The village was still wrapped in mist when Alexander walked down the dirt path, his satchel slung across his shoulder. Each step felt heavier than the last, though the load he carried was light. Some bread wrapped in cloth, a flask of water, and the small pouch of coins he had been saving for nearly a year. He didn't bring much. He couldn't.
The air smelled of wet earth and burning firewood from chimneys he might never see again. Chickens clucked in distant coops, and the faint sound of Wendy's laughter was somewhere behind him, carried by the wind like a memory that refused to let go. He didn't dare turn back. If he looked at the village again, he wasn't sure he would keep walking.
His heart thudded as he reached the fork in the road. Left would take him to the fields. Right would take him to the train station, and from there, the capital. He tightened his grip on the strap of his satchel.
No note. No goodbyes.
He whispered it to himself like a curse and a promise. His father would wake up, see the empty bed, and understand what had happened. There was nothing left to explain. Words would only bind him.
"I'll come back," Alexander muttered under his breath. "I'll come back as a mage. You'll see."
The words sounded braver than he felt.
The train station was little more than a long wooden platform with a roof of corrugated steel. A few benches lined the side, and a large iron clock ticked in the silence. It was too early for much foot traffic; only a handful of travelers milled about. Farmers with baskets, a pair of merchants with crates tied together by rope, and an old man leaning on his cane.
Alexander kept his head down, though he could feel eyes lingering on him. He was the farmer's boy, the one expected to inherit his father's farm or at least tend the fields. His face was too familiar here.
The ticket counter was run by a short man with thinning hair and a voice like gravel.
"Where to?" the man asked, barely glancing up.
Alexander licked his lips. "Fortdale."
That earned him a look. The man's bushy eyebrows rose slightly, and his gaze lingered on Alexander's worn boots, patched shirt, and the callouses on his hands. Not the appearance of someone bound for the academy.
"You running off to play mage, boy?" the man said, half amusement, half dismissal.
Alexander stiffened but nodded anyway.
The man studied him for a moment longer before shrugging. "Your money spends the same as anyone else's. That'll be two silver and four copper."
Alexander's fingers trembled as he counted out the coins from his pouch. The clink of metal against wood felt like the sound of his childhood being sold off.
The man slid the ticket across the counter and leaned back. "Train leaves at dawn. Don't lose that. Not many seats open for walk-ins."
Alexander muttered a quick thanks, tucked the ticket into his satchel, and stepped away, breathing a sigh of relief.
The train ride itself was long and strange. He had never been on one before. The rumble of iron wheels, the screech of tracks, the sharp whistle splitting the morning air. The car smelled of oil and smoke, mixed with the sweat of passengers pressed close together.
He sat by the window, clutching his satchel, watching the fields blur past. Hills rose and fell, villages scattered across them. The world outside his village seemed endless, each turn of the wheels carrying him further from everything he knew.
For hours, he said nothing. He just stared. He thought about Wendy's frown, his father's silence, and the way the farm would look with one less pair of hands. But the more the landscape changed, the firmer his resolve grew.
No turning back now.
By the time the train screeched into Fortdale, it was nearly dusk. The city loomed against the horizon long before they arrived. Towers of stone and steel, banners flapping in the wind, the glow of magic lamps lining wide streets that stretched further than Alexander's eyes could follow.
He stepped onto the platform and felt his knees weaken.
The capital was alive.
People of every shade and height crowded the station, their clothes finer than anything he had ever seen. Cloaks of silk, armor gleaming in the fading sun, hats adorned with feathers or jewels. Merchants shouted prices, guards barked orders, and somewhere nearby, a street performer made sparks fly from his hands to entertain laughing children.
Alexander's eyes widened. Skin tones he had only read about in books surrounded him. Deep brown, pale white, olive, gold. Accents clashed in the air, from sharp northern drawls to rolling southern tones. The capital was not one place, but all places colliding together.
And then he saw them. The mages.
Not in storybooks. Not in dusty old tomes from the village library. Real mages, walking among the crowd.
One group strode down the street clad in dark blue cloaks, each bearing the same crest over their hearts. Their boots thudded in unison, blades at their sides, a faint shimmer of mana lingering around their bodies like heat haze. Another group emerged from a side alley, clothes torn, carrying crystal shards and monster cores in sacks. One man's arm was wrapped in blood-soaked cloth, and his partner carried him without effort.
Dungeon divers.
Alexander couldn't stop staring. His chest tightened with a mix of fear and exhilaration. He was here. He was standing where they stood. And if he succeeded, he would become one of them.
The academy gates were easy enough to find. He only had to follow the flow of richly dressed young men and women heading in the same direction.
Fortdale Academy stood at the heart of the city, its gates wrought from black iron, its walls tall and carved with runes that glowed faintly in the evening light. Towers jutted into the sky, windows gleaming, and banners bearing the academy's crest. An open hand grasping a flame hung proudly above the entrance.
The crowd at the gate made Alexander's stomach knot.
These weren't just villagers chasing dreams. Many of the hopefuls arrived in carriages drawn by gleaming horses, escorted by armored knights. Others were flanked by butlers who carried their luggage as if it were nothing. Their clothes screamed of wealth and power. Robes embroidered with gold, cloaks lined with fur, boots polished so brightly they reflected torchlight.
Alexander shifted his weight, suddenly aware of his patched trousers and the dirt still clinging to his boots. He tugged at his sleeve, wishing it didn't look so thin.
But he didn't turn back.
He marched toward the registration hall, the sound of his boots drowned by the chatter of dozens of voices.
Inside, long tables were manned by proctors with quills and scrolls. Each student stepped forward, presented their documents, and signed up for the two tests. Written and awakening.
When it was his turn, the proctor barely glanced at him.
"Name."
"Alexander Stark."
"Village?"
"Greenwick."
The proctor scratched the name down with little care. "Exams begin tomorrow. Written first. Awakening after. Next."
And just like that, he was dismissed. A single name lost in a sea of hundreds.
By nightfall, Alexander found a small inn a few streets away from the academy. The common room buzzed with laughter and clinking mugs. The air was thick with roasted meat, sweat, and pipe smoke.
He sat in the corner with a bowl of stew, listening.
Conversations drifted through the air. Some were about money. Some about politics. But one topic kept coming back, whispered and serious.
"Another rift opened near Ashfall."
"Dungeon are unstable nearly everywhere. My guild says we're pulling back for a while."
"Unstable? More like death traps. My cousin didn't come back from the last dive."
Alexander's hand tightened around his spoon. Dungeons. The very thing he wanted to face as a mage were growing more dangerous. Was this the world he was running toward?
He leaned back, letting the voices blur together. His body ached from travel, but his mind raced with anticipation. Tomorrow wasn't about dungeons, or even about the capital. Tomorrow was about him.
He climbed the narrow stairs to his rented room, lay down on the thin mattress, and stared at the ceiling.
The academy. The awakening. His chance.
Sleep claimed him slowly, but with it came a single thought that refused to fade.
Tomorrow decides everything.