The sun bleached across the ridgeline, staining the sky with rust and fire. Eryndor Thorne stood barefoot over the marble dais, wind stirring through the pleats of his ceremonial robes. At his feet, his entire bloodline had come; his mother's face a carved mask of duty, his father's a storm barely contained behind pale gray eyes. Dozens of kin in crimson mantles at the half-circle of ancient stone seats cut into the hillside. The Trial of Flame was about to begin.
He was eighteen, the last of the Thorne clan to undergo the Awakening. For centuries, their family had birthed elemental mages—tamer of inferno, weaver of burning sorcery. But as Eryndor stood at the heart of the flame-circle, with the fire runes that were older than the kingdom itself burning all around him, he felt nothing.
No spark. No warmth.
Only silence.
Archmage Corravin's words thundered across the stone amphitheater. "By Thorne blood rituals and by the holy covenant of flame, I invoke the fire in your heart. Name your element, and let it rise."
Eryndor clenched his fists. The weight of centuries was on his shoulders, the weight of expectation, and an iron burden. He had learned, he had bled, suffered years of merciless tutelage. But the moment required more than tutelage. It required affinity. It required flame.
Slowly, he inhaled, eyes narrowing on the guttering brazier in front of him.
"Flame," he whispered.
Nothing moved.
Not a single flicker replied.
The whispers began—first like the rustling of leaves, later like the waves washing over him. Shock. Horror. Compassion. His father stood up from where he had been sitting, his cloak spreading out behind him like wings.
"There must be a mistake," Lord Thorne snapped. "The glyphs—double-check them."
Archmage Corravin moved towards him, his expression unreadable. "They are correct."
"But he—he's a Thorne!"
Corravin said nothing. His silence was eloquent.
Eryndor's chest contracted. His throat parched. The ancient runes on the dais emitted a soft glow, answering all save him. Even the stones repelled him. He tried again, struggling his voice above the murmurs of the crowd.
"Flame!" he thundered. "Answer me!"
The brazier spat—and perished.
The crowd gasped in horror.
Lord Thorne came down the steps toward his son, shaking not with fury—but shame.
"Enough," he declared, a metallic crispness to his voice. "This shame ends here."
Eryndor stood before him. "Father—"
"You are no son of mine." He pulled the dagger from his belt—a formal blade used to mark the shortcomings of their lineage. He drew it across Eryndor's palm with swift precision.
The boy gasped, as if watching his own blood spill upon the runes. Nothing burst into flame. No magic stirred.
The decree was absolute.
"You are Exiled."
No!" His mother strode forward, but the guards barred her path. Lord Thorne didn't look back.
Two enforcers gripped Eryndor's arms firmly. He did not resist. Not when they bound him with silencing runes. Not as they escorted him down the mountain road. Not even when he looked up one last time and saw his clan's stone faces turn away as one.
The Outlands door creaked open wide enough to drown the hum in his ears.
The ground outside was wild, broken plowed up by storms and warped magic. A place where mages exiled came to perish, or to be lost. There were no walls to protect the weak, no fire to ward off the cold.
As the creaking gate closed behind him, Eryndor remained still, clutching the pack they'd thrown at his feet. A loaf of bread. A water flask. A flint knife. And a folded map written in old ink.
"Go get your death, if you must," one of the guards sneered. "Just don't return on your hands and knees."
Eryndor was silent. His voice had disappeared somewhere along the way.
He had stepped into the Outlands with nothing but his shame—and the unsettling realization that the world could not accommodate a mage who wielded no magic.
But something had begun to stir beneath his skin.
A whisper.
A beat.
It was not fire. It was not light.
It was something… alive.
Eryndor strode along the frayed path until it vanished into wild scrub, leaving behind only a smudge of tracks in ash-speckled ground. Trees towered above him like silent guardlings, their branches skeletal and black, reaching out to the twilight. His own robes, which were once fine, caught on thorns and tore as he struggled through the thicket. He didn't mind. The fabric was a symbol of a life he no longer cherished.
The map was useless now—drenched with water and torn by wind. It showed indefinite lines where the land had been changed long ago. Old rivers dried up, highways overgrown with vegetation. He tucked it into his belt and went on.
By nightfall, he reached a clearing with twisted roots and yellowed fronds. At its center lay a collapsed hut, its roof half-fallen and walls moss-covered. It stank of rot and bone. He went in anyway.
He was too weary to be cautious.
Within, the air was damp and foul. A broken table leaned against the wall. Insects scurried aside from him. A rat shot out from beneath the ruined hearth. He put down his pack and sat upon the floor, back against the cold stone. His hands trembled as he opened the loaf of bread. It was stale and hard but would suffice.
He chewed slowly, gazing into the black.
What now?
He survived, but barely. But it would not be for long. The Outlands were not only deadly—they were hunted. Creatures from the Shattered Spire, fouled by deranged mana, roamed free. He'd heard whispers at the academy—men torn limb from limb, mages gutted by beasts impervious to fire and lightning.
And he had nothing.
No magic. No flame. No sword.
But as he drifted off into troubled sleep, the strange throb beneath his flesh returned. It beat feebly—like the beat of a second heartbeat. A strand, faint but true, thrummed somewhere beneath the border of his awareness.
He dreamed of green light tracing through roots and stone, of something ancient lying in wait beneath the earth.
When he woke, the throb remained.
He stood up, stretching out his sore limbs, and went outside. The Outlands in the morning were not different by being softer. Not softer, but harder—less a death warrant and more a test.
He approached a dead tree, its trunk blackened and torn by lightning. At its base, something stirred.
He stopped.
The creature that emerged wasn't beast or terror of legend. It was small—no larger than a fox, with ear shaped like leaves and glowingly pale green eyes. Its fur shone like living moss, and a writhing pattern was etched on its brow.
It did not spring to attack. It looked.
He cautiously knelt.
"Hello," he whispered.
The creature tilted its head.
His pulse beneath his skin quickened. A stream of recognition passed between them. Not words. Not images. But something raw and unadulterated.
Connection.
It crept a tentative step closer, and another, until its nose nearly pressed against his hand. When their skin touched, he drew in a ragged breath.
He saw glimpses—roots deep beneath earth, water running through stone, life pulsing beneath death.
The creature blinked.
And it rolled up at his feet, like that.
He sat there in stunned silence, his heart racing.
What are you?
There was no answer. But he knew it now—the presence of something wild and old and alive. It was not rock or storm or flame.
It was life.
And it knew him.
The creature remained coiled at his feet, steady, slow breathing, as though waiting since the day he was born. Eryndor dared not move. The connection between them continued to throb—faint but inexorable—running from the core of his heart to the moss-covered beast. Something he'd never known.
Even master elemental mages had talked of nothing like it.
He touched the bond cautiously, closing his eyes. He didn't know what he was doing—only that the thrum in his blood had altered since contact with the beast. It had been a second heartbeat before. Now it held rhythm, purpose.
Life.
He focused.
And in a flash of comprehension, his perception shifted.
The world bloomed open. Not in color or sound, but in sense. The trees were not just tall—they pulsed with age, groaned with measured thought. The moss on boulders quivered in rhythm with the breeze. Even the very air capered playfully with the power unseen. A net of threads—delicate, silver-green filaments of life force—twisted through all roots, leaves, and insects below.
And one thread burned more brightly than the rest.
Him.
He gasped, stepping back from the beast. His breathing was clipped, and the vision fled like mist in sunlight. The woods settled back into place.
Quiet. Still.
"What was that?" he whispered.
The beast raised its head. Its eyes fixed on his with that curious, unwinking calm.
"You saw it too, didn't you?" he panted. "All of it?"
A low chuff. Not quite a growl. Not quite a purr.
"I think you're part of it," he said slowly, sitting down again. "And now… so am I."
The thought shook him. If this was life magic, it was unlike anything taught in the Mage Academies. The elemental disciplines were loud, aggressive. They burned, froze, or tore the world apart to be remade. But this… this was quiet, coiled like roots in soil.
And powerful in a different way.
His hands trembled again—but not out of weakness this time. It was wonder.
He took a deep breath and looked around the clearing. The destroyed hut, the downed tree, the weeds—all of it felt somehow fitting. As though he was exactly where he needed to be.
Even if he didn't know why yet.
The creature stood and padded over to his side. It nudged his hand and stood, twitching its tail. He hesitated, then scratched behind the ear.
"Okay," he said. "If you're staying, you're getting a name."
It blinked, then sneezed elegantly.
He smiled. "How about… Sylven?"
It tilted its head, then paced a little circle as if in agreement.
"Sylven it is."
They walked together as morning deepened. Sylven moved wordlessly, wordlessly and without effort, pausing to sniff at a root or to scoop into gentle earth. Eryndor followed, half in awe, half in terror that it would vanish at any moment.
But it lingered there. When he fell over the tangle of roots and cut his knee, Sylven wrapped itself about him warily. When he reached out to touch a dead tree stump, Sylven laid its nose to the same bark and the heart of the tree pulsed dim green for a moment before becoming inert again.
There was something more to this bond than friendship.
Hours passed.
Eryndor gathered tinder and found too soon that a spark flint was harder to use than he remembered. It took nearly two dozen tries to coax a flame and tend it into a small blaze. As he heated his final dried meat, Sylven sat in silence, eyes glinting in the firelight.
"I should have died out here," he growled. "But I didn't."
The creature twitched an ear.
He gazed into the flames. "What does that tell you?"
No answer, naturally.
But the flames spat and the wind through leaves was like a sigh. Not words. Not voices. Just there.
He gazed at the torn robes beside him. The sigil of his house—House Daemar was embroidered on the hem. A symbol of nobility and authority.
He tossed it on the flames.
It curled and smoldered, the edges burning fire-orange.
"I am not theirs anymore."
Ash drifted on the wind.
They returned that night—strange and true. He stood in a sea of green light, among large beings of bark and root. Their eyes shone like Sylven's, and what they spoke was in the language of feeling, not words.
You are touched. Not a child of fire. But made of root and essence.
Your name will never be forgotten.
When he awoke, Sylven was in the doorway of the hut, ears up. The sun was rising barely.
Something stirred in the trees.
A shadow.
He took a stick, the closest thing to a sword he had. Sylven snarled low.
Out of the underbrush, a human figure.
Not beast. Not animal.
Human.
Hooded, cloaked, staff made of bone. Tattoos wound around their neck, softly glowing with magic.
The figure stopped ten paces away.
"You should not be alive," they said softly. "You were meant to die alone in this place."
Eryndor's blood ran cold.
"Who are you?"
The stranger didn't answer. Their staff crackled with pale light.
"You carry something that does not belong to you," they said. "And it's calling to the wrong kind of ears."
Sylven growled again, fur rising.
Eryndor tightened his grip on the stick, heart pounding.
"What does that mean?"
It means," said the stranger, lifting the staff, "that you've awakened something older than any of us. And if you don't learn to control it—"
They stepped forward.
"You'll be the reason the Outlands burns.