Ash clung to the boy’s hands as he shovelled what was left of the coals, the heat barely enough to cook the roots he'd dug from the frostbitten soil. Another dull winter morning in Hollow's Rest, a village so small it was left off most maps—and for good reason. No noble passed through here. No beast worth hunting. No magic.
Only the forgotten.
"You're up early, Kyle," said Chief Roland, stepping into the flickering warmth of the hut. His cloak was soaked through with snowmelt, the furs clinging to him like they resented the journey.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Kyle muttered, not looking up.
“You’ve been having the dreams again.”
Kyle didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
The dreams had started weeks ago—crumbling towers, voices in languages he didn’t know, and a sky on fire. Each morning he woke with sweat clinging to his spine and the bitter taste of magic on his tongue. Not that he understood what that meant.
No one born in Hollow's Rest could be a mage, it was part of why it was such a forgotten village. A cursed village. Simply put, there was no magic --- except for his own.
Roland sat across from him, carefully pulling a sealed letter from inside his coat. The wax was smeared but still intact. The crest stamped into it shimmered faintly, like old silver in candlelight: a seven-pointed star inside a ring of thorns.
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Kyle stared at it like it might bite.
“This came for you,” the chief said.
“For me?”
Roland nodded once, gravely. “A raven came yesterday. Landed straight on the shrine post. I thought it was some noble house issuing taxes again. Or conscription.”
Kael took the letter with uncertain hands. The seal was real. The paper—real parchment, not pressed bark—was thick, lined with faint runes. The name on it was inked in precise, flowing script.
His name.
Kyle of Hollow’s Rest.
His ''full'' name.
“Go on, open it.”
Kyle broke the seal.
He read in silence.
Then again.
The words didn’t change. Each one clawed deeper into his ribs.
To the Recipient:
You have been formally selected by the Council of Arcana to attend the Lyceum Arcanum, the foremost institution of magical education in the World Empire.
Report to the White Gate before the winter solstice. Travel arrangements have been made.
Failure to appear will be taken as forfeiture.
You have been Chosen.
Kyle’s lips moved silently over the final line.
You have been Chosen.
“You knew,” Kyle whispered.
Roland didn’t deny it. “I sent your name in, months ago. It was a long shot. But I’ve seen the signs, boy. You’re not meant to rot out here with the rest of us.”
Kyle looked down at the ashes clinging to his hands, then back to the letter glowing faintly in the firelight.
“Why me?”
“Because power doesn’t always come with a name,” Roland said. “And because the world is breaking, Kyle. It's going to need someone willing to break it back.”
"But why bother!? What am I going to change, Chief? I can barely use it, let alone go around prancing with nobles who couldn't give two shits about our village except taking our money."
"Language!", Roland half shouted, reminding Kyle of his stern rule.
"Sorry."
Outside, the wind howled down the valley like a warning. But inside, a spark had taken root.
"Kyle, I did this for the betterment of your life, this village, it's far to late to do anything about it now, but the lives of the individuals in it burn with vigour regardless of our lack of magic potential." Roland says as he puts his hand on Kyle's shoulder.
"Take this as an opportunity that will make your goals come true. Don't bother about us here, your dreams will carry our support, always."