The sun sank like a wounded ember behind the marble towers of Arcadia Academy, the most prestigious mage institution in the western realms. Its courtyards gleamed with runic light, sigils flickering across stone walls, and the air thrummed with energy — the kind only born of those gifted with magic. All except one. At the farthest end of the training field stood Kael Ardyn, a thin boy of sixteen, his cloak torn and smeared with dust. He held a cracked wand that sputtered with dying sparks. Around him, other apprentices laughed — some with pity, others with cruelty. Instructor Daren, a stern man with silver sigils etched across his robes, exhaled in disappointment. “Again, Kael. Channel your focus through the core. Imagine the flow of mana — if you have any left to imagine.” Snickers rippled through the circle of students. Kael clenched his jaw, lifting his wand once more. He whispered the incantation that had failed him a hundred times. “Ignis… spirare.” Nothing. Not even

The rain hadn’t stopped since the night Kael was cast out. It fell in sheets across the wilds of Eldoria’s northern borderlands — an endless wasteland of thornwoods and ravines that swallowed the outcasts of the kingdom whole. His body ached, each step through the mud pulling at torn muscles and fresh cuts. The silver insignia that once marked him as the son of a royal mage was gone — ripped from his robes when his father’s hand struck him the final time. He could still hear it. “Voidborn.” The word had echoed in the council chamber, spat from the lips of men who once toasted to his family’s name. To fail the Aether Resonance Test was to prove oneself empty — a vessel without a spark. But even as he stumbled through the forest, hunger gnawing at him, something burned faintly in his chest — not light, but pain. Lightning slashed across the sky, and from the trees came the guttural growl of a Direfang, a wolf-like beast corrupted by the wild mana of the frontier. Its eyes gl

The dawn came pale and cold over Thornwood, carrying with it the scent of ash and dew. Kael awoke to find Orin already at the edge of the clearing, drawing symbols into the dirt with the point of his sword. Each motion was deliberate—measured like the ticking of a great clock. The lines gleamed faintly, runes humming with restrained power. They formed a perfect ring about three strides wide, etched with sigils that seemed to twist and breathe when Kael looked too long at them. “Get up,” Orin said without turning. “Today we bind chaos.” Kael rubbed sleep from his eyes, his body sore from yesterday’s lesson. His palms still bore faint burns, and the mark of the Aetherheart on his chest pulsed faintly beneath his tunic. “Bind it?” Kael asked, standing. “You said magic comes from will.” Orin’s gaze cut toward him, sharp as steel. “Will without structure is destruction. The Circle teaches obedience—to your magic, and to yourself. Step inside.” Kael hesitated but obeyed. The mom

The wind howled across the broken expanse of Kharan Vale, a land once ruled by the Iron Courts before it was swallowed by time and ruin. Crumbled towers jutted out from the fog like the ribs of a dead god, each one whispering the ghosts of mages who fell long ago. The air here was heavy — alive with old magic, static and metallic, tasting of blood and dust. Kael trudged through the marshy ground behind Orin, his mentor’s tattered cloak snapping in the wind. Lightning still flickered faintly across Kael’s fingertips — the aftershock of his earlier training. His muscles ached, his Aether channels burned, but he refused to show weakness. “Keep your spark hidden,” Orin murmured, scanning the ridge ahead. “The Vale reeks of relic-hunters. They’d gut a boy like you and sell your heartstone for a pouch of coins.” Kael clenched his jaw. “Then let them try.” Orin’s gaze slid toward him, sharp as the edge of his old saber. “That pride will kill you faster than any sword, boy. Remember c

Rain lashed against the shattered stained glass of the old cathedral. Inside, Kael stood before a makeshift table where old scrolls, cracked runes, and half-burnt maps lay scattered. Aether light flickered from his fingertips, illuminating the sigils of Eldoria — troop routes, mage guild locations, and the symbol of the Inquisition carved over them in red ash. Eira stood opposite him, one arm crossed, her rune prosthetic humming faintly. “They’ll come for you, Kael. The moment word spreads that you were seen in the city, they’ll brand you a heretic.” Kael’s gaze hardened. “They already did.” He lifted a small piece of parchment from the table — a bounty seal, freshly stamped with the sigil of the Mage Guild. His own face stared back at him, inked in black flame. WANTED: Kael of Eldoria. Untraceable Aether signature. Wielding forbidden magic. Classification: Relicborn Heretic. Reward: 50,000 gold crowns. “Untraceable,” Kael muttered. “They can’t bind my magic anymore.”