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Skyborn

cort_zel
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Chapter 1 - Chapter 1

At twelve years old, Calix didn't have much—not a family, not powers, not a name that carried weight. But he had dreams. And that had to count for something.

He was only four when his world burned. The night his parents died in a fire that no one could explain, the nobles called it a "mystical accident," something vague and quiet enough to sweep under a golden carpet. Since then, he'd bounced between houses and halls, until the day the High Queen herself adopted him.

To the outside world, it was a noble act: taking in a powerless orphan, giving him a chance among the stars. But inside the marble walls of House Aerinthal, Calix was no brother. To Prince Thorian and Princess Lysena—his new "siblings"—he was little more than a stray dog in royal silks. They sneered when he passed, mocked his common blood, and reminded him, every chance they got, that he had no supernatural gift like the rest of them.

Not even a flicker.

At the Academy of Solarae—where only the elite trained in the arts of skyfire, shadowbinding, elemental channeling, and blade-dancing—Calix stuck out like a soot mark on a wedding robe. His classmates flew, conjured storms, read minds. He tripped over his own boots and studied twice as hard just to stay afloat.

But he had something they didn't: purpose.

Calix didn't want to sit on a throne or marry into power. He wanted to soar. To become one of the legendary air pirates who roamed the cloud kingdoms—free from crowns, free from rules. Adventurers, rebels, heroes of old ballads. He'd memorized their tales from tattered books and dreamed of them every night: crimson sails, roaring wind, the thrill of stealing from corrupt lords and vanishing into the sky.

They called him a dreamer.

He would prove them wrong.

Even without powers, even with everyone against him—Calix would earn his wings.And when he did, they'd all remember the powerless orphan who rose above them all.

The sky was too beautiful for a day like this.

Blazing with streaks of orange and pink, the morning sun shimmered across the floating spires of Solarae, casting golden reflections over the school's crystalline towers. Airships hovered near docking rings, banners flapped in the wind, and young nobles glided effortlessly through the sky—levitating with the ease of breathing.

Calix trudged up the marble steps, his boots scuffed, his pack half-unzipped, and his heart somewhere in his throat.

"Stop dragging your feet, orphan," hissed a voice behind him.

Thorian, the crown prince, brushed past him in a cloak lined with aether-silk. His skyfire aura flickered faintly, the air around him humming with heat. At his side, Lysena walked with the grace of a storm—sharp-eyed, cruel-mouthed, her silver braid snapping behind her like a whip.

Calix didn't answer. He kept his eyes forward and fists clenched. If he said one wrong word, they'd twist it into a weapon.

The great doors to the Academy opened, revealing the entrance hall: all vaulted ceilings, floating staircases, and glowing crystal sconces. Magical sigils pulsed across the walls like living murals. Calix had only seen it in books. Now he was inside it—and already drowning in it.

Students flooded in—some flying, some teleporting, some vanishing into mist only to reappear at their destinations. Their uniforms shimmered with house colors: deep reds, twilight blues, royal golds. He tugged at his own: a plain black version with the Aerinthal crest embroidered at the collar.

He didn't feel like an Aerinthal. He felt like a shadow in someone else's story.

"Welcome, first-years," boomed a voice from above.

A woman floated down the staircase, her cloak billowing behind her like wings of smoke. She landed softly on the marble floor, her presence commanding instant silence.

"I am Archmistress Vaelora," she said, eyes scanning the crowd. "At Solarae, we do not tolerate weakness. We sharpen talent into power. And power," she paused, "must be earned."

Her gaze landed on Calix.

"For those of you without the Gift…" Her lips curved into something between pity and amusement. "You will find yourselves tested. Brutally."

The other students followed her gaze. Calix felt their stares—some curious, some mocking, most indifferent. He wanted to sink into the floor. Or maybe leap off the tower and hope the wind caught him.

Later that morning, the first class was Aether Combat Basics, held in a massive coliseum that floated in the clouds, ringed with magical barriers.

"Form pairs," barked the instructor, a grizzled ex-warrior with a glowing prosthetic arm.

Calix barely had time to turn before someone shoved him forward.

"Let the runt fight me," Thorian said, grinning.

Laughter rippled through the class.

The instructor raised an eyebrow. "The prince wants to spar an ungifted?"

"I want to demonstrate how low powerlessness can fall," Thorian said.

Calix's hands clenched. He could walk away. He should walk away. But then he remembered the pirate tales—heroes who stood tall even when they were outnumbered and outmatched.

He stepped into the ring.

Thorian didn't wait. A burst of fire exploded from his palm, fast and hot. Calix barely rolled to the side, coughing from the heat.

"Try not to die," Thorian called.

Calix darted forward, feinting left, then pivoted low. He couldn't hit with magic—but he could think, move, fight. He'd trained in secret with the palace guards, snuck books on battle forms, mimicked what he saw in duels.

He landed a blow to Thorian's ribs.

The class gasped.

Thorian's smile vanished.

The next hit wasn't fire—it was a wave of pure force. It threw Calix across the arena, slamming him into the barrier. Pain bloomed across his side.

"Enough!" the instructor barked. "This is training, not assassination."

Calix coughed, pulled himself up, and stood—shaking, but standing.

For the first time, the class looked at him with something more than mockery.

He'd lasted longer than they expected.

That night, Calix lay on the roof of his dormitory, bandages wrapped around his chest. He looked up at the stars above Solarae—so close they looked like they might touch him if he reached high enough.

He didn't have magic.He didn't have bloodlines.But he had a dream.

And one day, he'd fly—not with power, but with courage. With skill. With a ship of his own. A name of his own.

The skies were waiting.