Thorne Ashveil had never believed in magic—not truly. He had heard the stories, the whispered legends of wizards and witches with their wands, casting spells that could bend reality to their will. But to Thorne, they were just that—stories. In the small village of *Ashford*, the only magic that mattered was the kind that could make a living: working the land, mending fences, and lighting a fire with a match. No one in Ashford had seen a witch or wizard in generations, and Thorne had long since stopped caring about such things.
His family wasn't poor, but they weren't rich either. His father, a farmer, and his mother, a seamstress, worked tirelessly to provide for Thorne and his younger sister, *Lia*. Their house was small but warm, tucked at the edge of the forest where the trees whispered with the wind, and the only excitement in their lives came from the occasional market day or visiting relative. Life was simple, ordinary, and peaceful.
But everything had changed on Thorne's sixteenth birthday.
It was a crisp autumn morning when the letter arrived. The sun had just begun to rise, casting a golden glow over the sleepy town. Thorne sat at the kitchen table, absentmindedly poking at his half-eaten breakfast. Lia, his little sister, was already bouncing around, excited for the day ahead. It was rare for her to leave him alone for long, but today, she was unusually quiet, clearly aware of the odd tension in the air.
Thorne had felt it the moment he woke up. A strange sensation, like an invisible weight on his chest, something that whispered of change. It was nothing like the usual feeling of dread that came with turning another year older, or the anxious anticipation of what was to come. This felt... different. More profound. As if something was about to disrupt his entire world.
The knock at the door startled him from his thoughts.
Thorne blinked, unsure if he'd imagined the sound, but when the knock came again—three sharp raps—he stood up from the table and walked to the front door. He glanced back at Lia, who had stopped moving altogether, her eyes wide as she stared at him.
"Who is it?" Thorne asked, more out of habit than expectation. The village of Ashford was small; there was never anyone at the door this early.
But when he opened it, his breath caught in his throat.
On the doorstep, there was a letter. Not an ordinary letter, but something far more unusual. The envelope was thick, made of parchment that seemed to shimmer faintly in the light. The seal was unlike anything Thorne had ever seen: an intricate symbol of an entwined serpent and phoenix, with glowing edges that seemed to pulse as if alive.
For a moment, Thorne simply stared at it, feeling as though the world had shifted under his feet. The air around him seemed heavier, charged with something he couldn't place. The letter lay there, waiting, as if calling to him.
Lia peeked over his shoulder. "Who would send you something like that?" she asked, her voice trembling with curiosity.
"I don't know," Thorne murmured. The weight of the letter was palpable, and for reasons he couldn't explain, he felt an urgent need to open it. His hands were shaking slightly as he reached down and picked it up. The parchment felt warm to the touch, as though it had just been delivered by someone or something with a purpose.
Without another word, Thorne tore the seal and unfolded the letter. The words inside were written in an elegant, flowing script, the ink shimmering slightly as if it held a magic all its own.
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*Thorne Ashveil,*,You are called to *Viremoor*, the Academy of the Exiled.
You are not like others.
Your bloodline has been summoned.
Do not delay.
Prepare for your trials.
Signed,
*Professor Grellam*
Thorne's heart skipped a beat. He read the words again, just to make sure he hadn't imagined them. Viremoor? The Academy of the Exiled? What did that mean? And why was this letter addressed to him? He didn't have any magical ancestry—did he?
He felt the weight of the letter shift in his hands, as though it were more than just paper and ink. His mind raced. What was this? Some kind of joke? Some twisted prank from the town's youth? But the seal, the symbols—it all felt real.
"Thorne?" Lia's voice broke through his thoughts, sharp with concern. "What does it say? What's going on?"
Thorne turned to face her, trying to make sense of the words. His throat felt dry. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His mind was too clouded with confusion and a growing sense of unease.
The letter felt heavier now, as if it were pulling him toward something he couldn't understand. And then, just as his fingers closed tighter around the parchment, a strange, faint whisper filled the air.
*"The first trial begins now, Thorne Ashveil."*
The voice was soft but clear, echoing in his mind like a distant cry. It was as if the very air had spoken to him. He spun around, his heart pounding in his chest. There was no one there. The street outside was quiet, the usual sounds of birds and rustling leaves filling the silence. But the whisper remained, lingering in his mind, impossible to ignore.
"Thorne? Are you okay?" Lia asked, her voice full of worry. She stepped forward, her eyes scanning his face.
"I... I don't know," Thorne whispered, more to himself than to her. His hands were trembling as he held the letter, now burning with a strange intensity. "Something's happening. I don't understand."
Lia's brow furrowed. "What's in the letter?"
Thorne opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the ground beneath him seemed to shift. The world around him trembled, faint at first, but then growing stronger. A low, rumbling sound reverberated through the earth beneath his feet, almost like thunder—only, it wasn't coming from the sky.
It was coming from within him.
Suddenly, the air grew colder, and the letter in Thorne's hands began to glow with a faint light. His breath caught in his throat. Something was happening. Something was awakening.
He didn't know how he knew it, but he felt it deep inside—Viremoor was calling him, and he had no choice but to answer.