The sky above Ashmoor was a cold, endless gray. Clouds stretched heavy and low, pressing down on the small village like a shroud. The fields beyond the scattered cottages were darkened by recent rains, the earth soft and clinging to the worn boots of whoever dared tread it. The air smelled faintly of smoke and wet stone.
Kael Riven stood at the edge of the village square, watching the villagers pass by without so much as a glance his way. Most didn't remember his name anymore. Some might have forgotten the face of the boy who had once been part of a family that once lived there.
But Kael remembered everything.
The Night Ashmoor Burned
He was only nine the night the flames took his family from him.
The fire had come without warning. A flash of blue light in the darkness, then screams — the frantic cry of his mother calling his name, the heavy footsteps of his father charging toward the danger, and then the searing heat that ripped through everything.
Kael had hidden beneath the floorboards of their small cottage, his hands clenched around a small wooden charm his mother had given him—a charm said to hold a spark of protection.
But it hadn't been enough.
When the fire died, the village was left scarred, and Kael was left alone. No parents. No siblings. Just ashes and silence.
Years of Survival
After that night, the village whispered rumors. Rogue sorcerers. Dark magic gone wrong. A curse brought upon the family. None of it mattered to Kael.
He learned quickly how to fend for himself—stealing food when he had to, working odd jobs for the villagers who tolerated him at best, ignoring the cruel words from other children who called him cursed or worse.
Joren was one of the few who stayed by his side—a boy just a year older, rough as the rocks they climbed and fierce as the storms that swept the mountains.
"You're still here," Joren said grinning, handing Kael a crust of stale bread.
Kael's stomach growled, but he didn't smile back. Not today.
"I'm just waiting," Kael said softly.
"For what?"
"For a miracle," Kael answered.
The Letter
That miracle came on a day as gray and cold as any other.
A messenger from the city of Riverhall arrived, riding a black stallion with silver armor glinting faintly under the dull sun. He carried a sealed envelope, heavy with wax and embossed with a symbol Kael barely recognized—a tree of silver with branches of light.
Kael's hands trembled when he took it. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure the whole village could hear.
He broke the seal. The letter inside was written in a hand so delicate it was almost like a whisper.
"Kael Riven of Ashmoor," it began,
"You have been selected to attend Highwind Academy of the Arcane Arts. Report to the Stone Gate in Riverhall by the third dawn. Bring nothing but your will. You will be tested."