The chamber reeked faintly of candle wax and damp stone, an air that clung unpleasantly to the skin. Blaze stood stiff between two guards whose armor creaked whenever they shifted. Their helms hid their faces, leaving only silence and the cold gleam of steel.
Compared to the grandeur of the throne hall—with its chanting priests and shining banners—this place felt like a cellar meant for discarding things nobody wanted.
At a desk of dark oak sat a robed official, thin hair plastered to his scalp. He leafed through papers without raising his head.
"The court has decided," he muttered, voice dull as if reading off a list, "that your training will not follow the others' path."
The official finally glanced up. His eyes were sharp, but his expression bored. "The others will remain under supervision, learning to harness their divine blessings. You, however…" His lips twisted, the faintest curl of contempt. "…you will be sent to the frontier. The wilderness will test your… suitability."
Blaze's hands clenched into fists at his sides. He wanted to shout, to demand what this was really about, but the weight of the guards' presence pressed on him. Their halberds glinted with cruel steel, and their silence was absolute.
The official dipped his quill again. "You will depart immediately."
A guard shoved a bundle against Blaze's chest. It was pitiful: a moth-eaten cloak that smelled faintly of mildew, a small pouch tied shut with string, and a dagger so notched it looked like someone had used it to dig through stone.
"That will suffice."
Blaze opened the pouch. Two hard, stale biscuits rolled inside, and a dried strip of meat that was more gristle than food.
"This is a joke," Blaze muttered before he could stop himself.
The official's gaze flicked up, icy. "You were not chosen by the Goddess. The empire shows mercy even in this. Many would have slit your throat and left you in the gutter."
Blaze's stomach churned. His voice came out lower, steadier than he felt. "So that's it? I'm thrown away because your crystal didn't glow?"
The man's quill scratched against parchment. He didn't even bother answering.
The guards seized Blaze's arms, dragging him toward the door. His feet scraped the floor as resistance welled up in him, but he swallowed it down. He could feel the humiliation burning hotter than fire in his chest.
Fine. Let them see me walk.
By the time they hauled him into the sunlight of the outer gates, Blaze forced his legs to move without their grip. The guards released him, satisfied, though one lingered to sneer.
"Word of advice," the man said, his voice distorted under his helm. "Don't bother coming back. The walls won't open for a useless stray."
The other guard chuckled. "If the wolves don't take him, the goblins will."
The massive city gates groaned as they swung open, revealing the road beyond—a dirt path that wound out into rolling fields, framed by distant forests. The guards shoved Blaze forward.
The gates closed behind him with a crash like a prison door.
The first steps felt strangely light. Not because the burden was lifted, but because there was nothing left to hold. The laughter, the sneers, the pitying eyes—they were behind him now, sealed inside walls that would never open for him again.
Ahead, only emptiness stretched.
Blaze adjusted the ragged cloak around his shoulders. The fabric itched, clinging unpleasantly, but the sun already carried a sharpness that promised the coming of night would be cold. His stomach growled as he trudged forward.
The biscuits in the pouch knocked against his side. He ignored them for now. His throat was dry, his head pounding, but he couldn't shake the thought that eating so soon would be a mistake.
Every step crunched against gravel. The fields slowly gave way to sparse woodland. Trees loomed, twisted and ancient, their leaves whispering against each other in a language Blaze couldn't understand.
The air changed too—heavier, thicker, carrying with it the musky stench of damp earth and something else… something acrid.
Blaze's grip tightened on the dagger. The blade was so dull it caught the light with a sickly sheen rather than a gleam. He tested it against his thumb, wincing when it barely scratched. Useless.
He pressed on.
By the time the sun dipped low, hunger gnawed at his belly in earnest. He pulled one of the biscuits from the pouch and bit down. It crumbled like chalk, dust sticking to his tongue, lodging in his throat. He coughed, forcing it down with difficulty.
The strip of meat fared no better—it was like chewing leather soaked in salt. His jaw ached after only a few bites.
He wanted water more than food, but there was no stream nearby. His mouth felt like sand.
Shadows stretched long across the forest floor as the sun fell away. That was when Blaze first heard it.
A howl.
Low, distant, yet sharp enough to raise gooseflesh on his arms.
Another answered it. Then another.
Blaze's heart lurched. He spun, staring into the darkening trees, the dagger trembling slightly in his hand. The sound reverberated through the forest, too many voices to count. Wolves, maybe. Or not wolves.
He moved faster. His feet crunched through dead leaves, every sound too loud, every shadow too deep.
When the darkness thickened into near-black, he stumbled into a small clearing. His chest heaved, lungs burning.
Camp, he told himself. I need a camp. Fire, shelter—anything.
The dagger was useless against the wood. He hacked at a branch until splinters rained against his hands, but it barely left a mark. His palms blistered, stinging.
Sweat stung his eyes. He dropped the dagger with a curse and gathered fallen twigs instead, piling them together with shaking hands. But no matter how he struck the flint pebble he'd found against the blade, no spark caught.
Minutes stretched. The forest pressed closer. The howls grew again, nearer this time, threading between the trees like a hunting chorus.
Blaze sank against a trunk, drawing the cloak tight. The fabric did little against the chill that had settled over the land.
His mind replayed the scene in the throne room—the way the crystal had stayed dark under his hand, the way Lucas had grinned as fire danced in his palm.
The nobles had laughed. The priests had whispered. The emperor hadn't spared him a second glance.
Now here he was, sitting in the dirt, shaking from cold and hunger, clutching a dagger that couldn't cut bread.
Another howl tore through the night, closer this time. Something rustled in the underbrush, the crunch of leaves under paws.
Blaze pressed his back harder against the tree, breath shallow. His eyes scanned the dark, every shifting shadow a threat. His hand gripped the dagger until his knuckles whitened.
The night stretched on.
Every sound was an enemy. Every second was a battle not to run screaming into the woods.
And through it all, the same thought circled in his skull, bitter and unyielding:
I wasn't supposed to be here.