Morning came slowly to Greyhart Village.
The skies hung low and heavy, draped in pale clouds that seemed to swallow the sun itself. The air tasted of iron and stone, and the streets—narrow, crooked, cloaked in mist—buzzed with low whispers.
The village sat at the very edge of the Northern Frontier, far from the gilded towers of the Mystic Capital, where the banners of the Noble Houses flew proudly in the wind. Here, they had no banners. No crests. Only scars from wars no one remembered anymore.
And it was here, in the farthest house near the cliffs, that Zayn's family lived.
The house wasn't much to look at—a sagging roof patched with moss, walls faded from wind and rain, and shutters that groaned with every gust. But inside, it was alive with noise.
"You what?!" a sharp voice cried from the kitchen.
Zayn winced as he sat at the table, the worn wood beneath his palms still cool from the morning chill. His mother, Maris, stood before him, eyes blazing beneath her graying dark hair, a cooking spoon still in her hand like a weapon.
"You're telling me," she said slowly, each word like thunder, "that your Grimoire didn't show magic… it chained itself to you?"
Zayn kept his gaze low, staring at the cup of weak tea in front of him.
"Not exactly," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "It was already chained. And it only opened after…"
"After what?" Maris's voice sharpened, but her eyes were worried now, not angry.
Zayn hesitated, his throat dry.
"After it burned me."
A heavy silence settled over the table.
Across from him, his father—Garrick—leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a deep frown carved into his weathered face. Garrick had been a stonemason once, before his back gave out and left him tending the forge for scraps. His hands were thick, fingers rough and scarred from years of labor.
"And now?" Garrick rumbled. "Does it speak to you?"
Zayn froze.
Speak to him? How did his father even—?
"I—" He paused, then nodded, slowly. "Once. Last night. It whispered to me."
Maris's face paled, her lips tightening.
Before she could speak again, the door slammed open.
"Oi! Zayn, you got a cursed book or somethin'?" a young voice called.
In came his younger brother, Riven, barely thirteen, wild-haired and grinning as if he hadn't just kicked the door open. "Everyone in the market's talkin' about it! They said the Arch gave you some dark relic—"
"Enough," Garrick cut in, his voice hard.
Riven stumbled to a stop but kept grinning, clearly enjoying the chaos.
Behind him entered Zayn's older siblings—Darian, the eldest at twenty, tall and sharp-eyed, with broad shoulders and quiet intensity, and Mira, two years younger than Darian, whose striking green eyes missed nothing. Both of them carried themselves differently—more guarded, more… worn.
Mira folded her arms as she leaned against the doorway. "It's true then?"
Zayn didn't answer.
"Of course it's true," muttered their youngest sister, Elsha, peeking out from behind Mira, her big eyes wide with curiosity and fear. "Everyone says Zayn's cursed now…"
"Enough with the curse talk," Maris snapped, her voice shaking. "No one in this house is cursed."
She turned her sharp gaze toward Zayn.
"Whatever that Grimoire is," she said, more softly now, "it's yours. And you'll carry it with pride, like any of us would."
Zayn's chest tightened.
He wasn't sure if it was pride or dread that filled him.
"I didn't ask for it," he muttered bitterly.
"No one asks for the weight they carry," Garrick replied quietly, staring at the fire in the hearth. "We just carry it, Zayn. Or it crushes us."
For a moment, the house was quiet again, only the crackle of the fire filling the space between them.
Then, as if summoned by fate, the church bell in the center of the village began to toll.
Once. Twice. A dozen times.
Mira's eyes narrowed. "That's the Legion's call."
"They wouldn't summon us this early without cause," Darian said, already pulling on his old leather coat. "Something's happening."
Maris's face hardened. "Zayn. You're coming with us."
"But—"
"No but," she said firmly, already tying her shawl around her shoulders. "If this is about the Mystic Legions, you need to hear it too."
Zayn swallowed hard, but nodded.
Moments later, they stepped out into the fog-cloaked streets, their breath misting in the air.
The whole village seemed to flow toward the plaza at the center, drawn by the pealing of the bell. Farmers, blacksmiths, tailors, even the old men who rarely left their chairs by the tavern—they all gathered, eyes anxious.
In the center of the square stood a group of riders, cloaked in the deep blue and silver of the Mystic Legions, their banners marked with the sigil of the Twelfth Order—The Watchers of Frost.
Their captain dismounted, a tall, stern woman with sharp silver hair and cold gray eyes. Her voice carried easily over the crowd.
"By decree of the Thirteen Mystic Orders," she announced, unrolling a scroll, "the Gathering Tournament has been called."
The square erupted in gasps and murmurs.
Zayn's heart stuttered.
The Gathering Tournament.
It was a rite of passage, a brutal competition held only once every decade, where all eligible magic users—regardless of status—were invited to fight for the chance to be chosen by the Legion Captains.
The tournament decided everything.
Your squad.
Your rank.
Your fate.
"All those aged thirteen to twenty are to present themselves within the fortnight," the captain continued. "You will be tested in combat, resilience, and aptitude."
Her eyes swept the crowd, pausing on Zayn for just a heartbeat longer than necessary.
"Those deemed worthy will be claimed by the Orders."
"And those who fail?" a voice from the crowd called.
The captain's lips thinned. "The unworthy shall return to their villages. As they always have."
She turned her steed sharply, giving one final, chilling command:
"Prepare yourselves. The Mystic Legions are watching."
Then they rode off, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence behind them.
Zayn's breath came shallow and quick as he watched them vanish into the mist.
He didn't need to glance at his family to know their faces were grim.
Riven finally broke the silence, whispering under his breath, "This… this is bad, right?"
"Bad?" Mira scoffed, though her voice shook faintly. "It's worse than bad. They'll throw every commoner and outcast into that arena and let them tear each other apart."
"They don't need to," Darian muttered darkly, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Zayn. "Some of us… already have enough enemies."
Zayn barely heard them.
His mind was still reeling from one thought, pounding louder and louder in his skull.
The tournament wasn't just coming.
He'd be dragged into it.
And with his Grimoire—this cursed, chained, empty page—he wasn't just an outcast anymore.
He was a target.
---
Author's Note:
Thank you for reading Chapter 3! This chapter begins to dive into Zayn's family dynamics and shows how the weight of their outcast status affects them all differently. I also introduced the Tournament here—a huge event that'll drive much of the story moving forward.
Next chapter will dive deeper into Zayn's personal fears about the tournament, more magic training, and maybe even a surprise visit from a certain someone watching him from afar...