Grand Hall of House's air Anticipation was great at Cinderfall, a visible hum that permeated the very stones of the old fortification. It grasped the tapestries showing generations of fiery mages, heated the sleek obsidian floor, and constricted the throats of every young aspirant present for the Awakening Ceremony. For me, Elara, it felt like a lead weight pressing down on my chest, threatening to crush the last vestiges of hope I clung to.
This was the day. That day, the dormant fire within every descendant of House Cinderfall was kindled into a blazing fire—a regulated inferno that would eternally identify them as a genuine mage of the Fire Element. Though the hall's cool, dry air was moving, my palms were wet with frightened sweat. My heart pounded against my ribcage, a hurried drumbeat against the subdued march of the service.
Symbolically shedding status, I stood amid the other initiates wearing plain, basic tunics before the true essence of our lineage was revealed. They all looked so sure, so ready. Two years older than me, Lysander stood tall and proud, a sneer on his lips. Known already for his explosive temper and the way little sparks would dance around his hands when agitated—certain indications of a strong awakening. Across from me, barely ten cycles old little Lyra bounced on the balls of her feet, her eyes wide with innocent delight. I admired their sureness and natural affinity to the element that characterized our home.
My personal relationship felt far. Like a small echo in a large, empty room. Certainly I had worked. For years, under the close and frequently critical gaze of my professors. I had concentrated, meditated, sought to evoke even the slightest glimmer. But whereas others might coax heat from a cold stone or make a candle flame dance to their will, I could only conjure. . . nothing. There is a gap. Disappointment, humiliating emptiness.
Still, hope lingered, persistent and dumb. Maybe the Grand Hall's combined magical energy, the sheer presence of the Ancestors, would set what years of solo work could not on fire. Maybe today the fire would at last ignite.
Stepping forward was Grandmaster Theron, a man whose face reflected centuries of knowledge and whose eyes had the constant glow of a banked fire. Without having to be raised, his deep and resonant voice filled the auditorium. "Children of Cinderfall," he thundered, "today, you stand on the precipice of your true selves. Today, the flame of your ancestry will ignite. You today become one of the proud few who use the very core of creation.
He discussed duty, honor, the hallowed trust given to us. He discussed the Fire Element as a living creature, a power requiring control, respect, and unrelenting commitment. Generally kept modest, the enormous hearth at the far end of the hall flared with a sudden, spectacular roar as he spoke, delivering a wave of heat that made my skin prickle. The power we desired was this one. This was the legacy I longed so much for.
The event started. One by one the initiates were brought forth. Each climbed onto a raised dais in the middle of the hall, a slick, dark stone slab engraved with age-old runes. They would shut their eyes, extend their dominant hand, and concentrate.
The first was a youngster called Kael. He stood, quivering a little, then inhaled deeply. Following a moment of silence, a faint wisp of smoke curled from his fingertips followed by a little, flickering flame that danced quietly in the air. An approving murmur, a collective sigh of relief. He got accepted.
A girl named Anya is next. Her face tightened in deep concentration. A little ball of bright, blazing fire erupted above her hand with a sharp intake of breath, floating steadily. More powerful. Further applause.
Called Lysander He approached the dais with confidence radiating from him. He didn't even blink. He clenched his fist with a violent grin, and a deluge of scarlet sparks burst around him, circling like a little storm before gathering into a bright, fist-sized fire blazing with raw power. Cheers burst the hall. Natural Lysander A real Cinderfall son. My heart slipped slightly farther.
My turn came. "Elara, daughter of Elian, of the House Cinderfall. "
Words felt heavy, weighed down with millennia of expectation. Walking toward the dais, my legs seemed like lead. Under my naked feet, the obsidian stone was icy, a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from Lysander's presentation. Every elder, every family member, every other initiate's eyes were staring at me. In the crowd, I saw my mother with an expression of a blend of anxious hope and a well-known underlying anxiety. Then, I saw Roric. Barely eight summers old, my younger brother had a pale little face and staring, wide eyes. He gave me a fast, nearly invisible nod—a silent plea for me to succeed. For us to be successful.
I arranged myself on the dais. I stretched my hand, palm up, and it shuddered. Closing my eyes, I tried to eliminate the expectant quiet, the weight of a thousand gazes. I paid particular attention to the teachings: Feel the heat. Welcome the flame. Let the fire burn from inside.
I saw the blazing hearth, the dancing flames, the scorching heat of a forge. I saw the heart of fire, a living, breathing being, flowing into my palm, eager to respond to my summons. I reached deep, further than I had ever before, looking for that fleeting spark, that faint echo.
Nothing.
I pressed with more force. My jaw tightened and my eyebrows twisted. I could experience the hallway's energy, the lingering warmth from the prior awakenings, but it was exterior, a wall I could not penetrate. I attempted to pull, to cajole, to order. My fingers stayed vacant. Cold.
Though it was not from the hall's heat, a bead of sweat trickled down my temple. It came from the frantic attempt, the excruciating awakening. Nothing still. No flick, no flash, no smoke. Just the great, echoing emptiness where my elemental power should have been.
The quietness in the hall became more profound, more oppressive than before. It was uncertainty first, then an increasing ripple of unease rather than merely excitement. I opened my eyes.
Standing before me Grandmaster Theron's face was indecipherable, yet his eyes—usually so welcoming with the glow of his own power—showed a flicker of disappointment. The other initiates averted or stared with a combination of compassion and grim curiosity. My mother had a familiar despair etched over her face. Roric's eyes, so hopeful only moments ago, were now opened with a dawning dread.
Grandmaster Theron's voice softened now, but it cut through the silence like a knife, "Elara, daughter of Elian. " "You have tried the Awakening. And the Fire has not answered your call. "
My breath caught. Though predictable, the words nonetheless hit me as though a physical blow. The Fire has not said anything. I had failed, but more importantly, the core of my ancestry had denied me.
Another elder mumbled, his voice soft yet audible, "This is… without precedence in recent memory. "
Someone else whispered, &"An oddity. "
The words repeated the precise thoughts that had troubled me for years. Eccentricity. a fault. A fractured link in a proud chain.
Grandmaster Theron held a hand, thereby quieting the whispers. Although his gaze was still determined, it had a trace of sadness as it met mine. "The customs of House Cinderfall are ancient and unyielding. All who bear our name must show their link to the Fire Element to stay inside our hallowed halls. Our identity and fundamental strength live here.
He paused, and like a shroud over me fell the weight of his next words. "Elara, by the Grand Council and the sacred laws of our Ancestors, you are hereby… banished from House Cinderfall. "
The planet seemed to tip. Banished. So absolute, so ultimate, the word reverberated throughout the large chamber, ripping away all I had ever known. my house My loved ones. My future. In one horrific pronouncement, all gone.
My head reeled; I yearned to yell, to oppose, to plead. No words, though. Tight throat and empty chest I experienced an odd separation, as though I was observing a play developing and the figure on stage was not me.
From the shadows close to the entrance of the hall, two quiet, towering sentinels stepped forward, their armor glinting dully. Their presence was strong, unyielding though they were not mean. One gestured for me to come down from the platform. Though still heavy, my legs somehow obeyed.
Passing the faces that blended into a tapestry of compassion, humiliation, and averted eyes, I walked a phantom in my own life. Tears shone in my mother's eyes as she clenched her hand to her mouth. The guards were already leading me toward the enormous oak doors, thus I wished to run to her and cling to her.
Then, a small, frenetic voice. "Elara! " Roric spoke. His little form weaving among the legs of adults, he had escaped the throng. His eyes were full, one tear running across his light cheek. As the guard gently but firmly led him back, he pushed something little and smooth into my hand.
Our house sigil, a small, rough-hewn phoenix he had carved for me last summer, was wooden charm. It seemed warm in my frozen hand, a fleeting link to the life I was abandoning. I gripped it, the last concrete thing I had from my past.
Grand Hall's enormous doors opened to show the blinding light of the courtyard. The guards steered me out, their feet reverberating on the cobblestones. My vision was cloudy, yet I could identify the familiar training grounds, the vivid gardens, the gleaming fountain where I used to play with Roric. Their attractiveness served as a brutal reminder of what I was losing; now they seemed to mock me.
Massive iron portals that had always felt like a shield, protecting me from the perils of the globe, we passed through the outer gates of the Cinderfall stronghold. They swung open now to cast me into it.
Beyond the gates, a simple, strong cart drawn by a pair of calm, grey mules stood waiting. Another guard, older and with a tired but not harsh countenance, sat on the driver's seat. He only gave a small nod, quietly accepting my destiny.
He said, his voice rough but free of malice, "The Outlands"
The Outlands. The moniker itself gave me chills down my spine. Known for its rough topography, erratic weather, and hazardous, occasionally monsterous monsters roaming freely, a large, untamed wilderness surrounding the developed areas. There were the unwanted, the exiled, the very needy went to disappear. It was a death sentence, only slower.
I climbed into the cart's rear; the wooden planks were harsh and unrelenting below me. There was no baggage, no food beyond a tiny, rough-spun bag with a rough blanket, a waterskin, and some dried food. Worn boots and the rough tunic had replaced my nice apparel.
The guard clicked his tongue, and the mules started to walk slowly first before speeding up regularly. Behind me, the Cinderfall stronghold, my home, started to dwindle as its proud, crimson banners swayed in the wind. I watched it recede with a knot of ice forming in my stomach. All receding and turning into a memory: the warmth of the fireplace, the laughter in the halls, the recognizable faces.
The smooth, paved road quickly changed into a rough dirt track, then into almost nothing more than a twisting path through sparse, gnarled trees. The air turned colder, thinner. The brilliant greens of the cultivated fields faded into subdued browns and greys as the earth grew cracked and parched. Once a vivid blue over Cinderfall, the sky seemed to expand forever, a huge, unempathetic canvas.
Silent suffering passed hours blurred. The cart's jolting continually brought me back to my changed life. My thoughts spiraled through a frenetic cycle of disbelief, wrath, and a great, agonizing grief. How could this have happened? Was I really so useless that my own blood could reject me so thoroughly?
As the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of bruised purple and fiery orange – a cruel parody of the element I could not wield – the landscape grew even more desolate. Jagged rock formations clawed at the sky, casting long, skeletal shadows. The trees became gnarled and twisted, their branches like grasping claws. The wind, no longer a gentle breeze, began to howl, carrying with it the scent of dust and something wild, something untamed.
The guard, who had remained silent for most of the journey, finally spoke. "We're almost there. Just over that ridge." He pointed with a calloused finger towards a particularly bleak, rocky outcrop.
My heart pounded with a new kind of dread. There. The place where my new life, or rather, my slow demise, would begin.
The cart rumbled over the ridge, and below, nestled in a small, barren hollow, was a sight that stole the last breath from my lungs. It was a hut. A crude, ramshackle thing, built from rough-hewn logs and patched with mud and dried grasses. It looked barely sturdy enough to withstand a strong gust of wind, let alone the dangers of the Outlands. A wisp of smoke curled lazily from a crooked chimney, suggesting a recent fire, or perhaps just a lingering warmth.
"This is it," the guard said, pulling the mules to a halt. "It's been used before. Should be… adequate." His tone was apologetic, almost pitying.
I stared at the hut, my new "home." It was smaller than the smallest servant's quarters in Cinderfall. No windows, just a dark, gaping doorway. No comforts, no warmth, no familiar scent of hearth smoke and polished wood. Just the raw, untamed wilderness stretching out in every direction.
I dismounted from the cart, my legs stiff and unsteady. The ground was hard, rocky, and cold beneath my worn boots. The air was sharp, biting, and carried the faint, unsettling scent of something wild – animal, earth, and decay.
The guard handed me the small sack of provisions. "There's a spring a short walk north," he said, pointing vaguely. "And… good luck, child." His eyes held a genuine sadness. He knew what he was leaving me to.
He turned the cart, and with a crack of the reins, the mules began their slow journey back, leaving me standing alone in the rapidly fading light. I watched the cart disappear over the ridge, the last link to my former life vanishing with it.
The silence that descended was absolute, broken only by the mournful howl of the wind and the distant, unfamiliar cries of unseen creatures. Darkness began to creep across the landscape, swallowing the last vestiges of the bruised sky.
I stood there for a long time, clutching the small sack, the wooden phoenix charm still warm in my palm. My breath plumed in the cold air. The hut loomed before me, a dark, silent sentinel.
This was it. My banishment was complete. I was alone. Utterly, terrifyingly alone.
A shiver ran through me, not just from the cold, but from the raw, primal fear that clawed at my throat. I was a mage without magic, a daughter without a home, a human adrift in a hostile world. The despair was a crushing weight, threatening to pull me down into the cracked earth.
But then, as the first star pricked through the deepening gloom, a tiny, almost imperceptible flicker ignited deep within me. It wasn't the warmth of fire, nor the rush of water, nor the solidity of earth, nor the freedom of air. It was something else. Something… vital. A stubborn, defiant spark of life, refusing to be extinguished.
I took a shaky breath, the cold air burning my lungs. I was banished. I was alone. But I was not dead. Not yet.
With trembling steps, I walked towards the dark maw of the hut, into the unknown. The Outlands awaited. And so, perhaps, did something else. Something I could not yet comprehend. Something that might just be my salvation.
The night was long.