The road to the Grand Magnus Academy was a blade of white stone cutting through the emerald hills of Eldenreach. Kael Thorn walked it with the same measured stride that had carried him across battlefields, through storms, and into the teeth of a hundred fights. His boots, worn but unbroken, struck the cobbles with a rhythm that brooked no hesitation. The wind tugged at his cloak—a heavy, travel-stained thing, its edges frayed from years of use—but he paid it no mind. His gaze was fixed ahead, on the gilded spires of the Academy, their peaks gleaming like teeth against the bruised twilight sky.
He had not come here in years. Not since the day he'd left his son at those gates, a boy of twelve with hollow eyes and a hollow chest, clutching a satchel too large for his frame. Kael had lied to him that day. A small lie, wrapped in hope.
"You will awaken."
Now, three years later, he was here to see the truth.
The Academy's gates were manned by two sentinels in silvered armor, their helms fashioned like snarling wolves. They crossed their spears as Kael approached, barring his path.
"Halt," said one of the guard. "State your business."
Kael didn't slow. He didn't stop. Instead, he simply lifted his hand, and the air between them rippled—not with magic, but with the weight of a man who had once burned armies to ash. The sentinels staggered back, their armor rattling as if struck by an unseen force.
"Kael Thorn," he said, his voice a low ember. "Here for my son."
The name alone was enough. The Thorn lineage was old, its roots sunk deep into the history of Veldros. Even now, after years of fading glory, it still carried weight. The sentinels exchanged a glance before they stepped aside.
The gates groaned open.
The Academy's halls were a mausoleum of arrogance.
Kael moved through them like a shadow, his presence ignored by the clusters of students whispering behind their hands, their robes embroidered with the sigils of their houses. He knew their type. The proud. The privileged. The ones who had never known what it was to fight for the barest scrap of power.
He found the Examiner's office at the end of a corridor lined with portraits of past Magisters, their painted eyes following him with silent judgment. The door was a slab of dark oak, carved with runes that hummed faintly under his fingertips. He didn't knock.
Inside, High Magister Elira Vann sat behind a desk of blackened wood, her silver hair bound tightly back, her fingers steepled before her. She didn't look up as he entered.
"You're early, Thorn," she said. "The term isn't over yet."
Kael's jaw tightened. "Where is my son?"
Elira finally lifted her gaze. Her eyes were the color of frostbite. "Gone."
The word hung between them, sharp as a dagger's edge.
Kael didn't move. Didn't blink. "Care to explain?"
Elira sighed, as if the conversation were a chore.
"Eryk Thorn has been expelled. He failed the Starfire Trial. Spectacularly." She slid a parchment across the desk—an official decree, stamped with the Academy's seal. "No core. No magic. He got no place here."
Kael didn't touch it. The paper might as well have been aflame. "You're lying!"
"Am I?" Elira's smile was thin. "Your son is hollow, Kael. A defect. The resonator didn't react. The Seer couldn't See. Even his blood refused the parchment." She leaned forward. "Did you really think you could hide it forever?"
The air in the room grew heavy. The candles flickered, their flames bending toward Kael as if drawn by an unseen wind. His voice, when it came, was dangerously soft.
"Where. Is. He."
Elira didn't flinch. "The Ashen District, most likely. That's where the magicless go to rot."
Kael's hand slammed onto the desk. The wood blackened beneath his fingers, smoke curling from the scorch marks. "You exiled him?!"
"We removed him," Elira corrected. "The Academy has no use for dead weight."
For a heartbeat, Kael considered burning the room to cinders. The urge coiled in his chest, hot and familiar. But then he exhaled, and the heat bled away, leaving only ice.
"You've made a mistake," he said.
Elira arched a brow. "Oh?"
Kael turned for the door. "My son is no failure. Thorbs You knew that, Elira."
~○~
The night swallowed Kael whole as he stormed from the Academy's gates. The wind howled at his back, carrying the scent of rain and distant thunder. His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms hard enough to draw blood.
Hollow.
The word was a brand against his skull.
He had spent years lying to himself. To Liora. To Eryk. Telling them the core would awaken. That the Thorns did not break. That patience was the key.
And now?
Now his son was in the Ashen District. A graveyard for the forgotten.
Kael's stride didn't falter as he reached the crossroads, where the white stone of the Academy's path gave way to the cracked, soot-stained roads leading downward. The air grew thicker here, laced with the stink of refuse and damp rot. The lanterns, few and far between, flickered like dying stars.
A figure stepped from the shadows—a beggar, his face gaunt, his eyes hollow.
"Spare a coin, m'lord?"
Kael didn't answer. He didn't stop.
The man's voice followed him, mocking. "Ah. Another Thorn, eh? Come to join the runt?"
Kael froze.
Slowly, he turned to him.
The beggar grinned, revealing blackened teeth.
"Oh, aye. We know 'im. The Hollow Thorn. The Academy's castoff." He chuckled. "He's got a talent for making enemies, that one."
Kael's hand shot out, gripping the man's throat. He didn't squeeze and didn't threaten him. He just simply held him there, his eyes burning like coals.
"Where?"
The beggar's grin vanished. He pointed a trembling finger toward the district's heart. "The Hollowed Hearth. But you won't find 'im. Not alive."
Kael dropped him.
The man crumpled to the ground, coughing, but Kael was already moving.
The Ashen District stretched before him, a labyrinth of crumbling buildings and narrowed eyes. The further he descended, the heavier the air became—thick with the weight of lost hopes and surrendered dreams.
And beneath it all, a whisper.
Spellbreaker.
Kael didn't know the word. And he didn't care about that word.
He had one purpose now.
Find his son.
And correct the disgrace.
~○~
The Hollowed Hearth was a ruin pretending to be a tavern. Its sign hung crooked, the paint peeled away to reveal the rot beneath. The door stood ajar, swaying slightly in the wind, as if the building itself were breathing.
Kael stepped inside.
The air was thick with the scent of smoke and stale ale. The few patrons—hollow-eyed, sharp-faced—glanced up, then quickly away. They knew danger when they saw it.
Behind the bar, a woman with arms like knotted rope and a scar down her cheek paused in wiping a glass. Her gaze locked onto Kael, unflinching.
"You're not welcome here."
Kael ignored her. His eyes scanned the room, searching for a familiar face—dark hair, too-thin frame, the quiet slump of a boy who had spent a lifetime waiting to be enough.
But Eryk wasn't here.
"Where is he?" Kael demanded.
The woman—Narliya—set the glass down with deliberate slowness. "Gone."
"Where?"
"Somewhere you can't follow." She tilted her head. "Not if you want to keep that pretty fire of yours."
Kael's patience snapped.
He crossed the room in three strides, his hand slamming onto the bar. The wood blackened instantly, flames licking up his fingers. The patrons scattered, chairs screeching against the floor.
"Last chance," Kael growled. "Where is my son?"
Narliya didn't move. But her eyes flicked toward the back door—just once. Just enough.
Kael released the bar, the fire snuffing out as quickly as it had come. He turned toward the door, his boots echoing like a death knell.
Narliya's voice chased him. "You won't like what you find, Thorn."
Kael didn't look back.
He stepped into the night, the wind howling around him like a dirge.
Somewhere in the Ashen District, his son was waiting.
And Kael would drag him back, even if he had to burn the entire district to the ground to do it.