The small safe-house was quiet, broken only by the gentle clink of teacups.
Kael Voss sat on the worn brown couch, knees drawn up slightly, shoulders slumped. Across the low wooden table, Mr. Harlan sat upright but visibly exhausted, the wrinkles on his face deeper than Kael had ever seen.
A young maid named Lina — the same one who used to weave flowers into Kael's hair when he was a child — entered carrying a tray. Her hands trembled slightly, yet she managed to place two steaming cups of black tea on the table without spilling a drop. The fragrant scent of bergamot filled the room.
"Thank you, Lina," Mr. Harlan said gently.
Kael wrapped both hands around his cup and took a slow sip. The tea was hot enough to burn, but the pain felt grounding — something real amid the chaos.
Mr. Harlan let out a heavy sigh.
"Master Draven issued the order this morning. Every branch family member, every elder, every guard — anyone still loyal to the old lord's direct bloodline — has been warned to stay away from you. He called it 'cutting away dead wood.'"
Kael stared into the dark liquid.
"He really despises me that much."
Mr. Harlan offered a sad, weary smile.
"It's fortunate your father purchased this house years ago. He mentioned having a dream… a feeling that something like this might one day occur."
Kael's head jerked up.
"Wait. Father knew I might end up flameless? Why didn't he ever tell me?"
"No, Young Master," Mr. Harlan shook his head quickly. "Lord Draven never believed you would be without flame. Quite the opposite. He once told me, 'If my son's flame proves stronger than mine, Draven will never accept being second. That boy doesn't know how to yield.' So he quietly bought this property and placed it solely in your name. Just in case you ever needed a place that still belonged to you."
Kael opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"This house… was meant for Draven?"
"Precisely," Mr. Harlan replied, taking another slow sip. "Your father believed you would be the one sending Draven away one day — not the other way around."
Kael let out a short, bitter laugh.
"Looks like Father got it completely wrong."
He stood up abruptly, fists clenched.
"I'm going back. I'll talk to Draven and make him listen."
Mr. Harlan remained seated.
"He won't listen, Young Master. The guards have orders to break the legs of anyone who tries to force their way in. I may be old, but I'm not helpless — I checked."
Kael stood there breathing heavily for a moment, then collapsed back onto the couch as if all the strength had drained from his body.
"If only I had inherited even a fraction of Father's flame… none of this would be happening."
Mr. Harlan looked at him for a long time. His lips moved in the faintest whisper.
'Oh, Young Master Kael… if only you knew who you truly are.'
Kael didn't hear it.
Outside, the afternoon sun sank lower until the sky shifted from purple to deep black. Stars appeared, cold and distant.
In Kael's new room — small and plain, nothing like the grand bedroom he had grown up in — he tossed and turned on the narrow bed. Sleep refused to come. When it finally claimed him, it pulled him straight into a nightmare.
Red-black flames raged everywhere. People screamed as the sky burned upside down.
And that voice — deep as ancient mountains — shook the world inside his head.
"Free me, boy… free me…"
Kael woke with a gasp, forehead drenched in sweat. He sat on the edge of the bed, heart pounding painfully against his ribs.
'What the hell are these dreams?' he muttered into the darkness.
Morning arrived far too quickly.
The underground mines beneath the academy reeked of dust, sweat, and lingering embers that never fully died. Torches hissed along the rough walls. Dozens of laborers in gray uniforms swung pickaxes in steady rhythm — clank, clank, clank — like a slow, furious heartbeat.
Kael swung with them. His hands were already blistered and raw, but he didn't stop. When his wheelbarrow filled with broken red stone, he pushed it to the checkpoint, dumped it with a heavy crash, and returned for another load.
Clank!
Clank!
Clank!
Hours blurred into one another until a terrified scream pierced the tunnel.
"Let me go, you bastards!"
Kael's head snapped up.
Twenty meters down the passage, two older students in proper crimson uniforms had a girl pinned against the wall. One gripped her wrists while the other laughed mockingly in her face. Her hood had fallen back, revealing long fiery-red hair streaked with gold.
Kael dropped his pickaxe and strode over, boots thudding heavily on the stone floor.
"Hey," he called, his voice calm yet loud enough to echo. "Didn't you hear her? Let her go."
The two boys turned.
"Oh, look who it is!" the taller one taunted.
"Kael the Flameless! Come to play hero?"
The second boy doubled over laughing.
"Yeah! What are you going to do? Burn us? Hahaha! You can't even light a candle!"
Their laughter grew louder as they slapped each other's backs.
Kael stood perfectly still. His fingers tightened around the wooden handle of the pickaxe he had retrieved. The metal head felt cold at first… then warm… then searing.
Thin wisps of black smoke began curling from the iron.
Farther back in the tunnel, the elderly laborer Old Man Thorne watched with suddenly widened eyes.
Inside Kael's mind, the dragon's voice returned — low, hungry, and commanding.
'Don't be afraid, boy.'
'Use the pickaxe.'
Kael glanced down. The axe head glowed a dull red, then darkened like blood seen through smoke.
'Use it on them.'
'Kill them, boy.'
'KILL THEM!'
The voice boomed like thunder.
Kael's knuckles turned white on the handle. Heat surged up his arms, into his chest, and through his teeth. The air around the pickaxe shimmered with distortion.
The two boys stopped laughing the instant they saw the change in his expression.
Kael looked up slowly.
A devilish smirk spread across his lips — one that didn't entirely feel like his own.
The taller boy took a shaky step backward.
"W-what the hell is that look for…?"
The pickaxe head flared with black-red flames, so intense that the air itself seemed to scream.
Kael took one step forward.
The tunnel fell deathly silent, save for the soft hiss of melting stone beneath his boots.
And deep inside him, the dragon laughed…