Chapter 30Ronan18 Years Old
Chapter
Thirty
RONAN
Before
The dirt tastes like iron. I spit blood onto the ground, but it doesn’t stop the coppery tang from coating my tongue. My ribs ache with every breath, sharp and insistent, but I force myself to push up onto my hands and knees. The laughter around me is loud, mocking, like the screech of crows circling a carcass.
“Get up, Ronan,” one of them sneers. His voice is light and mocking, the kind of tone that burrows under your skin. “Come on. You wanted to play with the big boys, didn’t you?”
I don’t look at him. I don’t look at any of them. If I do, they’ll see it—the fear, the shame. The tears that are dangerously close to spilling over. Instead, I focus on the ground beneath me, the cold, hard-packed dirt that smells of damp and decay. I dig my fingers into it, anchoring myself.
“Leave him alone,” a voice says, softer, hesitant. It’s the youngest of the group, a boy my age. He doesn’t meet my eyes as he says it, his voice barely more than a whisper. “He’s had enough.”
“Enough?” The leader’s voice sharpens, his laughter cutting off abruptly. “He hasn’t had nearly enough. Have you, Ronan?”
I feel the boot connect with my side before I see it coming. Pain radiates through my ribs, stealing my breath. I collapse back onto the ground, my vision swimming as another kick lands, and then another. I bite down hard on my lip, refusing to cry out. They won’t get that from me.
“Stop,” the younger boy pleads again, but he’s ignored.
The others are older, bigger, warlocks from families that matter—families with money, with power, with names that carry weight in the arcane world. My family? We’re nobodies. A bloodline without wealth or prestige, barely scraping by on the outskirts of the magical elite. My parents sent me here, to this academy, because it was the only way for someone like me to have a chance. But they didn’t tell me what it would cost.
“You think you belong here?” the leader hisses, crouching down in front of me. His face fills my vision—sharp, angular features, eyes filled with cold amusement. “You’re trash, Ronan. You’ll never be anything but trash.”
I want to hit him. I want to tear him apart, to make him bleed the way I’m bleeding. But my magic is weak, unfocused. Every time I’ve tried to fight back, it’s only made things worse. So I stay still, forcing myself to meet his gaze, forcing myself not to look away.
“That’s right,” he says, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “Know your place.”
The others laugh again, their voices blending into an ugly cacophony that makes my stomach churn. I feel the tears welling up again, and this time, I can’t stop them. They spill over, hot and humiliating, streaking down my face as the laughter grows louder.
“Pathetic,” someone mutters, and I hate them. I hate all of them.
Eventually, they grow bored. The leader stands, brushing dirt from his expensive coat, and motions for the others to follow him. “Let’s go,” he says, his tone dismissive. “He’s not worth it.”
They leave without another word, their footsteps fading into the distance. I wait until the sound is gone, until the silence wraps around me like a suffocating blanket, and then I let out a shaky breath. My whole body trembles as I push myself up, wincing at the pain in my ribs. My vision blurs with tears, but I blink them away, biting down hard on my lip until the coppery taste fills my mouth again.
They think I’m weak. And maybe they’re right. Maybe I am weak now. But I won’t stay this way.
I drag myself to my feet, every movement agony, and limp toward the edge of the training grounds. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the dirt, and the air is thick with the scent of earth and magic. My hands clench into fists as I walk, the anger bubbling inside me, hot and relentless.
I think of their faces—the smug smirks, the laughter, the way they looked at me like I was nothing. The humiliation burns brighter than the pain, searing itself into my memory.
I won’t let this happen again.
By the time I reach the edge of the forest, my vision is clear. The tears are gone, replaced by something sharper. Something colder. I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care what I have to do. No one will ever make me feel this way again.
I lean against a tree, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps, and close my eyes. My magic thrums faintly beneath my skin, weak and unsteady, but it’s there. It’s always been there. I just need to learn how to use it. How to make it stronger. How to make it unstoppable.
They’ll see. One day, they’ll all see.
I’ll claw my way to the top. I’ll take power with my bare hands if I have to. And when I get there, they’ll regret ever thinking I was beneath them.
Because I’ll show them what it means to be strong.
I’ll show them what it means to have nothing left to lose.
18 YEARS OLD
The wind howls through the narrow alley, cutting through the threadbare cloak draped over my shoulders. The city is alive with noise—the distant clamor of carriages, the muffled voices of merchants haggling over their wares, and the occasional cry of a beggar. I don’t hear any of it. My focus is on the man in front of me, his back turned as he kneels to light a lantern.
This is my chance.
The spell is already on my lips, a low hum of power building in my chest as I extend my hand. My fingers tremble—not from fear, but from hunger. Hunger for what he has, for the power that pulses around him like a shield, invisible but tangible. The spell leaves my mouth in a sharp whisper, and the man freezes, his hand hovering over the lantern.
“Ronan,” he says, his voice calm, measured, like he’s been expecting this. He doesn’t turn around. “You’re late.”
The words stop me in my tracks, the spell dissipating in the cold air. My stomach twists, but I force my face into a mask of indifference. “I didn’t know we had a schedule.”
The man rises slowly, turning to face me. Master Callan. His eyes are sharp, like knives cutting through the dark. He’s not a large man, but his presence fills the space, a reminder that power isn’t about size—it’s about control.
“You always were impatient,” Callan says, stepping closer. The air between us crackles with tension, his magic brushing against mine like a warning. “Hunger makes fools of us all.”
“I’m not a fool,” I snap, my fists clenching at my sides. The anger bubbling inside me is hot, familiar. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked. I’ve proven myself. When do I get what’s mine?”
Callan’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s something cruel in the way his lips twitch, almost like a smile. “What you’ve earned,” he says, his voice low, dangerous, “is a lesson. Power isn’t given, Ronan. It’s taken. But you... you’re still a child playing at being a warlock.”
The words sting more than they should. I’ve spent years fighting to prove myself—fighting to claw my way out of the gutter I was born into, to be something more than the scrawny kid who begged for scraps on the streets. But to Callan, I’ll always be that boy.
“Then teach me,” I say, my voice steady despite the anger burning in my chest. “Teach me how to take it.”
Callan’s smile finally breaks through, cold and sharp. “Oh, I intend to.”
Callan leads me into the cellar beneath his workshop, the air damp and heavy with the scent of old magic. The walls are lined with shelves crammed full of jars and vials, each one pulsing faintly with energy. At the center of the room stands an altar, its surface etched with runes that glow faintly in the dim light.
“Do you know why you’re here?” Callan asks, his voice echoing in the confined space.
“To prove myself,” I reply, my eyes fixed on the altar.
“Wrong.” Callan steps closer, his shadow stretching long across the floor. “You’re here because you’re desperate. Desperation is the fuel of ambition, but it’s also its greatest weakness.”
I flinch at his words but refuse to look away. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Callan tilts his head, studying me like a specimen in one of his jars. “Good,” he says finally. “Because what I’m about to ask of you will strip away any illusion of morality you might still cling to.”
He gestures to the far corner of the room, where a cage sits, its occupant shrouded in shadow. My stomach tightens as I step closer, the faint sound of ragged breathing reaching my ears. Inside the cage is a man—gaunt, weak, his wrists bound with iron cuffs. His eyes meet mine, and I see the spark of recognition there. He knows me.
“This is your lesson,” Callan says, his voice as cold as the air around us. “Take his life. Take his power. Or leave here with nothing.”
The blood drains from my face. “I—I know him. He was one of the apprentices. He?—”
“He was weak,” Callan interrupts, his tone dismissive. “And weakness has no place in the world you want to inhabit. This is the price of ambition, Ronan. If you can’t pay it, then you don’t belong here.”
The man in the cage doesn’t beg. He doesn’t plead. He just looks at me, his expression calm, resigned. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, his voice barely audible. “There’s another way.”
“There isn’t,” I whisper, my throat tightening.
I raise my hand, the spell forming on my lips. My magic thrums in the air, a pulse of energy that fills the space around us. The man closes his eyes, and for a moment, I hesitate.
But then I hear Callan’s voice in my mind: Power isn’t given. It’s taken.
The spell leaves me in a rush, and the man collapses. His body crumples to the floor, lifeless, as a surge of energy floods into me. It’s overwhelming, intoxicating—a rush of power unlike anything I’ve ever felt. For a moment, I forget the guilt, the shame. All I feel is strength.
When it’s over, Callan steps forward, his expression unreadable. “You’ve taken your first step,” he says, his voice cold. “But don’t mistake this for victory. The hunger will only grow.”
Callan was right. The hunger doesn’t fade. It becomes a constant, gnawing presence in my chest, driving me forward. I leave his workshop weeks later, armed with more power than I ever thought possible but haunted by the echoes of that night in the cellar.
My family was never like Adrian’s, steeped in prestige and wealth. We were nobodies—barely scraping by, looked down on by the other bloodlines. But I’ve learned how to survive. How to thrive. I’ve learned that power isn’t about where you come from. It’s about what you’re willing to do.
And I’ll do anything.