"Are you kidding me?"

Ronan stared at the scroll in his hands, disbelief written across his face. His fingers gripped the rough parchment, the words of the letter hitting him like a punch to the gut. The letter had practically delivered itself into his hands, unfolded as though it had a mind of its own, and now floated there in the air like some twisted joke.

Lumenbourg University of Mystical, Combat, and General Studies? The words burned in his brain, as though mocking the reality he had known all his life.

"No. Absolutely not." His voice was low, edged with anger, barely a whisper to himself as his grip tightened around the parchment. His heart raced, each thud in his chest a reminder of how absurd this all was. The slums were his world—dirt, grime, survival. Not magic, not some ridiculous school he hadn’t asked for.

Not this world which threw him here and forgot about it, and then suddenly it remembered that he did have some value.

His hand trembled slightly as he looked down at the scroll, and without another thought, he tore it apart. The parchment shredded easily under his fingers, the pieces fluttering down to the dirt floor like dead leaves. He felt a fleeting sense of satisfaction watching them scatter at his feet.

“Problem solved,” he muttered, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he turned away, trying to convince himself that tearing it up meant the problem would disappear. He kicked one of the larger scraps aside, feeling like he’d reclaimed control, even for a moment.

But the silence that followed felt... wrong. Too still. Too heavy.

A sound, faint at first—like a soft rustling in the air—made him stop in his tracks. Ronan turned slowly, his body tensing as his eyes settled on the floor where the torn pieces lay. They were moving. Each scrap of parchment twitched, shivering like they were alive, swirling together in slow circles. A thin glow began to wrap around the fragments, lifting them from the ground, spinning faster and faster until they blurred in the air like some ethereal cyclone.

"No... no way," Ronan whispered, his pulse quickening as he watched, his breath catching in his throat.

The pieces of the scroll reassembled before his eyes, coming together seamlessly until the letter was whole again, floating in front of him as if nothing had happened. The delicate glow around the parchment faded, and the scroll hovered there, mocking him with its impossible return.

His throat tightened, anger rising to the surface. "Are you kidding me?"

In a fit of frustration, he snatched the scroll from the air and ripped it into even smaller pieces, shredding it into tiny fragments. He tossed the remains out the window of his shack, watching the pieces drift into the filthy streets outside.

That should do it, he thought, wiping his hands on his trousers, his breath coming fast and shallow as he turned back to the room.

And then something flew right beside him.

And there it was again.

Floating right beside him.

The scroll had reappeared, unmarked, untouched, as if it had never been torn apart. It floated there, impossibly intact, like it had simply decided to come back, indifferent to his attempts to destroy it.

Ronan’s face twisted in disbelief. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

He grabbed the scroll once more, his hands shaking slightly, and threw it to the ground. This time, he stomped on it, grinding the parchment into the dirt, his boot pressing down hard. "Stay gone!" His voice echoed in the small shack, his frustration mounting with each failed attempt to rid himself of this impossible thing.

When he stepped back, the parchment glowed faintly again, lifting from the floor, brushing the dirt away like it was dust, and floating back to its perfect, pristine form.

Ronan stared at it, his mind blank for a moment. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. But there it was, whole, floating, refusing to be destroyed.

His chest tightened, frustration turning into a sharp, hot anger. "What... what do you want from me?" he growled at the scroll, as if it could answer. He clenched his fists, his eyes narrowing at the parchment that hovered in defiance.

He grabbed it once again, his hands shaking now, and flung it into the fire pit. Flames licked at the edges of the scroll, curling the paper and blackening the edges. His eyes locked onto the burning parchment, watching as the flames started to consume it.

For a brief moment, he thought it might work.

But no.

The air shimmered, the flames dimming, and just like before, the scroll reformed itself, floating back into the air, whole and unscathed, the fire having no more effect than his hands had.

"Impossible..." His voice was barely a whisper now. He stumbled back, feeling the weight of the world press down on him. His small shack seemed to grow smaller, the air heavier, as if the universe itself had decided that Ronan had no choice in the matter.

He slumped against the wall, his back pressing into the cold, rough surface as he stared at the letter that hovered so calmly in the air, mocking him.

Ronan let out a sharp, bitter laugh, running a hand through his messy hair. "Of course. Of course, it’s not that easy."

The scroll floated there, waiting, and Ronan glared at it as if his frustration could somehow make it disappear. But deep down, he knew—no matter how many times he tore it, no matter how many times he burned it, this letter wasn’t going away.

The weight of it settled on his shoulders, heavier than before.

“Fine,” he muttered, defeated for the moment. “You’re not going to go away.”

But that didn’t mean he had to accept it. He wasn’t going to be dragged into whatever this was.

Ronan’s frustration was just beginning to settle when the first knock came. Sharp. Loud. The kind of knock that didn’t belong in a place like this. He glanced at the door, his teeth clenched as he took a deep breath, already irritated.

Who the hell would come here?

The slums weren’t the kind of place where visitors arrived, especially not with that kind of confidence. Grumbling to himself, Ronan crossed the small space, kicking aside debris as he went, and yanked the door open.

Standing there, perfectly out of place among the filth and decay, was a man dressed in sharp, fitted attire. His clothes, while not as ostentatious as a noble’s, carried an air of precision and care—dark leather armor lined with polished silver, and a deep burgundy cloak. His expression was stern, the sharp lines of his face hardened by years of service. This man was not a noble—he was someone’s servant, but certainly not an ordinary one.

"Ronan, I presume?" the man asked, his voice measured, but carrying an edge of authority. He didn’t wait for a response. "I’ve come with a message on behalf of Viscount Rowan Kalis, of House Kalis."

Ronan’s brow furrowed. Great, he thought bitterly, crossing his arms. "And you are?"

The man stepped into the shack without permission, his boots sinking into the dirt floor. He looked around with a quick, assessing glance, his lip curling slightly at the sight of the decrepit room, though he masked his disdain well. "You don’t need to know my name," he said, his tone clipped. "But what matters is the opportunity Viscount Kalis has extended to you."

Ronan raised an eyebrow, even more annoyed. "Opportunity, huh?" he repeated, his voice laced with sarcasm.

The man took a small scroll from inside his cloak, ignoring the sarcasm, and held it out toward Ronan. "The Viscount has heard of you," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "He’s aware of your... potential. He believes someone like you could rise above this filth," he gestured vaguely around the room, “…with the proper guidance.”

Ronan didn’t take the scroll, his eyes now fixed on the man. "So, what’s the catch?" he asked, just for the hell of it.

The servant’s face remained impassive, his voice steady. "You would pledge your loyalty to House Kalis. You would serve the Viscount’s interests. In return, you would be given access to education, resources, and a place far better than this." He glanced at the dirt floor beneath his feet before locking eyes with Ronan again. “Your talents would not go to waste.”

Ronan let out a short, humorless laugh. "You mean I’d be his tool," he said, his voice sharp. "Running around doing his dirty work."

The servant’s gaze hardened slightly, though his expression remained stoic. "You misunderstand. This is a rare offer, far more generous than anything you’d find here. It’s a chance to escape this life, to make something of yourself."

Ronan’s smirk returned. "Escape this life? By becoming someone’s lapdog?" He stepped closer, his posture tense. "I don’t need charity from a man too scared to come here himself. If the Viscount wants my loyalty, he can come and ask for it in person."

And he will reject his offer in his face. But he didn’t say that. He was being nice.

The servant’s jaw tightened at the insult, his hand clutching the scroll a bit too firmly. "You’re making a mistake, you lowborn," he said quietly, his voice now cold. "Opportunities like this don’t come twice. Refuse, and you’ll rot here—alone and forgotten."

Ronan’s eyes narrowed, his frustration rising. He motioned toward the door with a sharp gesture. "Then I’ll rot. Get out."

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For a moment, the servant looked as though he might say something more, or do something more, but after a tense pause, he slipped the scroll back into his cloak and turned toward the door. "You’ll regret this," he said, his voice low. "You think you can do whatever you please, but soon you’ll see how wrong you are."

Without another word, the man stepped out into the filthy streets of the slums, his form quickly swallowed by the shadows. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving the shack silent once more.

Ronan stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door, his chest still tight with irritation. He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair as he muttered, "That went well."

***

Ronan had barely recovered from throwing out the dumb and arrogant visitor when the next knock echoed through his shack. It was louder, more forceful, and immediately set his nerves on edge. He let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his messy hair as he made his way to the door.

When he swung the door open, a tall, statuesque figure stood before him. This time, it was a woman clad in sharp and really tight attire—dark blue leather armor with silver accents. Her even sharper features radiated cold authority, though her gaze was colder still. She looked Ronan over with a quick, dismissive glance, as if she were assessing livestock.

"Hmm…," she said, her voice crisp and precise. She didn’t wait for him to answer, stepping past him into the shack without a second glance. The air around her felt as icy as her demeanor.

“Make yourself at home,” Ronan muttered, closing the door behind her.

She ignored his tone, casting her gaze over the dingy room with open disgust. “I am Lilith, a servant of Baroness Elina Storme,” she announced, as though her title alone justified barging in. “I’m here on her behalf to extend an offer, one you, in your... unfortunate circumstances, could never hope to attain on your own.”

Ronan crossed his arms, already tired of the conversation. “Let me guess,” he said dryly, “You’re here to rescue me from this wretched life and turn me into the baroness’s loyal servant, right?”

Lilith’s eyes narrowed, but her tone remained cold and controlled. “You misunderstand,” she replied icily. “This is not charity. This is an opportunity to rise above your station, to become something more than the filth you’re currently wallowing in.”

“Charming,” Ronan said, his lip curling in amusement. “You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

Lilith’s patience was wearing thin, but she pressed on, her posture rigid with discipline. “House Storme,” she said, with a touch of pride, “has weathered countless storms, both literal and metaphorical. We are strong because we know how to harness potential, how to turn raw power into something greater. The baroness could mold you into a true weapon, a force to be reckoned with.”

Ronan raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the cringe. “So, what you’re saying is, I could go from starving in the slums to being her personal attack dog?”

Lilith’s eyes flashed with anger, though she quickly smothered the reaction, her composure unshaken. “You would be given a life of honor and purpose. In exchange, you would serve House Storme. You would become a weapon for the kingdom, under the baroness’s command.”

Ronan let out a harsh laugh. “Right. A life of ‘honor’ where I’m at her beck and call, doing her dirty work.” He stepped closer to her, his eyes hard. “You nobles really don’t get it, do you? I don’t want your life. I don’t want your power. I just want you to get out of my home.”

For the briefest moment, something flickered in Lilith’s eyes—perhaps surprise that anyone would dare speak to her that way. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by icy disdain. “You’re a fool,” she hissed, her voice low. “You’ve been given a rare chance, and you’ve thrown it away.”

“Yeah, well,” Ronan said, stepping toward the door and pulling it open, “I’ve gotten a pretty good lesson in the art of throwing things away. Now, if you’d kindly leave.”

Without another word, Lilith turned on her heel and swept past him, her armor glinting in the dim light as she exited the shack. She didn’t look back.

***

Ronan closed the door behind Lilith and exhaled slowly, trying to push down the frustration boiling in his chest. Before he could take another breath, yet another knock came at the door. He clenched his fists, his patience wearing dangerously thin.

He opened the door to find an older man standing there, his expression one of exaggerated pity. The man was shorter than most, with a round belly barely concealed beneath his fine green and silver robes. His thinning hair was slicked back, and his small eyes gleamed with calculated kindness.

“Ah, Ronan, my boy!” the man exclaimed with a beaming smile, as if they were old friends. “I’m Malven, a servant of Earl Tavin Draven, whose land you live in. You poor, poor soul, living in such dreadful conditions. I’ve come to offer you a way out of this misery!”

Ronan narrowed his eyes. Someone who had never cared about what happened to his kind before is right here begging on his doorstep. He sighed inwardly. Here we go again.

Malven stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, his eyes darting around the small, crumbling shack with barely veiled disgust, though he quickly masked it with a false smile. “You must be terribly hungry, my boy,” he continued, his voice dripping with exaggerated sympathy. “It breaks my heart to see someone with such... potential, wasting away in a place like this.”

“Get to the point,” Ronan said, his voice flat. “What does your master want?”

Malven chuckled lightly, as if Ronan’s bluntness amused him. “Oh, nothing much,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “My lord simply wishes to... assist you. To take you under his wing. After all, someone of your potential shouldn’t be stuck in a place like this.”

Ronan raised an eyebrow. “Assist me? Your master’s had plenty of chances to do that before now.”

Malven ignored the jab, his false smile unwavering. “Times change, my boy. We can offer you so much—food, shelter, luxury. You deserve better than this squalor. The earl would be delighted to see someone like you rise above it all.”

His voice lowered, and he leaned in conspiratorially. “All we ask is your loyalty. A simple exchange, really. A life of comfort in return for your devotion. You could leave this place behind forever.”

Ronan crossed his arms, his face unreadable as Malven continued his speech, talking about riches and luxuries Ronan had never imagined. To Malven, it must have sounded like an irresistible offer. But to Ronan, it was just empty words.

When Malven finally paused, Ronan gave a short, sarcastic nod. “Right. Sounds great. Sign me up.”

Malven’s face brightened, clearly thinking he had won Ronan over. “Wonderful! I knew you were a smart lad. You—”

Ronan stepped closer, his voice cold. “On one condition,” he said, leaning in. “You take your false promises, your master’s sudden concern—and get out, never to return.”

Malven blinked, his smile faltering. “What...?”

“Get. Out,” Ronan repeated, his patience finally gone.

Malven’s face flushed with anger. “You... insolent wretch!” he sputtered. “Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?!”

“Yep,” Ronan replied, stepping back and opening the door wide. “And I’m telling him to get out.”

Malven stormed past him, his robes flaring dramatically as he muttered curses under his breath. He paused at the door, turning back to glare at Ronan, his face twisted in anger. “You’ll regret this, gutter rat.”

Ronan just stared back, unfazed. “Maybe. But not today.”

Ronan shrugged, slamming the door behind him with a satisfying thud.

He stood there in the silence, his lips curling into a wry smile. Regret? That word had no meaning for someone like him.

Ronan wasn’t afraid of death—he had made peace with that long ago. If it came, it came. In fact, it seemed almost laughable that these nobles thought threats would mean anything to him. What did they think they could take from him that life hadn’t already stolen?

Ronan slumped back against the door after he left, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. The quiet returned to his shack, but his mind raced, unable to let go of the strange reality he now faced.

Why me?

People talked about magic like some unattainable miracle, a gift given to only a few across the kingdom. And yet, here he was—an unwashed nobody from the slums—and nobles from all corners of Ravencia were knocking on his door. Not just one or two, but multiple nobles, all clamoring to recruit him like he was some kind of prize.

He had always known magic was rare, but there in this world. It was everything everyone ever wanted. He might have, perhaps, thought about it himself once or twice when he was younger, when he at least had his mom and sister. But magic was never what he had needed, both then and now.

His stomach churned with more than just hunger. Magic. Why the hell did it have to be magic? He didn’t even care about magic. Hell, he would have traded it in a heartbeat just for a full meal, or a warm bed. But no—fate had thrown him something rare, something precious, and as always, it had come with strings attached. Big, choking, blood-stained strings.

Ronan cursed under his breath. Fate had always been cruel to him, toying with him like some cosmic joke. First his mother, then his sister, and now this. He was so tired of it. Tired of this wretched life. Tired of surviving on scraps while these nobles played games with power. And now, they were after him. Because of some power he never asked for.

Why did they care so much? He knew what magic could mean in this world. The chance to become something more than human, to wield unimaginable strength, to reshape your own destiny. It was the stuff of legends—rare enough that kingdoms bent over backward for even the smallest trace of it. And now he had it when his mother and sister weren’t here. Of course, he did. Just his luck.

Ronan’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want any of it. Magic had never been something he desired—he just wanted to live, to get by without the weight of the world crushing him under its heel. But now, he couldn’t even escape that.

His lip curled in disgust. They’ll be back, he thought bitterly. And when they came back, maybe they wouldn’t be offering fancy deals or empty promises. He had spat in their faces, and he could figure nobles didn’t forget things like that. They’d come with soldiers next time—or worse.

But I’ll be dead before they get the chance, he thought darkly.

Hunger gnawed at his insides like a vicious animal. It had been clawing at him all day, relentless and unforgiving, the kind of hunger that made every breath feel like an effort. His stomach cramped painfully, reminding him of how long it had been since he ate something. He had found that filthy bread earlier, but that too, he had coughed it up.

He let out a shaky breath, his mouth dry, his tongue thick and swollen. The emptiness in his gut was spreading, the kind of hunger that left him weak and lightheaded. His body was wasting away, and he knew it. If he didn’t find food soon, he wouldn’t last much longer.

Ronan grimaced, running a hand through his tangled hair. Starvation, he thought grimly. That’s how I’ll go out. Not in some grand battle, not by some noble’s sword. No, he would die alone in this shack, rotting away in the same filth he had always known. It was almost funny, in a cruel, twisted way.

Maybe that’s how it should be, he thought bitterly. At least death by starvation won’t be as humiliating as letting one of those nobles take me.

He imagined them returning—Earl Thorn, Viscount Kalis, Baroness Storme—each of them waiting with thinly veiled contempt, ready to pounce the moment he showed any weakness. Ready to claim him for their own purposes.

Too bad for them, he thought, grimly amused. They won’t get the satisfaction. I’ll be gone by then.

The hunger clawed at him again, sharper this time, and he doubled over, clutching his stomach. His vision blurred, and for a moment, he felt dizzy, his knees buckling under the strain of staying upright. He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, his mind spinning.

“Damn it,” he whispered. “Damn this life. Damn everything.”

He cursed his fate, cursed the cruel hand he’d been dealt. It felt like the universe had gone out of its way to ensure that everything good in his life was ripped away from him. And now, even death seemed like it was playing a waiting game, dragging it out as long as possible before it finally claimed him.

Ronan slid down to the floor, resting his back against the cold stone wall. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on like this. He was too tired, too weak. His whole life had been a struggle for survival, and now, in the end, it felt like the struggle wasn’t even worth it anymore.

He closed his eyes, resting his head against the wall as his thoughts drifted. Maybe this was the way it was always supposed to end. Just him, slowly fading into nothingness, forgotten by the world that had never cared about him in the first place.

Or maybe not.

He cursed under his breath at the sound of another knock.