The moment I realized there was no way out of this, my body gave up before my brain did.
I spent the entire afternoon sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at my Arcanis letter.
My mother, on the other hand, seemed thrilled. She bustled around the kitchen, humming cheerfully as she packed, completely unfazed by the fact that her only son had just fallen from the sky an hour ago.
"Mother," I tried, watching her fold a tunic. "I don't want to go."
She paused, tilting her head as if considering my words.
Then she promptly stuffed the tunic into the bag. "Do you like blue?" she asked. "Or should I pack more neutral colors?"
I blinked. "Are you seriously ignoring the part where I fell out of the literal sky?"
She waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, please. If the Academy wants you this badly, what choice do we have?"
"Not to send me?"
"Neutral colors it is."
My father was slightly more sympathetic. By which I mean, he clapped a hand on my shoulder, said, "Make us proud, son," and promptly went back to sharpening his tools.
Lance, of course, was zero help.
"Look on the bright side," he said as we sat by the riverbank later that evening, flicking stones into the water. "At least now you'll have legitimate reasons for your disasters."
I threw a rock at him.
It ricocheted off a tree.
And hit me square in the face.
Lance smirked. "See? You're a natural."
I groaned and flopped onto my back in the grass. "I hate my life."
Lance snickered, but after a moment, his voice softened. "Jokes aside, you'll be fine, Ash. I mean, sure, Arcanis is full of nobles, prodigies, and people who could probably incinerate you with a sneeze. But hey! You've been dodging death your whole life. You've got experience!"
I turned my head to glare at him. "Not helping."
He grinned. "Oh, I know."
I sighed, sitting up and staring at the village stretching before us. The same old rooftops, the winding paths, the lanterns that flickered with soft, enchanted light as night fell.
Everything I had ever known. Everything safe.
And in a week, I would leave it behind.
****
I woke up to a bucket of ice-cold water to the face.
Not a drizzle. Not a splash. A full bucket.
I gasped, jerking upright as the freezing water drenched me from head to toe. My brain barely had time to process the sheer agony before my father's voice rumbled above me.
"Up."
I blinked blearily. "What…"
Another splash of water. Smaller, but equally horrible.
I choked. "I'M AWAKE!"
"Then move."
My father barked then turned and left the room. I sat there, dripping, shivering, and wondering what did I do to deserve this.
A loud knock came from outside my window. I turned, only to see Lance, perched on the ledge, eating an apple and looking way too entertained.
"Morning, sunshine." He grinned. "Ready to be forged into a warrior?"
I stared at him. Then at the puddle of water I was sitting in. Then back at him.
"…No."
****
I barely had time to change out of my soaking clothes before being dragged outside for what would be, without exaggeration, the worst morning of my life.
"Training starts with endurance," Father said as he handed me a weighted vest. A heavy one. I barely caught it before it crashed into my chest. "Put it on."
I put it on.
It felt like someone had strapped a boulder to my spine. I staggered under the weight, but Father gave me one look and I knew better than to complain.
Lance, beside me, wasn't even wearing one.
I scowled. "Why do I have this and you don't?"
"I'm not the one going to Arcanis," he said cheerfully. "I'm just here to enjoy the view."
After restraining myself from punching Lance's jolly face, we started running. At first, I thought, Okay, not too bad. I can handle this.
Then we kept going.
And going.
And going.
By the third lap, my lungs were on fire. By the fifth, my legs felt like molten lead. By the seventh, I was seriously considering collapsing into a ditch and letting nature reclaim me.
Father? Still fine.
Lance? A little out of breath, but smug.
Me? Wheezing.
"You run like a dying horse," Lance commented.
Father wasn't impressed. "No son of mine is going to collapse after a few laps. Keep moving."
After eternity, hell finally decided to go where it belongs and leave mealone, and I threw myself on the ground doing my best to reclaim my long-gone breath. Eventually my heart remembered its normal rate, and just as I was about to start admiring the various bubbly shapes scattered over the sky's bluish carpet, hell decided that it wasn't done with me yet.
Push-ups. Sit-ups. Squats.
With. The. Weighted. Vest.
Lance, the traitor, sat on a barrel and counted aloud every time I struggled.
"One… Two… Oh, that one barely counted, try again."
"I hate you," I wheezed.
"Iknow."
By the time we finished, my arms felt like wet noodles.
And then Father handed me a training sword.
"Oh no," I said.
"Oh yes," Lance drawled, far too amused.
Father led us to an open field just beyond the village, a wide stretch of packed dirt smoothed by years of sparring and practice. The grass at the edges had long since been trampled away, leaving only patches of stubborn green clinging to the outskirts. Wooden dummies stood in a neat row at the far end, their surfaces worn and chipped from countless training sessions of the village's youngsters.
I was already dying from morning drills. My muscles ached, my lungs burned. But the moment Father tossed me a practice sword, I knew things were about to get so much worse.
"Your stance is wrong," he said immediately.
I blinked. "I didn't eve…."
He kicked my legs apart.
I staggered, barely catching myself before face-planting into the dirt.
"Now swing."
I sucked in a breath and did as I was told.
A blur of motion, then a sharp impact. My sword went flying, landing in the dust with a dull thud.
I stared at it.
Lance let out a low whistle. "That was fast."
Father sighed. "Pick it up."
I picked it up.
We repeated this seven more times.
By the eighth attempt, my vision blurred at the edges. Sweat dripped into my eyes, and every breath felt like dragging air through sandpaper. My arms shook with exhaustion, my fingers barely clinging to the hilt.
Father exhaled through his nose, the very sound of disappointment. "Terrible. Sloppy grip. Slow reaction time. Weak footing."
I wiped sweat from my brow with the back of my sleeve. "No need to be so encouraging," I gasped.
He ignored me. "Again."
Did I mention that I hate my life?
****
After barely surviving combat training, I thought, Maybe magic practice will be better.
Shocker: It wasn't.
Mother, bless her, was a patient woman. But by the time I was done, even she looked like she regretted every life choice that had led her to this moment.
"Let's start simple," she said, smoothing down her robes. "A wind spell. Just a light breeze."
I nodded, focused, and extended my hands.
Objective: A gentle gust, barely enough to rustle the leaves.
What actually happened: A howling vortex strong enough to rip every piece of laundry off the drying lines and send them spiraling into the sky like a flock of very unfortunate birds.
Mother stared as one of Father's tunics got tangled in a tree. She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, like she was gathering every last ounce of patience left in her soul.
"Okay," she said. "Let's try something else. Fire magic, maybe?"
Objective: Create a small, controlled flame.
What actually happened: A fireball exploded in my hands.
Heat blasted my face. I yelped, flailing as sparks singed my sleeves. Lance, ever the supportive friend, collapsed onto the grass, wheezing with laughter.
I patted my face frantically. Something felt… off.
Lance wiped tears from his eyes and grinned. "Ash, buddy. You, uh… you might want to check your eyebrows."
I touched my forehead. My heart sank.
Mother put out the flames with a flick of her wrist, pinching the bridge of her nose as if debating whether or not to disown me. After a long, long pause, she said, "We're done for today."
And just like that, my first magic lesson came to a merciful, fiery end.
****
The days blurred together.
Morning: Wake up to ice water. Run until my legs gave out. Get beaten half to death with a training sword.
Afternoon: Nearly die, this time from my own magic.
Night: Pass out. Repeat.
By Day Three, I could hold a sword without immediately dropping it. Progress!
By Day Four, my magic hadn't set anything on fire. Miracle!
By Day Five, I actually blocked a hit from Father.
By Day Six, I could run without feeling like my lungs were going to explode.
On the last day, Father didn't wake me up with a bucket of water.
Instead, he stood by my door and said, "Get up."
And for the first time that week, I got up immediately.
By noon, I was sparring against him. I didn't win. But I lasted longer than before.
By evening, I cast a fire spell. It didn't explode.
For the first time in my life… I felt strong.
Tired. Sore. But strong.
I wasn't ready for Arcanis. Not even close.
But at least I wasn't helpless.
That day, it was a rare peaceful night, where even dreams decided to let me rest.
****
Morning came too soon.
No barking orders. No grueling training sessions waiting outside my door.
Just… silence.
I stared at the ceiling of my room, my limbs still sore, my mind somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief.
This was it.
The last morning I would wake up in this bed. The last time I would hear the faint creak of the wooden beams overhead, the distant chatter of the marketplace beginning its day, the rhythmic clanking of my father working the forge. For the first time since receiving that cursed letter, reality settled into my bones.
I was leaving.
A dull ache bloomed in my chest, something I couldn't quite place.
I sat up slowly, muscles stiff, exhaustion pressing down on me like a second skin. But I wasn't sure if it was just from training anymore.
My bag lay packed by the door, just as Mother had left it last night. Neat. Perfect. As if she had done it a hundred times before.
I forced myself to move, my body running on autopilot.
The water in the wash basin was cool against my skin, but it did nothing to wake me up, nothing to wash away the feeling that had settled deep in my chest. I dressed in the nicest tunic Mother had picked out for me, deep blue, embroidered at the edges with patterns she had sewn by hand. My fingers traced the stitching absentmindedly before smoothing out imaginary wrinkles.
By the time I made it to the kitchen, I expected to hear my mother humming, my father's chair scraping against the floor, the quiet rustling of pages as Lance stole bites from his food while pretending to read.
But the house was empty.
The silence rang louder than it should have.
On the table, a plate sat waiting for me, still warm. Fresh bread, a little honey, eggs cooked just the way I liked them.
I hesitated before sitting down, staring at the meal. They had made this for me. Yet they weren't here.
The ache in my chest deepened
I ate slowly, each bite feeling strangely significant. The last breakfast at home. The last time I would sit at this table. The last taste of normalcy before stepping into the unknown.
I finished eating, but I didn't move right away. Instead, I sat there, staring at the empty chairs. The weight of absence pressed against my ribs, heavier than I knew what to do with.
After a long moment, I stood.
My chair scraped against the floor, too loud, too sharp in the quiet house. I grabbed my bag, swung it over my shoulder, and took one final look around.
The woven rug Mother had patched more times than she'd admit.
The chair Father always sat in, carved with old marks from his tools.
The window Lance used to sneak out of when we were younger.
Home.
I exhaled slowly. Then I stepped outside.
I had expected a few goodbyes.
What I hadn't expected… was the entire village waiting for me.
The streets were full, more people than I'd ever seen gathered in one place. Familiar faces, familiar voices. The blacksmith's apprentices, standing beside my father, arms folded, grinning. The bakery workers, flour dusted on their aprons. The old women who ran the herbal shop, nodding knowingly like they had always seen this day coming. Even Old Man Wilfred, who had spent most of my childhood grumbling about my bad luck, stood front and center, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
"…What is this?"
Lance, leaning lazily against a cart, smirked. "Your funeral."
I shot him a glare.
"Alright, alright," he chuckled, raising his hands. "It's a farewell. The elders figured you deserved a proper send-off."
Proper send-off?
For me?
I turned, scanning the crowd. These were the people who had watched me grow up. The ones who had witnessed my disasters firsthand.
The time I tripped and spilled an entire basket of fruit onto the mayor.
The time I accidentally set fire to the town notice board.
The time I somehow got tangled in the bell ropes of the clock tower and rung it for an hour straight.
And yet…
They were here.
A lump formed in my throat.
I wasn't ready for this.
The first to step forward was Elder Harwin. He walked slowly, his cane tapping against the cobblestone, his wrinkled face unreadable. Then, without a word, he placed a small charm in my hand.
A simple stone, engraved with an old blessing. A protection ward.
"You are reckless, boy," he muttered. "But your heart is good. Try not to let Arcanis change that."
I swallowed hard. "I…Thank you."
He just nodded.
Then came the baker's wife, stuffing a small bundle of bread into my satchel. "For the road," she said warmly. "Don't let those fancy city folks make you forget what real food tastes like."
The blacksmith's apprentices thumped me on the back.
The tailor's daughter, who once punched me for accidentally knocking over a rack of clothes, gave me a shy smile.
One by one, they all came forward.
The herbalist handed me a small pouch of remedies.
Even the children, the same ones who had spent years watching me get into trouble, tugged at my sleeve with wide eyes.
"Come back one day," a little boy said, clutching my hand. "Promise?"
I opened my mouth.
No words came out.
I was never good with promises. Never knew if life would let me keep them.
But in that moment, I wanted to.
"…I'll try," I whispered.
He nodded solemnly.
Then ran back to his friends.
Eventually, it was just my family.
Mother didn't speak right away. Instead, she studied me, her eyes flicking over my face like she was searching for something she'd forgotten to memorize. Her fingers twitched at her sides, and I realized, she didn't know what to do with her hands. Mother, who always had a purpose. Who could wield magic and steel with equal precision. Who never hesitated, was hesitating now.
Finally, she exhaled shakily and lifted her hands to cup my face, her palms warm, her thumbs brushing over my cheekbones like she was smoothing away something only she could see.
"You're taller," she murmured.
I huffed a soft laugh. "I think you just got shorter."
She let out a weak chuckle but didn't take the bait. Her grip on my face tightened, just for a second, as though grounding herself.
"You'll do well," she said, and it was firm, like a fact carved into stone. "You always survive, don't you?"
I swallowed hard. "Not by choice."
Her smile wavered, but she didn't let the emotion crack through. Instead, she pulled me forward, pressing a lingering kiss to my forehead. When she finally pulled back, she held my face for a moment longer, like she wasn't quite ready to let go.
Then she did.
And that, that was when it really hit.
This was goodbye.
Father didn't whisper reassurances, didn't try to soften the blow. He simply stepped forward and placed a strong, steady hand on my shoulder.
It was calloused and warm. Familiar.
The weight of it spoke louder than anything he could have said.
I'm proud of you.
You are strong enough.
Come back alive.
My throat tightened.
I nodded.
So did he.
Then, after a long moment, his grip squeezed, just slightly. Just enough to let me know that if he let go, I'd have to stand on my own.
And then… he let go.
The absence of his hand felt colder than it should have.
And then, of course, there was Lance.
For once, he wasn't grinning like an idiot. He just stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets, his usual cocky ease nowhere to be found. His eyes darted over my face, like he was trying to find something to joke about, something to make this easier.
I forced a smirk. "Not gonna cry, are you?"
He snorted, rolling his eyes. "Please. You're the emotional one."
"Lies."
A pause.
A long one.
"…You'll be alright, yeah?"
Something in my chest tightened.
"I have no idea," I admitted.
His expression flickered, something unreadable passing through his gaze before he exhaled, shaking his head. "Figures."
And then, before I could react, he stepped forward and crushed me into the tightest hug I'd ever received.
I stiffened.
Lance didn't do hugs.
For a second, I just stood there, my brain refusing to process what was happening. Then, slowly, my arms came up, and I hugged him back.
It lasted only a few seconds. But in those seconds, everything we'd never said aloud was clear.
When he finally pulled away, he cleared his throat, shaking off the moment like it had never happened. "Try not to trip into another dimension, yeah?"
I barked out a laugh, grateful for the breath of humor. "No promises."
I turned to the road.
The one leading away away from everything I had ever known.
I took a deep breath, one last inhale of the familiar village air, the scent of metal and ash from the forge, the faint trace of lavender from Mother's garden.
Then I stepped forward.
And I didn't look back.