It was a warm late afternoon. Golden light filtered through the garden branches, casting trembling shadows on the stones. Ashen stood before Caldor, arms stretched forward, focused.
A feather floated in the air.
Just a feather. But it moved... without touching the ground.
Ashen was sweating, jaw clenched, the veins in his temples throbbing.
— Gently, said Caldor in a calm voice. Don't force it. Magic isn't an order. It's a conversation.
Ashen closed his eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled.
And the feather, slowly, descended. It landed in his palm.
He opened his eyes again, panting. A shiver ran through him. No pain. No fire. But a new shiver. Something he had never known.
— Did you feel it? asked Caldor.
Ashen slowly nodded.
— It was like... a tension in the air. Like an invisible thread tied to my fingers.
— That thread, said Caldor, is your will. It's what you must learn to master. You don't have magic in your blood... but you have something else. You have an old, compressed anger. And sometimes, anger can become power.
Ashen murmured:
— And if it slips out of control?
— Then you will hurt. Yourself, and others. But if you tame it...
He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.
— ...you can change the world.
That night, Ashen stayed awake for a long time, sitting on the windowsill of his room. The sky was clear, pierced with timid stars. He looked at the distant city, its lights, its rooftops, its murmurs.
A memory came back: the taste of blood in his mouth, the laugh of a noble, the cold chain around his neck.
Then the feather.
Caldor had handed him a new world. But Ashen knew that world would never truly forget what he had been.
He asked the void a question:
— Can one really be anything other than what they've suffered?
Silence gave no answer.
But deep in his chest, something vibrated. A spark. Weak. Unstable.
But alive.
The next day, he entered the library and saw a group of noble students whispering. He knew them. They didn't like him. Not really. But they didn't dare confront him directly.
Not when Caldor was around.
One of them, a boy with black hair and a haughty gaze, deliberately dropped an inkwell near Ashen's feet.
— Here, he said. You forgot to crawl, rat.
Ashen looked at him. But said nothing. He bent down, cleaned up, and stood back up without a word.
But in his mind, voices whispered.
Make him suffer. Humiliate him like they humiliated you. You can, now.
He closed his eyes.
No.
Not now.
Not yet.
Later, Caldor observed him in silence as Ashen trained alone in the garden, repeating a light spell. A small flicker shimmered at his fingertips.
— He's progressing faster than expected, said a voice behind the old mage.
A woman had just appeared, dressed in a green robe, a royal insignia on her chest.
— Too fast, even, she added.
— He has no hereditary power, Caldor explained. No noble lineage. But his will... it's like a blade sharpened on the stone of pain.
The woman looked at him for a long time.
— He could enter the Royal Academy. But you know what that means. There, mistakes aren't forgiven. Nor are origins.
— I know.
She crossed her arms.
— Do you think he's ready?
— Not yet. But he will be.
They watched Ashen, alone in the middle of the garden, a trembling spark at his fingertips.