The afternoon sun filtered through the orchard in thin, fractured lines, slipping between leaves heavy with dust and late summer heat. Somewhere beyond the stone fence, the city murmured—vendors shouting, metal clashing, distant laughter—but here, under the old apricot tree, the world felt paused.
Lucien lay on his back in the grass, one arm folded beneath his head, the other loosely gripping a thin book whose pages fluttered with the breeze.
His hair—longer than most boys his age dared to keep—spilled freely against the ground, strands of icy blue catching the light like moonlit ink. A single dark thread bound part of it near his nape, more habit than fashion. It kept the wind from tangling everything. Wind always seemed drawn to him, even when he wished it wouldn't be.
Do you think the sun shines because it's free," Lucien said suddenly, eyes fixed on the sky, "or because it has no choice?"
Across from him, Lyana paused mid-page.
She was sitting upright, legs crossed, the book balanced easily in her hands. Where Lucien was quiet, she was expressive—every emotion passing openly across her face. She frowned now, tilting her head.
"…What are you even talking about, Lucien?"
He turned his head slightly, enough to see her upside down. "Nothing important."
"That's what you always say before saying something weird."
Lucien didn't respond immediately. His eyes drifted back to the sky, following a cloud slowly tearing itself apart.
Lyana sighed and shook her head. "Forget it. You'll explain later. You always do."
She glanced back down at the book, fingers brushing the worn cover. "Anyway—look what I found."
Lucien rolled onto his side. "Another history book?"
"Yes," she said proudly. "And before you say it—this one isn't boring."
"That's what you said about the last three."
"Those weren't boring. You just don't like reading about things that already happened."
"I like reading about things that still matter."
Lyana smirked. "Then you'll like this."
She flipped the book around so he could see the title, the letters faded and scratched as if someone had tried to erase them.
Ashfall.
Lucien blinked. "Ashfall?"
"You seriously don't know?" She looked offended. "You've never heard of Ashfall Night?"
"No," he said slowly. "Should I?"
Lyana hesitated.
That hesitation—small, almost unnoticeable—made Lucien sit up.
"…Lyana?"
She swallowed, her fingers tightening around the book. "They don't teach it. Not properly. This book barely mentions it either."
"Mentions what?"
She leaned closer, lowering her voice even though the garden was empty.
"According to the records," she said, "Ashfall Night was the night he died."
Lucien frowned. "Who?"
She winced. "Don't say it so loudly."
"There's no one here."
"That doesn't matter."
She glanced around anyway, as if the trees themselves might be listening. When she spoke again, it was barely above a whisper.
"Cael Ashfall."
The name settled into the air like falling soot.
Lucien felt it—not fear exactly, but a pressure behind his eyes, like the world had shifted half a step out of alignment.
"…Why is saying his name treason?" he asked.
Lyana's voice trembled now, despite her trying to sound brave. "They say he slaughtered entire cities. Experimented on people—mages, civilians, even newborns. Not for war. Not for conquest. Just to see what would happen."
Lucien's fingers curled into the grass.
"He crossed into demon continents," Lyana continued, breath quickening, "and left rivers of blood there too. That's why his name is forbidden everywhere. Kingdoms, churches, academies—no one speaks it."
She shut the book hard. "History calls it justice. But no one writes what came after."
Lucien stared at the closed pages.
What happens when someone has freedom without consequence?
Is that what monsters are?
Before he could speak, a voice cut through the tension.
"Kids! Come here before it gets warm!"
Mirelle stepped out onto the porch, a gentle smile on her face, a bowl of freshly cut watermelon balanced in her hands. The smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
"I brought snacks," she said. "And don't tell me you've been lying in the dirt again, Lucien."
Lyana jumped to her feet. "He started it!"
Lucien exhaled and stood, brushing grass from his clothes. "I was thinking."
"That explains everything," Lyana muttered.
They gathered around the small wooden table as Mirelle set the bowl down.
She looked at them both carefully. "What were you talking about?"
Lucien hesitated. Just for a second.
"Ashfall Night," he said.
The change in Mirelle was immediate.
Her hands froze.
Then she straightened, her voice calm but firm. "That's not something you should be discussing."
"Why?" Lyana asked. "It's history."
Mirelle met Lucien's eyes. There was fear there. Not for herself.
"You're both fifteen," she said. "Some knowledge comes with weight. You don't need that weight yet."
She softened, brushing Lucien's hair back gently. "Especially you."
Lyana opened her mouth to argue, but Mirelle cut her off.
"Tomorrow morning," she continued, "you'll both wake early. The academy entrance assessment is at dawn."
Lyana's eyes lit up. "Finally!"
Lucien nodded slowly.
"The test measures compatibility," Mirelle said. "Not just power. The world responds differently to different people."
Lucien felt something stir faintly inside him—like wind pressing against a closed door.
"We've been practicing," Lyana said proudly. "I'll be the strongest fire mage they've seen."
She laughed. "Lucien can't even beat me in a duel."
"That's because you don't follow rules," Lucien replied flatly.
Mirelle smiled despite herself. "And you, Lucien? What path will you walk?"
He thought of the way the wind sometimes refused him. Of how it listened—but didn't obey.
"…I'll focus on wind," he said. "For now."
Footsteps sounded from the gate.
"Welcome back, Dad!" Lyana shouted, already running.
Roven entered the garden, travel cloak still on his shoulders, eyes warm and tired. Lyana slammed into him playfully.
"You took too long," she complained.
Roven laughed. "Next time I'll ask the roads to move faster."
His gaze shifted to Lucien, and he paused.
"…Last time I saw you, your hair wasn't this long."
Lucien tilted his head slightly.
"In six months," Roven continued, "it's reached your stomach. Still shines like the moon, though."
Lyana burst out laughing. "He looks like my sister! Look at that hair!"
Lucien shot her a look. "I'm one month older. Call me big brother."
She grinned wider. "Dream on."
Roven chuckled, then his expression grew serious.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we leave for the academy. Professor Archon will arrive in the morning. We'll travel together."
Lucien didn't miss the way his father avoided his eyes when he said the name.
That night, as Lucien lay awake, the wind brushed against the window.
For a moment, it felt like something was watching.
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You didn't choose this story.
It chose you.