, lit something inside you.
You didn't sleep that night. Instead, you sat at your desk, sketching a plan - not a grand invention, but a map of who you wanted to be.
Bold. Creative.
Confident.
At peace.
Someone who didn't crumble under others' doubts or your own.
The first challenge was breaking the habits that held you back. Procrastination was the worst, a habit that had you starting a dozen projects but finishing none. You started small, forcing yourself to pick one idea - a simple rune-lamp that glowed with the user's mood - and commit to it.
Every morning, you woke at dawn, a battle against your old late-night ways. You'd set a timer, working for one hour, no distractions, no scryglass. At first, it was torture; your mind wandered, doubt whispered, but you pushed through, sketching, tweaking, failing. When the lamp finally flickered to life, shifting from anxious red to calm blue, you felt a spark of pride. One small win, but it was yours.
Next came self-doubt, the voice that said you'd never measure up. You tackled it with a ritual: every evening, you wrote three things you'd done well, no matter how small.
Finished a sketch.
Didn't procrastinate.
Tested one more rune before bed.
Your first spark of change came at sixteen, during Vyrndale's Starveil Festival, a rare night when the town lit up with lanterns and the plains' magic felt alive. You'd built a small light-orb, a fist-sized crystal that glowed when you spoke to it - a simple spell, but yours. You wanted to show it at the festival, to prove you could make something real. But as you stood at the edge of the square, clutching the orb, a group of older kids - led by Toren, a smug blacksmith's apprentice - spotted you.
“What's that, Arin? Another trinket to break?”
Toren laughed, and the others joined in. Your cheeks burned, and you almost turned back, the orb heavy in your hands. But something snapped. Maybe it was the auroras overhead, pulsing like a challenge, or the memory of your father, who'd once told you,
“Make something, Arin, even if it's small. It's yours.”
You stepped into the square, heart pounding, and held up the orb.
“Watch”, you said, voice shaking but clear.
You whispered to it, and it flared to life, casting a soft blue glow across the crowd. Some gasped; others fell silent. Toren's smirk faded.
It wasn't perfect, flickering slightly, but it was yours, and you'd shown it. That night was a crack in the wall of your doubt. You didn't become bold overnight, but you started to see a path. You kept the orb, flaws and all, on your windowsill, a reminder that good enough could be a start. You began tackling your habits, one at a time, with the stubbornness of youth.
First was the scryglass. It was your escape, pulling you into visions of places like Auralyn, but it stole your time. You made a deal with yourself: one hour of work - sketching, building, anything - before touching it. Some nights, you slipped, lost in its glow, but each time you pulled back, you felt stronger.
Perfectionism was tougher. You forced yourself to finish things, even if they weren't flawless. You rebuilt the wind-chime, accepting its off-key hum as progress. You showed it to Mirra, who didn't praise it but nodded, her eyes soft.
“Keep going, Arin”, she said.
That was enough. You started carrying a journal, a battered thing of leather and thread, where you wrote ideas, failures, and tiny wins.
“Finished a chime. It's not perfect, but it sings.”
“Tried a new rune today. Messed up, but learned.”
The journal became your mirror, showing you a boy who could grow, showing your evolving self. This became a lifeline.