The air in the Starfire Chamber crackled with anticipation, charged like the breathless moment before a storm. It reeked of ozone, burning incense, and the faintest trace of sweat. Nervous and silent, hidden in the folds of heavy robes. High above the polished obsidian floor, the vaulted ceiling shimmered with constellations of enchanted crystals, each one pulsing faintly in time with unseen energies. The light they cast was cold and sharp, slicing through the dimness like starlight on glass, drawing jagged shadows across the anxious faces of the gathered mages.
Eryk Thorn stood alone at the center of it all. Bare feet pressed into the freezing stone, he felt the chill crawl up his spine, bone-deep and biting. His breath came shallow and quick, a thin fog curling from his lips. His hands hung useless at his sides, fingers twitching, betraying the storm that raged just beneath his skin.
This was it. The final trial. The culmination of six years of grueling study, of whispered prayers and sleepless nights. This chamber had seen legends born.
And he was going to fail.
He knew it before the proctor even spoke. Knew it from the way his body betrayed him. How his hands trembled, how the ache in his chest pulsed where his magic should have been. His core felt like a shriveled ember buried in ash. Not a wellspring of power, but a scar. A mockery of the blazing infernos his peers wielded like extensions of their will.
He swallowed the taste of copper and shame as Archmage Veldros stepped forward, robes rustling like dry leaves in the silence.
"Eryk Thorn," the Archmage intoned, voice deep and solemn, echoing through the domed chamber like a tolling bell. "You stand before the Starfire Conclave for your final evaluation. Demonstrate the Fourth Principle: the conjuration of flame."
So simple.
A task taught in the second year. Mastered by children.
Eryk's heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to escape. All around him, initiates watched from the rows of shadowed pews, their faces were flickering in the crystal light. Some wore masks of sympathy, but most didn't bother. They stared with thinly veiled disdain, already turning the page on him in their minds.
And then... Liora van Alden. Her golden hair gleamed like molten coin beneath the starlit ceiling, a cruel crown for a girl who never stumbled and never doubted by the others. She caught his eye. And smirked.
She had passed her trial a week ago, summoning a vortex of flame so brilliant it had scorched the pillars and left the proctors breathless. They said she was touched by the Ember Saint himself.
Eryk clenched his fists, nails biting into flesh.
Focus.
You've practiced this. You've lived for this.
He had burned himself raw to get here. Had whispered the incantations until his throat bled, traced runes until his fingers blistered, meditated until the lines between waking and dreaming blurred. But none of that mattered now.
Not when your soul was a hollow shell.
He raised his trembling hands, the words catching in his dry throat.
Ignis… ex corde…
Nothing.
The silence that followed was deafening. It fell over the chamber like a burial shroud.
Then there were flickers of movement in the crowd, like they were turning away in boredom. Others were shaking their head.
"Again," Veldros said, this time sharper and clipped. Like the crack of a judge's gavel.
Eryk's pulse roared in his ears. His vision tunneled.
You can do this. You have to.
He reached inward, past the fear, past the years of doubt and dismissal, and flung every last scrap of will into the words.
"Ignis excorde!"
A spark. Just one. A pitiful, fragile thing that barely a glimmer as if it was barely alive.
Then it died.
And with it, something inside him cracked.
A snort echoed from the back. A broad-shouldered, ever-smirking Mael made no effort to stifle it. Laughter followed, scattered at first, then building in waves.
"Pathetic," Liora murmured, her voice like honey laced with venom.
Eryk's cheeks burned. His hands dropped limply to his sides. He could feel the eyes. The judgment. The confirmation of what they had always believed: that he didn't belong in the academy.
Archmage Veldros rubbed his temples, already weary. "Eryk Thorn. After six years of training, this is the extent of your ability?"
Eryk opened his mouth, but the words died on his tongue. What could he say? That he had tried harder than any of them? That he had sacrificed, endured, and fought tooth and nail just for the chance to stand where they now mocked him?
They wouldn't care.
Because magic didn't reward effort. Only results.
Only power.
And he had none.
"The verdict is unanimous," Veldros said. "Eryk Thorn, you have failed the Starfire Trial. By the laws of the Academy, you are hereby expelled. Your robes will be stripped. Your name struck from the records. You are no longer a mage of Grand Magnus Academy."
The words landed like hammer blows. His knees nearly buckled. The world around him blurred, as the faces he saw around were twisted with scorn with their lips curled in satisfaction. His vision swam as shame threatened to drown him.
This wasn't just failure.
This was erasure.
Two enforcers stepped forward, expressionless, their palms glowing faintly with containment sigils. Eryk didn't move. He didn't flinch as they seized his arms and tore the silver-threaded robes from his shoulders.
The fabric fell away with a whisper, leaving him bare beneath the weight of a thousand eyes. The chill hit him like a slap. His tunic felt thin as paper. He had never felt smaller before.
The walk through the halls of Grand Magnus Academy was a blur of whispered names and averted gazes. Students parted like water before him, not out of fear but disgust. Like failure could be caught through proximity. Some laughed, loud and cruel. Others looked away eith their guilt sharpening their silence.
Anf then, he saw the doors.
The great gilded gates, inscribed with the names of a hundred Archmages, shining with the legacy of magic.
The doors that opened only for the worthy.
The enforcers shoved him forward.
Eryk stumbled on his stand. He hell to his knees on the dirt path beyond. His palms scraped against gravel, and the pain was grounding him just enough to hear the gates slam shut behind him with a final, echoing clang.
And just like that...
Everything was over.
The wind howled through the lower streets of Chishiro, tugging at his tunic, bringing with it the reek of smoke and rotting fruit.
Eryk didn't move.
He just knelt there in the shadow of the Academy that had raised and discarded him. His hands—those same traitorous hands—rested on his thighs, open and useless. No fire. No light. Nothing.
He was empty.
A hollow vessel.
A laugh bubbled up from his throat. It was too raw, ragged, and humorless. It hurt to let it out, but he couldn't stop. The absurdity of it all.
Six years. Six years of climbing a mountain, only to be told the summit was never meant for him.
He dug his fingers into the dirt, nails biting through calloused skin. The tears came unbidden from his eyes, hot streaks cutting down his cheeks.
This isn't fair.
But magic wasn't fair. The world wasn't fair. The strong thrived. The weak were forgotten.
He was forgettable.
Another gust of wind whipped past, carrying a scrap of parchment across the street. It slapped against his leg like an omen. He glanced down as he was ready to cast it aside, but he froze when he notice the old paper in front of him.
A bounty notice.
WANTED: Nullborn. Any leads on practitioners of forbidden magic to be reported to the Council immediately. Reward: 500 gold crowns.
His breath caught.
Null Magic. The stuff of nightmares. The power to consume magic, to unmake it.
A tremor rolled through him, not of fear, but of something else.
What if it wasn't just a myth?
What if it was real?
What if he wasn't empty?
What if he had simply been made for a different kind of magic?
The wind yanked the notice from his hand, sending it spiraling into the overcast sky. Eryk stared after it until it vanished. He then slowly rose from his whereabouts, still watching the sky where the paper was blown away.
The weight of the Academy was behind him now. Its shadow stretched long and cold, but he didn't look back.
He had nothing left to lose.
Which meant—for the first time—he could choose his own path.
Even if it led into the dark.
He took a step.
Then another.
And thus began the story they never wanted told.
The story of Eryk Thorn.
The boy who don't have any kind of magic.