The chamber was deathly quiet as the Council of Elders exchanged glances, their expressions masked but their eyes betraying a range of emotions—shock, fear, and for some, disdain. Willock's heart was still pounding from the pain and fear of what had just happened. His hand, fully healed now, rested limply at his side, but the phantom pain still lingered, as if his body remembered the fire. Yet, as he looked around the room, it seemed he was the only one reeling from the horror of what had just transpired.
All eyes were on him, but none with the same level of disbelief he felt. His aunt Charlotte sat on the far side, her hands clasped tightly, worry etched across her face. But the other elders? They had a cold, distant shock, their eyes locked onto him like he was something dangerous, something unnatural. All except for his father.
King Suman Utaibiah stood silent, his face hard as stone, his gaze not one of surprise or concern, but anger. His dark eyes bore into Willock, filled with a silent fury that made Will's stomach turn. He didn't understand—why was his father angry? He had done nothing wrong. He had only cast a simple spell, the most basic of flame magic. How could things have gone so terribly wrong?
The vote came quickly. Seven to one.
Will had known, without even hearing it announced, that the lone vote in his favor had come from Charlotte. Her eyes, soft but defeated, met his across the room. She had fought for him, but against the will of the Council and their decision, there was nothing more she could do.
One of the elders, an ancient man with a long white beard that brushed against his robes, stepped forward. His voice was raspy and tired, but his words carried the weight of centuries of authority. "Now for the final part." His eyes fixed on Will, cold and impersonal. "Repeat after me."
Willock's throat tightened. He wanted to speak out, to refuse, but his voice was lost under the weight of his father's gaze and the overwhelming power of the room.
"I, Willock Utaibiah, son of King Suman, prince of this nation," the elder began, his voice echoing in the still chamber.
Will swallowed, his mouth dry, and repeated in a low, hoarse voice, "I, Willock Utaibiah, son of King Suman, prince of this nation..."
"...swear upon my honor and mana, that from today onwards, I will not use elemental magic."
The words twisted in his throat, but he repeated them, the taste of the vow bitter on his tongue. "...that from today onwards, I will not use elemental magic..."
"I will only use magic to strengthen myself."
As the final words left his mouth, something cold and heavy seemed to wrap itself around his heart, squeezing tight. Willock's eyes widened as he felt it—a force binding him, locking him down, like invisible chains coiling around his very soul. The pledge was real. It wasn't just words. It was binding him, sealing his magic away. The weight of the oath pressed down on him, suffocating him.
There was no escape.
His hands trembled slightly as he stood there, the solemn faces of the elders watching him with grim satisfaction. His father had not even flinched. King Suman turned on his heel, leaving the chamber without another word. Willock watched his back as he disappeared from the room, his heart sinking further into despair.
The weight of it all crashed down on him as he made his way home. The streets blurred together, the towering spires and elegant buildings of the kingdom becoming nothing more than a vague haze. He barely noticed the people staring at him as he passed, their whispers lost in the fog of his thoughts.
Banned from using magic. The very thing he had dreamed of, the power that had made him different from everyone else, was now taken from him. Being in another world with magic, and not being able to use it—it was like having wealth beyond imagination but being cursed with the inability to enjoy it. Willock clenched his fists, feeling the phantom sensation of magic slipping through his fingers, something he could no longer grasp.
When he finally reached the house, his aunt tried to speak to him, but he barely heard her. All he could think of was how everything he had hoped for, everything that made him special, was gone. His heart was heavy, and as night fell, the weight of despair grew until it felt like it would crush him.
---
The next morning, Willock woke with the same heaviness in his chest. The fire of rebellion, of anger, had dulled, leaving behind a cold emptiness. He had no magic now, not in the way that mattered.
But he wasn't ready to give up. There had to be something he could do. If magic was no longer an option, then perhaps he could pursue the sword. His uncle Omar, a master swordsman, had always been an enigma to Willock, but now he found himself drawn to him. Omar had no need for magic, yet his strength was undeniable. Maybe, just maybe, Willock could find solace in that.
He made his way to Omar's training grounds, a vast courtyard surrounded by towering stone walls, the air thick with the scent of metal and sweat. His uncle greeted him with a nod, silent as always, his piercing eyes assessing Willock as though seeing through him.
"Teach me the sword," Willock said, his voice steady, though his heart was anything but.
Omar raised an eyebrow but said nothing, simply tossing Willock a wooden training sword. "Try to keep up," was all he said before launching into a flurry of movements.
The clash of wood against wood echoed through the courtyard as Willock tried to follow Omar's steps, mimicking the elegant strikes and precise footwork. But something felt wrong. Every move felt foreign to him, like his body was fighting against itself. The sword felt heavy, unwieldy in his hands, and no matter how hard he tried to mimic Omar's fluid grace, it was as if the sword rejected him.
Hours passed, and Willock's muscles ached, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Omar's movements were swift, almost effortless, while Willock struggled just to keep up. No matter how hard he tried, it felt… wrong. His mind raced, frustration building with every failed swing.
The more he fought to control the sword, the more it slipped from his grasp. It was like trying to wear clothes that didn't fit, or a dog attempting to wield a human weapon. The sword wasn't meant for him. Not his uncle's style, nor any other style he had seen. It was as if his very being rejected it, as if he wasn't human.
His breaths grew heavy, sweat dripping from his brow. He could feel the raw despair clawing at him again, pulling him down, suffocating him. He had lost his magic, the one thing that made him special, and now… now even the sword felt beyond his reach.
Willock sank to his knees in the courtyard, staring at the ground, his hands trembling. The realization hit him like a blow to the chest—he had nothing. He had no magic, no swordsmanship, no path forward. He was trapped in a world that offered him so much, but left him unable to grasp any of it.
He had hit rock bottom.
The sky above seemed darker than before, the weight of his despair heavy in the air as the sun began to set. He was alone, lost in a world where nothing made sense, where every path felt like a dead end.