The rain always fell hardest on the outskirts.
Grey sheets of water beat down on Greymoor Village, turning its dirt lanes into shallow rivers. Crooked wooden roofs leaked, gutters overflowed, and the air reeked of wet earth and smoke from dying hearthfires. To the farmers and merchants, the storm was an inconvenience. To Aric Davoren, it was a blessing.
The storm gave people excuses to hide behind closed shutters. Excuses not to see him.
Aric tugged the hood of his ragged cloak lower over his brow, but the rain still dripped down his face, stinging his eyes and soaking into his threadbare tunic. His boots squelched in the mud as he moved through the narrow lane, past shuttered windows and doorways where faces peeked out only long enough to mutter and vanish again.
He knew why.
Even beneath the cloak, he could feel the burn of the mark seared into his right arm. Thin, black lines stretched from his wrist to elbow like roots of a dead tree, faint but unnatural, veins filled with shadow instead of blood. No matter how tightly he bound it in cloth, people sensed it. They always did.
"Demon-born." A voice hissed from behind a door as he passed.
"Blight." Another, from across the street.
"Curse-bearer."
The words stabbed more sharply than the rain. He lowered his head further, forcing his eyes to the ground, refusing to let them see the bitterness rising in him. He had learned, long ago, that answering only gave them more reason to hate.
At the edge of the village, a bell tolled once—a heavy, iron sound that echoed across the hills. The Academy of Aeryndral was calling its students.
Aric quickened his pace.
The academy's gates rose out of the rain like black teeth, its stone walls slick and glistening. It wasn't beautiful—more fortress than school, its towers squat and weather-worn. Once it had guarded Greymoor from northern raiders. Now it housed boys and girls who would be forged into mages, knights, and scholars.
Aric paused at the steps leading up to its arch. His stomach twisted as it always did. The academy was supposed to be a place of learning, of shaping the future of the kingdom. For him, it was a gauntlet of mockery and bruises.
"Davoren!"
The voice was sharp, mocking, and unmistakable.
Aric lifted his eyes just enough to see Damien Crowhurst lounging beneath the archway, flanked by two of his usual companions. Damien's cloak was of fine wool, untouched by the rain, his golden hair combed and gleaming even in the stormlight. His smirk was a blade honed for cruelty.
"Careful not to drip your curse on the stones," Damien drawled. "The masters might mistake it for sewage."
Laughter erupted from his friends.
Aric said nothing. He kept walking, head down, his hands clenched tight beneath the cloak. The mark on his arm throbbed faintly, as though responding to his anger.
Damien stepped into his path, barring the way. "Look at me when I speak, gutter rat."
Aric's jaw tightened. He forced himself to lift his gaze. Damien's eyes gleamed with the delight of a predator toying with prey.
"What's that look?" Damien tilted his head, mock sympathy dripping from his tone. "Do you actually think you belong here? That a boy cursed by the gods could ever learn real magic?"
The words echoed the whispers Aric had heard his entire life. He wanted to speak—to shout, to strike, to do anything—but his voice caught in his throat. Instead, he lowered his gaze again and tried to move past.
Damien shoved him, hard. Aric staggered, slipping in the mud. Laughter pealed out behind him.
"Run along, cursed boy," Damien called. "The only power you'll ever have is making the crops wither."
Aric clenched his fists so tightly his nails bit into his palms. The mark burned hotter beneath the cloth. For the briefest heartbeat, he felt something stir—like a whisper curling through his skull, faint and cold:
Do not bow.
His breath hitched. The words were not his own. They came from nowhere—from the mark itself. He shook his head quickly, forcing the thought aside. Madness. It had to be madness.
Without another word, he forced himself through the gates, ignoring the laughter that followed him into the academy halls.
Inside, the air was no warmer than the storm outside. Stone walls dripped with rainwater, torches sputtered, and the echo of footsteps filled the corridor as students gathered. Boys in fine cloaks spoke in loud, confident tones. Girls with polished staffs and silver-thread robes walked with grace.
Aric kept to the edge, where the shadows clung. He had no staff, no robe—only the coarse tunic and cloak he wore each day, hand-me-downs patched too many times to count. The others hardly glanced at him, save for a few who sneered. He was used to it.
The chamber ahead opened into the Hall of Testing. Long tables had been cleared, leaving only a vast circle inscribed into the floor with runes of silver. Masters in dark robes stood at its edge, their gazes sharp and cold as they watched the students gather.
Today was the day of measurement.
Each year, the academy tested its students to judge their progress—their affinity for magic, the growth of their strength. Nobles boasted of their children's results. Villages prayed their sons and daughters would prove worthy.
Aric felt his stomach sink. He already knew what his result would be.
"Line up," one of the masters commanded, voice deep as thunder.
The students obeyed, forming a single line before the glowing circle. One by one, they would step inside, and the runes would react, revealing their affinity and potential.
Damien was first, of course. He strutted into the circle, his smirk never leaving. The runes flared gold at once, light spilling across the hall. The masters nodded, murmuring approval.
"Element of fire," one said.
"High affinity. Exceptional control."
Damien bowed with mock humility before stepping back, flashing a victorious grin at his friends.
The next student entered, a girl with silver hair bound in braids. The runes glowed a soft blue—water affinity. The masters praised her calm control.
One by one, the line moved forward. Elements flared: fire, wind, water, earth. Some glowed brighter, others faint, but all earned nods or comments.
Then it was Aric's turn.
He stepped forward slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs. The whispers of the crowd buzzed at the edges of his hearing. He felt every eye on him, felt the weight of their expectation—no, their anticipation. They wanted him to fail.
He stepped into the circle.
The runes flickered… then dimmed.
No light. No element.
Nothing.
Silence fell over the hall. Then came the laughter—sharp, cruel, echoing against the stone walls.
"Pathetic," Damien's voice rang out. "Even the circle rejects him."
One of the masters frowned, his expression a mask of disappointment. "No affinity detected. No measurable potential."
The words stabbed deeper than any blade.
Aric stood frozen, unable to breathe.
The laughter grew louder, crueler. His hands trembled at his sides. He wanted to vanish, to melt into the floor, to escape those eyes. The mark on his arm pulsed once, hard, and again he heard the faint whisper curl through his mind:
Do not bow.
His vision blurred. For a heartbeat, the runes beneath him glimmered—not gold, not blue, not any color the masters knew, but black, edged with violet flame. A chill swept through the air.
Gasps rippled through the hall. The light flickered—then died as quickly as it came.
The masters exchanged sharp glances. One stepped forward. "Out."
Aric blinked. "W-what?"
"You are dismissed," the master said, voice cutting. "There is no place here for one with no gift."
The words struck harder than Damien's shove, harder than the villagers' whispers. His chest ached as if something inside had broken.
Damien's laughter was the loudest of all.
Aric staggered from the circle, his cloak clinging to his soaked frame, his face pale. The whispers followed him as he stumbled back into the rain, their cruelty pressing down heavier than the storm.
Outside the gates, the sky cracked with thunder. Aric collapsed to his knees in the mud, fists trembling. The mark on his arm seared hot, burning like fire beneath the cloth. He gritted his teeth, the laughter still echoing in his skull.
And then he whispered, voice raw, almost a vow:
"I will not bow."
The mark pulsed in answer, and in the depths of his mind, the whisper grew stronger.
Then rise
The storm did not relent.
Rain hammered against the earth as Aric knelt in the mud beyond the academy gates. His cloak clung to him like a second skin, heavy and sodden, his hair plastered against his forehead. The laughter of his classmates still echoed in his skull, but worse were the words of the masters: *no gift, no place here.*
The words sealed his fate more cruelly than any curse.
He had dreamed—foolishly, perhaps—that one day the circle would flare for him, that the mark carved into his flesh was not just a stain but something more. That hidden in the darkness was power waiting to be claimed. Instead, he had been cast out before them all, his failure plain as day.
*Do not bow.*
The whisper slithered again, low and insistent.
Aric's breath caught. He pressed a hand against his arm, where the mark burned as though alive. He had heard the voice twice now—once in the hall, once here. It was not imagination. Not entirely.
But if it was real… whose voice was it?
A hand clamped on his shoulder. "Pathetic."
Aric flinched, twisting to see Damien Crowhurst standing above him, rain sliding down his fine cloak as though the storm itself bent around him. His two friends loomed just behind, smirking.
"You actually thought the circle would answer you?" Damien sneered. "Did you think your cursed blood would suddenly turn pure? That you'd be more than the gutter trash you are?"
Aric clenched his jaw, silent.
"Say something," Damien demanded, giving him a sharp shove. Aric tumbled into the mud, landing hard on his side. Damien crouched beside him, lowering his voice so only Aric could hear. "You should have died with your parents. Everyone knows it. You're nothing but a mistake the gods forgot to correct."
The words sliced deeper than any blade. Aric felt his nails dig into the mud, his breath ragged.
The mark pulsed hot, furious, as if answering his anger. For the barest instant, violet light flickered across his skin beneath the cloth. Damien's eyes widened. He stumbled back.
"What was—?"
The light died. The mark returned to stillness.
Aric pushed himself up slowly, his voice hoarse but steady. "One day… you'll regret those words."
Damien's shock gave way to laughter. "Regret? You? Don't make me laugh." He kicked a spray of mud at Aric before turning away. "Come, let's leave the gutter rat to drown in the rain."
His friends followed, their laughter fading into the storm.
Aric remained kneeling in the mud long after they were gone. His body trembled—not just from cold, but from fury. For years, he had borne their scorn in silence. He had swallowed their laughter, their hatred, their curses. But no more.
He looked down at his arm. The cloth binding was damp, clinging tight, but faint violet light still pulsed beneath it like the beat of a second heart.
"What are you?" he whispered.
*Not what,* the voice murmured, closer now, curling through his mind like smoke. *Who.*
Aric staggered to his feet, his breath coming quick. He scanned the road, but no one was there. Only the storm, the mud, the broken boy with a mark.
"You're in my head," he said through clenched teeth. "Leave me."
*You called me. In your anger, in your despair. I have always been here, waiting.*
The voice was neither male nor female, but something in between—ancient, steady, carrying the weight of centuries.
Aric's heart pounded. Madness. This was madness. And yet… hadn't the runes flickered for him? Hadn't the light appeared, even if only for a moment?
"You're lying," he whispered. "There's nothing in me. I'm nothing."
*No,* the voice said firmly. *You are heir.*
The word froze him.
"Heir?"
*The blood remembers. The curse is not a punishment—it is a crown. A throne waits in the ashes, and you are its rightful king.*
Aric's legs nearly buckled. King? Crown? It was nonsense. He was a boy in rags, cursed and despised. There was no throne waiting for him, only mud and laughter.
And yet… the mark pulsed as the voice spoke, alive, real, undeniable.
Aric pressed his fist to his chest, fighting to breathe. "Why me?"
*Because you are the last. Because the world destroyed what was mine, and only you remain. Rise, Aric Davoren. Rise, heir of the Forbidden Kingdom.*
Thunder cracked overhead, shaking the ground.
Aric stood in the storm, breathless, trembling, the words echoing through his skull. *Heir of the Forbidden Kingdom.*
He had heard the name only in whispers, forbidden tales told to frighten children: a kingdom of shadows, destroyed long ago by the united might of all others. A land cursed, its name struck from history.
And now the voice claimed it as his.
He staggered back toward the village, his mind a whirlwind. The storm followed, rain drenching him, but the voice did not fade. It lingered, patient, whispering as though from just beyond the veil of sight.
That night, as he lay on the thin straw of his bed in the abandoned loft he called home, he stared at the rafters and listened.
He thought of Damien's laughter. Of the masters' dismissal. Of the villagers' scorn.
And he thought of the whisper.
*Not cursed. Heir.*
For the first time in his life, Aric let the thought settle. He did not know if it was truth or madness. But he clung to it.
Because it was better than nothing.
Because it was hope.
And because, deep down, in the marrow of his bones, he wanted it to be true.
The loft was dark, lit only by the faint flicker of a dying lantern. Rain dripped steadily through the holes in the roof, the drops pattering against the warped floorboards. The air was damp, cold, and smelled faintly of mildew.
Aric lay on his back, staring up at the shadows shifting across the rafters. His cloak hung nearby, dripping. His boots sat by the door, caked in mud. The village below had long gone silent, save for the distant howl of the storm.
He should have been exhausted. The humiliation of the day had drained him, left him battered inside and out. But his mind refused to rest.
The voice lingered.
*You are heir.*
Every time his thoughts quieted, it stirred again, curling like smoke through his skull. Not insistent. Not pressing. Simply present—patient, waiting.
Aric pressed a hand to his arm. The cloth binding was damp against his skin, but beneath it the mark pulsed faintly, a rhythm too steady to be illusion. He swallowed hard.
"Why me?" he whispered into the dark. "Why are you speaking to me?"
The silence of the loft stretched long. He almost believed the voice would not answer.
Then—
*Because you are mine.*
The words were not loud. They did not thunder. Yet they filled every corner of his skull, resonating in his bones.
Aric sat up, his breath shallow. "Yours? Who are you?"
*I am the one who was sealed. The one your blood carries. The one who waits.*
"Sealed?"
*Long ago, the kingdoms feared us. They broke us. They burned our thrones, shattered our banners, and cursed the name of what was ours. But they could not erase it all. They could not erase me. Through your line, I endured. Through your blood, I rise.*
Aric's throat tightened. "You mean—the Forbidden Kingdom."
A silence followed, but it was not denial.
His pulse quickened. The Forbidden Kingdom was legend—whispered of in hushed tones, never written in the histories. Some said it had been a kingdom of demons. Others that it was ruled by men who had bargained with shadows. All agreed it was destroyed by the united armies of the world, its very name cursed.
And now the voice claimed it was his birthright.
Aric shook his head fiercely, pressing his palms to his temples. "No. No, I'm no heir. I'm nothing. A gutter boy. A failure. The circle proved it—I have no gift."
*The circle measures only what they understand. Their light does not see mine. Their rules do not bind me.*
The voice deepened, almost gentle. *You are more than they can measure.*
Aric wanted to believe. He wanted it so badly it hurt. But doubt clawed at him.
"If what you say is true," he whispered, "then why am I weak? Why have I suffered all these years?"
The mark throbbed, hot beneath the cloth.
*Because strength is forged in fire. Because only in pain does power awaken. You are not weak, Aric. You are untested.*
His breath trembled. He thought of Damien's laughter, of the masters' rejection, of the villagers' curses. He thought of every scar carved into him, every humiliation endured.
And for the first time, he wondered if each had been shaping him, sharpening him, rather than breaking him.
*Do you wish for strength?* the voice asked.
The question struck him like a blade. His chest tightened, his throat dry.
"Yes," he whispered before he could stop himself. "I want strength. More than anything. I want to prove them wrong. I want to make them kneel."
The mark seared, violet light bleeding through the cloth. The air grew heavy, thick, charged with power.
*Then take what is yours.*
Aric gasped as a vision surged through him.
He was no longer in the loft. He stood on blackened stone, beneath a sky torn by violet lightning. Around him stretched ruins—towers shattered, banners burned, bones scattered like ash. And in the distance, atop a throne of jagged obsidian, sat a figure cloaked in shadow.
Its eyes burned violet. Its hand rested on the throne's armrest, fingers curled like talons.
*Come,* it said, though its lips did not move. *Claim what was lost.*
Aric's body trembled. His legs moved of their own accord, carrying him closer. The air was thick with the stench of ash and the iron tang of blood. Yet with every step, something inside him steadied. Something inside him felt… right.
He reached the foot of the throne.
The figure leaned forward, its form shifting like smoke. Its hand rose, placing a finger against Aric's forehead.
In an instant, fire flooded his veins. Not the searing pain of his mark, but a power vast and raw, a torrent of energy that burned and froze all at once. Aric gasped, falling to his knees, his body convulsing.
*Rise, heir.*
The vision shattered.
Aric collapsed back into the loft, his chest heaving, sweat mingling with rain that had dripped through the roof. His body shook violently. His skin burned.
But beneath the pain was something else—something new.
The mark on his arm blazed violet through the cloth, casting light across the dark loft. The air vibrated with raw energy, the wooden beams creaking as though under weight unseen.
Aric stared at his arm in awe and terror.
He had felt it. Real power.
The voice whispered again, softer this time, almost tender. *You are no curse, Aric Davoren. You are the beginning of an empire reborn.*
Aric's eyes burned with unshed tears. For so long, he had been told he was nothing. That he was cursed, worthless, doomed. Now, for the first time, he felt the opposite.
He felt chosen.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, his fists clenched. His voice was hoarse, but steady.
"I will not bow."
The mark pulsed in answer, light spilling brighter, as if the words themselves were an oath binding him.
He looked toward the window, where the storm raged beyond, and whispered the vow that would shape his life:
"I swear it. One day, they will all kneel—not in mockery, but in fear. I will become the strongest mage this world has ever seen. And I will claim the throne they tried to erase."
Lightning split the sky, casting the loft in stark light.
The storm outside howled.
And within the shadows, the heir of the Forbidden Kingdom awoke.