By eight, Ashborn wasn't just studying magic. He was inventing things. Small enchantments woven into cloth. Mana threads that reinforced his balance during sword drills. He was even coming up with completely new spells on his own. He was figuring them out in his head, like puzzles he'd already solved once before.
He didn't share any of it.
Not with the maids or butlers. Not with the Blackhart guards. Not even with Verrian.
Part of it was instinct. The rest? Strategy.
The Blackhart name was known for steel, not sorcery. Magic didn't belong in their legacy, not openly. If people found out, they'd try to push him into a mage's life. Try to steer him off the path Verrian had laid brick by brick.
Ashborn didn't want to fight that battle.
Not yet.
So he kept his power wrapped in silence, like a blade hidden beneath his cloak. Waiting.
Then came the shift.
A glowing letter. Sealed in wax. Carried by a raven, when he took the scroll from its leg, the bird's eyes glowed and it seems as if he was being watched.
The seal was unmistakable. Two circles interlocked, a sword and a spell. The emblem of Mirestrom Hall.
The message was short.
"You are summoned for placement trials. No recommendation required. No refusal accepted."
Ashborn stared at the paper long after it stopped glowing.
He hadn't applied. He didn't even know if his father had connections to the place. But the seal reacted to his mana. That much he knew.
It had recognized something in him.
Something strong.
He didn't say anything until morning.
Standing in the courtyard, facing his father, wind tugging at his cloak.
"I've been summoned to Mirestrom," Ashborn said.
Verrian didn't react at first. Then he gave a nod, slow and deliberate.
"You'll represent our name with steel," he said. "Don't embarrass it."
Ashborn bowed.
"Of course."
But in his mind, there was another answer:
"Steel's just the beginning."