The last thing Kael saw of his family was the crest—silver fox on black velvet—stitched into the side of the carriage as it disappeared into the dusk. No goodbye, just the clatter of misshapen wheels on cobblestones.
His father hadn’t even come in person. Baron Virelyn sent the steward instead, who delivered the message with all the warmth of a tax notice: Kael was unofficially exiled, a disgrace to the family name. And honestly? Kael couldn’t even be that angry. He knew the risks of his actions, at the very least he could admit that much.
He stood alone under the archway at the edge of the Academy—a massive stone gate leading to the one of the premier institutions on the continent. The iron gate had just shut behind him, but the guards already resumed their conversation about their weekend plans. The academy sigil and badge gone along with all other academy affiliated items. His name—Kael Virelyn, son of Sir Corven Virelyn—likely was already being whispered through the dorm halls.
All he had now were the clothes on his back, a couple bags of coin, and a suitcase carrying the last scraps of his life there. Students didn’t need much while they were in the Academy. Everything was handed to them—until it wasn’t.
“Look who made it out breathing.”
Kael didn’t turn right away. He knew that voice—thin, nasal, a little too amused. When he did look, Dren was already stepping out from under the shadow of a nearby wall. His coat was streaked with soot, and his eyes carried a half-crazed gleam.
Dren looked him over. “Didn’t think they’d let you walk. Figured you’d bolt or… get handled quietly.”
Kael didn’t say anything. Just reached into his coat and pulled out a small leather pouch, tossing it underhand.
Dren caught it midair, raising an eyebrow at the weight. “This is more than what I’m owed.”
Kael shrugged. “Call it interest and payment for the loss of business. I also have a proposition.”
Dren squinted at him. “What’s the proposition?”
Kael gave a smile that never touched his eyes. “New deal. I’m out of the Academy, sure. But I’m still technically a noble. And I’m your best shot at brushing elbows with people who matter.”
Dren rolled the pouch across his fingers before tucking it away. “Hmmm, well you’re not wrong. Worst case I can always use more hands to push weight.”
Kael nodded once, not saying a word.
A gust whipped down the marble path, tugging Kael’s coat open. He glanced back at Aetherhold one last time, eyes landing on the highest spire—the Headmaster’s Hall—faintly glowing. There was a pause. Then Dren’s mouth curled into that familiar, sharp-edged smirk.
“Alright then, Silver Tongue.” Dren answered before turning and leaving.
Kael left the academy behind, heading down the sloping path that led into the city’s underbelly—away from all the stone and shine, toward smoke and grit.
Behind him, the bells of Aetherhold rang out the seventh hour. The farther Kael got from Aetherhold’s gleaming towers and polished promises, the more real everything felt. The smell hit first — incense fading into smoke, burnt bread, and the kind of sweat that came from real work. The lights got dimmer as the enchanted light-posts became occasional lantern outside storefronts. Then sounds got louder as he passed shuttered stalls, faces half-hidden behind scarves.
He knew this route like a habit — every turn, every crack in the street. Kael didn’t usually miss details.
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The Horde Inn sat in the shadow of two crooked buildings. A wooden sign creaked overhead, a drunken ogre painted on it, one hand holding a mug, the other a limb.
Kael walked in like he belonged, even if he felt like he was falling apart inside.
‘You dumb, greedy idiot.’
He couldn’t stop replaying it. His grandfather had died for the crown — crushed an uprising down south and came back with more scars than fingers. The king had given him a title and a little land. A reward, sure, but also a leash. Besides him being tested for the Spiral at an early age nearly guaranteeing his future as a mage, his noble title was the only way he made it through the academy payments, that and whatever help his father could give him. The name Virelyn still meant something to the rest of the family. It just didn’t mean money and it never had.
His father followed that same path — all honor and ideals, more concerned with medals than meals. His older brother was even worse. Straight-backed, starched, and completely appalled to Kael’s obsession with gold.
Because Kael remembered the time his father was away in service. He found it ridiculous growing up on the stories of his heroic grandfather yet watching his mother stretch meals just to buy his brother a decent blade. He remembered the banker’s kid sneering at his patched boots in their first year at the Academy. His family wasn’t poor by any means compared to the rest of the kingdom but in terms of nobility? They couldn’t even compare. The noble title did a lot for his family but the small piece of land the Crown had given them cost more than it made.
So Kael adapted, if the money wouldn’t fall into his hands he’d have to chase it himself. He started small selling off discarded tools, smuggling plants out of the greenhouses to sell to back-alley witches.
Later while eavesdropping in the latrines he found two older students who were bored enough to start a dueling ring in the necromancy hall. They needed a bookkeeper and Kael offered, took a cut, started skewing odds and fixing outcomes. The money came in slow, but steady.
By third year, he commissioned an alchemist to brew stims — mana-boosted enhancers, technically legal, technically not. They helped with focus, spell-work, test anxiety.
Were they allowed? No. But did anyone care? Also no.Every lesser noble needed an edge, while
every major heir needed to hide how average they were, especially in an academy where magical power and rank meant so much, although the two went hand in hand for the most part.
Unfortunately Kael couldn’t keep up with demand and most of his business got taken by some other student who brewed the damned things himself and sold at nearly half the price.
His thoughts were soon interrupted by the drunk man stumbling out of the Horde Inn bumping into him. Ignoring the man who was now vomiting not even two feet away Kael stood at the steps of the Horde Inn. He pushed open the door and walked into the thick heat of spilt beer and too many bodies. It was only half-full, the day not quite over, but the crowd was warming up.
Behind the bar, a redhead looked up. Her smile was sharp. Her eyes went wide for just a second when she saw him. Kael gave her a lazy nod, she didn’t smile back.
‘Still mad, then. Hopefully the room would still be free.’
He went to the back — the corner table near the fire-scorched wall and a beam that blocked half the view. That’s where Dren had first shown up, uninvited, reeking of ash-root.
Kael still remembered the first thing he said:
“You’re good. But you’re thinking too small.”
Ten minutes later, they had a deal.
Kael became the middleman. The clean face who slipped tailored arcane highs into the right hands. Mindflame to keep you wired through spell theory. Ghostpetal to widen your mana sight and make you a little jumpy. Crushspice to dull the senses and alleviate pain.
It didn’t feel wrong. Not at first. And for a while? It worked. The coin was ridiculous. Within months he was able to pay off his tuition debt and have coin on the side.
He could have called it quits, tuition and debt paid off and soon to become a third circle academy graduate with endless possibilities, but he wanted more. Kael soon found out greed makes you sloppy. He mocked the wrong guy — a pampered first-year heir with more pride than sense. When the kid overdosed mid-exam and started puking, mana leaking out of him as much as his breakfast, Kael laughed harder than he should have—loud enough for witnesses. Loud enough that when the heir woke up, pale and shaking, he knew exactly who to blame. Maybe it was the ego he developed now that some of the higher up nobles started accepting and recognizing him, but that one laugh ended it all. The overdosed prick snitched. The investigation was fast, the fallout was faster. No trial, no council, just the Headmaster’s office, then a walk to the gate.
