Prologue: Chapter 1

Kyron Warths jolted awake, gasping, his body slick with sweat. The first golden rays of dawn filtered through the cracked shutters of his bedroom. The air was thick with the earthy scent of dew-kissed fields and distant smoke from the village forges. The small town of Hubbard, nestled on the fringes of the Swingen Kingdom, hummed with the quiet bustle of early risers, farmers murmuring soft chants to coax stubborn crops from dry soil, and the occasional flicker of elemental magic lighting up the horizon like fleeting stars.

Kyron could still feel the rope around his neck. He absentmindedly rubbed his Adam's apple and stared at the ceiling for a long moment, unsure if he was relieved or disappointed that it was just a nightmare.

The nightmares had been coming more frequently ever since he turned 18 a couple of months back. Today's was undoubtedly the worst one yet.

He turned his head to the calendar pinned above his desk. Today's date was circled in bright red.

"Of course," he muttered under his breath.

The day he had been both dreading and looking forward to was finally here.

It was Appraisal Day.

Kyron exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair, thick, unruly, the colour of dark honey in the morning light. His body was lean but wiry, the kind of frame that suggested strength hidden beneath a deceptively casual stance. His eyes, a stormy gray, still held the haunted glint of the dream. He was handsome in a way that made village girls blush and look away, all sharp angles and restless energy, but there was a tension to him, a coiled tightness, as if he were always bracing for impact.

The nightmare always left him feeling hollowed out, like something had scooped the marrow from his bones, but today he didn't have the luxury of lying in it. Not when the entire trajectory of his life could be decided in the next few hours. He dressed mechanically, loose linen shirt, reinforced leather trousers, the same boots he'd worn for three years straight because his father insisted good soles were worth more than gold in Hubbard's muddy streets. His fingers fumbled over the laces. The phantom weight of the rope still clung to his throat, tight and inescapable.

Downstairs, the smell of eggs and burnt toast hit him first. His mother, Elara stood at the kitchen counter, a lazy spiral of water dancing between her fingers as she scrubbed the iron skillet clean without touching it.

She was a vision of quiet grace, tall, with curves that had only softened with time, her dark auburn hair piled loosely atop her head, tendrils escaping to frame a face that still turned heads in the village square. Her hands, long-fingered and elegant, moved with the precision of a woman who had spent a lifetime shaping water to her will. But it was her presence that truly commanded the room: warm, steady, the kind of warmth that made you want to press close, to bury your face in her neck and breathe her in.

She turned, sensing him, and her lips curved into a smile. But her sharp, knowing eyes, green as the forest after rain, flickered over his face, catching the shadows beneath his eyes, the way his jaw was set too tight.

“Eat,” she said, nudging a plate toward him. Her voice was rich, melodic, the kind of voice that could soothe a storm or stoke a fire with equal ease. “You’ll need your strength.”