Chapter 2 - Return to Edelstadt

Edelstadt.

That name alone was enough to freeze Ashen's heart. It had only taken the blink of an eye, a second suspended in the void, for him to open his eyes... here.

Here, in the city of his death, in the city of his past life.

The capital hadn't changed. Still those narrow streets, those uneven cobblestones, those white walls stained by time. The air carried the same smell of smoke, rain, sweat, and warm bread. It stank of others' wealth, and the misery of those who served.

Ashen staggered through the alleys, dressed in rags, barefoot on the icy stones. Every step reignited the pain. His reincarnated body was still fragile. But he kept walking. He didn't know where he was going — he only knew he would never go back. Never. Not home. Not anywhere.

His family?

Let them burn.

The wind blew hard on the heights. He had found shelter in an alley not far from the Grand Plaza, where merchants shouted, where the rich passed by... and sometimes tossed a coin to the jesters.

He climbed onto an old wooden crate, his face covered in mud, his eyes full of silent fire.

— Hear ye, hear ye! The king has fallen in love with a donkey!

Children giggled. Adults stopped. He continued.

— Yes, ladies and gentlemen, a donkey! But not just any: a poet donkey! Listen to him: "I'm the king's donkey, who farts and who prays, I've got more wisdom than the whole court any day!"

He did a somersault, fell on purpose, rolled on the ground. Then he stood up again, arms raised, a grotesque expression on his face. He danced, leapt, spun around like a possessed puppet. He mimicked a limping horse, then a sick nobleman, then a gossiping maid.

People laughed. Not all. Some pretended. Some threw coins.

He was playing the clown. He was playing the fool.

But this time... he was the one leading the dance.

A coin brushed his cheek. He picked it up without looking.

Let them laugh. Let them throw their crumbs. One day, I'll buy them all. One by one.

He went on until he couldn't anymore. When his legs gave out, he collapsed into a nearby alley, panting, his hands trembling.

— You've got talent, said a voice.

He shot upright.

An old man stood before him. White beard, red and gold robe, eyes tired but sharp.

— I saw you perform. You're not just a jester. You look like a man at war.

Ashen stared at him, wary.

— And you, what are you? A parlor mage come to laugh at the poor?

The old man smiled, amused.

— No. I'm Caldor. And I think you have something. A spark. A fire.

Ashen didn't answer.

Caldor crouched slowly.

— You don't look like you have a family. Or a bed. Or anything besides your will. Am I wrong?

Ashen looked away.

— What difference does it make?

— Maybe none. Maybe all the difference.

Silence.

The mage continued, softly:

— I teach magic to children from good families. But sometimes I take in others. When I see that look.

— What look?

— The look of someone who refuses to die.

Ashen trembled. He felt something in his throat. A warmth, a pain. He hadn't cried in... a long time. Too long.

— If I come, what do you expect from me?

— Nothing. I expect nothing. I offer you a roof. A meal. Some knowledge, if you want to learn.

— Why me?

— Because you're here. And because I haven't seen anything like you in a long time.

Ashen stood up slowly. He looked him straight in the eye.

— Alright.

The mage nodded, then held out his hand.

— Follow me.

They walked a long time through the streets of Edelstadt, without speaking. Ashen stumbled twice. Caldor said nothing. He didn't judge. He didn't rush him.

Finally, they arrived in front of a large stone house, with clear windows and slate roofs. A garden surrounded it. Two children came out, dressed in blue, carrying grimoires.

— This is the place.

They entered. The hall was vast, decorated with old rugs and shelves overflowing with books. The scent of warm wood and burnt parchment floated in the air.

— You can sleep here, said Caldor, showing him a simple but clean room. And tomorrow, if you want... I'll teach you to see what others cannot.

Ashen sat on the bed. He didn't know what to say. He felt empty. Tired. Lost.

Caldor closed the door.

And Ashen stayed there, alone, in a quiet room, for the first time in... maybe an eternity.

He placed a hand on his chest.

You don't know who I am. You know nothing. And maybe that's for the best.

He closed his eyes.

And slowly, for the first time in a very long while... he slept.

Morning had risen over Edelstadt, the capital of the kingdom.

The rooftops were still covered in dew, and light filtered softly through the stained-glass windows of a large house on the eastern side of the noble quarter.

Ashen opened his eyes.

He was no longer in the street. Nor in a cage.

He was lying in a warm bed, beneath a thick blanket. It took him several seconds to remember what had happened.

The mage.

The meeting.

Then, nothing.

A gentle voice echoed from behind the door:

— Ashen? Are you awake?

He jumped, pulled from his thoughts. The door opened slowly, and a man in his fifties entered, wearing a blue robe embroidered with golden threads. His gaze was kind, benevolent. His name was Caldor.

— Did you sleep well? he asked.

Ashen nodded, wary. He sat up, his hands trembling.

— I... I don't understand why you helped me.

Caldor smiled.

— Because you seemed alone. And tired. And because no child should be begging in the streets of Edelstadt.

He handed him a new tunic and boots.

— Come. I'll show you the house.

Caldor gave him a tour of the place. Polished wooden stairs, overflowing bookshelves, smoking potions in hanging flasks. Ashen walked like a thief, looking everywhere without daring to touch anything.

They passed three teenagers in a hallway. Two boys and a girl, clearly well-born.

— Who's that? asked one, chin held high.

— Another street rat? sneered the girl.

Ashen lowered his gaze. He knew that tone. Too well.

— He is under my protection, Caldor said sharply. I suggest you treat him with respect.

The three youths walked away without another word, but their looks said enough.

In a circular room, Caldor invited him to sit in front of a black stone placed on a marble pedestal.

— This is a soulstone, he explained. It detects latent magical energy. Place your hand on it.

Ashen remained still. His gaze hardened.

— ...It's useless, he said.

— Why?

Ashen hesitated. Then, for the first time in years, he told the truth:

— Because I don't have magic. No power. Nothing.

That's why they cast me out of my family.

A useless son. A shame. I grew up without ever seeing the slightest spark.

Not a breeze, not a drop. Just... emptiness.

He turned his head, expecting mockery, reproach. But Caldor said nothing. He merely watched him.

— And yet, the mage murmured, when I saw you in that street, there was something. An aura. A tension. A pain so strong... it warped the air around you.

Ashen clenched his fists.

— That's not magic. It's hatred.

Silence.

Then Caldor stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder.

— Sometimes... that's enough to ignite a flame.

Days passed. Ashen slowly grew used to this new life.

He ate three times a day. Slept in a bed. Studied the basics of magic, even if he didn't believe in it yet. Caldor never forced anything. He didn't ask questions about the past.

One evening, as they dined alone, Ashen asked:

— Why do you treat me like this? As if I were... normal.

Caldor replied without hesitation:

— Because you could be my son. And if I had a son, I'd want him to have a chance, even if he's broken.

Ashen lowered his head. His throat tightened. He said nothing.

He had never had a father. Not a real one.

— I want to learn, he murmured.

Caldor smiled.

— Then you shall learn.

Ashen stood in the garden of Caldor's house, his hands trembling above a small fire. The flames crackled softly, but no warmth seemed to reach his fingers. He stared at the fire without seeing it.

— You're somewhere else, Caldor noted, hunched over an old grimoire open to a dog-eared page. A thought you'd like to share, perhaps?

Ashen didn't answer right away. He eventually murmured, still staring:

— It feels like my body came back... but not me.

Caldor gently closed the book. He walked over and sat beside him, on the cold stone edging the fire.

— Tell me about that feeling.

Ashen hesitated. He clenched his fists.

— Everything's too calm here. Too... clean. I feel like a poison poured into a golden cup. I know I'm going to stain everything.

— And what if that cup was made to hold poison? What if, sometimes, it's the poison that reveals the true nature of the crystal?

Ashen shrugged. He didn't believe in metaphors. He didn't believe in much anymore. But Caldor's voice had that tone... that calm he had never known.

— You know, he said, lifting his head slightly, there comes a point when pain becomes a floor. Something solid. The more you suffer, the more you lean on it. And when there's nothing left... no more blows, no more screams... you fall into the void. Like there's nothing to stand on anymore.

— And you prefer pain to the void?

Ashen gave a short, joyless laugh.

— The void doesn't speak to you. Pain does. It says: "You don't have the right to forget." And me... I don't have the right.

He looked up at the sky, cloudy, gray.

— I remember everything. Every blow. Every word. The taste of iron in my mouth, the smell of the cage... I remember the hand that struck me... the voice that humiliated me... And yet... I'm still here.

Caldor looked at him for a long moment, then slowly stood.

— You're still here, yes. But maybe the challenge isn't surviving pain... Maybe the real challenge, Ashen, is allowing yourself, one day, to exist without it.

Ashen didn't answer. He remained still, jaw clenched, eyes wet but no tears falling.

In the days that followed, the lessons began.

Caldor showed him how to read the lines of a spell, how to feel the flow of energy in objects, how to touch magic with the tip of consciousness. Ashen learned quickly. Too quickly. As if some part of him already knew the workings of that ancient science.

But he showed nothing. No spark. No gift. Nothing.

And yet... the black stone Caldor kept by his bed vibrated gently each time Ashen entered the room.

One evening, after a day of study, Caldor asked a simple question.

— Tell me, Ashen... if you had the power to erase your past... would you?

The boy, sitting cross-legged on the rug, slowly looked up.

— No.

— Why?

Ashen closed his eyes. A silence. Then he said:

— Because if I erase the pain... I erase the one who carries it too. And me... I need to remember. So I don't become what they wanted me to be.

Caldor nodded.

— Then remember. But choose what you'll make of those ashes.

Ashen turned his gaze toward the window. There was a word in his throat. A word he had never said.

Thank you.

But he wasn't ready.

One night, he dreamed. A dream too real. A circular room. A black table. Forty-three chairs, and his own, empty.

The reflections stared at him.

— You're moving forward, said the Judge. But you haven't chosen yet.

— You still wear hate like armor, said the Martyr.

— You have the right to want revenge, murmured the Tyrant. But vengeance, little brother... it devours faster than the blade.

Ashen looked at his own chair. Red. Worn. Cracked.

— I'm still him, he said. The Fool. But maybe I can... learn to speak without screaming. To live without burning.

The Poet smiled.

— Then write, brother. Write your own play. And make them cry.

He woke with a start, breath short. Morning hadn't yet risen. A bluish, almost magical light filled the room. He looked at his hands.

They were trembling. But for the first time... not from fear.

From change.

It was a warm late afternoon. Golden light filtered through the garden branches, casting trembling shadows on the stones. Ashen stood before Caldor, arms stretched forward, focused.

A feather floated in the air.

Just a feather. But it moved... without touching the ground.

Ashen was sweating, jaw clenched, the veins in his temples throbbing.

— Gently, said Caldor in a calm voice. Don't force it. Magic isn't an order. It's a conversation.

Ashen closed his eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled.

And the feather, slowly, descended. It landed in his palm.

He opened his eyes again, panting. A shiver ran through him. No pain. No fire. But a new shiver. Something he had never known.

— Did you feel it? asked Caldor.

Ashen slowly nodded.

— It was like... a tension in the air. Like an invisible thread tied to my fingers.

— That thread, said Caldor, is your will. It's what you must learn to master. You don't have magic in your blood... but you have something else. You have an old, compressed anger. And sometimes, anger can become power.

Ashen murmured:

— And if it slips out of control?

— Then you will hurt. Yourself, and others. But if you tame it...

He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.

— ...you can change the world.

That night, Ashen stayed awake for a long time, sitting on the windowsill of his room. The sky was clear, pierced with timid stars. He looked at the distant city, its lights, its rooftops, its murmurs.

A memory came back: the taste of blood in his mouth, the laugh of a noble, the cold chain around his neck.

Then the feather.

Caldor had handed him a new world. But Ashen knew that world would never truly forget what he had been.

He asked the void a question:

— Can one really be anything other than what they've suffered?

Silence gave no answer.

But deep in his chest, something vibrated. A spark. Weak. Unstable.

But alive.

The next day, he entered the library and saw a group of noble students whispering. He knew them. They didn't like him. Not really. But they didn't dare confront him directly.

Not when Caldor was around.

One of them, a boy with black hair and a haughty gaze, deliberately dropped an inkwell near Ashen's feet.

— Here, he said. You forgot to crawl, rat.

Ashen looked at him. But said nothing. He bent down, cleaned up, and stood back up without a word.

But in his mind, voices whispered.

Make him suffer. Humiliate him like they humiliated you. You can, now.

He closed his eyes.

No.

Not now.

Not yet.

Later, Caldor observed him in silence as Ashen trained alone in the garden, repeating a light spell. A small flicker shimmered at his fingertips.

— He's progressing faster than expected, said a voice behind the old mage.

A woman had just appeared, dressed in a green robe, a royal insignia on her chest.

— Too fast, even, she added.

— He has no hereditary power, Caldor explained. No noble lineage. But his will... it's like a blade sharpened on the stone of pain.

The woman looked at him for a long time.

— He could enter the Royal Academy. But you know what that means. There, mistakes aren't forgiven. Nor are origins.

— I know.

She crossed her arms.

— Do you think he's ready?

— Not yet. But he will be.

They watched Ashen, alone in the middle of the garden, a trembling spark at his fingertips.

The sky was overcast that morning. A lazy mist floated over the garden, and the air tasted like a coming storm.

Ashen had gotten up early. Too early. He hadn't slept well - his body was still used to brutal awakenings, to screams, to fear.

But that morning, everything felt... suspended.

Caldor was waiting for him in the hall.

- Get ready, he said simply. Today, you'll take part in your first trial.

Ashen froze.

- A trial?

- Nothing dangerous. Just a simple test of magical perception. A tradition among my students. You'll be paired... with those you haven't met yet.

The training grounds were vast, surrounded by stone columns and trimmed bushes. Six students were already waiting, in training attire. All nobles. All older than Ashen.

Eyes immediately turned toward him. Nasty smiles appeared. A girl with ivory hair sneered:

- That's him, the stray picked up from the street? That's your "guest," Master Caldor?

Another boy, tall, blond, muscular, walked slowly up to Ashen. He spoke loudly.

- What's your name, "guest"? Or should I say, your beggar nickname?

Ashen didn't answer.

Caldor raised his voice, neutral:

- Ashen. His name is Ashen. And I ask you to behave like students, not like kennel dogs.

But the circle had already formed.

A test.

Each pair had to find an amulet hidden in the field, using a simple detection charm.

Ashen was paired with the blond one - Lexion, the most mocking.

- Listen to me, filthy larva, the latter whispered in a low voice. You do what I say. You stay back. And you keep your mouth shut.

Ashen simply nodded.

They entered the small grove bordering the field.

- Do you sense anything? Lexion asked mockingly.

Ashen crouched. He placed two fingers on the moss, closed his eyes. He felt a vibration. Faint. A magical trace... like a warmth hidden beneath the earth.

- There, he murmured.

Lexion stepped closer... and kicked Ashen in the hip.

- Don't give me orders, rat.

Ashen fell to the ground. He didn't move.

- Want to prove you're worth something? the noble growled. Then crawl for it, your amulet.

He tossed the charm farther, then laughed.

- Go fetch it like a good dog. With your teeth.

Ashen froze.

But in his mind...

Everything tilted.

He suddenly, violently shifted.

A black breath pulled him inward.

He opened his eyes in the dark.

That room again. That void. That smell of ashes.

And there... the throne. And on the throne: him.

The Fool.

His arms spread. His eyes wide open. His mouth distorted.

- YOU HEARD HIM, DIDN'T YOU?! he shouted. "GO FETCH LIKE A GOOD DOG!"

Ashen staggered. He wanted to flee. He didn't want to hear.

But the Fool started running toward him, arms dangling, bare feet slapping the stone.

- YOU DON'T SMILE. YOU DON'T REPLY. YOU ACT STRONG, BUT YOU'RE A DEAD MAN.

His laughter exploded. A horrible laugh, ruptured, full of blood and shattered glass.

- TELL ME YOU'LL SLIT HIS THROAT. TELL ME YOU'LL BURN THEM ALL! DO IT!

Ashen covered his ears.

- I can't... I mustn't...

- YOU WANT IT. DON'T LIE. YOU WANT TO FEEL THEIR SKIN CRACKLE LIKE ROASTED PIG. YOU WANT TO HEAR THEIR SCREAM! YOU WANT-

The Fool stopped, choking on laughter. He dropped to his knees, clutching his chest.

- Aahh... ahhh... HAHAHAHAHAH- !

He laughed till his throat burst.

Then he sobbed.

Then he stood up slowly, eyes red, empty.

- You know what's worse than pain, Ashen?

Silence.

- Forgiveness.

Ashen closed his eyes.

- You don't exist. You're just a remnant. You're what they made of me. Not what I am.

The Fool screamed. He leapt, all claws out, to pounce on his face-

- ASHEN! shouted Caldor.

He opened his eyes.

He was on the ground.

Lexion was looking down at him, sneering.

- What are you doing? Crying? Pissed yourself, freak?

Ashen didn't respond.

He stood up slowly. He had mud in his hair. Blood in his mouth.

He walked over to the amulet, picked it up.

And handed it to Lexion without a word.

The noble, surprised, took it silently.

Ashen looked him in the eyes.

And smiled.