Whiteshore was quiet at night.
Not silent. Just the kind of quiet where you could hear a hammer ring out from the smithy two streets away, or the scrape of boots dragging firewood past shuttered doors. Life didn't stop. Even in the cold.
Old Garreth stood near the well, hands stuffed into the sleeves of his coat, grumbling under his breath.
"Three silver a barrel now," he muttered. "Robbery, that's what it is. Back in my day—" No one paid him any mind.
A few steps away, the butcher and the baker were already at it again.
"You call this a fair cut?" the baker said, holding up a slab of salted pork.
The butcher scowled. "You want fair, go hunt it yourself."
Their voices carried easily across the square. Snow clung to rooftops and piled along the edges of shuttered stalls, remnants of yesterday's storm. The cold made conversation short, movement brisk, but life still went on.
Smoke rose from chimneys. Boots crunched through snow. Somewhere, a dog barked.
"Someone's coming," said a boy near the well. He pointed toward the edge of the woods.
People turned.
A figure stumbled out of the bush. Small. Unsteady.
It was a boy. His shirt was torn, half hanging off his frame. Dried blood covered one side of his face. His lips were cracked. He walked like his legs forgot how to.
"Is that… Miles?" someone said.
Two men walked toward him, but didn't get too close.
Miles kept walking. His eyes didn't really seem to see anything in front of him. Just kept going, one foot after the other, like momentum was all that was left.
A woman stepped forward, arms outstretched. "Miles? Where's—where's your father?"
He blinked slowly.
"There was… a Hollowed One," he mumbled. "In the forest."
Then he collapsed.
---
When he woke up, he was lying on an unfamiliar bed. A thick blanket touched against his skin. The room was small, barely wide enough to stretch both arms. The walls were stone cold with patches of moss in the corners. A slit in the ceiling let in a narrow line of silver light.
He sat up. Pain flared in his ribs and his shoulder. His left hand was bandaged, the cloth stiff with dried blood.
He wasn't home.
Something clicked outside. Then a voice.
"You're awake."
A shape stood behind the steel door. Robed. Clean-shaven. Middle-aged. It was Priest Duran.
Miles didn't speak. He watched the man's eyes, trying to figure out if he was being judged or pitied.
"Don't move too much," the priest said. "You lost a lot of blood. You've been asleep since last night."
Miles swallowed. His throat burned when he remembered his father.
"We had to isolate you," Duran added. "Standard practice by the church. You said it was a Hollowed One."
Miles nodded. "A bear. Its eyes were dark green."
Duran sighed. "That kind's been seen near the border, but never this close."
He slid a bowl of broth through the slot. Miles did not touch it.
"I need to ask," the priest continued. "What happened out there?"
So Miles told him.
The hunt. The blood in the snow. The moment when the bear lunged from the trees. His father's fire magic. The fight. The scream. The cliff. The cold.
He excluded the voice in his head and his usage of light magic. He knew light magic can only be used by the people blessed by the church and he didn't want to be called a heretic or worse be hung in front of his village.
When he finished, Duran was quiet.
"You said fire. And wind?"
Miles nodded.
"You cast both?"
He hesitated. Then raised his hand. A small flicker of flame danced over his palm. He closed his fingers. The flame vanished. Then he took a breath and the air near the floor stirred. Snow-dust lifted.
It wasn't strong. But it was magic. Two kinds.
Duran whispered something under his breath. Then louder: "That's… not possible."
"You don't believe me?"
"I believe what I see. That's the problem." The priest stepped back from the door. "You're not infected. We checked for that. No corruption. No decay. But two elements? That shouldn't be possible."
"I didn't ask for this," Miles said.
Duran stared. "Only nobles ever manifest two affinities. Sometimes three, if they're blessed. But that's rare. You… your family's clean blood. No mage ancestors, no crests. Nothing."
Miles looked down at his hand.
"I just wanted to help him," he muttered.
The priest didn't respond for a moment. Then said, "Rest. You'll need it."
He left without another word.
Later that night, someone else came. Village elder Elden Marlow, the man who handled trade with neighboring towns. He wasn't magically strong, but he held enough sway to ask the hard questions.
Then came another. An old mage named William from the regional outpost, thin-robed and suspicious, sent after word had spread too far to ignore.
More talking. More disbelief.
They asked him to show them.
Miles lifted his hand and summoned a flickering flame, small but steady. Then he shifted it. A gust of wind curled around the fire, feeding it, bending it like a dancer mid-spin.
The room fell silent.
"No affinity stone? No conduit?" the mage asked, voice tight.
Miles shook his head.
"Two elements. No training. No bloodline. Gods…" the elder muttered. "Did you say you only developed your core two months ago?"
"Yes."
By midnight, a formal letter had been written, bearing a broken wax seal in red and gold. The mage handed it to Miles.
"You've been offered placement at Elarion Academy," he said. "The most prestigious magical institution in the empire. Only the gifted are allowed through its gates. This is an opportunity of a lifetime, young man."
Miles stared at the letter in his lap. He still smelled like ash and dried blood. His father's death was hours old. His mother's grave, years colder.
"You'll be trained," the priest said gently. "Watched. Protected. And maybe even… understood."
Elarion Academy… I remember my father telling me stories about people from that institution. Mages that can destroy a village in a snap.
"You're free to go home now, Miles." Priest Duran said.
On the way his home, a voice echoed in his mind.
Traitors.