The day after the humiliation, Ashen stayed locked in his room.
He hadn't eaten or spoken. He stared at the stone ceiling, hands crossed on his stomach, as if waiting for something inside him to die. Maybe it already had.
Once again, he hadn't hit. He hadn't screamed.
And yet, the voice of the Fool was still screaming in his head.
"Why not make them bleed? Why keep crawling?"
But this time, Ashen didn't answer.
Caldor knocked on the door in the late afternoon.
— Ashen? May I come in?
The boy sat up slowly. His face was hollow, eyes shadowed with ancient darkness. He nodded.
The mage entered with a steaming cup and sat down beside the bed.
— I saw what happened yesterday.
Ashen looked down.
— You're going to tell me I did the right thing... that I was "better than them," right?
— No, replied Caldor. I'm going to tell you that you held yourself back. And I'm not sure that's always a good thing.
Ashen turned his head toward him, surprised.
— You think I should have hit him?
— No. But I think you held back to survive... not to heal.
A heavy silence fell.
Caldor continued, more gently:
— You want to improve? Then you need to understand something essential: as long as you stay silent, as long as you run from your anger, it will eat you alive. It will dictate your actions, even in calm moments. You have to listen to it. And transform it.
Ashen frowned.
— How? By crying? By telling everyone about my past?
— No, said Caldor simply. By facing your own silence.
He held out the cup to Ashen.
— Drink this. And meet me in the basement.
Ashen hesitated, then obeyed.
The basement of Caldor's house was vast, vaulted, covered in ancient symbols drawn in chalk. In the center, a magic circle glowed faintly.
— You're going to step into that, said Caldor. And you're going to listen.
— Listen to what?
— What lives inside you.
Ashen stepped forward slowly. As soon as he crossed the circle's boundary, the world vanished.
No sound. No light. Nothing.
Only the breath of his own fear.
Hours passed, or maybe days. He no longer knew.
In that total darkness, Ashen was faced with himself. But not his reflection: his screams.
Voices surged.
— Bastard. — Crawl. — You deserve nothing. — The fool. — The dog. — The monster. — The toy.
He covered his ears, but they were already inside him. So he screamed.
— SHUT UP!
But silence fell again instantly.
And then, he saw a figure.
A child.
Small. Frail. Trembling. Naked, covered in wounds and chains. He recognized him immediately.
It was him. Himself at six years old. Himself, the day Kael had locked him in the cellar with the rats. Himself, the day his mother had looked away.
The little one looked at him, tears on his cheeks.
— Why did you leave me alone?
Ashen fell to his knees.
— I... I couldn't...
— You forgot me, said the child. You chose to stay silent.
Ashen reached out his hand.
— I wanted to survive...
— But you died, Ashen. You survived by dying.
Ashen closed his eyes. He clenched his fists. And for the first time, he whispered:
— I'm sorry.
The circle lit up violently.
And the light brought him back.
Ashen opened his eyes, gasping.
Caldor was waiting, calm.
— Well?
— I saw... me. The child. The one from before.
The mage nodded.
— Did you speak to him?
Ashen clenched his jaw.
— I told him I was sorry.
Caldor said nothing. He simply gave a soft, almost sad smile.
— Then, for the first time... you've begun to heal.
Ashen looked away.
But he knew something had changed. Inside him.
Silence... was no longer his enemy.
The morning was cold, dry, silent.
Ashen trained alone in the garden. His movements were precise, almost mechanical. A small glowing sphere floated between his hands, trembling, unstable. He stabilized it, then released it. It vanished in a burst of sparks.
Behind him, Caldor watched, arms crossed.
— You're progressing fast.
Ashen simply nodded.
He never smiled.
He only spoke when necessary.
He had never told anything about himself. Not where he came from, not who he was. And Caldor didn't ask questions.
But he observed him.
And he knew one thing: this boy carried an invisible burden. Something enormous. Something he hadn't yet decided to put down.
—
That evening, at dinner, the students were gathered in the great hall.
Caldor entered, accompanied by a hooded woman. She wore a tunic embroidered with silver thread and a brooch shaped like a royal crescent. Her face was hidden under a white veil.
Everyone immediately fell silent.
The woman spoke, her voice clear and impersonal.
— I come on behalf of the Council of Royal Mages. Early registrations for the Royal Academy of Magic are beginning. This year, we are selecting certain students early, through direct recommendation from their masters.
A shiver ran through the room.
Caldor turned to his students, then continued:
— I submitted three names. They were accepted.
He paused.
— Théon of Morholt.
The boy smiled, confident.
— Elaris Varn.
The ivory-haired girl lifted her chin, haughty.
— And... Ashen.
A heavy silence fell.
Cutlery stopped moving.
Ashen, for his part, remained still. He showed nothing. No surprise. No pride. Nothing.
Just that strange, impenetrable calm that followed him like a shadow.
— Him?! shouted a boy farther away. But... he's not even noble!
— He has no magical lineage! hissed another.
The king's messenger raised a hand. Silence returned immediately.
— The Academy is not a court of blood. It's a forge. It takes what is raw... and it transforms it. Whether the boy comes from the people, or elsewhere, does not matter. He is accepted.
Caldor said nothing more. He met Ashen's gaze... and raised an eyebrow slightly. An invitation to speak.
But Ashen looked away.
He owed nothing to anyone.
That night, in his room, he sat by the window. The moon shone faintly, like a tired eye in the black sky.
The Academy.
The place where everything had fallen apart before.
But this time, no one knew. No one suspected what he had been. Nor what he was.
He was not Ashen Valemyr here.
He was not a cursed son.
He was not the Fool.
He was a stranger.
Free.
But he knew: sooner or later, someone would search for his name. Someone would dig.
He had no identity papers. No origin. No lineage to show.
So, he took a quill.
And on an old parchment, he wrote:
Name: Caelen Sareth
Origin: unknown
Goal: none
He folded the paper, slipped it under his pillow.
Then he lay down.
And murmured to himself, voice barely audible:
— This time, I won't be their victim. I won't be their monster.
A breath.
A heartbeat.
— This time... I choose who I am.
"The past always knocks at the door. And sooner or later... someone opens it."
The Royal Academy rose like a sleeping monster, with a thousand shuttered windows and spiraling towers that pierced the clouds. It wasn't beautiful. It was solemn. Massive. Silent.
Ashen — now Caelen — often stopped in front of the great black iron gates. He stood motionless, fists clenched in the pockets of his tunic.
This place... he didn't know it.
And yet, he feared it.
Not because he had died there — he had never seen it while alive.
But because it was here that his fate would shift.
He was no longer in the shadow of a dungeon. He was no longer a court dog. He was no longer the king's Fool.
He was Caelen Sareth.
And it was time the world learned that.
On the day of the opening, the Academy's inner courtyard buzzed.
Dozens of young mages, wearing cloaks in the colors of their houses, flowed in through the wide stone alleys. Some arrived by carriage, others on horseback, others still on foot but escorted by guards.
Ashen walked alone.
His cloak was black, without a crest.
He felt the eyes on him. No nobility. No allies. No family.
Just him. And the weight of all he carried.
A sound rang out: a deep, ancient bell.
Then a voice, magically amplified, boomed across the courtyard.
— FIRST-YEAR STUDENTS. WELCOME TO THE ROYAL ACADEMY OF MAGIC. YOU ENTER A FAMILY THAT FORGIVES NO WEAKNESS.
Ashen looked up. At the top of the main staircase, a man in a purple robe was speaking, arms spread wide.
— I AM RECTOR AERNIAS. HERE, YOU BEAR ONLY YOUR WILL. NOT YOUR NAME. NOT YOUR BLOOD. THOSE WHO FAIL... ARE FORGOTTEN.
A shiver ran through the crowd.
Ashen clenched his fists.
It was perfect.
The students were guided to the dormitories. Ashen received a modest room on the second floor of a side wing. Two beds, a small bookshelf, a narrow window. He had no roommate. Not yet.
Good.
He threw his bag onto the bed, then sat in silence.
In his pocket, Caldor's letter. He didn't open it. He already knew it by heart.
"Do not seek to shine. Seek to endure."
That evening, the students were gathered in the great orientation hall. A vast stone nave, twisted columns, a ceiling animated with magical illusions. Silhouettes floated in the air: ancient mages, legendary duels, dragons and constellations.
The Rector spoke again.
— Tomorrow the evaluations begin. Not to see what you know... but to discover what you're worth.
The nobles nodded arrogantly.
Ashen stood when everyone else left. But a hand grabbed him as he passed.
— You. The crestless one.
A girl. Tall, upright, piercing gaze.
She had black hair tied in a braid, a scar on her left cheek, and eyes... curious.
— What's your name?
He hesitated.
— Caelen. Caelen Sareth.
She stared at him for a long moment. Then slowly nodded.
— Not in the registry. Strange. You come from no house? No fief?
— No.
— Good, she simply said. Lineages make you weak.
And she walked away.
Ashen remained frozen.
She hadn't recognized him.
No one recognized him here.
Not his face.
Not his voice.
Not even his name.
He was no longer Ashen Valemyr.
He was no longer the Fool.
He was a stranger.
Free.
That night, he dreamed.
The round room.
The 43 chairs.
The Poet stared at him, a sad smile on his lips.
— You play your role well... but do you still know who you are?
Ashen did not reply.
He sat in his chair.
And whispered:
— I am the Fool. I am the Silence. And now... I will be the Judge.
"Better to be invisible... than noticed too soon."
The first day of class arrived with the same solemnity as an execution.
The students crowded into the central hall, dressed in their new cloaks, some already adorned with family artifacts or crests engraved with their names. Ashen — Caelen, to everyone here — kept his head down. He wore the black cloak without a crest, plain, austere. And he always stood a little apart.
He listened.
He observed.
And he took notes.
Names. Voices. Gestures. Budding alliances.
Because in this place, war wasn't fought with swords. But with words, glances, and contempt.
The first classroom was circular, lined with ancient frescoes and animated scrolls. A woman with brown skin and steel-gray eyes greeted them.
— Professor Aryel. Elemental Enchantments. Forget what you think you know. Here, mistakes are costly.
She snapped her fingers. A ring of fire sprang up in the center of the room, then vanished instantly.
— Your hands are not made to cast spells. Your minds, perhaps. But they must first be opened.
She walked between the rows. Stopped in front of Ashen.
— You. Name?
— Caelen. Caelen Sareth.
She narrowed her eyes.
— Unknown in the register of magical families. You're a scholarship student?
— Recommended by Mage Caldor.
— Hm. That means nothing here. Remember: without results, you are nothing.
She moved on. Some students snickered quietly.
But Ashen remained impassive.
The following days were a silent ballet.
The other students formed circles.
He remained alone.
Mockery, in hushed tones.
Light provocations.
Objects moved in his room.
But he didn't react.
He listened.
And he remembered.
One evening in a corridor, a boy waited for him.
Golden hair, a scornful smile.
— You, black blood. Got a minute?
Ashen stopped.
— My name is Léontius. House Bravarn. Seven generations of mages. And you... you don't even have a name on the door.
He circled around him like a predator.
— What are you doing here, Caelen? Trying to rise? To become our equal?
Ashen stared into his eyes.
— No.
— Oh?
— I don't want to be your equal. I want to be your end.
Léontius paled for a moment. Then laughed, nervously.
— Very funny. You talk big for a rat.
Ashen walked past him without touching him. Just a whisper as he left the corridor:
— Don't come looking for me. You're not ready to find me.
That night, he wrote in an old notebook by candlelight:
Day 3.
Silence is a weapon.
The glances are testing me.
I let them.
For now.
He closed the notebook, blew out the candle, and fell into a dreamless sleep.
The next day, during a magical manipulation class, a group exercise was announced. Students had to form trios. Quickly.
No one approached Ashen.
He waited.
Aryel frowned.
— Caelen. No group?
He shrugged.
— I prefer to work alone.
A muffled laugh rose from the room. Aryel raised a hand.
— Very well. Prove it.
She traced a circle on the floor. A blue flame emerged.
— Extinguish it. Without touching. And without words.
Ashen stepped forward. Knelt before the flame.
He breathed in softly.
He remembered Caldor.
"Magic is not a command. It's a conversation."
He closed his eyes. Searched for the invisible thread.
The flame flickered.
A breath. A tension in the air.
Then... it went out.
Silence in the room.
Even Aryel raised an eyebrow, surprised.
— Interesting.
Ashen stood up, silent.
He met Léontius's gaze at the back of the room.
The scorn had given way to something else.
A shadow.
That night, on his chair, Ashen sat still.
But in the dark, he still heard the Fool's voice.
— You're walking well... but don't forget why you're walking.
He whispered:
— I forget nothing.
And his gaze, turned toward the moon, was that of a boy... or perhaps a god.
A god awaiting the hour of judgment.
"There is no justice in hierarchy. There is only the memory of those who suffered in silence... and those who took advantage of it."
The sky was low. Gray. Heavy with rain, the clouds formed a suffocating vault above the Academy.
It was the day of the Ceremony of the Steps.
A centuries-old tradition. A hierarchy carved in stone.
All the students were gathered in the great amphitheater, a circular arena made of black marble, its columns covered in runes worn away by time. Eighty-eight steps formed a spiral around an empty center.
And on each step... a life.
The highest. The most powerful. The most feared.
And at the bottom, those who are crushed.
Ashen was there. In the crowd. Black cloak on his shoulders. Cold eyes. Heavy heart.
No one knew his name.
No one knew what he had been through.
But today... he would climb the first step.
Rector Aernias rose at the top of the amphitheater, surrounded by the members of the Mage Council.
— STUDENTS. TODAY YOU WILL BE NAMED. CLASSED. OBSERVED.
— YOUR PLACE IN THE HIERARCHY DOES NOT REFLECT YOUR NOBILITY. ONLY YOUR POWER. YOUR POTENTIAL.
A murmur ran through the crowd.
— EACH MONTH, THIS HIERARCHY MAY CHANGE. FOR BETTER... OR TO RUIN.
A hooded mage began reading names.
— Léontius Bravarn. Step 5.
— Elaris Varn. Step 6.
— Théon of Morholt. Step 8.
The nobles smiled. Puffed out their chests. They weren't at the top... but they weren't at the bottom either.
The names continued. One by one, the students climbed to the step they had been assigned.
Then, suddenly:
— Caelen Sareth.
A silence. Slight. But noticeable.
Ashen stepped forward.
Slowly.
Calm heart.
Still hands.
— Step... 44.
A chill ran down his spine.
The 44th.
He stopped. Eyes wide.
A coincidence?
No.
He descended the stairs.
To the exact middle of the amphitheater.
Step 44 was worn, cracked, as if forgotten by the centuries.
He placed his foot on it.
And looked up.
All eyes were on him.
Dozens of faces.
Mocking.
Curious.
Hostile.
But he did not look away.
Not this time.
Once the announcement was over, the Rector raised his arms.
— EACH STEP IS A TITLE. AN EXPECTATION. A THREAT.
— YOU ARE ALL BEING WATCHED.
— AND YOU WILL BE JUDGED ONLY BY WHAT YOU DO WITH YOUR PLACE.
A silence.
Then:
— THE CEREMONY IS CLOSED.
On the way back, some students deliberately moved away from him. As if he carried a curse.
Others, like Léontius, stared at him with cruel pride.
— Step 44... That's funny. It's the number of pariahs, you know? The unlucky. The sacrificed. The...
— Fools, Ashen finished without looking at him.
Léontius raised an eyebrow.
— Hm? What did you say?
— Nothing important.
And he kept walking.
That evening, in his room, he sat for a long time by the window.
He wasn't reading.
He wasn't sleeping.
He was thinking.
About that step. That number. That symbol.
The 44th.
The Fool's chair.
The Reflection.
They might not have known.
But the world... never truly forgets.
He whispered:
— I have returned.
He placed his hand on the stone wall.
— I won't hide forever. Not here. Not this time.
His gaze was empty. But his voice, full.
— This time... I will never suffer again.