The Road to Nowhere

In a world where magic rules, a person's worth is measured by two things—Talent and Bloodline. I have neither. My name is Asvorn, a name that means worthless. And this… is my story.

Asvorn didn't have magic.

His parents knew it from the moment he was tested as a child. That same night, they threw him out.

"There's no place for the worthless," his father had said.

He had spent the next twenty-two years proving them right.

Draymoor, a small village on the edge of the Vaelthorin Empire, had no use for someone like him. The people ignored him, spat at him, sometimes threw food his way when they felt generous. He lived like a stray dog—barely surviving, waiting for each miserable day to pass.

But lately, even the scraps had stopped coming.

Sitting outside his ragged shelter, stomach empty, limbs weak, he stared at the dirt.

If I stay here, I'll die.

It wasn't a dramatic thought. Just a fact.

The capital was far, but maybe—just maybe—he could find work there. Even a talentless nobody could clean floors.

So he stood up, grabbed a stick for protection, and left.

The road stretched endlessly, dry and lifeless. His feet ached, his stomach twisted in hunger, and the sun beat down on him like it wanted him dead.

By nightfall, exhaustion weighed on him. He stumbled into a forest clearing and sat down, rubbing his sore legs. His throat was dry. He had barely touched his water, trying to make it last.

A rustling sound snapped him out of his thoughts.

Low, guttural growls echoed from the trees.

His heart pounded. Slowly, he turned his head.

Yellow eyes flickered in the darkness. Shadows moved between the trees, crouched low, watching him.

Goblins.

One of them hissed and lunged.

He barely had time to react. He swung his stick on instinct, the wood smacking into a goblin's head with a dull crack. It shrieked, stumbling back, but the others swarmed him.

A clawed hand slashed his arm. Pain shot through him, sharp and hot. He grit his teeth, swinging wildly, but he was slow. Weak.

Something grabbed his leg. He tripped, crashing onto the dirt.

A goblin lunged at his throat. He shoved his arm up to block, its teeth sinking into his forearm instead. He screamed, raw panic flooding his system.

He slammed the stick down, again and again, until the goblin let go. Blood dripped from his arm.

Run.

His body moved before his brain could catch up. He turned and bolted into the forest, branches whipping against his skin. The goblins screeched behind him, their footsteps pounding the dirt.

His legs burned. His lungs felt like they were on fire. But he didn't stop running.

Not until everything went silent.

Not until his body collapsed against a tree, chest heaving, limbs shaking.

His stick was gone. His arm throbbed. He was covered in dirt, sweat, and blood.

The capital was still a day away.

And he had nothing left.

Asvorn sat against the tree, his breaths shallow. His arm throbbed where the goblin had bitten him, and he could already feel the skin around the wound swelling. His body ached, drained from the fight and the endless running.

But he wasn't dead.

He took a shaky breath and forced himself to move. He had no supplies, no weapon, and his body was running on fumes, but he couldn't stop. If he lingered in the forest, something worse than goblins might find him.

His legs protested as he stood, but he ignored the pain and pressed on.

Morning came too soon.

The sun rose over the horizon, washing the land in dull orange light. Asvorn's legs felt like lead, his body weak from hunger and exhaustion.

His throat was dry. The little water he had left wouldn't last the day.

He trudged along the dirt path, each step heavier than the last. His vision blurred, his head pounded, but the capital was close. It had to be.

Hours passed in a haze. He stumbled more than he walked, barely aware of the road beneath him. The world spun, his body crying out for rest.

But just as his legs were about to give out, he saw it.

The capital.

A massive stone wall stretched across the horizon, towering over everything around it. At its center stood an enormous iron gate, guarded by armored soldiers. Beyond the wall, rooftops peeked over the edges, smoke rising from chimneys.

People. Food. A chance to survive.

A weak breath left his lips. He had made it.

Reaching the gate was one thing. Getting in was another.

A long line of travelers stood outside, waiting to be inspected. Merchants with carts full of goods, adventurers in gleaming armor, peasants hoping to start a new life.

Asvorn stood at the very end, swaying on his feet. He didn't belong here. Everyone around him had a purpose, a place in the world. He was just… a nobody.

The line moved slowly. When it was finally his turn, a guard stepped forward, eyeing him with thinly veiled disgust.

"Name?"

"Asvorn," he mumbled. His throat was so dry that his voice barely came out.

The guard's gaze swept over him—his torn clothes, his dirt-covered skin, the half-healed wounds on his arms. His lip curled.

"Reason for entering?"

"I… need work," Asvorn muttered.

The guard sighed. "Another beggar." He turned to his fellow guards. "Think we should even let this one in? Looks like he'll drop dead in a week."

A few of them laughed.

Asvorn clenched his fists but said nothing.

The guard stared at him for a long moment, then scoffed. "Fine. Try not to cause trouble."

The heavy iron gate creaked open, and just like that, Asvorn stepped into the capital.

The air smelled of fresh bread, roasted meat, and something sweet he couldn't quite place. The streets were alive with people—vendors shouting about their goods, carriages rolling past, laughter ringing from taverns.

He had never seen anything like it.

His stomach growled violently, but he had no money. No plan.

He was inside the city, but now came the real challenge.

Surviving it.