The morning sun crept through the gaps in the heavy curtains, hitting Vance's face like a physical weight. He didn't move. He lay there, staring at the dust motes dancing in the light. Normally, he would have been up an hour ago, eager to start his morning meditation. Now, the very idea of it felt like a sick joke.
His stomach cramped with hunger, but the thought of going down to the dining hall was worse. He could already imagine the silence that would fall when he entered. He could see his father's eyes looking right through him.
A sharp knock sounded at the door. It wasn't the gentle, rhythmic rap of his personal valet. It was a single, impatient strike.
"Master Vance, your breakfast is here," a voice called out.
It was Martha, one of the senior maids. She had been with House Sterling for twenty years. Usually, she was the one who snuck him extra sweets from the kitchen. When he opened the door, he didn't see a smile. Martha was looking at the floor, holding a tray that looked much lighter than usual.
"Put it on the desk," Vance said. His voice sounded hoarse, like he had swallowed glass.
Martha stepped inside. She didn't offer a greeting. She placed the tray down with a dull clink. On it sat a bowl of cold porridge and a single piece of dry bread.
In a house like Sterling, information traveled faster than a lightning. By now, every cook, stable hand, and gardener knew the youngest Sterling was a Null. To them, he was no longer a future master.
"Will there be anything else?" Martha asked. She still hadn't looked at his face. Her tone was flat, the kind of voice you used for a stranger you didn't particularly like.
"No, thank you," Vance replied.
She turned and left without a word. She didn't even bother to close the door all the way. Vance watched the heavy oak paneling swing slightly on its hinges. It was a small thing, a minor lapse in etiquette, but it stung more than his brother's insults. It was the first sign that his protection was gone.
He sat at the desk and poked at the porridge. It was thick and tasteless. He forced himself to eat a few spoonfuls. He needed the energy, even if he didn't know what for.
His eyes wandered to his bookshelf. Rows of leather-bound volumes on mana theory stared back at him. He had spent his childhood memorizing every circuit and every elemental chant. He knew the history of every Great Mage in their lineage. Now, those books felt like a language he had forgotten how to speak.
Three days passed in a similar fashion. Vance stayed in his room, only leaving to use the washroom. No one came to check on him. His mother didn't visit. His siblings didn't come by to gloat. That was the Sterling way. If something was broken, you put it in a corner and forgot about it.
On the fourth morning, he heard a sound outside his window. He walked over and pulled the curtain back. Below, in the training courtyard, his brother Julian was sparring with a group of house guards.
Julian moved with a fluid, lethal grace. Every time he swung his training sword, blue sparks of electricity trailed behind the blade. He laughed as he parried a strike, sending a small jolt through the guard's shield. The man stumbled back, his arm shaking from the shock.
Vance felt a pang of genuine admiration mixed with a deep, hollow ache. He didn't hate Julian for having magic. He just wanted to be down there with him. He wanted to feel that hum in his veins.
'Is this all I'm going to be?' he wondered. 'A null watching from a window?'
A heavy thud at his door broke his train of thought. This time, it wasn't a maid. It was Boros, his father's personal captain of the guard. Boros was a massive man, scarred from decades of hunting beasts in the northern wastes. He looked at Vance with a expression that was somewhere between pity and boredom.
"Your father wants you in the study," Boros said. "Now."
Vance nodded. He didn't try to make an excuse. He straightened his tunic, ran a hand through his messy hair, and followed the captain down the long, winding corridors.
The manor felt different today. It felt larger, colder, and more oppressive. Every portrait of an ancestor seemed to judge him as he passed. Their eyes, painted with gold and silver leaf, seemed to burn with shame.
They reached the heavy double doors of the study. Boros opened them and stepped aside, signaling for Vance to enter alone.
The study smelled of old parchment, expensive tobacco, and the faint, ozone scent of lingering magic. His father, Lord Alistair Sterling, sat behind a massive desk carved from black weir wood. He was reading a ledger, his face a mask of calm concentration. He didn't look up when Vance entered.
Vance stood in the center of the room. He kept his back straight, just as he had been taught.
Minutes ticked by. The only sound was the ticking of a clock and the scratch of Alistair's quill. Finally, the Lord of House Sterling closed the ledger and leaned back. He looked at Vance, his gray eyes as cold as the ice walls Cassandra Thorne had summoned.
"Three days," Alistair said. His voice was deep and resonated in Vance's chest. "You spent three days hiding in your room like a wounded animal."
"I was... I was thinking, Father," Vance said.
"Thinking is for scholars. Sterlings are men of action," Alistair replied. He stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the lands he ruled. "The results of the test have reached the King's ear. People are talking. They say the Sterling blood has grown thin. They say we are losing our edge."
Vance lowered his head. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry does not fix a reputation, Vance. Sorry does not hunt the things that go bump in the night." Alistair turned around. He looked at his son, and for a brief second, Vance saw a flash of real anger in his eyes. "You are a Null. In this house, that is a terminal diagnosis. You cannot lead. You cannot fight. You cannot even maintain the enchantments on the walls."
"I can still learn," Vance said, his voice rising slightly. "I know the theory. I could be an administrator, or a strategist. I can still serve the house!"
Alistair let out a short, dry laugh. It was a sound devoid of any humor.
"A Sterling who counts coins and files papers? That is a disgrace I will not allow."
He walked back to the desk and picked up a small, sealed envelope. He held it out toward Vance.
"There is a small estate on the western coast. It is far from the capital and far from the eyes of the court. You will go there. You will receive a modest stipend every month. In exchange, you will drop the Sterling name. You will live as a commoner. You will never return to Aethelgard."
The words hit Vance like a physical blow to the stomach.
Exile.
"You're kicking me out?" Vance whispered. "Because of something I can't control?"
"I am preserving what is left of your dignity," Alistair said. "And the dignity of this family. You have until tomorrow morning. A carriage will be waiting at the side gate. If you are not in it, Boros will see that you are removed by other means."
Vance looked at the envelope. His hand trembled as he reached out to take it. The paper felt heavy, like lead.
"Is that all?" Vance asked. He wanted to scream. He wanted to beg. But the pride he had been raised with kept his voice steady.
"That is all," Alistair said, already turning back to his ledger. "Do not be late, Vance. The carriage will not wait."
Vance turned and walked out of the room. He didn't look back. He didn't say goodbye. He walked through the cold halls, past the servants who wouldn't look at him, and back to his room.
He didn't cry this time. The sadness had been replaced by a cold, hard knot in his chest. He looked at his bookshelf one last time. He grabbed a small leather bag and started packing the few things he truly owned.
'If they don't want a Sterling,' he thought as he shoved a spare tunic into the bag, 'then I'll give them what they want. I'll be nobody.'