Caelan Veyne's POV
A month passed.
A month of cold mornings and colder nights.
A month of scraping by on odd jobs and crusts of bread.
A month of stares, whispers, and the bruising weight of silence.
Lower Nareth didn't welcome the unchosen.
Without the Academy, I was just another half-breed stray wandering the cobbled streets. The market stalls and forges, once busy and colorful, seemed grayer now. The stone buildings pressed down like giants, their worn faces slick with mist and soot.
I took whatever work I could find: sweeping taverns after drunken brawls, shoveling coal at the smithies, delivering packages for merchants who barely looked me in the eye.
It wasn't living.
It was surviving.
And even that felt like a battle I was losing.
---
It was during one of those miserable errands that I met them.
I had just finished hauling crates down at the docks — my shoulders ached, my hands raw — when I slipped into a side alley to catch my breath.
And found myself face-to-face with trouble.
Three older boys, faces rough and smug, cornered me without warning. They recognized me — the silver-haired, purple-eyed "failure" of Nareth's Academy — and decided I was easy prey.
One shoved me against the wall.
"Where's your magic now, mongrel?"
"Pray to the gods, maybe they'll save you," another sneered.
The third grabbed a fistful of my shirt, raising his fist.
I braced for the blow.
It never came.
A sudden clatter of broken glass rang out, and a figure darted between us — a wiry boy with wild, sandy-blond hair and a cocky grin.
"Oi, cowards!" he shouted, tossing another broken bottle at their feet. "Three against one? What, afraid you'll lose otherwise?"
Behind him, a girl appeared — sharp-eyed and small, with messy chestnut hair tucked under a green cap. She held a hefty iron rod like she knew exactly how to use it.
The thugs hesitated.
Then, grumbling and swearing, they backed off.
"You'll regret this!" one spat.
The blond boy just winked. "Already do, mate."
When they disappeared down the street, the girl turned to me.
"You alright?" she asked, voice blunt but not unkind.
I nodded numbly, still stunned.
"Name's Finn," the boy said, offering a hand. "Finn Torrin."
"And I'm Lyra," the girl added. "You're Caelan, right?"
I blinked.
"How do you—?"
"Small town," Finn said with a shrug. "Word gets around."
His hand was still extended.
Slowly, hesitantly, I shook it.
Their hands were calloused, rough with work. Like mine.
Not like the polished, perfumed students at the Academy.
"Thanks," I muttered, glancing away. "You didn't have to—"
Finn clapped a hand on my shoulder, grinning wide. "Of course we did. We look after our own down here."
I swallowed against the sudden tightness in my throat.
Our own.
I hadn't realized how much I needed to hear that.
---
Over the next weeks, Finn and Lyra became my constant shadows.
We scavenged the city together — running errands for coin, sneaking into abandoned buildings, even daring to climb the crumbling walls of Old Nareth for a glimpse of the world beyond.
They taught me how to move through the city like a shadow, how to find safe places to sleep when the nights grew dangerous.
Finn was all fire and laughter, always charging into trouble with a reckless grin.
Lyra was quieter, sharper — the planner to Finn's chaos — but when she laughed, it was like a crack of lightning in a storm.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn't feel completely alone.
They didn't care that I was unmarked.
They didn't treat me like a disease.
They didn't flinch at my silver hair or purple eyes.
Around them, I could breathe.
---
One night, after a long day of hauling barrels for a brewer, we sat on the rooftop of an abandoned mill, passing around a stolen loaf of bread.
The city stretched out below us, a patchwork of crooked streets and guttering lanterns.
Finn took a bite of bread and said through a mouthful, "You're way tougher than those Academy pricks."
Lyra nodded. "They wouldn't last a week down here."
I laughed — a short, broken sound.
It felt good.
Then Finn elbowed me lightly. "So, tell us, silver-head. What did you wanna be? Before all... this?"
I hesitated.
I hadn't talked about dreams in so long, they felt like half-remembered ghosts.
"I wanted..." I trailed off, staring at the stars struggling to pierce the smoggy sky.
"I wanted to be a Binder," I said finally. "To protect people. Like my father did."
There was a heavy pause.
Then Finn said, softer, "Sounds like he would've been proud of you."
I looked at them — really looked — and for the first time in months, the crushing weight in my chest eased a little.
Maybe... maybe I could start over.
Maybe this wasn't the end.
Maybe this was the beginning.
---
Winter came early to Nareth.
The air grew sharp as knives, and frost clung to the gutters and alleyways like a slow poison.
Food grew scarcer.
Work dried up.
Still, Finn, Lyra, and I stuck together — scraping by, laughing in the face of the cold, sharing whatever scraps we could find.
Mother didn't approve, of course.
When I came home late one night, boots muddy and cheeks raw from the wind, she was waiting by the hearth with a tight, worried frown.
"You're spending too much time with those children," she said as she wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.
"They're not just children," I muttered, sinking into the chair. "They're my friends."
She hesitated.
"Just... be careful, Caelan."
I didn't understand why she looked so sad when she said it.
---
Months blurred into a year.
I turned eighteen with nothing but a stolen pastry from Finn and a lopsided song from Lyra.
I found odd jobs at the docks again — heavier work now, my shoulders broader, my body tougher from a year of hard living.
Sometimes, in rare, quiet moments, I caught glimpses of my reflection in puddles or broken mirrors.
The boy who had dreamed of the Academy was gone.
In his place stood someone leaner, harder.
Someone who knew how to survive.
And yet...
Deep down, I was still Caelan Veyne.
Still hoping. Still foolish enough to believe in second chances.
---
The day that would shatter everything started like any other.
Gray skies.
Colder air.
Empty pockets.
I met Finn and Lyra by the rusted fountain in the old market square.
Finn was grinning wider than usual.
"Got a job," he said. "A good one. Some merchant's looking for runners. Good coin. Easy work."
Lyra nudged me. "Come on, silver-head. It'll be fun."
I hesitated — something tugging at the back of my mind — but shoved the feeling down.
These were my friends.
My only friends.
I nodded.
"Alright. Let's do it."