The grand hall of Astrathen Academy loomed above Dorian like a cathedral of judgment. Its polished marble floors reflected the flickering torchlight, distorting shadows into monstrous shapes that seemed to leer at him. His wrists were bound in glowing magical restraints, inscribed with runes designed not only to suppress his power but to ensure he could not resist. Every step he took toward the Disciplinary Board felt heavier than the last, as if the air itself was conspiring against him.
Before him sat the academy's most formidable instructors, their faces masks of authority and impassive judgment. At the center of the table was Principal Thalric Evandor, a man of sharp, elegant features, shoulder-length dark hair, and a neatly trimmed beard ,seemingly in his early fifties but if course he was much older than that for wizards beyond stage 5 aged differenly,and that was what he was a greater wizard and so was every wizard sitting in the board. His presence commanded obedience as though even the air bent to his will.
"Dorian Vexhall," Thalric's voice cut through the hall like a knife, cold and precise, "you are accused of murdering a classmate in the Mysticwood. How do you plead?"
Dorian opened his mouth to speak. He wanted to explain, to protest, to scream that he was innocent—but the words refused to form. His mind raced through every argument, every piece of evidence he could provide, but he knew it was useless. His peers' stares, sharp and accusing, weighed down on him like iron chains.
Then Lyra stepped forward. His chest tightened. She had been his closest friend, the one person who had understood him in a world that often feared brilliance. And now she betrayed him.
"He planned it," she said, voice steady, filled with conviction. "He wanted to test his power… he killed him."
The betrayal struck him harder than any physical blow. Shock, disbelief, and rage collided in his chest. Every memory of friendship, trust, and warmth turned to ash.
Other students followed, weaving a web of lies and half-truths around him. Every achievement he had earned—the awards, the accolades, the countless nights spent mastering spells—was twisted into proof of his alleged malice. Dorian tried to speak, but no sound came. The room seemed to close around him, suffocating and relentless.
Professor Kaelen, tall and imposing with a reputation for unflinching fairness, finally spoke. "The evidence and testimony are overwhelming. Dorian Vexhall, your actions have violated the sacred laws of this academy. Punishment is inevitable."
After a while of listening to all the statements
Thalric's gaze cut through him like ice. "By the statutes of Vexhall, considering all the evidence presented , the punishment for your alleged crime is, death."
Thalric's tone was absolute leaving no room for argument.
Dorian felt the cold weight of inevitability descend upon him. He had faced challenges before—duels, magical trials, even dangerous experiments—but nothing had prepared him for the absolute finality of this sentence.He tried to think of something to help him in this predicament but nothing came to mind.
A silence fell over the hall, tense and suffocating. Then an elder board member, Master Eryndor Kall, a bald man with a face lined by decades of study and experience, spoke softly. "There is another way. We can spare his life by crushing his magical core. He will live, but never wield magic again a fate surely worse than death."
Thalric considered and finally nodded. "So be it. Spare his life. Crush his core, Ensure he never rises again."
---
The procedure was excruciating. Dorian's chest felt as though invisible hands were crushing him from within. Every nerve screamed as his magical core—once the foundation of his identity—was stripped away. Light, blinding and scorching, flooded his vision. Pain exploded through every limb, searing like molten fire.
He screamed, raw and primal, a sound that echoed off the walls of the grand hall, until at last the light receded and his body went limp. The magic that had defined him, that had made him exceptional, was gone. Hollow. Emptied.
When Dorian opened his eyes, the board members were still there, impassive, confirming his expulsion. He was alive, yes, but he was no longer Dorian Vexhall, prodigy of Astrathen Academy. He was Dorian Vexhall, powerless, abandoned, and forgotten.
---
Outside the academy, the world offered no mercy. The streets of Velmora, once the city that revered his family and admired his potential, now greeted him with contempt and scorn. Citizens turned away, merchants locked their doors, and even beggars eyed him like a rival for scraps. Hunger gnawed at him relentlessly. Cold nights cut through his tattered cloak. Every bruise and cut throbbed in rhythm with his heart, a constant reminder of his vulnerability.
His parents, Lord Alistair Vexhall and Lady Seraphine Vexhall, once proud of his brilliance, had turned their backs entirely. Alistair, a respected judge of Velmora, refused even to meet him. Seraphine's eyes, once full of warmth, now betrayed disgust. They had five other children, less promising, but sufficient to continue the family name. In their eyes, Dorian had no value.
...
Weeks passed in a haze of misery. Dorian scavenged for food in trash heaps, drank from polluted puddles, and slept wherever he could find shelter. Each day was a battle against hunger, the cold, and the city's relentless cruelty. Children spat at him. Drunks mocked him. Gangs shoved him aside for his meager possessions. He was beaten repeatedly, often without reason, and learned quickly that survival meant avoiding attention.
He wandered through alleys and abandoned buildings, studying the rhythm of the city. He learned which merchants were generous enough to discard scraps, which streets were safe at night, which gangs ruled certain districts. Every decision, every movement, became a matter of life and death.
Nights were the hardest. Huddled under broken awnings or in crumbling warehouses, Dorian was haunted by memories: the betrayal of Lyra, the condemnation of his professors, the scorn of his parents. His mind relived the trial endlessly, each accusation replayed like a dagger to the heart.
Yet, even in despair, his mind remained sharp. He analyzed the patterns of the city, studied human behavior, and learned to anticipate threats. He avoided guards, circumvented gang territories. Every small victory—securing a dry spot to sleep, obtaining a piece of bread, evading a thug—was monumental in the harsh world he now inhabited.
Despite his resilience, hopelessness clawed at him relentlessly. He had no magic, no resources, no allies—only his intellect and memories of past glory. Even those felt hollow now. He wandered the streets aimlessly, sometimes for hours without food, often sleeping in the cold, and each day reinforced the bitter reality: the world had no place for him.
One evening, after a particularly brutal encounter with a gang that left him bloodied and bruised, he sat by a murky puddle and stared at his reflection. The face staring back was gaunt, eyes hollow, cheeks sunken. The Dorian Vexhall who had been the pride of his family, the wonder of the academy, the boy destined for greatness—was gone. All that remained was a shadow, a nameless boy struggling to survive.
For the first time, he did not think of revenge. He did not think of reclaiming his power. He did not think of rising again. All he felt was the crushing weight of despair, the gnawing hunger, the relentless cold, and the certainty that the world had rejected him.
The streets of Velmora had become his prison. Shadows were his only companions. And Dorian Vexhall, once prodigy of Vexhall Academy, was left utterly alone, drifting further into a darkness that seemed endless, unsure if he could ever emerge again.
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