The side gate of Iron spire Manor didn't creak. It was perfectly maintained, just like everything else the Sterlings owned. A plain, black carriage sat waiting in the grey light of dawn. There were no banners on the doors. No silver swords or lightning bolts. To any observer, it was just a merchant's transport.
He climbed inside, his small leather bag clutched tightly in his lap. He didn't look back at the towering spires of the manor. He didn't look for a waving hand at a window. He knew there wouldn't be one.
The carriage lurched forward. The wheels crunched over the gravel path, the sound echoing in the quiet morning. Vance bit his inner cheek until he tasted copper. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream that it wasn't his fault his blood was quiet.
But a Sterling didn't show weakness, even an exiled one. He stared at the floorboards, counting the grains in the wood until the manor was miles behind them.
As the hours passed, the scenery began to change. The perfectly paved roads of the inner territories gave way to cracked stone and dirt paths. This was the Reach, the buffer zone between the civilized heart of the kingdom and the untamed Wildlands.
The air here felt different. It was thicker, smelling of damp earth and rotting leaves. The trees were twisted, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. There were no magical streetlamps here.
No polished guards on white horses. Only the occasional farmer pulling a cart, their faces etched with the weariness of a life lived without the convenience of mana.
Vance watched it all with a heavy heart. 'This is my world now,' he thought.
The sun reached its peak and began its slow descent when the disaster struck. There was a sudden, violent crack. The carriage tilted sharply to the left, throwing Vance against the door. The horse let out a panicked neigh, and the carriage skidded before coming to a grinding halt.
"What's happening?" Vance shouted, his voice cracking.
"The axle!" the driver yelled back. "Stay inside, Master Vance!"
Vance scrambled to the window. Through the glass, he saw the driver jumping down, his hand reaching for a short sword at his hip. But he didn't even get the blade out of its scabbard.
A bolt of jagged, purple energy hissed through the air. It hit the driver square in the chest, throwing him back against the carriage with a sickening thud. He didn't get up. His body smoked, the scent of burnt hair filling the cabin.
Vance's blood went cold. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard it hurt. 'Mages,' he realized. 'Bandits with mages.'
Figures emerged from the dense treeline. There were five of them. Three carried heavy, notched axes and wore rusted chainmail. The other two stayed back, their hands glowing with a faint, sickly light. They weren't powerful magicians probably failures who had turned to crime but to a 14-year-old with no magic, they were gods.
The carriage door was ripped open. A man with a scarred face and a jagged beard looked inside. He grinned, revealing yellowed teeth.
"Well, look at this," the man rasped. "A little noble bird in a black cage. Where's your guards, boy?"
Vance backed into the corner of the seat, his hands shaking. "I... I have money. Take the bag. Just let me go."
The man laughed, a wet, rattling sound. He reached in and grabbed Vance by the collar, hauling him out of the carriage. Vance stumbled, falling onto the muddy road. The mud was cold and slimy, soaking into his trousers.
"Money is good," one of the mages said, stepping forward. He was a thin man with sunken eyes. "But a boy your age? Healthy, clean skin? You're worth more in the pits than the gold in that bag. You're ripe for the market."
Vance tried to scramble away, his boots slipping in the muck. One of the bandits stepped on his hand, the heavy leather boot crushing his fingers into the dirt. Vance let out a sharp cry of pain.
"Don't struggle, little bird," the leader said. He pulled a length of rough, coarse rope from his belt.
Before Vance could even process what was happening, his hands were jerked behind his back and tied tight. The rope bit into his wrists, chafing the skin. Then, a heavy burlap bag was shoved over his head.
The world vanished. Everything became dark and stifling. The smell of the bag was nauseating—it smelled of old grain and dried sweat.
"Walk," a voice commanded.
A shove to his shoulder sent him stumbling forward. He couldn't see his feet. He couldn't see the road. He just walked, guided by the tug of the rope tied around his waist.
He walked for what felt like hours. His feet ached, and his breath came in ragged gasps through the thick fabric of the bag. Under the darkness, the tears finally came. He didn't care about being a Sterling anymore. He was just a boy who wanted to go home, even a home that didn't want him. He wept silently, the fabric of the bag growing damp against his face.
'Please,' he whispered to himself. 'Someone, please.'
But there was no one. There was only the sound of the bandits' boots and the occasional cruel laugh.
Eventually, the group stopped. Vance felt the ground change from dirt to cold, hard stone.
"We're here," someone said.
Vance felt a sudden, sharp pain in his stomach. A heavy fist slammed into his gut, knocking the wind out of him. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, before a second blow to the side of his head sent the world into a spinning blur.
When he finally blinked his eyes open, the burlap bag was gone. His head throbbed with a rhythmic, pulsing heat. His vision was hazy, the world appearing in doubled, overlapping images.
He was in a cage. The bars were thick iron, rusted and smelling of blood. The floor was covered in thin, moldy straw that did little to cushion the stone beneath.
"You're finally awake," a voice whispered.
Vance shifted his head slowly. Sitting in the opposite corner of the small cage was another boy. He looked to be about the same age as Vance, but his hair was a shock of bone-white, messy and matted with dirt. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and his eyes were a deep, tired gray. He looked like he hadn't seen the sun in weeks.
Vance tried to sit up, but his stomach groaned in protest. "Where... where am I?"
"The slave pens," the white-haired boy said. He pulled his knees to his chest. "They call this place the 'Under-Market.' What's your name?"
Vance hesitated. He remembered his father's words. Drop the Sterling name. "Vance," he whispered. "Just Vance."
The boy nodded slowly. "I'm Rook. How did they catch you? You look like you come from a place with high walls."
"They broke my carriage," Vance said, his voice trembling. "They killed my driver and just... took me."
Rook looked down at the straw. "They killed my whole family. My father, my sisters... everyone. They took me because I was young enough to be 'useful.' That's what they told me while they were burning the house."
Vance didn't know what to say. The grief in Rook's voice was so heavy it felt like it was pressing down on both of them. For a few minutes, the only sound was the drip of water somewhere in the distance.
"Are they going to kill us?" Vance asked.
"No," Rook said. "They want to sell us. Dying is a waste of gold."
Suddenly, a piercing scream shattered the silence of the pens. It was followed by the heavy, metallic ring of a weapon hitting the floor a sound that was sharp and final.
Vance froze, his eyes wide as he looked toward the shadows beyond the bars.