Mordaine Carrowell had always lived in the shadows of other people’s brilliance.The city of Halewick buzzed like a living organism streets webbed with neon light, skytrains roaring overhead, and towering glass buildings that seemed to scrape the heavens. To ordinary eyes, Halewick was simply a modern metropolis, thriving with commerce, art, and technology. But Mordaine had grown up knowing the whispers: this city was built on the fracture of the Veil, where the world of man brushed against something far older, stranger, and infinitely more dangerous.Still, for most of his seventeen years, none of that strangeness had touched him.He was average. Painfully average. Not particularly strong, nor particularly clever, and certainly not gifted in any of the disciplines that mattered—martial arts, elemental magic, or healing. At Halewick Academy, where the gifted trained to master their abilities, Mordaine was known as “Carrowell the Hollow.” An empty shell. A boy with no spark.He hated th

Mordaine barely slept.Long after the sparring ring had emptied, the whispers followed him like phantoms through the Academy halls. Students parted when he passed, some with awe, others with suspicion. A few eyes burned with envy. He kept his hood low, but there was no hiding anymore.The Aetherflame.He had felt it burning under his skin, alive, hungering. A single slip and it had revealed itself, answering Kaelen’s strike like it had been waiting all along.And now, everyone was watching.When he finally reached his dorm, the small chamber tucked away at the edge of Halewick’s spire, his hands still shook. He locked the door, pressed his back against the wood, and exhaled.On the desk, the heirloom waited.A plain, unassuming pendant of tarnished silver. Its center was set with a stone so dark it seemed to drink in the light. Mordaine had found it years ago, hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the old Carrowell manor—the only relic left behind after his parents vanished.Tonight, t

The next morning, the Academy buzzed like a hive of restless voices.Mordaine felt them on him the moment he stepped into the main hall—dozens of eyes following, dozens of whispers following closer. He kept his head low, tray in hand, but the weight of attention pressed heavy, thicker than the scent of roasted bread and spiced tea wafting from the long tables.“Did you see what he did?”“Blue fire… I’ve only read of such things in forbidden tomes.”“He’ll burn us all if he loses control again.”“Or maybe he’ll be the one to finally match Kaelen.”The last voice drew a sharp snort. Mordaine glanced sideways. A knot of students lounged near the far table, Kaelen at their center. His smirk hadn’t returned since the duel, but his eyes gleamed with venom as they tracked Mordaine’s every step.Mordaine clenched his tray tighter and moved on.He sat alone near the end of a long bench. The food might as well have been ash in his mouth. His thoughts circled endlessly: the pendant’s glow, the f

By evening, the Academy was buzzing.News of Mordaine Carrowell’s “flare of power” had spread from the training hall to every dormitory corridor and candlelit study. Whispers rippled through groups of students, some speaking in awe, others in thinly veiled jealousy.“He lit up his blade. Just like that—”“No chant, no spell. It was like… raw magic.”“Unstable, if you ask me. Dangerous.”Mordaine kept his head low as he walked through the stone archways toward the dormitory wing. But the stares followed him. Curious eyes. Cold ones. Hungry ones.He clenched his jaw. He hadn’t meant to reveal anything. He hadn’t meant to summon it at all.“Carrowell.”The voice stopped him in his tracks. Lyra leaned against the carved frame of the hallway, arms folded, her expression sharp.“You’re attracting attention,” she said flatly.“I didn’t ask for it.”“No one does.” She pushed away from the wall, her gaze steady. “Listen. Power like that? It doesn’t go unnoticed. Not by the instructors. Not by

The training yards of the Academy were alive before dawn. Frost clung to the stones, and the air bit with winter’s edge. Students gathered in clusters, blades strapped to their backs or staffs gripped tightly, yawning into the morning chill.But Mordaine stood apart.Master Kaelen had summoned him before the others, dragging him into the shadowed corner of the yard where two practice rings sat unused.“Draw your weapon,” Kaelen ordered, his voice clipped as steel.Mordaine unsheathed his sword, its metal catching the faint glow of the rising sun. The memory of last night’s flames flickered through his mind. The thought both thrilled and unnerved him.Kaelen circled him slowly, a predator studying prey. “You’ve talent. But talent is a curse when it lacks discipline.”Without warning, Kaelen struck.His wooden practice blade cracked against Mordaine’s sword, jolting his arm. He stumbled back, barely managing to keep his grip.“Again!” Kaelen barked, striking once more. Faster this time.