The next morning, the sky over Eldergrove was dark and gray, though no storm had been forecast. The air felt heavy, like the wind itself was holding its breath.
Brent sat alone outside the infirmary. He hadn't slept. Kallin had been stabilized, but the damage was done—his right arm was mangled beyond natural healing, and even the Head Healer couldn't guarantee full recovery.
Some said it might never be usable again.
Brent's hands trembled as he stared at them. The same hands that had tried to protect, to defend… but still hurt someone.
"You used the Flame," the system whispered. "You reacted. You did not seek harm—but still, harm was done. This is the weight of Light."
"Doesn't make it easier," Brent muttered.
He didn't need the whispers in the hallways to know what people were saying.
"He attacked Kallin."
"He went berserk—like some cursed bloodline."
"He's just jealous. Everyone knows Brent's powerless."
"He's not anymore."
That last part lingered in every glance, every silence. He's not powerless anymore. And that makes him dangerous.
It didn't take long.
By midday, a message was delivered. Not by courier. Not by student council.
By guards.
Two men in dark crimson armor, with silver falcon crests on their shoulders.
Brent looked up from his meal as they entered the dining hall.
"Brent Alder," one of them called out, voice sharp. "You are to come with us immediately."
Murmurs surged through the tables like a wave. Brent stood slowly, every step heavy with dread.
They took him to the Headmaster's office—except it wasn't just the Headmaster waiting.
Behind the polished desk stood Lord Maeron Crest—Kallin's father.
A high noble of the Inner Circle. A battle-mage who had once held an entire river hostage during the Border Wars, and one of the largest donors to Eldergrove Academy.
He wore black robes etched with gold, and a circlet pulsed on his brow like a threat.
Brent felt the power in the room before Maeron even spoke.
"You maimed my son," Maeron said quietly. "The hand he casts with. The future he was promised."
"I didn't mean to—he attacked me," Brent said, voice cracking.
"And you dared to fight back with power you do not understand," Maeron snapped.
The Headmaster, a pale man named Illorik, stood beside him, gaze lowered.
"We've reviewed the incident," Illorik said. "The Flame magic you used is… unstable. Unknown. And the damage inflicted was severe."
"You're protecting him because he's a Crest," Brent said. "If it were me in that bed, you'd be handing out medals."
Illorik stiffened.
Maeron leaned in. "You are a mistake in this academy, Brent Alder. Your presence here was tolerated because it was pitiful. You've proven it's now dangerous."
Brent's fists clenched, but he said nothing.
"You are hereby suspended indefinitely," Illorik declared. "Your family will be notified. You are to leave the grounds by nightfall."
"No hearing?" Brent asked bitterly. "No chance to defend myself?"
Maeron smiled coldly. "You already did. And look what came of it."
—
That evening, Brent walked through the gates of Eldergrove, his single duffel bag over his shoulder, the Forms of Forgotten Power tucked beneath one arm. The spiral glyph on his chest pulsed faintly, like a dying ember.
He didn't look back.
He couldn't.
His system was silent.
His classmates hated him.
His chance at a future, gone.
And when he reached the edge of the city, the air turned colder—not from magic, but from memory.
Home.
A single stretch of crumbling farmland, two hours from the academy. A father with an old limp from working double shifts. A mother who'd sold her last heirloom to pay the first term's tuition. A little sister who still believed Brent was going to be someone great.
He stood in front of the door and couldn't bring himself to knock.
He had nothing.
Except the book.
Except the Flame.
And that voice, barely a whisper now.
"You are not broken. Only beginning."
But Brent didn't feel like a chosen one anymore.
He just felt… alone.