Kavik hadn't slept the night before.
He'd spent the hours staring at the white ceiling of his room, his heart pounding in his chest with anticipation.
It was finally the day.
Two years of carving his body into a weapon and his mind into a map had led to this: the Phantom Flame. In his mind, he imagined it as a roar in his blood, a purple sun that would finally burn away the shame of Ruinhold.
He wanted to feel the weight of it.
He wanted to feel untouchable.
'He is stalling,' King Zod's voice rasped in the back of his mind again—cold and ancient, and dripping with disdain.
Kavik squeezed his eyes shut. Be quiet, Zod.
'He treats you like a house-pet, little bird,' the shadow of King Zod whispered. It was more vivid than ever, a ghost of a voice that sounded like grinding stones. 'A candle? He cages the storm in a jar and calls it discipline. He fears what you will become if you actually touch the Void. He doesn't want a Warlord. He wants a librarian who knows how to kill when due. He wants a version of you that he can control.'
Kavik tried to drown the voice out by listening to the rhythm of his breathing, but the seed was planted.
By the time the sun began to bleed over the horizon, his excitement had exploded in him into a sharp impatience.
The reality was even worse than the anticipation.
"Sit," Daron said, gesturing to the matted floor in front of him.
In front of Kavik sat a single, uninspired tallow candle. Daron lit it with a match. The flame was small, orange, and pathetic. It felt like an insult.
He could've swore he heard King Zod's scoff at the back of his mind but he ignored it.
"I didn't stay awake all night to study wax, Uncle," Kavik said, his voice tight. "You said we were starting the Flame. The actual Wielding. I've done the books. I've done the sword. I'm ready."
"This is the Wielding," Daron replied, settling into his own chair with a groan. "The Phantom Flame isn't a muscle you flex. It's a frequency. If you can't align your mind with that tiny flicker, the real power will turn your brain to ash before you can even say 'Jack.' Look at it. Don't blink. Don't think. Just... be."
For the next six hours, Kavik felt a different kind of agony. It was the agony of boredom. It was the same feeling he'd had back in Ruinhold, sitting through endless etiquette lessons while his heart screamed for something real.
He counted the flickers. He analyzed the way the heat distorted the air. He tried to use his training to lower his heart rate, but every time he got close, Zod's voice would return, mocking the simplicity of the task.
"Uncle, please," Kavik gasped, his eyes red-rimmed and watering. "I've been sitting here for a lifetime. I can feel the fire in my veins. Just let me pull it through."
Daron sighed, looking at him with a mixture of pity and weariness. "Fine. Show me what you've got. Wield it."
Kavik stood up. He reached deep into that cold, well inside his chest. He shoved his will into the air, forcing the energy toward his palm with every ounce of his two-year-built strength.
It felt tantalizing to try. It felt wonderful to feel its presence within him.
A wisp of lilac smoke curled from his hand. For three seconds, a beautiful, jagged tongue of violet flame danced on his palm. It was cold and exhilarating. Then, as quickly as it came, it roared back inward, vanishing as if it had never even existed.
Kavik collapsed.
He hit the stone floor hard, his lungs seizing as if the air had turned to lead. His veins throbbed so violently that they felt like they were trying to crawl out of his skin.
"It's... it's too heavy," he wheezed, clutching his chest.
"The Void has a weight, child," Daron stated coldly, not moving to help him. "You're trying to carry it. You're supposed to let it carry you. Back to the mat."
Kavik dragged himself back to the position, forcing himself to stare at the candlelight again.
Minutes turned to hours, hours slowly passed and the days bled into each other.
Kavik stopped fighting. He eventually stopped being "Kavik."
On the third day, his eyes were rimmed red, dark circles forming under his eyes. The urge to itch his skin left, and the desire to feel vanished. He could no longer tell if he was alone or with the presence of his uncle.
On the fifth day, hunger and exhaustion finally broke the last of his ego. He wasn't a weapon anymore. He was just a void. He stared at the candle until the walls of the room blended into blurry shapes. It was only him and the flicker of the candlelight.
He broke into a cold sweat and as it touched his shirt, Kavik felt weightless. It was like he was nothing. He could no longer feel his sentience. He was simply…there but also not there.
He raised his hand. He didn't push. He didn't strive. He simply opened a door.
He became a part of the Void.
Instinctively, Kavik stretched his arm out and a pillar of silent, brilliant purple fire erupted from his hand. It didn't burn; it felt eerily welcoming, like he'd known it forever. It stayed. It glowed with a steady, haunting light that illuminated every corner of the dim room.
Wielding the flame felt like drinking from a clean well after walking for so long in a desert. It felt…euphoric to him.
He had done it.
He was a Wielder.
He had power like none other.
"Well," a strange voice drawled from the doorway. "He's finally found the Spark."
The fire died instantly as Kavik's focus shattered the moment he turned to see them. Alaric stood there, looking as elegant and dangerous as ever. Behind him was a figure in dark, forest-green silks, his hair tied into a notch. His eyes were sharp, scanning Kavik like a specimen.
"He's thin," the stranger remarked. His voice was melodic but carried a faint darkness. "Does he always look like he's about to faint, or is the purple fire a diet plan?"
Daron walked in between the stranger and Alaric, his hand resting casually on the table. "He's my nephew. And he's had enough of candles. Child, this is Alaric's student, Stepin. No steel. Just the Flame. Show him why we're out here."
Kavik stepped forward, the thrill of his new power buzzing in his ears. He lunged, aiming a burst of heat at the stranger's chest. But Stepin didn't move like a fighter. He moved like a liquid.
In a blur of green silk, Stepin slipped inside Kavik's guard without much of an effort. His fingers moved with a terrifying, surgical precision, tapping three distinct points on Kavik's body.
Tap. The base of the neck.
Tap. The inner elbow.
Tap. The center of the chest.
Kavik's fire didn't just go out; it felt like his soul had been unplugged. A cold, numbing sensation raced through his limbs. He tried to reach for the Void, but the door was gone.
It was just stone. Silent, dead stone.
Despite having the Flame for only a few minutes, losing it felt like a part of him had been severed instantly, never to be recovered again.
Kavik fell to one knee, clutching his chest. "What... what did you do?"
Stepin stood over him, smelling faintly of belladonna and bitter almonds. He looked down at him with a small, mocking smile. "I didn't break your fire, little Warlord. I just severed your connection to it."
Alaric laughed, a dry, hollow sound. "He didn't even last a minute. A bit disappointing. I thought the Wielder of the Phantom Flame would have more... teeth."
Kavik looked at Daron, waiting for him to draw his sword, waiting for the rage. But Daron just stood there. He didn't bat an eyelid. He looked down at Kavik with a serene, almost satisfied expression.
The realization hit Kavik like a physical blow. He looked from Stepin to Alaric, then back to his uncle.
"You knew," Kavik whispered. The silence in the room was deafening. "You knew he was going to do this. You brought Stepin here on purpose… to do this."
"Child—" Daron began.
"You knew!" Kavik yelled, his voice cracking. He scrambled to his feet, but his legs felt like lead. "Two years! Two years of blood, and medicine, and five days staring at that damned candle! You told me I could be a Warlord. You told me I'd have the fire!"
"I told you I'd teach you to survive," Daron fired back, his voice dropping to a low, stern growl.
"By making me powerless again?" Kavik's expression twisted with hurt and betrayal and so much rage. Zod was right, he thought in his mind. "You brought them here to cripple me! Why? Why would you do this to me? To make me feel like I'm back at the beginning? To remind me that I'm nothing without a title or a spark?"
"Because you were becoming a monster, child!" Daron roared back, finally losing his composure. He stepped forward, grabbing Kavik by the shoulders. "I saw the look in your eyes when you killed that grouse. I saw how you devised cold, ruthless strategies and weaponized the moral failings of scholars! You were turning into something I couldn't contain. If I let you keep that flame while your heart was still that cold, you'd become something my eyes couldn't reach. I couldn't send you where you're going if you were just a rabid dog with a purple torch."
Kavik froze. "Where I'm going? What does that mean?" But the anger was too high, the loss too fresh. He lashed out, shoving Daron's hands away.
"You don't get to talk about where I'm going! You took the only thing that made me different from a common beggar! I'm back to being a 'disappointment.' I'm back to being the embarrassment of the bloodline!"
Kavik's knees gave out. He collapsed against the stone wall, the weight of the last two years crashing down on him. The fear he'd suppressed since the day he fell off that cliff in Ruinhold finally broke through the cracks. The way he'd been assaulted in Sally's Tavern. All the pain he'd endured.
He was small again. He was weak. He was the boy watching his world burn, unable to do anything but tremble.
He began to cry—not the quiet, dignified tears of a noble, but the miserable sobs of a child who had been stripped of his last defense.
Daron didn't walk away. He knelt in the dirt, ushering Alaric and Stepin out with a wave. He reached out and pulled Kavik into a rough, firm embrace. It wasn't soft, but it was solid. It was the only thing in the world that felt real.
"I'm powerless, Uncle," Kavik choked out into Daron's tunic. "I'm exactly what they said I was. I'm nothing."
"Listen to me," Daron hissed into his ear, his voice hoarse with shared sympathy and pride. "The Phantom Flame was never your greatest strength, child. It was a crutch. It was a toy."
Kavik shook his head, his face wet with tears. "It was everything."
"No. It was nothing," Daron countered, pulling back to look Kavik in the eyes. "You didn't learn the Classics and the history of the Five Houses with the Flame. You didn't learn the clockwork of the continent's anatomy with the Flame. You did that with this." He tapped Kavik's forehead. "And you did it with your grit. You survived the Barrens for two years because you were strong enough to endure, not because you were a Wielder. Let the Flame stay behind that door for a while. Let the world think you're weak. That is your greatest asset. An enemy who thinks you are powerless is an enemy who is already dead."
Kavik wiped his eyes, his breathing slowly hitching into a steady rhythm. The shame of his breakdown was still there, but Daron's words were starting to sink in.
He thought of the stag. He thought of the logic of the Body and the Art of Prediction. He realized that even without the fire, he still knew where the atlas vertebra was. He still knew how to tax the temples.
"You did this on purpose," Kavik said, his voice small but clearer now. "To hide me? To make me look like a failure?"
Daron stood up, offering Kavik a hand. "I did it so you can walk into the lion's den and be mistaken for a lamb."
Kavik took the hand, his legs still shaky. He looked at the exit where Alaric and Stepin should've been. Stepin was back, though, still watching him, his head tilted with a look of newfound curiosity. The air between them had shifted—it wasn't just mockery anymore. It was a challenge.
"What did you mean?" Kavik asked, turning back to Daron. "About me becoming a monster where your eyes couldn't reach? Where are you sending me?"
Daron looked at Kavik firmly, his grip on him softening.
"You've outgrown this place, child," Daron said. "And you've outgrown me. There is only one place in the continent where a 'Powerless' noble can hide in plain sight while learning to be a god."
Kavik felt a cold shiver go down his spine. "No."
"Do you remember what you asked, the first time you got here, two years ago?" Daron asked with a bitter smile. "You asked me what fate was left for you when you had so much power. You asked me if you were going to rot in the Barrens like me. Here's your answer."
Kavik shook his head continuously. He couldn't take it.
"The entrance exams are in three days," Daron said, a grim smile finally touching his lips. "Pack your things, child. You're going to Bloodcrest Academy."
Kavik looked at his hands—the slender, steady hands of a killer, now stripped of his power. He wasn't going as a fighter. He wasn't going as a Wielder. He was going as a ghost. He couldn't even feel Zod's presence in his consciousness.
"And the block?" Kavik asked, looking at Stepin. "When does it break?"
He stepped forward, his green silks rustling like a snake in the grass. "When you're strong enough to take the key from me, Warlord. See you at the gates."