---
They didn't even knock.
Just a crow at the window, ink-stained and silent, dropping a folded letter onto his desk like it was nothing. No crest. No condolences. Just the cold stamp of the Arcane Registry—black circle, single slash. Death sentence.
Alaric Vale sat in silence.
The candle beside him flickered, casting long shadows over his half-finished report. His hands, once steady from years of disciplined spellwork, trembled as he unfolded the letter.
> *You are hereby relieved of all magical duties due to terminal Diarcore exposure.
Report for discharge within thirty days.*
The Core grants you peace.
His eyes didn't move. He read it once, twice, again. The words didn't change. He laughed—quietly, bitterly. Then coughed.
The mana backlash hit a second later, rippling through his ribs like burning thorns. Just casting a light spell earlier had almost dropped him. Every time he touched magic now, it tore a piece off.
He grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself. In the next room, his wife hummed softly, brushing his mother's hair. Their voices—warm, normal—broke him more than the letter.
He didn't tell them. Couldn't.
He folded the page, placed it gently into the drawer beside a growing stack of bills and unfinished spell diagrams, and stepped outside.
The city was quiet. From here, the Core's spires pierced the night sky like ivory knives, glowing with arrogant light. Nobles lived at the top—safe, distant, above disease. Commoners like him? Replaceable tools. He was a cog with a crack.
He looked at his hands, once praised for their precision. Now shaking. Useless.
He breathed out slowly.
> "Thirty days."
That's all the time they gave him. Not enough for revenge. Not enough for peace.
But maybe enough for one final act.
---
From his journal — Day One:
> I won't fade. I won't vanish like some spent spell.
They cursed me with magic. I'll answer with fire.
Magic was my curse, and crime… my cure to freedom.