Fenix hunched on the cold stone floor of his chamber, against the wall, knees held close to him as if he could defend himself from the weight of all that had transpired. Leaps of flame's shadows traversed the high walls, but not the warmth which did not caress him. He was hurting throughout—not from physical pain, but something deeper, raw.
His gaze drifted to his wrist, where the ash had coiled itself like a serpent. That which was once dust had since hardened into this odd, silky cuff, dark gray and dimly pulsating with a warmth that curdled his stomach. It wasn't like metal or stone. It felt alive.
He attempted everything. He had panicked at first—scraping with his fingernails, tearing at the flesh beneath until blood welled to the surface. He'd unbuckled the knife from his belt and hit it, again, again and again, but the blade rebounded with a clanging ring, leaving not even a scratch. In his frustration, he'd even considered cutting off his own hand. The idea had been mad, delirious—but the thought had lingered. But something inside him whispered that nonetheless, the object would simply come back and attach itself to his other hand. Like a leech. Like a curse.
Three hours had elapsed since the Ceremony.
Three hours since everything had gone wrong.
He had not said a word. The nobles had whispered and murmured, glancing at him with curiosity and fear, as the hall had emptied like the tide, as if he were a strange and dangerous thing that would lash out at them. And now. his parents, the queen and king, were at the Main hall. Talking of what to do with him—as though he were some kind of danger. A burden. A shame.
Solis and Cassius had already departed on their mission to the North, summoned by reports of rogue contractors burning down border towns. Fenix couldn't blame them. Priorities first. But a part of him—small and bitter—wanted them to stay. Wanted someone to have stood up for him.
He slowly rose and strolled across the room, his feet heavy. Against the wall, on the shelf, his fingers brushed against the spine of a book: The Strange World by The Nightingale. A birthday gift from his father when he was twelve years old. It was the tale of a contractor who fell through a rip in the fabric into a distant realm—a realm that did not have any spirits and magic, where humans lived with strange machines referred to as "technology." The author went by an alias, Fenix had read it a dozen times, clinging to the idea of a world so vastly different than his own.
He hugged the book to his chest and pressed his back against the wall. He allowed himself to remember the day he received it: the candlelight, the laughter, his father ruffling his hair, his mother giving one of her rare smiles, when Solis teased him for reading too much and Cassius laughed. The memory was rich and warm yet felt so far, something that didn't belong to him anymore.
Now, even the thought of that memory left him numb.
Someone knocked, waking him from his trance. The book dropped out of his fingers and landed on the floor gently. He debated with himself for a second, then crossed to the door.
A pale servant girl leaned in the doorway, her arms clasped tight in front of her apron. She didn't glance up at him.
"Y-Your Highness… Her Majesty, the Queen, has requested your presence in the Main Hall," she explained hastily, bending low and retreating backwards as if she feared she was going to be too close to him.
Fenix remained silent.
He stood for a moment, gazing where she had stood. Then he walked slowly into the corridor. His boots echoed through the empty, curving halls. No one spoke to him. Guards saluted silently, not looking at him. Servants glanced at him out of the corner of their eyes, then hastily away. The castle—his home once—now felt like a gilded prison.
He reached the doors of the small council chamber, dark carved wood with silver inlays. The guards silently opened them. The resonating boom of the heavy doors opening sounded like thunder.
The room was lit from within by tall windows and flaming sconces. His parents were at the opposite end of the room, their bodies stiff and rigid, surrounded by a semicircle of ministers, nobles and priests. The tension and anxiety hung thick and heavy in the air, heavy with the scent of wax and old parchment.
His mother's eyes met his first. She stood frustrated —jaw clenched, fists clenched—but when she actually saw him, her expression wavered. She seemed exhausted. Scared. And beneath that, something more profound: regret.
"Come here, Fenix," his father said softly.
He went to them, striding slowly across to the middle of the room.
"We've spent the past hours discussing…," King Lauren began, his voice heavy with restraint, "discussing the nature of your… binding. This… spirit. This ash."
He looked at his son with something between sorrow and resignation. "We've consulted the records. Never before has something like this been seen."
Fenix didn't speak. His gaze remained fixed on the floor.
"We must consider the kingdom," the king continued. "And the threat—perceived or otherwise—that such an unknown might bring."
"We've reached a decision," said another voice, curt and sharp.
A tall minister stepped forward, his robes dark and lined with gold trim. His eyes gleamed with something that was not concern.
"You will be exiled from the kingdom until further notice."
The words hung in the air followed by deathly silence.
Fenix blinked. For a moment, he did not move. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze, meeting the man's cold, calculating eyes.
Exile.
The word echoed in his mind again and again. A gentle roar filled his ears.
His father turned towards, silent anger and annoyance in his eyes. "Minister Calvior, you overstep your authority."
The minister bowed tightly and took a step back. Fenix saw the smirk on his face when he did so. The others did not say anything.
Queen Regina waved her hand, and with a sweep of her arm, the ministers were dismissed. The doors closed behind them, and the royal family was left to the silence.
King Lauren stepped forward and knelt slightly so that he could address Fenix at his level. "I tried to stop it. But they are afraid. They threatened rebellion, civil war. They would burn this kingdom to the ground over fear."
Fenix's whisper was barely audible. "Where will I go?"
His mother's face twisted in pain. His father hesitated.
"The Western Forest."
His breath stopped.
Of all the places—savage, untracked, a land of blood thirsty tribes and wild animals. A land where the kingdom sent its outcasts, and a land with little to no chance of returning alive.
Fenix closed his eyes tight. Anger seethed just beneath his skin, but not the fiery kind that burst into flame. It was colder than that—more akin to ice creeping down a frozen broken windowpane.
They had basically given him a death sentence.
He spun without a word. His boots thundered for a second time, this time with more haste—urged not by sorrow, but by something more painful.
Not punishment. Not exile.
Abandonment.
And betrayal.