The morning was cold, dry, silent.
Ashen trained alone in the garden. His movements were precise, almost mechanical. A small glowing sphere floated between his hands, trembling, unstable. He stabilized it, then released it. It vanished in a burst of sparks.
Behind him, Caldor watched, arms crossed.
— You're progressing fast.
Ashen simply nodded.
He never smiled.
He only spoke when necessary.
He had never told anything about himself. Not where he came from, not who he was. And Caldor didn't ask questions.
But he observed him.
And he knew one thing: this boy carried an invisible burden. Something enormous. Something he hadn't yet decided to put down.
—
That evening, at dinner, the students were gathered in the great hall.
Caldor entered, accompanied by a hooded woman. She wore a tunic embroidered with silver thread and a brooch shaped like a royal crescent. Her face was hidden under a white veil.
Everyone immediately fell silent.
The woman spoke, her voice clear and impersonal.
— I come on behalf of the Council of Royal Mages. Early registrations for the Royal Academy of Magic are beginning. This year, we are selecting certain students early, through direct recommendation from their masters.
A shiver ran through the room.
Caldor turned to his students, then continued:
— I submitted three names. They were accepted.
He paused.
— Théon of Morholt.
The boy smiled, confident.
— Elaris Varn.
The ivory-haired girl lifted her chin, haughty.
— And... Ashen.
A heavy silence fell.
Cutlery stopped moving.
Ashen, for his part, remained still. He showed nothing. No surprise. No pride. Nothing.
Just that strange, impenetrable calm that followed him like a shadow.
— Him?! shouted a boy farther away. But... he's not even noble!
— He has no magical lineage! hissed another.
The king's messenger raised a hand. Silence returned immediately.
— The Academy is not a court of blood. It's a forge. It takes what is raw... and it transforms it. Whether the boy comes from the people, or elsewhere, does not matter. He is accepted.
Caldor said nothing more. He met Ashen's gaze... and raised an eyebrow slightly. An invitation to speak.
But Ashen looked away.
He owed nothing to anyone.
That night, in his room, he sat by the window. The moon shone faintly, like a tired eye in the black sky.
The Academy.
The place where everything had fallen apart before.
But this time, no one knew. No one suspected what he had been. Nor what he was.
He was not Ashen Valemyr here.
He was not a cursed son.
He was not the Fool.
He was a stranger.
Free.
But he knew: sooner or later, someone would search for his name. Someone would dig.
He had no identity papers. No origin. No lineage to show.
So, he took a quill.
And on an old parchment, he wrote:
Name: Caelen Sareth
Origin: unknown
Goal: none
He folded the paper, slipped it under his pillow.
Then he lay down.
And murmured to himself, voice barely audible:
— This time, I won't be their victim. I won't be their monster.
A breath.
A heartbeat.
— This time... I choose who I am.