"Papers? What papers? It burned with my village."
The guard barely looked up from his ledger. Imperial colors decorated his sleeve—red and gold thread. Behind him, Solmaris stretched toward the horizon like an infected wound.
"Another refugee," he muttered. "Name?"
"Kale." I kept my hood low, eyes fixed on the cobblestone. "From Millhaven."
The lie came easily. Millhaven had burned three months ago, some month after we started our journey to Demon Spire, Demon raids, according to the reports on my way back, no survivors meant no one could contradict my story.
Around me, the queue shuffled forward. Refugees clutched forged papers, merchants counted coins for bribes and drifters like me hoped indifference would carry us through.
Above the gates, banners hung from every tower. Gold fabric emblazoned with Valen's crest, a sword wreathed in light.
"Stay calm," The Voice whispered. "They have detection wards."
I forced my breathing to steady. The magic coiled in my chest wanted to lash out cause these guards served the same Empire that had discarded me, the same system that celebrated heroes while forgetting all the others that support.
Cold metal pressed against my palm as I leaned on the checkpoint barrier. The iron smelt of rust and old blood through my enhanced senses.
"Move along," the guard waved me through without interest.
I stepped into the capital proper. The transformation hit me like a physical blow.
Gilded banners hung from marble balconies while rot stained the slum walls beneath. Victory statues dominated every plaza, Valen's perfect features carved in stone, sword raised toward heaven. Street vendors hawked medallions bearing the "Glorious Four's" faces.
Four faces! Not five.
My old healer quarter was gone. The narrow streets where I'd treated plague victims had been demolished, between four months of my absence. The temple steps where I'd learned my first ward spell now supported a monument to imperial glory.
Erased! Rebuilt! Forgotten!
Children ran between my legs, playing games with wooden swords. "I'm the Hero!" one shouted. "I'm Vera the Lightning!" called another. A third boy dragged behind them, forced to play the demon.
No one wanted to be the support mage. That role didn't exist in their stories.
Taverns spilled laughter into the morning air. Through open doors, I caught fragments of toasts. "To Valen's courage!" "Death to the demon scum!" "Glory to the Empire!"
Citizens wore his crest on clothing, jewelry, even painted on their faces. The Hero's symbol had become a religion and his victory, their collective triumph.
I recognized street corners where I'd once walked with purpose. Alleys where I'd rushed to heal the wounded with markets where vendors had known my name, my craft, my value to the community.
Now I was a ghost walking through a city that had moved on without me.
The rage built with each familiar landmark. The Voice fed on it, it voice growing stronger. "Look how easily they replaced you. How quickly they forgot."
My hands clenched inside my cloak. The fabric smoldered where my fingers touched.
"Burn it all," it rumbled. "Show them what they discarded."
I forced myself to keep walking trying to breathe normally and look like another refugee seeking shelter.
But inside, something dark and hungry grew with each step.
I climbed an abandoned tenement, its stairs creaking under my weight. The roof gave me a clear view of the city's heart. Solmaris spread below like a map of imperial ambition, wealth concentrated in the center, poverty pushed to the edges.
The celebration had lasted for two months, according to the street talk. Valen's triumph over the Demon Spire was the greatest victory in a generation.
The crowds moved like a single organism, chanting his name in unison. "Va-len! Va-len! VA-LEN!" Their voices echoed off the marble facades.
A newspaper clipping tumbled past in the wind and I caught it before it could blow away.
"HERO'S TRIUMPH COMPLETE" screamed the headline, below, four familiar faces smiled from the page. Valen in the center, golden and radiant, Vera with her silver hair and knowing smirk, Darius, scarred and noble and Selena, pure light given human form.
Four heroes, four legends, four names that would echo through history.
The fine print listed casualties. "Noble sacrifices made in service to the realm." A few dozen soldiers with some local guides. At the bottom, in letters barely visible: "Support personnel losses regrettably uncounted."
Not even worth naming.
I crumpled the paper in my fist and it burst into flames without me willing it. The ashes scattered on the wind like my old life.
The roof tiles cracked under my feet. My magic wanted out, wanted to tear this celebration apart and show them what their hero had really cost.
"Do it," The voice whispered. "One spell. Bring down their towers. Make them remember."
I tasted blood. My teeth had cut my tongue when I clenched my jaw.
No, not yet, not like this.
I was one man against an empire. Powerful, yes, but not invincible. Rush in angry, and I'd end up as another unmarked grave.
I needed time. Preparation, a place to learn what I'd become.
In the distance, academic spires rose like ivory spears. The Arcanum Institute of Magical Warfare, an institute the Empire trained its battle mages and war-casters.
Where better to hide than in plain sight? Institutions always needed bodies. War orphans, hedge mages, anyone desperate enough to serve, the perfect cover for a dead man.
The academy accepted refugees from the borderlands. I'd seen the recruitment notices posted at every checkpoint as they needed fresh meat for their war machine.
I could give them that. Let them think they were getting another broken soldier, another disposable tool.
They had no idea what they were really inviting in.
I descended into the shadows between buildings. The northern gates lay two hours' walk through the merchant quarter and by noon, I'd be standing before academy walls.
The city had erased Caelum Thorne from its memory. Time to see what it made of Kale.
Light from the rising sun hit the academy walls. The gates stood thirty feet high, carved with protective wards that made my skin itch, students in pristine uniforms hurried between classes. The perfect image of imperial education.
I joined the line of applicants. Rough clothes, nervous faces, the smell of desperation. Most wouldn't last a month, because the academy chewed up recruits and spat out the bones.
The admissions guard looked bored. Another day, another batch of hopefuls seeking glory.
"Name and qualification?" he asked without looking up.
I let my hood fall slightly. Morning light caught my eyes, making them shine like polished silver.
"Kale, from the borderlands."
"What's your specialty, boy?"
I met his gaze directly. Let him see just enough to remember me later.
"Support magic."
The guard laughed, a harsh sound like breaking glass. He gestured toward a smaller line filled with the desperate and dispossessed.
"Perfect. Another lamb for slaughter."