Pain woke him first.
A hot, wet spike lodged between his ribs every time he breathed. Kael peeled his eyes open to the familiar vaulted ceiling of his bedroom, moonlight slicing through half-closed shutters like silver knives. The sheets under him were soaked (sweat, blood, he couldn't tell anymore).
For one merciful heartbeat he thought the bridge had been a nightmare.
Then memory slammed into him: the sonic pulse, Baron crumpling, Darian's bored smile, Father turning his back.
Kael shot upright. The room spun. His left arm hung useless, shoulder swollen purple. Broken ribs grated. The taste of iron coated his tongue.
Baron.
He swung his legs off the bed, bare feet hitting cold marble. The motion tore a groan from his throat. He didn't care. He staggered to the door, yanked it open, and nearly collided with two white-robed healers stationed outside like statues.
"Young lord, you must—"
"Move."
They reached for him. He shoved past, shoulder-checking one hard enough to send the man stumbling. Pain flared white-hot, but the corridor stretched ahead and he ran, barefoot, blood dripping from the bandage wrapped around his torso.
He skidded to a halt outside Baron's chamber. The double doors were cracked open, soft gold light spilling out. Voices murmured inside—his mother's, low and soothing.
Kael's hand hovered over the handle.
"Kael."
The single word froze him colder than any winter spell. Lord Roderick Draven stood at the end of the hallway, framed by the grand staircase, black cloak pooling like liquid night. Even at this hour he looked immaculate, not a hair out of place.
Kael's fists clenched. He wanted to ignore the summons, to shoulder past and see his brother. But some instincts were carved too deep.
He followed.
The living room was dark except for the city glow bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows. Roderick stood with his back to the room, hands clasped behind him, staring down at the floating districts of High Alerion as though weighing which ones to let burn.
"Do you know what you cost this House tonight?" His father's voice was quiet. That was always worse than shouting.
Kael stayed by the door. "I didn't ask Baron to follow me."
"You never ask. You simply take, and others pay." Roderick turned. Moonlight carved his face into something ancient and merciless. "Six dead guards. My second son in a healing coma. A public embarrassment that will reach every Sky Court by dawn. And for what? So you could play outlaw on a combustion relic?"
Kael's jaw worked. "They came for us. Darian Korrin—"
"Would never have looked twice at a powerless boy if that boy stayed where he belonged." Roderick stepped closer. "You hate this world because it did not choose you. So you spit on its rules, burn its bridges, literally and hope the flames keep you warm. But fire only consumes, Kael. It never creates."
Every word landed like a hammer on raw bone.
"You are a Draven," Roderick continued, relentless. "Act like it, or stop staining the name."
Kael laughed, a cracked sound. "You mean act like a puppet with glowing veins? Smile for the Legions while they measure how brightly I can burn? Pass."
Roderick's eyes narrowed. "Then leave."
The air left Kael's lungs.
"Pack tonight," his father said. "At dawn you will board the transport to the Unified Academy of Sorcery. You will remain there until you awaken or until the faculty declares you hopeless. Either way, you will no longer be my problem."
Kael's voice came out raw. "You're exiling me."
"I am saving what's left of this family from you."
Silence rang louder than any spell.
Roderick walked past him, pausing only to deliver the final blade. "Pray the Academy breaks you gently. The world will not."
The doors closed with a soft, final click.
Kael stood rooted until his legs gave out. He slid down the wall, forehead against his knees, and let the tears come hot and useless.
When he finally pushed into Baron's chamber, the sight nearly broke him all over again.
Baron lay pale against white sheets, chest rising and falling in shallow, enchanted rhythm. Runes crawled over his skin like golden ivy, knitting bone and flesh. Their mother, Lady Elara, sat beside the bed, holding her youngest son's hand as though afraid he'd drift away.
She looked up. Her eyes were red but dry—Dravens didn't cry in front of servants. She opened her arms.
Kael fell into them.
"I'm sorry," he choked against her shoulder. "I'm so sorry."
"Shh." She stroked his hair the way she had when he was five and the mana test came back blank. "He's strong. He'll wake."
"He followed me. Because I'm too weak to protect myself."
"You're not weak," Baron croaked.
Kael jerked upright. His brother's eyes were open—barely slits, but open—golden irises dulled by pain and sedatives.
"You… absolute idiot," Baron rasped, managing half a smile. "Told you… Night Owl was suicide."
Kael laughed through the tears. "You're awake."
"Barely. Mom's healers are terrifying." Baron's gaze flicked to their mother. "Give us a minute?"
Elara kissed both their foreheads and left, closing the door softly.
The brothers looked at each other across the dim room.
"I heard," Baron said quietly. "About the Academy."
Kael's jaw tightened. "I'm not going."
"You are." Baron coughed, winced. "Listen to me for once, yeah? U.A.S. isn't a prison. It's… freedom with better food. You'll meet people who don't care whose son you are. And when you awaken—"
"I'm not awakening, Baron. Seventeen years and nothing. Face it—I'm the family defect."
Baron's eyes hardened. "Then fake it till you make it. Or at least fake it till you can get strong enough to punch Father in his perfect face."
Kael snorted despite himself. "You're delirious."
"Probably." Baron's grin turned sly. "Heard the girls' dorm has a sky-pool."
"Shut up."
They talked until the healers forced Kael out. For a few hours the hollow place inside him was almost quiet.
Family dinner the next evening was a battlefield wearing silk and crystal.
The long table glittered under floating chandeliers. Cousins, aunts, uncles—all pretending last night hadn't happened. Roderick sat at the head like a king on a throne of ice.
Conversation died the moment Kael walked in wearing simple black training gear instead of House robes. He took the empty seat opposite Baron, who was propped up with pillows but smiling like he hadn't almost died.
Roderick raised his glass. "A toast. To new beginnings."
Crystal chimed.
Then, calm as pronouncing sentence: "Kael will depart for the Unified Academy of Sorcery at first light. He will remain until graduation or awakening—whichever comes first."
Silence.
Kael's fork bent in his fist. "No."
Roderick's gaze didn't waver. "You mistake this for a discussion."
"I'm not your show dog to parade in front of the Archons. I'm done playing perfect son."
"You were never playing son. You were playing martyr." Roderick leaned forward. "The Academy is your last chance. Refuse, and you leave this House with nothing—not a coin, not a name."
Kael stood so fast his chair toppled. "Then I'll leave with nothing."
He stormed out to a chorus of gasps.
Baron found him an hour later on the rooftop garden, throwing knives at a target until his wounded side bled through the bandages.
"You're going to pop every stitch," Baron said, limping over.
"Good. Maybe I'll bleed out and save everyone the drama."
Baron sat beside him, wincing. "Look… I get it. Father's a bastard in bespoke armor. But U.A.S. isn't the Legions. Half the students there awakened late. Some never awaken at all and still become legends—tacticians, artificers, monster hunters. You could—"
"I don't want to be a consolation prize legend, Baron. I want…" Kael's voice cracked. "I want to matter on my own terms."
Baron bumped his good shoulder against Kael's. "Then go. And make the Academy regret ever trying to measure you."
Kael huffed a laugh that hurt. "You're annoyingly wise when you're drugged."
"Natural talent."
They sat in silence until the city bells tolled midnight.
Far beyond the floating spires of High Alerion, in the scar-tissue wastelands called the Hollow Front, different bells were ringing.
Alarms.
Void Warden Forward Base Gamma-7 lit up crimson. Armored figures sprinted across floodlit tarmac toward waiting gunships.
Commander Hanzo Reyes stood on the deployment ramp, black-and-silver cloak snapping in rotor-wash. His face was all hard lines and zero patience.
"Talk to me, Scout-Lead."
"Category Nine breach cluster," the scout reported, voice tight. "Twenty-three curseforms, two alphas. They're pushing the old subway tunnels toward Sector 14 civilian zones."
Hanzo's eyes narrowed. "Time to intercept?"
"Seven minutes if we leave now."
"Then we left six minutes ago."
The gunship lifted, six more behind it, engines screaming defiance at the dark.
They hit the tunnels like a meteor storm.
Curseforms poured from cracks in reality—shapes of melted limbs and too many teeth, eyes like dying stars. The air reeked of ozone and rot.
Hanzo dropped first, twin blades igniting violet. He carved through the front line in a blur, severing tendrils that bled black smoke. His squad followed in perfect formation, rune-lances spitting sanctified fire.
An alpha rose from the darkness—towering, plated in bone, mouth splitting vertically to reveal rows of spinning saw-teeth.
Hanzo didn't slow. He sprinted up a fallen pillar, launched, blades crossing in an X. Violet light met bone. The alpha's head hit the ground still screaming.
Thirty seconds later the last curse dissolved into ash.
Hanzo stood amid the carnage, chest barely moving. His squad formed up, bloodied but unbroken.
"Casualties?" he asked.
"None, sir," Lieutenant Korr took a spike to the thigh. He'll walk it off."
Hanzo allowed himself half a smirk. "Good. Pack it up. Debrief at HQ."
Back at Central Citadel, dawn was still hours away when Hanzo strode into the war room. A holographic map of the world floated in the center, red dots blooming like infection.
General Garloth Goldenoid lounged in the command chair, feet on the table, eating candy from a paper bag. Silver hair tied in a messy tail, uniform half-buttoned—he looked like a delinquent who'd stolen a general's coat.
"Yo, kid!" Goldenoid grinned. "Heard you went full blender again."
Hanzo tossed a data shard onto the table. "Nine breach in twelve hours. They're evolving faster. Coordinating."
Goldenoid's grin faded. He straightened, suddenly every inch the second-most dangerous man on the planet.
"How long?" he asked quietly.
"Months. Maybe less. If the King of Curses is really waking up…" Hanzo's hand tightened on his sword hilt. "We're going to need every blade we can get."
Goldenoid stared at the map, candy forgotten.
"Including," he said slowly, "the ones that haven't sparked yet."
Deep beneath the Citadel, in a vault no light had touched for centuries, something vast shifted in its chains.
Black veins pulsed across stone.
A voice, older than mountains, whispered a single name.
Kael.
And the chains began to crack.