Chapter 1 – The Boy With No Spark
The forest groaned with the weight of Karl Draven's training.
He had looped a length of rope around the trunk of a fallen oak and dragged it across the clearing, sweat rolling down his neck, boots digging deep furrows in the dirt. Birds scattered in a frenzy above him, their wings beating against the late-morning light. Every few feet, Karl dug in harder, muscles straining, until with a grunt that shook his whole frame, the log skidded another yard across the ground.
"Faster than a carriage," Karl muttered to himself between gasps, "and stronger than ten men. That has to count for something."
It didn't. At least, not in this world.
Where Karl was from, a man wasn't measured by the sweat on his brow or the strength of his back, but by the flick of his wrist and the sparkle of light at his fingertips. Magic—spark, they called it—was the true measure of worth. Without it, a person was no more than a mule with shoes. And Karl Draven, for all his effort and sweat, had no spark at all.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and stood tall in the clearing, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the shaft of light breaking through the trees. Then, with sudden flourish, he raised his hand dramatically and snapped his fingers.
Nothing.
He tried again, this time with a theatrical spin of his wrist and a loud whoosh noise, like he'd heard apprentice spellcasters do in the village square. Still nothing—except the rope, which snapped loose from the log and whipped against his shoulder. Karl hissed and rubbed the sting.
From the treeline, two boys snickered.
"Oi, Draven!" one of them called. "Practicing your fancy tricks again? Didn't anyone tell you, you need a spark, not those tree trunks you call arms!"
Laughter erupted, carrying across the clearing. The second boy mimed flexing his arm until it wobbled like jelly. "Careful, Karl! All that muscle might scare off a pixie."
Karl scowled, but he didn't rise to the bait. He'd long since learned that fists against villagers earned him only more trouble. Instead, he bent down, gripped the fallen oak with both hands, and, with a roar, heaved it clean off the ground. The boys' laughter stopped mid-breath.
Karl hoisted the tree above his shoulders, veins bulging, then tossed it aside with a crash that sent leaves flying. Dust spiraled up in golden shafts of sunlight. He turned, flexed once for effect, and smirked.
"Pixies, wolves, trolls—it doesn't matter," he called back. "Strength solves everything."
The boys hesitated, muttered between themselves, and disappeared into the trees.
Karl let the smirk fade, his shoulders sagging. Strength solved everything? He knew it wasn't true. Not here. Not in this kingdom.
---
By the time he returned to the small stone cottage on the hill, the sun was dipping westward, gilding the rooftops of the village below. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the scent of stew and fresh bread. Inside, his grandfather sat at the wooden table, bent over a battered pipe and a book whose pages had long since yellowed.
"You've been at it again," the old man said without looking up. His voice was gravel and warmth all at once. "Dragging trees, scaring the village boys. You'll give someone a heart attack, Karl."
Karl dropped onto the bench opposite him, sweat still glistening on his brow. "Better a tree on my shoulders than a wand in my hand I can't use."
That made the old man glance up, eyes pale but sharp as glass. "You think the world will bend for muscle alone?"
"It's all I've got." Karl's fists tightened on the table. "If I had a spark, even a flicker, things would be different. I'd be in the academy with the others. I'd—" He broke off, jaw tight.
His grandfather leaned forward. "Listen to me, boy. Sparks light candles. Muscles build kingdoms. Do not curse the gifts you were given."
Karl wanted to believe him. He really did. But every time he passed through the village square and saw the apprentices levitating their books, conjuring flames from thin air, or even floating coins for fun, he felt the same weight pressing down on him. The world had already chosen. He had no place in it.
He looked down at his calloused hands. "Sometimes I wonder why I was even born without magic. What kind of joke is that?"
For a moment, silence filled the cottage. Then his grandfather's gaze softened, and he tapped ash from his pipe. "Not a joke, Karl. A mystery."
Karl frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Before his grandfather could answer, a sharp rap came at the door.
Karl rose to open it, and the world seemed to tilt.
A figure stood on the threshold, cloaked in deep emerald, a crest embroidered on the shoulder in silver thread: a serpent coiled around a star. The seal of Arcana Academy—the most prestigious school of magic in the kingdom.
The figure's eyes glinted from beneath the hood. "Karl Draven?"
Karl swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "That's… me."
The figure produced a parchment sealed with wax, pressed it into Karl's trembling hands, and said, "You are hereby summoned to Arcana Academy."
Then the figure was gone, vanishing into the twilight like mist.
Karl stared down at the letter. His heart thundered. His hands shook.
His grandfather stood, pipe forgotten. "Karl… no."
But Karl had already broken the seal.
Karl's fingers trembled as he unfolded the parchment. The wax cracked like brittle bone, and the heavy paper whispered as he pulled it open.
The handwriting was elegant, curling like smoke across the page.
---
To Karl Draven,
By order of the Arcana Academy of Magic, you are hereby summoned to appear at the academy gates on the first dawn of autumn. Present this letter as proof of acceptance. You have been selected to begin your studies among the gifted, by decree of the Headmaster himself.
May your spark light the way.
—Headmaster Veylor
---
The words blurred in Karl's vision. He blinked, once, twice, then read them again. Gifted. Studies. Acceptance. His mouth went dry.
"This… this is wrong." He laughed nervously, clutching the letter like it might vanish. "They don't… they don't make mistakes, do they? Arcana Academy doesn't invite people like me."
His grandfather's face had gone pale, as if the color had drained right out of him. He sank back into his chair and pressed a hand to his forehead.
"They know," he muttered. "By all the stars, they know."
Karl's chest tightened. "Know what? Grandfather, what are you talking about?"
But the old man didn't answer. He only stared into the shadows of the cottage, eyes distant, as though seeing something Karl could not.
---
Later that night, Karl lay awake in his loft bed, the parchment clutched in his fist. The invitation burned against his palm. Arcana Academy. A place he had dreamed of but never truly hoped for. It was impossible. Without magic, he'd never survive a day there.
He imagined walking into the grand halls, surrounded by spellcasters who could conjure storms or hurl fire with a flick of their hands. He pictured himself standing among them, empty-handed, sparkless. The laughter, the ridicule—it would be worse than the village boys.
And yet, deep inside him, something stirred. A stubborn ember, glowing hotter with every heartbeat. Maybe this is my chance. Maybe muscles are enough.
Sleep eventually dragged him under, restless and full of half-formed dreams.
---
Dawn came heavy with mist. Karl rose before the sun, packed the few belongings he had—boots, a plain shirt, a satchel of bread—and tucked the parchment carefully inside his coat. His grandfather was already at the door, leaning heavily on his cane.
"You'll go then," the old man said quietly. It wasn't a question.
Karl nodded. "If they really want me, I can't turn it down. It's the only chance I'll ever have."
His grandfather's gaze hardened. "Be careful, boy. The academy is not a place of kindness. Some will see you as a curiosity. Others will see you as a mistake. And there are those who…" He trailed off, jaw tightening. "There are those who will see you as a threat."
Karl frowned. "A threat? To what?"
But his grandfather only shook his head. "When the time comes, you'll understand. Remember—strength alone won't win you a place in this world. But courage might."
---
The road to Arcana wound through deep forests and rolling hills. Karl walked with his satchel slung over his shoulder, the letter close to his heart. He imagined the grand towers of the academy rising in the distance, glowing with magic, and felt both excitement and dread curling in his stomach.
He wasn't alone on the road. Carriages of wealthy students rumbled past, their wheels shimmering with enchantments, drivers sneering down at him as they passed. Groups of young mages clustered together, sparks of light flickering between their fingertips as they showed off to one another.
Karl kept his head down and walked.
At one bend in the road, he stopped to rest beneath a leaning oak. His arms ached, not from fatigue but from the urge to prove himself. He wanted to grab one of those glowing carriages, lift it over his head, and show them that spark or no spark, he was not weak.
But he didn't. Not yet.
---
He didn't notice the shadow until it moved.
A hooded figure stepped out from behind the tree, blocking the road. Another appeared behind him, and then a third, all cloaked in black, faces hidden.
Karl stiffened. "Travelers?" he asked, though his gut told him otherwise.
One of them spoke, voice low and rasping. "Karl Draven."
The sound of his name on a stranger's tongue made his stomach turn. "Who's asking?"
"You should not be walking this road," the figure said. "You should not be walking at all. A boy with no spark has no place at Arcana Academy. No place in this world."
Karl's fists clenched at his sides. He forced a grin, though his heart pounded. "Funny, I was just thinking the same about you. Who hides behind a hood in broad daylight?"
The figure raised a hand, and a red spark hissed to life, bright as flame. The others followed suit, their palms glowing with deadly light.
Karl's grin faltered.
"Your path ends here," the leader said.
The fire leapt from his hand, streaking through the mist straight toward Karl.
Karl didn't think. He moved. His body reacted before his mind could. He ducked low, grabbed the oak branch at his feet, and swung. The fireball shattered against the wood with a crack that sent embers spiraling. He lunged forward, branch in hand, and swung with all the strength he had.
The hooded man flew backward, hitting the dirt with a grunt. The others hesitated, eyes narrowing from beneath their hoods.
Karl planted the branch into the ground, chest heaving. "No spark, no problem."
The figures hissed in unison, retreating into the mist as swiftly as they had appeared. The leader's voice lingered, cold and sharp.
"You cannot fight destiny, Karl Draven. The Void King watches. And when the time comes, not even your muscles will save you."
Then they were gone.
---
Karl stood alone on the road, the branch still trembling in his grip. His breath came ragged, his heart a drum in his chest. He had no idea who they were, or what the Void King was, but one thing was certain:
His journey to Arcana Academy had only just begun, and already, the world wanted him dead.
He tightened his grip on the parchment in his coat, jaw set.
"Let them try," he muttered. "Muscles against magic. We'll see who wins."
And with that, Karl Draven walked into the mist, toward a future no one believed he deserved—and one that might just belong to him after all.