"Children typically awaken their magic talent between the ages of five to eight. It was rare for the awakening to occur outside that window, though there have been documented cases of younger children awakening early in stressful situations.

How each child approached, felt, and interacted with magic differed. More often than not, the children developed something that was in line with their desires and situation, which led to the diversity.

This awakening was also the main reason why the Void Affinity was often considered taboo, and people usually tried to avoid having children with the affinity. Children were rarely able to control their magic that well in their awakening. With most affinities, this was a minor issue. With void affinity, it became an often fatal issue." - Fredegund Steinmauer, Mage from the City-States, circa 681 FP.

That very night, the girl felt her world change.

Suddenly, she found that she could feel the wind around her, almost as if they were part of her body. Every little breeze that entered from the gaps of the window, the soft breathing of the child in the bunk on top of hers, she could feel them all.

With a slight effort, she quickly found out that she could also move the wind to her bidding. It was awkward and difficult to do at first, but became easier as she tried again and again. After maybe an hour of ceaseless effort, the wind around her practically moved to her will.

The very first thing the girl had done was to push more air into her lungs as she inhaled. She forced more air in even as her right lung wracked her with pain, remnants from the injury she received a year ago, but she had not cared. She finally managed to breathe properly once more after all that time, even if accompanied with pain.

Even that young, she understood the implications of what she did. She also knew that those above her would have made use of her if they ever learned of it. So the girl decided to keep it her little secret.

The past year had taught her some things. She had known that the city they lived in was called "Zefirous", and the people who had taken her in were in control of most of the beggars, cutpurses, and other unsavory elements of the city. Or at least, part of those in control.

There were two adults mostly in charge of the place she lived in. Proust, an uncouth man who was drunk more often than not, and often beat the children for looking at him askance, and Varsha, the woman who had taken her in from the grandma who helped her.

The girl trusted neither of them, but if she had to choose, she would admit that Varsha at least treated them decently. She was in charge of handling their meals and everything, and she had never let them go truly hungry.

Proust on the other hand just constantly seemed to be pissed off at everything, and would often get angry for what the girl thought to be silly reasons. He was the one in charge, though, and the girl just tried to avoid him as much as she could.

As a blind little girl, it was easy enough for the girl to eke out sympathy from well to do passersby, something she had learned over the past year. She continued being a beggar for the next few years, but quietly, discreetly, the girl worked on herself.

The cruel treatments she had experienced in the past year had taught her that one needed to fight to survive in this world. To be able to fight, however, the girl needed strength of her own.

Magic was the answer to her question. The girl quickly trained with the magic she awakened until it responded to her much like it was another limb of her body. She kept it going all the time, until she could no more, and found that she could keep it up longer and longer as she trained.

Using the magic to breathe properly was the first thing the girl had done constantly, until it became such an ingrained habit that neither the process nor the pain caught her attention at all. She just kept it up, as naturally as breathing itself.

She used the movement of air to perceive the world around her as well. Where once only sounds, scents, and touches truly told her of her surroundings, now she could feel everything close to her, every little pebble on the ground, every little hair growing on Proust's ugly mug.

Then the girl quietly worked on herself, while remaining a beggar all that time. She subjected herself to the wind, used it to shackle and restrain her body, so that her every movement was only possible through strenuous efforts.

To others, it made her look like a weak, sickly girl, who was so weak even lifting her hand was something she could only do with difficulty. It made passersby pity her more, which made some of her fellow child beggars jealous, and incited more beatings at night.

The girl just quietly took it, as she knew that it was not a good time to reveal what she could do. She just stoically took the blows and kicks, the pain and humiliation in silence, which made her tormentors soon grow bored.

Besides, bruises made it easier to gain the pity of others anyway.

The girl had also quickly noticed something else after she awakened her magic. Her being blind and submissive meant that when something happened, like food or money getting stolen, she was never even suspected. Most just overlooked her existence.

Eventually however, she found that she could not remain quiet and submissive anymore. In the past years after she awakened, she had noticed how Proust would often take one of the older girls into his room at night, and they would be hurt and crying when she felt them next. Some never even returned.

The girl approached his room on one such night, pretending she was randomly wandering around as she was prone to do. Her magical senses allowed her to feel things behind a closed door, so long as the air still flowed between the rooms, which was a given in their rickety building. The "door" to Proust's room was just a mere sheet of fabric hung from the doorframe, even.

She had not needed any magical sense to hear the cries of the girl inside however, as she felt through the air how Proust struck and cursed at her. The girl was one of the few who were nice to her, and she couldn't help but feel anger at hearing her cries.

Another thought that came to mind was how the girl inside had turned into an adult recently, and how she had sounded afraid about it. So this was the reason why.

The blind girl thought quickly. She herself was close to ten, and she most decidedly did not want Proust to lay his ugly mitts on her even if that was still many years away. That placed her into a dilemma of sorts. Running was no real solution, even with her awakened magic. Other children had tried before and were always dragged back screaming.

Trying to get Varsha's help was not truly an option either. Varsha had often gotten angry at Proust over what he did, but she could never truly do a thing against him. He was in charge, and he was stronger to boot.

Waiting in case a different solution presented itself never entered the girl's thoughts. All that left the girl with only one option, which was to take the matter into her own hands.

She waited until Proust was really drunk one night, around a month after the incident. That night, she quietly sneaked out of her bed, and went into the kitchen. She took a long, sharp, pointed knife from the knife rack, and very quietly made her way to Proust's room.

The blind girl could hear the abominable man's snores from outside the room. Proust had instilled fear of him in most of the children, but the girl, blind and submissive as she seemed, had been skipped as he thought there was no point. He was about to pay for that mistake.

Quietly, the girl parted the fabric, and slunk into the room. Proust was sprawled over his bed, snoring loudly and smelling strongly of booze. The girl tiptoed as she came closer, made almost no sound as she approached, until she stood right beside the sleeping man.

Then she grabbed the knife she took with both hands, lifted it high, and drove its point straight through the middle of the man's thick neck. The point of the blade even pierced through and went out the other side. The girl had been very lucky, and had struck precisely where two segments of the man's spine had met.

Proust opened his eyes wide in surprise and agony, but could do nothing as his body convulsed beyond his control. His lips moved as he tried to make a sound, but all he produced was a wet gurgle as the girl pulled the knife out and blood flooded his throat.

It took Proust many long minutes of convulsions before he finally laid still and breathed no more, during which time the girl had clutched the bloody knife in her hand and stayed still, as she had not dared to move.

Just when Proust laid still and breathed his last, and the girl was about to leave, she felt the curtain of fabric that served as the room's door opened, and a woman stepped inside. The girl could feel how the woman held a dagger and a lantern in her hands. It was Varsha.

"What in the devil's ballsack fucking happened here!?" said Varsha as she took in the scene before her.