The arena roared like a caged beast, its noise crashing over Zephyr Varyn in relentless waves, a thunderous symphony of disdain that shook the very ground beneath his feet. He stood at its heart, a lone figure dwarfed by the towering stone walls, surrounded by a sea of scornful eyes that glittered with malice. At sixteen, he bore the weight of House Varyn, a name that glittered like polished gold across the sprawling kingdom of Araveth, a symbol of power and prestige etched into every marble spire. But today, that name crushed him like a massive boulder, pressing down on his shoulders until he could scarcely breathe. His black hair, streaked with silver threads from his beastman blood, clung to his sweaty forehead in damp, tangled strands, a mark of his mixed heritage that set him apart. Stormy gray eyes, deep and turbulent, darted nervously to the crowd, where nobles in silken robes of crimson and sapphire sneered from their cushioned high seats, their faces twisted with contempt. They whispered his shame, their voices sharp as honed blades cutting through the air. "The Bladeless," they called him, a title that stung like a whip. No mana. No aura. No power.
Zephyr's fingers tightened around his sword, plain steel, cold and lifeless in his trembling grip, a stark contrast to the radiant weapons of his kin. The Aura Trials demanded a spark of mana, a burst of aura to claim his worth as a Varyn, a test of lineage and strength that defined his future. He'd trained in secret for months, his muscles aching with every swing, his body pushed to the brink, hoping for a miracle to ignite the dormant power within. The herald, a tall man in flowing red robes that billowed like blood against the stone, raised his hand with deliberate slowness. "Begin!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls.
The crowd hushed, their stares burning holes in his skin, a thousand judgmental gazes pinning him in place. Zephyr shut his eyes, reaching deep into his core, searching for that elusive spark. He pictured mana, a glowing river of light, just as Sylra had described in her bedtime tales, her voice a gentle melody in his memory. He strained with all his might, sweat dripping down his scarred cheek, tracing the lines of old wounds earned in forgotten spars. Nothing came. His chest tightened, panic clawing up his throat like a wild animal. He tried again, arms trembling with the effort, veins bulging under his skin. The sword stayed dead, a lifeless hunk of metal in his hands. Jeers erupted, a storm of laughter that sliced his soul into jagged pieces, each mocking cry a fresh wound.
"Enough!" a voice boomed, cutting through the chaos like a thunderclap. Zephyr's eyes snapped open, wide with dread. Lord Aldric Varyn towered in the high box, his graying hair neatly combed, blue eyes cold as the winter ice that coated Araveth's northern peaks. His ornate armor gleamed with House Varyn's crest, a sword wreathed in flames etched in gold across his breastplate, a symbol of their proud lineage. Beside him stood Darius, Zephyr's older brother, twenty-one and the epitome of perfection. Golden hair shimmered like sunlight, blue eyes sparkled with arrogance, a smirk curling his lips like a predator's grin. His longsword burned with fire mana, its Gold-tier aura humming like a tempest, a radiant beacon of power that mocked Zephyr's failure.
"You disgrace us," Aldric said, his voice a blade of ice that pierced Zephyr's heart. "You are no Varyn."
Zephyr's heart plummeted, a heavy stone sinking into the depths of his chest. "Father, I tried," he pleaded, voice cracking with desperation, tears threatening to spill. "Give me another chance to prove myself."
"Silence!" Aldric snapped, his tone sharp enough to draw blood. "You have no mana, no aura. You're nothing. A stain on our name that must be erased."
The crowd roared, nobles pointing with gloved hands, their jewels flashing like stars against the dim arena light. Tears stung Zephyr's eyes, hot and shameful, a flood he fought to hold back. He blinked them away, clutching the silver pendant at his neck, a crescent moon etched with tiny runes that pressed against his skin like a talisman. Sylra's gift, given before her death six years ago, her soft gray eyes brimming with belief as she whispered, "You are enough." Now, she was gone, taken by a fever that left him shivering in the night, and her words mocked him, a cruel echo in the face of his failure.
Darius stepped forward, his smirk cruel and unrelenting. "You're no brother of mine, Bladeless," he said, spitting at Zephyr's feet, the glob of saliva landing with a wet smack on the stone. The crowd howled, their laughter a dagger that plunged into his gut, twisting with every mocking cheer. A noblewoman in blue silk rose from her seat, her voice shrill as she shouted, "Throw him out!" Others joined, their voices rising in a chant that filled the air. "Bladeless! Bladeless!"
Anger surged, a wildfire igniting in Zephyr's chest, its heat spreading through his veins. His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms until blood trickled, warm and slick against his skin. "I'll prove you wrong," he whispered, voice shaking but fierce, a promise forged in the furnace of his rage.
Aldric raised a hand, silencing the mob with a single gesture. "Zephyr Varyn, you are cast out," he declared, his words ringing with finality. "Leave Araveth's noble halls. Live with the beastmen in the slums, where filth like you belongs."
Zephyr's breath caught, a sharp gasp in the sudden quiet. The slums? Beastmen were outcasts, wolf-kin with sharp ears and fox-kin with flicking tails, scraping by in a world beyond the city's gleaming walls. He opened his mouth to protest, to beg for mercy, but guards in Varyn colors seized his arms. Their grip bruised his skin, iron hard and unyielding. He struggled, boots scraping against the rough stone floor, but they dragged him through the arena gates. "Failure!" "Weakling!" The taunts echoed, each word a spark feeding his growing rage. His pendant bounced against his chest, Sylra's voice a faint echo in his head, a lifeline slipping away.
They hauled him past the city's marble spires, their surfaces smooth and cold, past banners fluttering in the breeze like silent witnesses to his shame. Zephyr's fine Varyn cloak caught on thorny brambles, tearing further with every step as they pulled him down a muddy path that sucked at his feet. His boots sank, soaked through, the cold biting into his toes with a relentless chill. The guards stopped at the slum's edge, where shacks loomed like broken skeletons, their wooden frames patched with rags that flapped in the wind. Beastmen stared, their eyes glinting with suspicion, a mix of wolf-kin and fox-kin watching from the shadows. The guards shoved Zephyr forward, and he crashed face-first into the mud. Pain shot through his knees, a sharp sting that radiated up his legs. Laughter rang behind him, harsh and mocking, as the guards turned back to the city.
"Don't come back, Bladeless," one growled, his voice fading into the distance.
Zephyr lay there, mud cold and slick against his cheek, its earthy taste coating his tongue. The slums smelled of smoke, rot, and despair, a stench that filled his lungs with every shallow breath. His heart ached, a dull throb that matched the pounding in his head, tears mixing with the filth on his face. Sylra's face flashed in his mind, her smile soft and warm, her belief a ghost that haunted him. He'd been ten when fever took her, her body wasting away as he clung to her hand, leaving him with Aldric's scorn and Darius' cruelty. Now, he had nothing. No family. No home. The weight of abandonment pressed down, a crushing force that threatened to break him.
He pushed himself up, mud sliding off his scarred hands in heavy clumps, the effort draining what little strength remained. His gray eyes gleamed with fire, hard and unyielding, a spark of defiance amid the ruin. "I'll come back," he vowed, voice low and meant for himself alone. "I'll make you all pay. House Varyn will fall." He touched the pendant, its runes cool under his trembling fingers, a fragile connection to the past. Sylra's words sparked a flicker of hope, a ember in the vast darkness that surrounded him.
A shadow moved in the alley, a flicker of movement that snapped Zephyr from his thoughts. He froze, hand flying to his sword, its hilt slick with mud. A grizzled beastman stepped out, cloaked in tattered fabric, his body scarred from battles long forgotten. He leaned on a staff carved from bone, its surface weathered and worn. His amber eyes glowed like coals in the dim light, his wolf-like snout twitching as he sniffed the air. "You've got spirit, boy," he growled, his voice rough as gravel. "Prove it." The beastman turned, vanishing into the mist without a backward glance, leaving Zephyr alone once more. He stared after the figure, hope shattering like glass in his chest. Even this stranger, this glimmer of possibility, had abandoned him. Loneliness crashed down, heavier than the mud that coated his body, a weight that threatened to drag him into the earth.
The slum stirred around him, beastmen watching from the shadows, their eyes glinting with curiosity or disdain. His journey loomed, a path of survival he must walk alone. The wind whispered through the shacks, carrying the distant hum of the city he'd lost, a haunting reminder of his fall. He took a step, legs trembling under the strain, the mud sucking at his boots with every movement. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, a dull ache that grew with each breath, a reminder of the meals he'd taken for granted. The beastmen's stares followed him, their silence louder than any taunt, a chorus of judgment in the stillness. He clutched the pendant tighter, its weight a lifeline in the void, its runes pulsing faintly against his palm. The night loomed ahead, a dark promise of struggle and solitude, and Zephyr braced himself, a lone figure against the endless unknown. The stars above blinked, cold and distant, mirroring the isolation that gnawed at his heart. He stumbled forward, the weight of his exile a chain around his soul, each step a battle against the despair that threatened to consume him. The shacks creaked in the breeze, their shadows dancing like specters, and the faint sound of a beastman's growl echoed, a warning or a challenge. Zephyr pressed on, his resolve hardening with every painful stride, determined to rise from the ashes of his disgrace.