The arena roared like a beast, a sea of noise crashing over Zephyr Varyn. He stood at its center, heart pounding like a war drum. At sixteen, he was the youngest son of House Varyn, a name that gleamed like polished gold in the kingdom of Araveth. But today, it weighed like a curse. His black hair, streaked with silver from his beastman blood, stuck to his sweaty forehead. Gray eyes, sharp and stormy, darted to the crowd. Nobles in fine silks filled the stands, their faces twisted with scorn. They whispered his shame, their voices sharp as blades. "The Bladeless," they called him. No mana. No aura. No power.
Zephyr's fingers tightened around his sword, plain steel, dull and lifeless. The Aura Trials demanded a spark of mana, a burst of aura to prove his worth as a Varyn. He'd trained for months, pushing his body to the limit, hoping to find something inside. Anything. The herald, a tall man in red robes, raised a hand. "Begin!" he shouted.
The crowd hushed. Zephyr shut his eyes, reaching deep into his core. He pictured mana, a glowing river, like the stories his mother, Sylra, used to tell. He strained, muscles shaking, sweat dripping down his scarred cheek. Nothing came. His chest tightened, panic creeping in. He tried again, willing a flicker, a spark. The sword stayed cold. The crowd's whispers turned to jeers, laughter slicing through him.
"Enough!" a voice boomed, sharp as a whip. Zephyr's eyes snapped open. His father, Lord Aldric Varyn, stood in the high box, towering and stern. His graying hair was neat, his blue eyes cold as winter ice. Ornate armor gleamed with House Varyn's crest, a sword wreathed in flames, etched in gold. Beside him stood Darius, Zephyr's older brother, twenty-one and perfect. Golden hair, blue eyes, a smirk curling his lips. His longsword burned with fire mana, its Gold-tier aura humming like a storm.
"You disgrace us," Aldric said, his voice low, cutting deeper than any blade. "You are no Varyn."
Zephyr's heart sank, a stone in his chest. "Father, I tried," he said, voice cracking. "I can do better. Give me another chance."
"Silence!" Aldric snapped. "You have no mana, no aura. You're nothing. A stain on our name."
The crowd roared with laughter, nobles pointing, their jewels glinting. Tears stung Zephyr's eyes, hot and shameful. He blinked them away, clutching the silver pendant at his neck. It was Sylra's last gift, a crescent moon etched with tiny runes, given before she died six years ago. Her soft gray eyes, so like his, had sparkled with belief. "You are enough," she'd said, her voice warm, her hand on his cheek. Now, she was gone, and her words felt like a lie.
Darius stepped forward, his smirk cruel. "You're no brother of mine, Bladeless," he said, spitting at Zephyr's feet. The crowd howled, their laughter a knife in Zephyr's gut. A noblewoman in blue silk shouted, "Send him to the slums!" Others joined, chanting, "Bladeless! Bladeless!"
Anger boiled in Zephyr's chest, hot and fierce. His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms. Blood trickled, warm against his skin. "I'll prove you wrong," he whispered, voice shaking but hard. "All of you."
Aldric raised a hand, silencing the crowd. "Zephyr Varyn, you are cast out," he said. "Leave Araveth's noble halls. Live with the beastmen in the slums, where filth like you belongs."
Zephyr's breath caught. The slums? Beastmen were outcasts, wolf-kin and fox-kin scraping by in shacks outside the city. He opened his mouth to protest, but guards in Varyn colors seized his arms. Their grip was iron, bruising his skin. He struggled, boots scraping stone, but they were too strong. The crowd's taunts echoed as they dragged him through the arena gates. "Failure!" "Weakling!" The words burned, each one a spark feeding his rage.
They hauled him past the city's marble walls, past spires that gleamed under the sun. Zephyr's fine Varyn cloak, embroidered with silver threads, caught on thorns as they pulled him through a muddy path. His boots sank into the dirt, soaking through. Sylra's pendant bounced against his chest, her voice ringing in his head. "You are enough." He wanted to believe her, but the weight of his failure crushed him.
The guards stopped at the slum's edge, where shacks of wood and cloth leaned like broken bones. Beastmen stared, their wolf ears twitching, fox tails flicking. A child with furred hands clutched a rag doll, eyes wide. The guards shoved Zephyr forward, and he fell face-first into the mud. Pain shot through his knees. Laughter rang behind him as the guards turned back to the city.
"Don't come back, Bladeless," one growled.
Zephyr lay there, mud cold against his cheek. The slums smelled of smoke, rot, and despair. His heart ached, tears mixing with the dirt. Sylra's face flashed in his mind, her smile soft, her belief unwavering. He'd been ten when she died, taken by fever, leaving him alone with Aldric's scorn and Darius's cruelty. Now, he had nothing. No family. No home.
But rage burned brighter than pain. He pushed himself up, wiping mud from his scarred face. His gray eyes gleamed with fire, hard and unyielding. "I'll come back," he vowed, voice low, meant for himself. "I'll make you all pay. House Varyn will fall."
He stood, legs shaky but firm. The beastmen watched, some curious, others wary. A wolf-kin man with gray fur muttered something, his claws glinting. Zephyr's hand rested on his sword, useless without aura, but it felt solid. He wouldn't die here. He'd find a way.
The slums stretched before him, a maze of shacks and flickering fires. A fox-kin woman stirred a pot, her amber eyes glancing his way. A child kicked a stone, laughing despite the hunger in his thin frame. Zephyr's chest tightened. These were his people now, outcasts like him. He envied the nobles' warm halls, their mana glowing bright. Anger surged again, hot and sharp.
He touched Sylra's pendant, its runes cool under his fingers. Her words sparked a flicker of hope, small but stubborn. House Varyn thought he was broken. They were wrong. He'd rise, forge a blade to shatter their world. He didn't know how, but he'd find a path.
A shadow moved in the alley. Zephyr froze, hand on his sword. A grizzled beastman stepped out, cloaked and scarred, leaning on a bone-carved staff. His amber eyes glowed like coals, wolf-like snout twitching. His fur was shaggy, gray with age, but his frame held strength. Runes glinted on his bracers, faint with mana.
"You've got fight, boy," the beastman growled, voice rough as gravel. "That's a start."
Zephyr's heart raced. "Who are you?" he asked, grip tightening on his sword.
The man's eyes narrowed, a spark of secrets in them. "Name's Zorath," he said. "And you're not done yet."
Zephyr stared, pulse pounding. The slums pressed in, dark and heavy, but Zorath's words lit something inside him. A chance. A path. His journey was just beginning.