The ale was cheap. It tasted like watered-down grain and copper, but it was the only thing that could dull the sharp edge of the day. Kaelen Vane stared into the bottom of his wooden mug. His hands were shaking. He wasn't sure if it was from the cold or the third liter of booze.
"They're burying them right now," Kaelen muttered. His voice was thick. He didn't look up at the two men sitting across from him. "My old man. My mother. All that magic and they still died like dogs in a carriage accident."
The strangers didn't answer. One of them shifted in his seat, looking toward the door.
"They never liked me anyway," Kaelen continued. He let out a wet, jagged laugh. "I was the mistake. The sparkless wonder. My brother got the talent anyway."
He tried to take another sip, but the mug was empty. He slammed it on the scarred table. A few drops of foam flew onto his sleeve. He didn't bother to wipe them off. He felt the eyes of the tavern patrons on him. They knew who he was. Everyone in the capital knew the Vane family. They also knew that the eldest son was a disgrace.
The two men at his table stood up without saying a word. They left him alone with his empty mug and his bitterness.
"Hey!" Kaelen shouted after them. "I'm still talking! You think you're better than me because you can light a candle with your finger?"
The tavern owner, a man with a face like crumpled parchment, walked over. He didn't look angry. He looked tired.
"Out, Kaelen," the owner said.
"I've got the money," Kaelen lied. He fumbled with his pockets. "I'm a Vane. My family owns half the..."
"Your family is at a funeral. You're at my bar." The owner grabbed Kaelen's collar. "And you're cut off. Get out before I have the city watch toss you in a cell."
Kaelen was hauled out of his chair. He stumbled as he was shoved through the heavy oak doors. The night air hit him like a physical blow. It was raining. A cold, miserable drizzle that soaked through his thin tunic in seconds.
He stayed on the ground for a moment; his face pressed against the wet cobblestones. The stones smelled of horse manure and old soot. This was the Capital of Oakhaven. It was a city built on the back of magic. Above him, the spires of the Mages' Quarter glowed with soft, blue mana-lights. They looked like distant stars, cold and unreachable.
Kaelen forced himself up. He leaned against the damp stone wall of an alleyway. His house was at the edge of the Noble District, a place he no longer felt he belonged.
The walk was a blur of gray stone and flickering shadows. Oakhaven was a sprawling maze. The lower districts were crowded, with houses built so close together that the roofs almost touched.
Laundry lines hung between windows like spiderwebs. Even in the rain, he could hear the distant hum of the city's mana-grid. It was the sound of a world that functioned without him.
As he reached the gate of the Vane estate, the air changed. The Noble District was quiet. The streets were wider here, paved with smooth white marble.
Kaelen pushed against the wrought iron gates. They creaked, a sound that felt like a scream in the silence of the night. He stumbled up the gravel path, past the manicured gardens that his mother used to love.
The front door was already open.
He walked into the foyer. The warmth of the house made his head spin. Standing by the grand staircase was a man who looked like a polished version of Kaelen. This was Alaric. He was tall, with broad shoulders and the same blonde hair that Kaelen had, though Alaric's was neatly trimmed. His eyes were a piercing, disciplined blue.
Next to him stood a young girl, barely twelve. She had the same blonde hair, tied back in a neat ribbon. Her eyes were red from crying. She looked at Kaelen with a mix of fear and disgust.
"Where were you?" Alaric asked. His voice wasn't loud. It was worse. It was flat.
Kaelen blinked, trying to focus. "The bar... had to get a drink. For the grief. You know?"
"You smell like a sewer," Alaric said. He stepped forward. The air around him seemed to hum. That was the mana. Even without casting a spell, Alaric's power was so great that it bled into the environment. "The King's envoy was there. The Headmaster of the Academy was there. Our parents are in the ground, and you were bragging to commoners about why you skipped it."
Kaelen's eyes drifted to the floor. There were three leather trunks packed near the door.
"What's that?" Kaelen asked. He pointed a trembling finger.
"Your things," Alaric said. "You aren't a Vane anymore. I'm the head of this house now. I won't have you dragging our name through the mud while I'm trying to rebuild what's left."
"You can't do that," Kaelen hissed. The alcohol flared into a sudden, ugly rage. "This is my house too! I'm the eldest!"
He lunged forward. It wasn't a warrior's strike. It was a desperate, clumsy swing.
Alaric didn't even move his feet. He simply raised a hand. A pulse of invisible force slammed into Kaelen's chest. It felt like being hit by a galloping horse. Kaelen flew backward, his boots skidding on the polished floor before he crashed into the wall.
He slumped down. His nose was bleeding, the red staining his lip. He looked up, expecting to see pity. He only saw a cold wall of indifference.
"Take the bags and leave," Alaric said. "If you come back, I'll have the guards treat you as a trespasser."
Kaelen didn't fight back. He couldn't. He grabbed the handles of the bags. They were heavy, filled with the few belongings he still owned. He turned and walked back out into the rain.
He didn't look back. He couldn't bear to see his sister's face one last time.
He walked until his legs gave out. He found a corner near a warehouse in the shipping district. He curled up against the cold stone, the bags tucked under his arms. For the first time since he was a child, he cried. He hated himself. He hated the world. He hated that he was so pathetic that even his own blood had given up on him.
'Why was I born?' he thought.
He fell into a fitful, feverish sleep.
The next morning, the sun didn't bring warmth. It only revealed how miserable he looked. His clothes were crusted with dried mud and blood. He dragged his bags toward the city gates. He had a little bit of coin left—stolen from his father's desk weeks ago.
He began to travel. He didn't have a plan. He just wanted to be far away from the name Vane.
The world outside Oakhaven was vast and unforgiving. He traveled through the Merchant Cities of the South, places where the air smelled of salt and spices.
He saw mages who could command the waves and merchants who traded in mana-crystals. Everywhere he went, he was the same. A talentless drifter.
He moved North, through the Iron Peaks. The mountains were jagged teeth of granite, topped with eternal snow. He nearly froze to death twice. He survived by eating raw mountain tubers and huddling in caves.
The people there were hard, their magic focused on survival and earth-shaping. They had no use for a man who couldn't even sharpen a blade with a whetstone.
Months passed. His body grew lean, his face gaunt. The "messy hair" he once had was now a matted mane. He felt like he was walking toward his own execution.
Finally, he reached the edge of the world. The sky here wasn't blue; it was a bruised purple, heavy with the scent of ozone and rot. The vegetation was twisted, the trees having thorns instead of leaves.
He stood on a cliff overlooking a vast, dark expanse. This was the Demon Continent. A place where the sun rarely shone and the mana in the air was so thick it felt like breathing water.
Kaelen looked down at his scarred hands. He had traveled across the entire map just to find a place where no one would recognize him. He stepped forward, entering the shadow of the continent.
He didn't know it yet, but this was where his first life would truly begin to end.