The last three days passed faster than Arel expected.
Not because they were easy. Because every moment felt like it might be the last time.
The last time he'd walk the stone corridors of House Pilcrow.
The last time he'd spar in the inner yard with his father's calm voice correcting his form.
The last time he'd see the mist roll across the training grounds in the early morning, turning the world into a pale, shifting dream.
On the morning of his departure, the fortress felt different.
Quieter.
As if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Arel stood in the center of his room with a small travel bag at his feet. It wasn't much—some clothes, a few training wraps, a notebook, a black-ink pen, and a single book about famous battles his father had given him on his sixth birthday.
He'd tried to pack more, at first. Toys he never really played with. Old practice swords. A faded wooden lion his mother had carved for him when he was little.
In the end, he'd taken them all back out.
He was not leaving as a child.
He was leaving as a Pilcrow.
His eyes drifted to the tapestry above his bed again. The flaming lion seemed to look back at him, its woven mane alive with imagined heat.
"If I'm bound to burn," he murmured under his breath, "I'll choose the fire."
The words settled his heart. A little.
A soft knock sounded at his door.
"Arel?" His mother's voice floated through, warm and familiar. "May I come in?"
"Yes," he said quickly. "Come in."
The door opened with a quiet creak. Lady Elen Pilcrow stepped into the room, bringing with her the faint scent of lavender and parchment. Her long dark hair was tied back in a simple knot, streaks of silver catching the weak light. She wasn't in a dress today, but in leather traveling pants and a tunic beneath a fitted coat—ready to ride.
Her eyes scanned the room, then settled on the small bag at his feet.
"That's all you're taking?" she asked, one eyebrow lifting.
Arel shifted, suddenly unsure. "I… didn't know what else to bring."
Elen's gaze softened. She crossed the room in three steps and pulled him into a hug, pressing his face against her chest. Her aura was not as overwhelming as Kaelen's, but it was steady, like a heartbeat made of light.
"You're not being exiled, silly boy," she murmured into his hair. "You're going to school."
He didn't hug her back immediately. For a moment, he just stood there, stiff and unsure what to do with his hands. Then his fingers clenched in the fabric of her coat, and the tension bled out of him.
"I know," he said, voice muffled. "It just… doesn't feel like school."
"No," she admitted quietly. "It doesn't."
She pulled back enough to look at him, her hands on his shoulders.
"Your father told you what Bastion Aurora is, didn't he?"
"He said it's where people like me go," Arel replied. "People with power."
Elen smiled faintly. "That's one way to put it."
She let go of him and stepped back, moving to his desk. She traced a finger over the edge of the notebook, then picked up the book of battles.
"You won't be the strongest there, you know," she said, almost casually.
Arel blinked. "I know."
"Good." She turned, her eyes sharp. "Because that's why I'm letting you go."
He frowned. "Letting me?"
Elen chuckled. "You think your father gets to decide everything? Cute."
Arel's ears turned slightly red.
She walked back to him and tapped a finger against his forehead.
"You've grown up in a fortress that whispers your name," she said. "Everyone here either fears you or worships your blood. That's not healthy. You need people who will look you in the eye and say 'You're strong. So what? Try not to trip over your own feet.'"
Arel imagined that. Someone his age, maybe, rolling their eyes at his family name. The idea was strange. And oddly comforting.
"What if they hate me?" he asked.
"Then you'll deal with it," Elen said. "You'll learn who deserves your time and who doesn't. Being strong doesn't mean being loved. It means choosing carefully what you stand for… and who stands with you."
She bent down, picked up his bag, and pressed it into his hands.
"And if anyone gives you too much trouble," she added, a mischievous glint lighting her eyes, "send a letter. I'll come scare them."
Arel couldn't help it. He laughed.
It came out small and surprised, but it was real.
"Mother, you can't just threaten to scare the Academy," he said.
"Can't I?" she replied, deadpan.
For a moment, the looming weight of departure eased.
Then a bell rang in the distance—three clear, resonant chimes that echoed through the stone halls.
Elen's smile faded. "That's the gate," she said softly. "They're ready."
Arel's heart squeezed.
He slung the bag over his shoulder. It was light—much lighter than the weight resting in his chest.
"Are you coming to the gate with me?" he asked.
"Of course," she said. "Your father is already there. He's pretending to inspect the carriages, but really he's just trying not to pace."
Arel tried to imagine his father pacing.
It didn't fit.
They walked through the corridors together. Servants and guards stepped aside as they passed, bowing or placing fists over their hearts in salute. Their faces held the same mix of emotions Arel had grown used to: respect, wariness, a narrow sliver of hope.
Today, there was something else too.
Pride.
At the final corner before the main courtyard, Arel slowed.
The world beyond the archway was bright, the sky finally cracked open to let thin beams of sunlight through the clouds. He could hear the clank of armor, the snort of horses, the low murmur of voices.
"Arel," Elen said quietly.
He turned.
She knelt, bringing herself level with his eyes, and reached up to fix a stubborn lock of hair that had escaped his tie.
"You don't have to be perfect," she said. "You only have to be you."
He swallowed. "What if 'me' is dangerous?"
"Then learn to be dangerous on purpose," she replied. "Not by accident."
His throat felt tight. He nodded.
Elen kissed his forehead, straightened, and together they stepped into the light.
The main courtyard was more crowded than Arel expected.
Two carriages with the Pilcrow crest stamped on their sides stood ready, harnessed to sturdy horses. Guards in dark armor lined the walls, and a small cluster of house servants lingered near the steps, watching.
Kaelen stood by the nearest carriage, speaking with a man in a grey cloak—the kind of practical, travel-worn garment that screamed "professional" without saying anything else.
As Arel and Elen approached, the cloaked man turned slightly, revealing a lined face, short-cropped hair gone mostly white, and eyes the pale blue of weathered glass.
"…—your son?" the man was asking.
Kaelen glanced up.
"Arel," he called. "Come here."
Arel obeyed, stopping at his father's side. The cloaked man's gaze measured him in a single sweep, then nodded once, as if confirming something to himself.
"This is Ser Calenor," Kaelen said. "He'll be in charge of your escort. He's taken more heirs to Bastion Aurora than you've had birthdays."
"Eleven so far," Ser Calenor said in a dry voice. "You'll make a dozen, boy."
Arel straightened. "It's an honor, Ser."
"Don't say that yet," Calenor replied. "Wait until we arrive in one piece."
Kaelen placed a hand briefly on Arel's shoulder, grounding him.
"You'll travel with a small group," he said. "Children from other houses, and some from the outer towns. Bastion Aurora likes to mix their kindling early."
"Will there be anyone… like me?" Arel asked before he could stop himself.
"Strong?" Kaelen asked. "Yes. Cursed?" He shrugged. "The world doesn't usually put a label on itself. It just fights."
Elen shot him a look.
"What your father means," she said, "is that you are not the only one with burdens. Remember that before you decide anyone's story from the outside."
Arel nodded slowly.
His gaze drifted past his parents, toward the carriage. For a moment, he saw himself reflected faintly in the polished metal—small, dark-haired, eyes too serious for his age.
*If I'm bound to burn…*
"I have something for you," Kaelen said.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small object wrapped in cloth. He unwrapped it carefully and revealed a pendant—a simple disc of dark metal, etched with the stylized image of a lion's head wreathed in fire.
The Pilcrow crest.
Arel stared. "Is that—?"
"You've seen it on the banners, the armor," Kaelen said. "This one is different. It's attuned to you."
He turned the pendant over. On the back, faint runes glimmered.
"If your aura flares out of control," he continued, "this will dampen it. Not stop it completely, but slow it. Give you time to breathe. Use it as a tool, not a crutch."
Elen added, "And as a reminder."
"A reminder?" Arel asked.
Kaelen stepped closer and fastened the chain around his neck. The metal was cool against Arel's skin. It seemed to hum faintly, resonating with something deep inside him.
"A reminder," Kaelen said, "that no matter where you go, you carry this house with you. Not as a weight. As a shelter."
Arel closed his fingers around the pendant.
It fit perfectly in his palm.
"Thank you," he said.
Kaelen exhaled slowly, as if he'd been holding something in since dawn.
"Listen to your instructors," he said. "Choose your friends carefully. Do not show everything you can do on the first day. Let others underestimate you, if they want to."
"I thought you said I should stand tall," Arel said, confused.
"You should," Kaelen replied. "But tall trees are the first targets in a storm. Roots matter more than branches."
Ser Calenor snorted softly. "Pilcrow wisdom. Say a simple thing in a complicated way."
Elen coughed into her hand to hide a laugh.
Kaelen gave the older man a look that held years of camaraderie.
"Watch him," he said quietly.
"I always watch the ones who think too much," Calenor replied.
Arel shifted his grip on the pendant.
"Are there really others like me?" he asked Calenor, unable to keep the question down this time. "At the Academy, I mean."
Calenor studied him for a moment, then tilted his head.
"Like you?" he repeated. "No. Not exactly. Every talent is its own kind of trouble. But there will be others who don't fit inside the lines the world drew for them. If you're smart, you'll find them."
"And if I'm not smart?" Arel asked.
Calenor's lips curved in something that almost resembled a smile.
"Then you'll learn."
Arel clenched his jaw, then nodded.
The courtyard quieted as the time to leave finally arrived. One by one, servants bowed. Some of the older guards stepped forward, touching their fists to their chests in the salute of the House.
"For the flame," one murmured.
"For the lion," another added.
"For the Pilcrow heir," a third said, voice thick with something Arel couldn't quite name.
The words washed over him, familiar and strange all at once.
"Time," Calenor said.
He moved toward the carriage and opened the door, revealing a dim interior lined with padded benches. Arel could see shadows moving inside—other figures, other children he'd be traveling with.
His heart thudded.
He turned to his parents one last time.
Elen stepped forward first. She cupped his face in both hands and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"Write to me," she said. "Even if it's only to say you hate the food."
"I will," he promised.
She smiled, then stepped back.
Kaelen stood still for a long moment, as if memorizing his son's face.
Then, in a rare break from his composed mask, he leaned down and pulled Arel into a tight embrace.
It startled Arel more than any aura flare.
His father's arms were strong and steady around him, his heartbeat a heavy, reassuring drum.
"You are my son," Kaelen said quietly. "Not my weapon. Remember that."
Arel's eyes stung. He nodded against his father's shoulder.
"I'll make you proud," he said.
"You already do," Kaelen replied.
He let go, placed his hands briefly on Arel's shoulders, and then—reluctantly—released him.
Arel turned toward the carriage.
Every step felt like closing a door behind him, even though the fortress gates remained open.
He paused at the threshold, hand on the metal frame, and looked back one last time.
His mother stood with her hands clasped tight, knuckles white. His father stood tall, jaw set, eyes bright with something dangerously close to emotion. Behind them, the flaming lion banners fluttered in the wind.
*If I'm bound to burn…*
Arel took a breath.
"I'll choose the fire," he whispered.
Then he climbed into the carriage.
The interior smelled of leather and dust and a faint hint of nervous sweat. Three other figures sat inside already.
Closest to the opposite door was a girl with braided dark hair and eyes like polished amber. She wore a coat of fine make, embroidered discreetly at the cuffs with a sigil Arel didn't recognize—something like a coiled serpent around a blade. Her posture was impeccably straight, hands folded neatly in her lap.
Next to her sat a boy around Arel's age, maybe a year older, with light brown skin and sharp features. His clothes were clean but plain—no obvious crest, no show of status. His gaze was everywhere at once, flicking from window to ceiling to Arel, assessing, cataloguing. There was a restlessness in him that felt almost like a coiled spring.
On the bench nearest the door, half turned away, a taller boy lounged with one leg stretched out, boots slightly muddy. Blonde hair fell over his eyes in a deliberately careless way. He wore a jacket with the faded emblem of some minor house stitched at the shoulder, but the thread was frayed.
All three pairs of eyes turned to Arel as he entered.
Silence stretched.
Arel's instinct screamed to straighten, to introduce himself as he had been taught.
*I am Arel Pilcrow, heir of—*
He swallowed the words.
Kaelen's advice echoed in his mind.
*Do not show everything you can do on the first day. Let others underestimate you, if they want to.*
He closed the door behind him and sat on the empty space of the bench across from the braided girl, setting his bag by his feet. The wood creaked faintly under his weight.
For a few heartbeats, nobody spoke.
Then the boy with the restless eyes broke the stalemate.
"I'm Rian," he said. No title, no house. "From Westmere. You?"
"Arel," Arel replied. "From… here."
"'Here' as in 'this fortress'?" the blonde boy drawled without turning fully, his voice edged with lazy amusement. "Or 'here' as in 'this miserable war-torn world'?"
The braided girl's lips twitched, but she didn't look away from Arel.
"You speak like someone who's already given up," she said to the blonde. Her voice was cool, precise. "That's a bad trait for someone aiming to enter Bastion Aurora."
"Aiming?" he snorted. "They already let me in. The mistake's been made."
Rian snickered.
The girl sighed softly and finally addressed Arel directly.
"I am Lyra of House Arden," she said, giving him a small but formal nod. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
Arden.
Arel's mind flicked through what he knew. House Arden was respected for effort and discipline—war-born, but less obsessed with bloodlines than with training. If Pilcrow represented raw talent, Arden was sweat and repetition until the impossible became routine.
"The pleasure is mine," Arel replied, carefully neutral.
"And our brooding friend over there," Rian added, jerking his thumb toward the blonde, "is Blade. Yes, that's actually the name he gave me. No, I don't believe that's what's on his birth record."
Blade lifted his head, finally meeting Arel's gaze properly. His eyes were a pale, almost washed-out blue, but there was nothing dull in them.
"Name's enough, isn't it?" he said. "Blade. One syllable. Easy to shout in a panic."
Arel tried not to smile.
"It works," he admitted.
Blade's gaze flicked to the pendant at Arel's neck, lingering for a fraction too long.
"Nice crest," he said lightly. "Lion in flames. Very dramatic. You from around here, lion-boy?"
Arel's fingers reflexively brushed the metal.
"I grew up in this fortress," he said. It wasn't a lie. "You?"
"Far enough that I don't miss it," Blade said, leaning his head back against the wooden wall. "Close enough that they still found me."
Rian rolled his eyes. "He thinks he's mysterious."
Lyra exhaled in quiet exasperation.
Arel sat back as the carriage jolted into motion. The fortress gates slid past the small window, stone giving way to open road, then to the distant line of hills.
House Pilcrow shrank behind them.
His old life shrank with it.
Inside the carriage, four futures sat shoulder to shoulder, none of them fully aware of how much the others would matter.
Arel watched the fortress until it vanished from view.
His hand found the pendant again, the metal warm now against his skin, resonating with each beat of his heart.
If I'm bound to burn…
He didn't say the rest aloud this time. It lived behind his teeth, quiet and sharp.
Outside, somewhere beyond the horizon, Bastion Aurora waited.
And with it, the first sparks of the wildfire he was destined to become.