They didn't escort him out like a man.
They dragged him like a criminal.
Two armored sentinels gripped Kael by the arms as the sun climbed higher over the Grand Circle's gilded towers. His feet stumbled on the stone steps as jeers echoed from above — nobles, apprentices, and servants watching from balconies, eager for one final glimpse of the voidborn failure.
Kael didn't lift his head. He didn't speak. What words were left?
His mouth tasted like copper. His collarbone burned where the nullbrand had been seared into his skin, the scent of charred flesh lingering in the folds of his tattered cloak.
They reached the Gate of Dismissal — an arched wall of ironwood and bone, where sentenced criminals, madmen, and failures were cast beyond the edge of the realm.
A robed cleric waited there, parchment in hand.
"Kael Virelle," the man announced, reading aloud with bored indifference, "formerly of House Virelle, former Circle initiate, now judged to be nullborn and deemed unfit for the study or practice of elemental magic."
Kael's throat tightened.
"By order of the High Circle, you are hereby exiled to the Outlands. You shall not return. No name, title, or bond shall protect you henceforth. Any use of arcane force within the kingdom shall be deemed a crime punishable by death."
One of the guards ripped the Virelle crest from Kael's shoulder — a silver spiral sun — and flung it into the dust.
The other drew a dagger.
Kael flinched, but the blade wasn't meant for his throat. The guard sliced a blood-line ribbon from his wrist — a thin scarlet band signifying noble lineage — and let it fall to the ground.
The silence was worse than mockery.
He was nobody now.
The gates opened with a deep groan.
A gust of air from beyond hit him — dry, wild, thick with the scent of moss and ash.
Kael took one step past the threshold. Then another.
The gates closed behind him.
He didn't look back.
For hours, he walked.
The forest beyond the wall was older than any city. Twisted trees loomed like skeletons, their branches clawing toward a sky gone strangely colorless. The path was barely marked — broken stones swallowed by roots.
Birds did not sing.
Even the wind felt distant.
By midday, his cloak was soaked with sweat and his head pounded. He'd eaten nothing since the ceremony. He had no coin. No supplies. His staff — a ceremonial piece with no core crystal — was little more than a walking stick.
He staggered to a stop near a fallen tree and collapsed.
The burn at his collarbone still pulsed faintly. Nullbrand sigils weren't just symbolic — they severed a mage's arcane channels. Kael could still feel the world around him, but every attempt to summon so much as a flicker of flame ended in silence.
Empty.
Again.
He wasn't sure when sleep came. Or if it came at all.
Visions flickered behind his eyes — Lyra, naked in the candlelight, Arden's hands on her hips. Her mouth parted, not in horror… but pleasure.
I'm sorry, her lips had said.
He sat up sharply, heart racing.
Dusk had fallen. The forest had changed.
Something moved behind the trees — soft, low growling. Not a beast he recognized.
Kael pushed himself upright, but his legs ached and his breath came shallow. Still, instinct screamed at him to move. Now.
He started walking, limping through thick underbrush, branches cutting his face and arms.
The growl returned, closer this time.
His hand closed around a chunk of stone. The ceremonial staff was useless. He could barely swing his arm, let alone fight. But if he had to die, he'd go down striking.
He turned the corner and—
Darkness.
Something slammed into him from behind.
He crashed to the forest floor with a cry, stone flying from his grip. Claws raked across his back. Fangs snapped near his neck.
Kael reached blindly, grabbed a jagged branch, and stabbed upward.
A wet, shrieking yelp split the air.
The creature stumbled back — not a wolf, not a bear — something twisted. Furred and scaled at once, with too many eyes and a bone-ringed tail. Blood poured from its side, dark and steaming.
Kael scrambled to his feet.
The beast lunged again—
—and then froze.
Its body convulsed, limbs locking midair. Green light licked across its skin — faint, pulsing — and the world shifted.
Kael blinked.
The runes on his brand had gone dark.
And in his chest, something pulsed in return.
A voice — not heard, but felt — whispered inside his skull:
You will not die yet. We have only just begun.
Kael dropped to one knee, clutching his ribs.
The beast let out a long, slow breath… then collapsed beside him.
Still.
Not dead.
But breathing.
Its chest rose and fell… in rhythm with his own.
He looked down at his hand.
The cuts from earlier were gone.
The pain in his spine had dulled.
Something ancient stirred in his blood. Not elemental magic. Not the Circle's power. Something wilder. Older. And wholly, completely… his.
Kael looked at the beast again.
Its eyes opened.
And glowed green.