The Grand Hall of House Thorne was built to intimidate.
Massive marble columns stretched thirty feet high, each one carved with the sigils of generations past—lions wreathed in flames, phoenixes rising from ash, swords crossed over shields. Crystalline chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, their light amplified by Essence-infused gems that cast everything in a cold, ethereal glow. Tapestries depicting the House's legendary victories lined the walls: Great-grandfather Aldric slaying the Crimson Drake, Grandfather Veros leading the charge at the Battle of Ember Pass, Father—Duke Cassian Thorne—standing triumphant over the Tide of Darkness twenty years ago.
Every inch of this place screamed legacy. Power. Greatness.
And I was about to disappoint all of it.
I stood in the center of the hall, exactly where the family crest was inlaid into the marble floor—a roaring lion with a crown of fire. Fitting, really. The lion represented strength and nobility. The fire represented magical prowess. House Thorne had produced Archmages for six consecutive generations. Our bloodline was thick with powerful Essence, our affinities legendary.
Everyone except me, apparently.
"Caelum." My father's voice cut through the silence like a blade through silk. Duke Cassian Thorne sat on his elevated chair—not quite a throne, but close enough—at the far end of the hall. He was a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and radiating the kind of presence that made people instinctively want to kneel. His hair was silver at the temples, his face weathered by battle, and his eyes... his eyes held the weight of expectation that had crushed lesser men.
Behind him stood my legitimate half-siblings: Marcus, the eldest at twenty-three, already an Adept-level fire mage with a secondary affinity for lightning. His arms were crossed, a smirk playing at his lips. Beside him was Lyanna, nineteen, an ice mage of uncommon talent whose Domain had manifested early at age seventeen—a prodigy even by Thorne standards. She looked at me with something between pity and disgust.
To the Duke's left stood the council members of House Thorne: elderly mages, military generals, the house treasurer, and several lesser nobles who served our family. They watched me like vultures waiting for a corpse to stop twitching.
"Step forward," Father commanded.
I did, my boots clicking against marble. Each step echoed in the oppressive silence. I was sixteen years old, tall but lean where Marcus was built like a warrior, with dark hair that never quite stayed in place and gray eyes that I'd inherited from my mother—whoever she was. Father never spoke of her. The servants whispered she'd been a minor noble's daughter, a brief indiscretion that resulted in my birth. I'd been raised in the house but always kept separate, always reminded that I was illegitimate, that I had to work twice as hard to earn half the respect.
I'd been fine with that arrangement. I could work hard. I could prove myself.
I just needed my magic to awaken.
"Today marks three months since your fifteenth birthday," Father said, his voice devoid of warmth. "Three months since the Rite of Essence. Three months since you stood in the Awakening Chamber with the other children of noble houses and failed to manifest even a spark of power."
I kept my face neutral, even as shame burned in my gut. The Rite of Essence was sacred in Valdrian. At age fifteen, every person was taken to special chambers built on Essence nexus points—places where magic flowed strongest. The ritual was simple: you stood in the center, opened your soul to the world's Essence, and let your affinity manifest.
Most people awakened immediately. Fire, water, earth, air, lightning, ice, light, shadow—the basic affinities appeared as obvious displays. The talented ones manifested rare affinities: space, time, gravity, sound, blood, bone. The true prodigies awakened with compound affinities or unique manifestations that defied categorization.
I'd stood in that chamber for six hours while the priests chanted and the Essence swirled around me like a hurricane. I'd felt it—I swear I'd felt something stirring in my chest, something vast and cold and hungry. But when the ritual ended, there was nothing. No light, no display, no manifestation.
Just silence and the disappointed faces of everyone watching.
"We gave you time," Father continued. "Late bloomers exist. Sometimes the Essence needs weeks or months to fully settle. We've consulted with the best magical physicians, the most learned scholars, even a traveling Sage from the Verdant Deep."
I knew where this was going. I'd known since the third physician had examined me last week, his face grave as he explained to Father that my Essence channels were "atrophied" and "non-responsive." That my soul depth was "insufficient for magical manifestation." That I was, in technical terms, defective.
"Their conclusion is unanimous," Father said, and now there was something in his voice—not quite satisfaction, but certainly not regret. "You are Unawakened. You will remain Unawakened. Your soul lacks the capacity to channel Essence in any meaningful way."
The words hung in the air like an execution sentence.
Marcus laughed—actually laughed. "I told you, Father. Bastard blood runs thin. Mother always said his whore of a mother probably had no magical lineage whatsoever."
"Marcus," Father said, but it was a mild rebuke at best. He turned his attention back to me. "Caelum Thorne, by the authority granted to me as Duke and head of this House, I hereby revoke your status as a member of House Thorne's direct lineage."
I felt the words like a physical blow, even though I'd been expecting them.
"You will retain the Thorne name, as you were born under this roof," Father continued, his tone purely administrative now. "However, you will no longer be recognized as my son in any official capacity. You will not inherit property, title, or position. You will not represent this House in any political or social function. You are, effectively, a servant with a noble surname."
"How generous," Lyanna murmured, just loud enough for me to hear.
Father ignored her. "You will be assigned to the eastern wing, where you will perform duties appropriate to your... capabilities. The steward will find suitable work for you. Dismissed."
Just like that. Sixteen years of existing in this house, reduced to a two-minute pronouncement.
I should have felt devastated. Should have fallen to my knees, begged for another chance, pleaded for mercy. That's what they expected. I could see it in their faces—the anticipation of my humiliation.
Instead, I bowed. Perfectly formal, perfectly composed.
"As you command, Your Grace," I said, my voice steady.
Father's eyes narrowed slightly. He'd wanted me to break. My composure disappointed him more than my lack of magic ever could.
I turned and walked toward the exit, my spine straight, my steps measured. Every eye in the room followed me.
"You know," Marcus called out, unable to help himself, "I heard they're hiring stable boys in the city. Might be good work for you. At least horses don't need magic to shovel their shit."
Laughter rippled through the assembled nobles. I didn't turn around, didn't react. I just kept walking.
Let them laugh. Let them think I was broken.
Because here's what none of them knew, what none of them could possibly understand:
I had awakened during that Rite of Essence.
Something had stirred in my soul, something vast and terrible and utterly unlike anything I'd read about in all the family's texts on magical affinities. When the Essence had swirled around me in that chamber, I hadn't just felt it—I'd felt the opposite of it. The absence. The space between. The void where magic ended and nothingness began.
And in that moment, that terrifying moment when the priests were chanting and the noble families were watching and my father's expectations were crushing down on me like a physical weight, I'd felt that void reach out. I'd felt it touch the Essence around me.
And I'd felt the Essence... disappear.
Not burn out like fire or freeze like ice or shatter like lightning. Just cease to exist, as if it had never been there at all.
I'd panicked. Pulled back, shut down whatever was happening, terrified of what it might mean. The void had retreated back into my chest, coiling around my heart like a sleeping serpent.
The priests had sensed nothing. The Essence-detection crystals they used showed no reading. As far as anyone could tell, I was completely, utterly, mundanely Unawakened.
They were wrong.
I pushed open the massive doors of the Grand Hall and stepped into the corridor beyond. The moment the doors closed behind me, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
My hands were shaking. I clenched them into fists.
Three months. I'd spent three months pretending to be powerless while secretly trying to understand what was happening to me. Late at night, in my room, I'd practiced. Just small things at first—reaching for that cold presence in my chest, trying to make it respond.
It was unlike anything described in the magical texts. Fire mages talked about heat blooming in their cores. Water mages described a flowing sensation. Earth mages felt solid and grounded. Everyone described their magic as additive, as something that filled them up and overflowed into the world.
Mine was the opposite.
When I reached for my power, I felt empty. Not in a bad way, not like something was missing, but like I was creating a space where things could un-exist. And when I pushed that feeling outward...
I'd tested it three nights ago. Just a small experiment. I'd taken one of Marcus's practice dummies from the training yard—a wooden post wrapped in enchanted cloth that glowed when struck with magical attacks, measuring their strength.
I'd placed my hand on it and reached for that void inside me.
The dummy had simply... stopped existing. Not burned, not crushed, not shattered. One moment it was there, the next there was nothing. Not even ash. Just empty air where solid matter used to be.
I'd stared at that empty space for ten minutes, my heart pounding, simultaneously terrified and exhilarated.
This wasn't a recognized affinity. This wasn't in any of the categories. This was something else entirely.
And I had no idea what to do with it.
"Rough day?"
I jerked my head up. Leaning against the corridor wall was Sera, one of the house's senior maids. She was in her late twenties, pretty in a sharp-featured way, with auburn hair tied back and eyes that always seemed to see too much. Unlike most of the servants, she'd never treated me with obvious disdain. Pity, maybe, but never cruelty.
"You heard?" I asked.
"The whole house heard. These halls echo, and the Duke wasn't exactly keeping his voice down." She pushed off the wall and walked toward me, her expression sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Caelum. That was... harsh."
"It was expected."
"Doesn't make it less harsh." She studied my face. "You're taking this remarkably well. Most people would be crying or raging or both."
I shrugged, not trusting myself to say more.
Sera tilted her head, her sharp eyes narrowing. "You're hiding something."
My heart skipped. "What?"
"I don't know. But I've been watching you these past three months. Everyone else sees a failed noble, but I see someone who's planning something." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Whatever it is, be careful. Your father may have cast you out of the family, but you're still under his roof. If he thinks you're a threat or an embarrassment, he won't hesitate to remove you entirely."
"Remove me?"
"Accidents happen, Caelum. Especially to bastards no one will miss."
The casual way she said it sent a chill down my spine. She was right, of course. I had no legal protections now, no family to avenge me if something happened. I was convenient to keep around as a servant, but the moment I became inconvenient...
"Thank you for the warning," I said quietly.
She nodded and turned to leave, then paused. "For what it's worth? I hope you prove them all wrong."
Then she was gone, her footsteps fading down the corridor.
I stood there for a long moment, letting her words sink in. She was right. I couldn't stay here. Not long-term. The eastern wing assignment was temporary at best. Eventually, Father would tire of having his failure of a son hanging around, a constant reminder of his one mistake.
I needed to leave. Needed to get away from House Thorne, away from this city, away from anyone who knew me as the Unawakened bastard.
But I couldn't just run. I had no money, no connections, no skills beyond basic combat training and academic knowledge. I'd be dead in a week if I tried to survive in the wilds of Valdrian.
Unless...
An idea began to form, dangerous and desperate.
The Crimson Wastes. The territory controlled by Solarius the Devastator.
Everyone knew the stories. Fifty years ago, Solarius had begun his campaign of conquest and destruction. He'd burned cities, enslaved populations, and absorbed the Essence of everyone he killed. He'd gone from a common fire mage to a Sovereign to something beyond—a Transcendent, a walking apocalypse.
The Allied Covenant had been fighting him for decades, but they were losing. Slowly, inexorably, Solarius was winning. His Ashen Empire expanded every year, consuming more territory, more resources, more lives.
The Crimson Wastes were the frontline of that expansion. Lawless, dangerous, filled with refugees, deserters, criminals, and monsters that fed on the ambient Essence of so much death.
But they were also far from here. Far from Father, far from House Thorne, far from anyone who knew or cared who I was supposed to be.
And more importantly, the Wastes were saturated with Essence. Violent, unstable Essence from all the death and destruction. If I wanted to learn to control this void inside me, I needed to test it in a place where magic ran wild and no one would ask questions about unusual abilities.
It was insane. It was probably suicidal.
It was also my only real option.
I started walking toward the eastern wing, my mind racing with plans. I'd need supplies—food, water, basic equipment. I'd need a weapon, something I could use while I learned to control my power. I'd need to leave quietly, without anyone noticing until I was already gone.
The eastern wing was exactly as depressing as I'd expected. While the rest of House Thorne was all marble and crystal and opulence, this section was purely functional. Plain stone walls, narrow corridors, small rooms designed for servants and staff. My new quarters were barely larger than a closet—a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a single window overlooking the servant's courtyard.
I sat on the bed, which creaked under my weight, and allowed myself exactly one minute of self-pity.
One minute to remember what it felt like to walk through those grand halls as someone who belonged there. One minute to mourn the future I'd imagined—becoming an Archmage like my ancestors, earning Father's respect through achievement rather than birth, making something of myself despite being a bastard.
One minute to feel the full weight of being cast aside, deemed worthless, reduced to nothing.
Then the minute was up.
I stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the darkening sky. Somewhere out there, beyond the city walls, beyond the civilized lands, the Crimson Wastes waited. A hell on earth where Solarius's forces hunted and killed anyone they found.
And that's exactly where I needed to go.
Because if I was going to learn to master the void, I needed to test it against real threats. Against real magic. Against real death.
I needed to become strong enough that no one could ever dismiss me again.
Strong enough that Father would regret his words.
Strong enough that the name Caelum Thorne would mean something.
I reached for that cold presence in my chest, that sleeping void. It stirred, responding to my will, and for just a moment I felt it—the infinite emptiness, the space where existence ended.
Power. Raw, terrifying, incomprehensible power.
I smiled in the darkness of my tiny room.
They thought I was nothing.
They had no idea what nothing could become