"Do you know what's worse than being weak?"
The voice echoed through the grand hall, sharp and clear.
"Being useless."
The laughter that followed stabbed deeper than any sword.
Arlen Wicks stood in the middle of the stone hall, head down, face burning, fingers clenched so tight around his satchel strap they turned white. His heart pounded hard enough to crack ribs, but he didn't say anything.
He didn't get the chance.
His brother stepped forward—Marven Wicks, second eldest, full-time knight, part-time jerk.
"You spent five years crafting chairs, Arlen," Marven said, hands on his belt like a hero. "Chairs. Not even magic ones. Just... chairs."
Another snort of laughter came from their cousin, Fel.
"And birdhouses. Don't forget those," Fel added. "He made one that fell apart in the rain. The bird sued."
The entire Wicks clan burst into laughter.
Arlen didn't laugh. He didn't even blink. His eyes were locked on the floor, like if he looked up, he might say something stupid. Like if he made eye contact, the last five years of failure would punch him right in the face.
"Silence," came a low voice from the throne-like seat at the end of the hall.
Everyone froze. The room dimmed like the air itself bowed.
Their father, Baron Kalden Wicks, stood up. His armor clicked with every step as he walked down the stairs toward his youngest son.
His face was stone. Sharp lines. Hard eyes.
"You have no sword skill," Kalden said. "You have no magical talent. You have no courage. And now, we know... you have no pride."
The words hit harder than the laughter.
Arlen finally looked up.
"Pride?" he said. "For what? Being something I'm not?"
Another wave of silence. But not respectful silence. The kind that came before a storm.
"You are a Wicks," Kalden growled. "We are warriors. We defend the borders. We raise knights and battlemages. And you... play with wood."
"I build," Arlen said, his voice rising slightly. "I create. You'd rather I smash things and bleed for it?"
"Better than hammering nails like a peasant."
That came from his uncle. A large man with more beard than chin.
"You built a door that didn't open," another voice muttered.
Arlen snapped. "It opened sideways! It was experimental!"
More laughter.
That was it. That was the moment he knew.
They weren't going to understand. Not ever.
He wasn't one of them. And maybe he never was.
Kalden reached into his coat. Pulled out a folded piece of parchment. Sealed with the family crest.
"This is your exile notice," he said coldly. "You are to leave the estate by sunrise. Take nothing. You will be stripped from the family registry."
Arlen stared at the letter. His throat dried up.
"You're—kicking me out?"
Kalden didn't blink. "You offer us no value. You are dead weight. A dreamer."
"I fixed your chair last week," Arlen said, trying to laugh. "The one you broke throwing it at a servant?"
"You sanded it."
"Exactly! It doesn't squeak anymore!"
Kalden tore the seal open and dropped the letter on the floor in front of him.
"Out. Now. Or we drag you out."
No one stepped forward to speak for him.
Not his mother.
Not his siblings.
Not even Old Grag the gardener, who once gave him free muffins.
No one.
Arlen swallowed.
Then, slowly, he bent down. Picked up the letter.
His fingers trembled as he tucked it into his coat.
"Fine," he said.
No begging.
No dramatic speech.
Just that.
Fine.
He walked out alone.
The main gate creaked as it closed behind him, sealing him out like a bad smell.
The Wicks manor sat on a hill, looking down over the village like it owned the world. And maybe it did. Arlen had lived here his whole life. Every stone path. Every training dummy. Every tree.
Gone.
He kept walking. Past the stables. Past the empty courtyard. Past the servants who all pretended not to see him.
One looked up briefly—a stable boy. Gave a slight nod.
Arlen nodded back.
It was the only kindness he got.
He didn't cry.
Okay, he almost cried.
But it wasn't because he was weak. It was because the moment he stepped outside the estate gates, the rain hit like a slap to the face.
Cold. Heavy. Instant regret.
He pulled up his hood.
His satchel wasn't packed. He wasn't allowed to pack. Just grabbed a few things on the way out—his small toolkit, some wire, a wooden compass he'd carved when he was twelve, and one single piece of bread.
It was slightly moldy.
Perfect metaphor.
"Alright," Arlen muttered to himself, "let's think. Where do exiled trash craftsmen go?"
The only answer his brain gave was away.
He walked.
He didn't know where.
Didn't matter.
Just away.
The road into the forest wasn't used much. Probably because the forest was dangerous and full of wolves and bandits and bears with anger issues.
But it was quiet.
That was all he wanted right now.
Just quiet.
Just him, the rain, and the fact that his entire life just shattered like a cheap cup.
He found an old log and sat down. The wet soaked through instantly. His butt was now swamp-grade damp. He didn't care.
He pulled out the letter.
Read it again.
"You are no longer part of this family. You are hereby exiled. May you find your own path."
He snorted.
"Yeah. Thanks, dad."
He crumpled the letter, then uncrumpled it, then crumpled it again.
It felt wrong to throw it away. Like tossing out the last piece of himself.
But it also felt good.
He dropped it in the mud and stood.
His stomach growled.
His bread was soggy.
His future was missing.
And his only skill was crafting furniture no one wanted.
He took a deep breath.
"…Alright. That's enough self-pity for today."
He slung his satchel back on and stepped off the road.
Into the woods.
Into the unknown.
Far behind him, the manor windows glowed warmly. Fires. Meals. Family.
But Arlen didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
Because he wasn't going to be just a crafter anymore.
He wasn't going to beg for a place at their table.
He was going to build his own.
And maybe, just maybe—when they saw it...
They'd wish they hadn't thrown him away.