His uniform was a bit too big—the sleeves swallowed his hands, the same way the world soon would.
Today was Blaze's first day at Beastfall Academy, where they would teach him how monsters bled—and often how humans did too.
He knelt down laced his boots anyway.
Before leaving his room, he glanced to the mirror. It didn't show a hero, just a boy who was trying not to shake.
He stepped out the door, pulling it shut behind him.
The hallway was darker than it should have been for morning, shadows clung to the wall like they were afraid to be seen.
He stepped down the hallway and stopped center, glancing to his family portrait, Blaze, his mother, and his younger sister, Ember.
He smiled, all nervousness seemed to wash away just for that moment.
But something was missing from that portrait, he had never knew his father, he didn't know if he was a commoner or noble, mage or warrior, and most importantly he didn't even. know if he was dead or alive.
His mother was already in the kitchen, truthfully she never left it.
She sat awake all night fearing for her son's safety. Beastfall Academy had a way of burning the light out of boys like Blaze, assuming they survived the first semester at all.
The smell of iron drifted faintly through the air, metallic, sharp though there was no blood on the floor. Not today. Not Yet.
"Eat up," she said without turning around.
He did. He always did.
n
The food was warm and filling, yet the taste was bittersweet—it carried the strange ache of something he already knew he would miss once he stepped outside.
She adjusted the strap on his bag, fingers lingering a moment too long. There were old scars on her hands, pale lines crossing darker ones, the kind that never healed right.
"Please come back," she begged.
He nodded, even though the pain in his chest almost inhibited this.
"I will, i promise."
He swore softly.
Blaze turned to leave and stepped forward, before glancing over his shoulder one last time.
"Goodbye, Mom."
It was all but a whisper, yet it was enough.
Blaze lingered in the doorway for a moment longer than he needed to.
Behind him, the house still held the warmth of morning—the fading scent of bread, the quiet crackle of the hearth, the reassurances his mother gave to the sister he never got to say goodbye to . It was a small home, humble and worn smooth by years of living, its stone walls stood strong, not draped with ivy like the rest of the village, and its crooked chimney exhaling thin clouds of smoke into the pale dawn. Every corner of it carried something familiar: the coat hook by the door bent slightly under the weight of his satchel, the shallow scratches in the floorboards from childhood games, the window his mother always left cracked to let in the mountain air. It had never felt smaller; it had never felt harder to leave.
He stepped outside.
The village of Ashfall was already waking.
Morning fog clung low to the cobbled roads, curling around the boots of merchants raising painted shutters and sweeping dust from their thresholds. Rows of cosy timber-framed cottages leaned shoulder to shoulder, their roofs quilted with moss and silver dew, flower boxes spilling color beneath every window. Lanterns enchanted with faint amber flame still glowed beneath hanging iron hooks, not yet surrendered to the sun. Somewhere farther down the winding lane, a blacksmith's hammer rang sharp against steel, echoing between stone wells and weathered market stalls.
And central to the town, the fountain continuously spurted water, filling anyone present's ears with a soft hum and splash.
Beyond the village square, fields of golden windgrass swayed like rippling water, bordered by ancient trees whose trunks twisted skyward in impossible shapes. Thin streams threaded through the town like strands of glass, crossed by arched stone bridges wrapped in flowering vines. Children chased one another through the mist, their laughter carrying between the buildings, blissfully unaware of how precious such mornings truly were.
And beyond it all, watching from the horizon, stood the mountains.
Dark and jagged.
Their peaks vanished into clouds.
Somewhere past them waited Beastfall Academy.
Blaze tightened his grip on his bag.
This village had been his entire world—every familiar face, every worn path, every window lit at dusk. Here, people still nodded to one another in the streets. Bakers still set fresh loaves to cool in open windows. Elderly neighbors still whispered blessings to travelers passing through the square. It was the kind of place where doors were left unlocked, where names were remembered, where home felt less like a building and more like something stitched quietly into the land itself.
He wondered, not for the first time, if Beastfall would tear that feeling out of him.
A breeze moved through Ashfall, carrying the scent of pine, chimney smoke, and rain-soaked earth.
Blaze took one final look at the house behind him.
Then he stepped onto the road, leaving Ashfall behind just as it began to wake.
The scent followed him until the village fell behind, Blaze walked down the road, the route his uncle had told him about weeks ago, he swiftly rotated his body, avoiding a spider's web hanging from a tree branch as he left the village behind.
"I hate spiders…"
he thought to himself.
he continued on his path, cobblestone road dissapearing behind him.
At first, the road was forgiving.
The path that wound out of the village was familiar beneath his boots, worn smooth by generations of travelers, carts, and wandering livestock. Hedgerows lined either side, heavy with wild berries and dew, and the occasional lantern still flickered in the pale morning light, stubbornly refusing to die. For a while, it almost felt like any other walk—like he was simply running an errand too far from home, and would be back by dusk with sore legs and a story no one would fully listen to.
That feeling definitely didn't last.
The farther Blaze walked, the thinner Ashfall became behind him. Chimney smoke dissolved into mist, then eerie morning fog. The sound of hammering steel faded into something distant and uncertain. Even the birds seemed to grow quieter, as though the land itself was reluctant to speak beyond the village's borders.
The road narrowed.
Stone gave way to packed dirt, and packed dirt gave way to something older—roots breaking through the surface like veins beneath skin. The hedgerows stopped being trimmed and began to grow wild, twisting into tangled walls that leaned too close to the path. Every so often, Blaze passed old boundary markers half-swallowed by moss, carved with runes that had long since lost their meaning. Some of them looked deliberately scratched out.
He didn't like that.
Then ahead of him on his left, dried blood, it wasn't exactly fresh, but couldn't have been old considering it only rained less than a day ago.
He really didn't like that.
The first real sign of trouble for Blaze came when the wind changed.
It cut through the trees in a sudden, unnatural sweep, bending branches in the same direction at once, as if something far off had exhaled. Blaze stopped walking. The air tasted faintly of metal and rain that hadn't fallen yet.
Then he heard it.
A sound behind him—too soft to be footsteps, too steady to be wind.
He turned.
Nothing.
Just the road curling back toward Ashveil, swallowed by mist.
He started walking again, slower this time.
The forest thickened as the path climbed. Trees grew taller, older, their trunks scarred with deep vertical marks like clawing or lightning strikes that had never fully healed. The canopy above knotted together until daylight arrived in fractured pieces, broken into shifting patches of green-gold shadow.
Blaze adjusted his grip on his bag.
That's when the second sound came.
Closer.
Definitely behind him.
He stopped again, sharper this time, heart tightening.
"Hello?" he called.
The word disappeared into the trees without answer.
For a moment, there was only silence—so complete it felt staged.
Then something moved.
Not directly behind him, but off to the side, just beyond the edge of the path. A shape between trunks. Tall, thin. Gone the instant he tried to focus on it.
Blaze stepped back onto the road.
His boots crunched too loudly now.
The forest seemed to listen.
He walked faster.
The climb grew steeper, the air colder, and every so often Blaze caught glimpses of old wagon tracks running parallel to the path—too deep to belong to anything recent. Something had traveled this route many times before him. Something heavy.
A distant bell rang.
Once.
Low.
Vibrating through the trees rather than through air.
Blaze froze.
The sound came again—closer this time, though impossible to place. Not ahead of him. Not behind him.
Everywhere.
He broke into a sprint.
Branches whipped at his sleeves as the path twisted upward, the forest thinning only in the sense that the trees stopped crowding him and began to stand apart—watching. The ground beneath his feet turned uneven, stone replacing dirt again, but cracked and ancient, like the skeleton of an older road buried beneath time.
And then he saw it.
A break in the trees.
Beyond it, the mountain rose like a wall that had forgotten it was supposed to end.
Carved into its face—half swallowed by rock and cloud—was Beastfall Academy.
It didn't look like a school.
It looked like something built to withstand siege.
Massive stone towers jutted upward at impossible angles, connected by bridges that hung like suspended ribs. Windows burned faintly with pale light despite the daylight above, as if the building refused to acknowledge the sun. Great iron gates stood at the base, open just enough to suggest invitation—but not comfort.
Blaze slowed and looked up, awestruck by the sheer scale of it.
The silence here was different.
Not empty.
Controlled.
A final gust of wind rushed down from the mountain, pressing against him like a warning.
Somewhere inside the academy, a bell rang again.
This time, it sounded like it was calling his name.
And Blaze understood, with sudden clarity, that whatever had followed him through the forest had not stopped at the tree line.
It had simply changed shape.
And it was guiding him.
his legs shook.
This was going to be a tough next four years of his life, he thought to