The worst part wasn't the mud in his mouth. It wasn't even the broken rib from when Master Torr kicked him during the mock duel.
It was the silence after.
The kind where nobody says a word because they don't think you're worth speaking to.
Kael sat on the edge of the dueling ring, arms wrapped around himself, blood dripping from his nose. His cracked wooden sword lay in the dirt. The others—first-year students like him—whispered from the sidelines, eyes flicking over him like he was a mistake someone forgot to erase.
"Shouldn't he be in the servant's wing?"
"I heard his magic is so low the orb couldn't even detect his bloodline."
"Zero stars. Imagine the shame."
Kael didn't imagine it. He lived it.
Every single day since the ceremony.
The Elite Academy of Arkanis was where bloodlines shone. Children of dragon-tamers, god-touched seers, and elemental warlords trained here. Only the gifted survived.
Kael? He'd been labeled "non-gifted" but allowed to remain for one year—as an observational subject. A pet project.
He got the smallest dorm. No sponsor. No sword training. Just lectures and cleaning duty.
But he didn't leave.
Because something inside him refused to die.
"Get up," barked Master Torr, his armor gleaming even under the cloudy sky. "Or are you waiting for your imaginary powers to rescue you?"
A few students laughed. One even clapped.
Kael wiped his mouth, stood up, and met the man's gaze. "No, sir. Just making sure I remember this moment. It's going to be important later."
Torr blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Nothing," Kael said, smiling—bloody teeth and all.
For a second, the laughter stopped.
Later, after the others left the field, Kael limped to the stone well behind the armory. He dipped his sleeve into the bucket and dabbed at the swelling on his cheek. His reflection in the water was a blur of bruises, split lips, and shame.
And yet… he smiled.
Because just before Torr's boot had slammed into his ribs, Kael had seen something. A shimmer. A flicker in the air around his hand. Not fire. Not wind. Something else. Ancient. Wrong. Hungry.
He didn't know what it was. But it had whispered to him.
You don't need stars to burn the world, Kael.
He'd thought he imagined it.
Until the well water turned black.
The change was subtle. A ripple. Then a faint reflection of something behind him—tall, crowned in shadows, with eyes like dying suns.
Kael spun around.
Nothing.
Just wind. Rain. Silence.
But the voice returned, softer now, curling behind his ear like smoke.
Break their games. Shatter their crowns. I will answer when you bleed.
Kael stared down at his hand.
It trembled.
Not from pain.
From hope.
Twisted, terrifying, impossible hope.