The Kingdom of Gifts The sun dipped low, bleeding crimson and gold across the horizon, casting the ancient stone spires of the Academy of Aether in long, jagged shadows that clawed hungrily at the cobblestone courtyard below. The air thrummed, thick with murmurs and the buzz of wild, humming magic—a living beast under the twilight. Lanterns flickered awake, unveiling pale faces pressed to windows, eager for tonight’s spectacle. Elior moved unseen through the throng, a solitary shadow among bright flames and laughter; every step muffled by the cracked stones slick with the scent of damp earth and burnt offerings. Warmth, tumult, and sparks swirled around him, but all he felt was the cold bite of the void where a gift should burn—a blank, hollow ache. The kingdom pulsed with power—fire dancers spun embers in the air, frost weavers left glittering footprints, whispers flickered, and bolts of light sizzled across eager palms. Yet Elior, empty-handed and burdened with his name whispe

Chapter Three: Elior’s boots thudded across the cold stone walkway, each step a dull echo of the dread clenching his stomach. His clothes were tattered, his hair wild, face streaked with old ash and fitful sleep. With every stride toward the academy gates, fear and shame curled tighter within him, but somewhere beneath the trembling—the faintest, defiant whisper: Don’t be afraid. You’re not the same boy anymore.As he crossed the threshold, the courtyard froze. Every head turned. Eyes—hungry, cruel, glinting with remembered scorn—scanned him from ragged boots to bowed shoulders.“Dustblood.”“Weakling.”“Powerless. Just hollow.”The words lashed across him—sharper for their familiarity. Elior’s gaze dropped. Years of humiliation pressed each vertebra into stone. He passed through the hallways cloaked in silence, flinching at every bitter whisper—Still nothing… why does he bother?Into the ArenaThe training hall was alive with the scent of sweat, scorched wood, and ambition. Here, pa

Elior’s footsteps echoed hollow and heavy as he crossed the academy courtyard, eyes flicking nervously between cloaked students whispering behind a veil of dread. The air was thick with unease, not excitement. The routine celebration long gone, replaced by cold suspicion. Where once gifts had been flaunted, now they were feared—and Elior stood at the heart of that fear, a living scar on the academy’s pride.No heralded magic display awaited him today; instead, a sharp summons cut through the restless murmur like shattered glass, fracturing hope into something brittle and sharp.“Elior Graves, report immediately to Containment.”The words fell with brutal finality. A ripple of gasps chased them through the crowd—voices dropping to whispers soaked in horror. A Containment Drill. The academy’s darkest protocol, triggered only when a student’s magic had twisted beyond control, a mark of calamity and exile. The word carried the weight of judgement and the promise of isolation.His pulse po

The Ashes of WarningDawn’s light crept weakly over the ruined academy. The once-proud campus now wore the wounds of battle—scorched grass, shattered flagstones, and the copper tang of blood that magicked the morning air. Elior moved like a ghost through the debris, every footfall heavy with sleepless exhaustion, arms wrapped in bloodied bandages. The world he’d bled to save watched him from behind glass and stone, fear written bold in every shadowed window.Faces once twisted in mockery now flicked away, cold and silent. Where laughter had cut him, now only whispers and spells of warding trailed in his wake. Elior understood all at once the cruelty of being feared: it was a colder exile than ridicule ever could be.The Council’s IndifferenceWithin the Grand Hall, the air was stifled with formality. The Upper Court presided—magisters in velvet, the headmaster stern, wardens grim and silent. Students filed in, a bitter audience hopeful for a scapegoat.The high magister struck his sta

Chapter Nine: The Devil’s ReckoningThe Broken CourtyardElior’s breath came sharp and ragged, each gasp setting his nerves alight. The courtyard was hell—scorched stones, rivers of blood, and the burning remains of shattered columns. The world became noise: the endless shriek of wind, the distant sobs of students, the relentless echo of Alaric’s boots on broken flagstones.Alaric advanced, his demonic form twisting with shadow—horns hooked like obsidian, eyes glowing cold, a leer curled on bloodstained lips. Elior could taste the sulfur as magic clashed, the air thick with burning flesh and hate.The Dance of Shadows and BloodTheir duel erupted—a convulsing tempest, neither neat nor glorious. Alaric slammed a fist into the earth, cracks spiderwebbing beneath Elior’s feet. He flew back, ribs splintering with a white-hot agony… only for his flesh to knit, bones sliding back into place, pain instantly replaced by dizzying exhaustion.Elior lunged—a blur of speed, darkness coiling from