The hall of Blackthorn Keep was filled with the weight of expectations, every noble eye focused on the youngest Valebrook as he stood at the center of the grand chamber. Cedric's heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the whispers that rippled through the crowd. Today was the day he would prove himself—or so he had hoped.

The coming-of-age ceremony for the Valebrook family was legendary, where each heir revealed their magical gift before the entire court. His elder brother Arlen had summoned firestorms. His sister Amara had bent light itself to her will. Now, it was Cedric's turn.

"Show us, boy," came the deep, commanding voice of his father, Duke Alistair, from his seat at the head of the chamber. The Duke's steely gaze bore down on Cedric, unyielding as the mountains that surrounded the keep.

Cedric took a deep breath, trying to silence the gnawing doubt. He raised his hands, focusing on the magic that hummed beneath his skin, waiting to be released. Creation magic, they had called it. A gift unlike any other. But what could it truly do?

In his mind, Cedric envisioned something simple—a goblet, like the ones lining the tables around him. He felt the magic stir, then swell. His fingers twitched, and before him, something shimmered into being.

A small, silver goblet appeared in his hand. It was perfect in every detail, down to the etchings around the rim. For a moment, Cedric smiled, proud of the smooth lines and the craftsmanship he had willed into existence.

But the room remained silent. No gasps of awe, no murmurs of approval. Only stillness, thick with the weight of disappointment.

"That's it?" Arlen scoffed, his voice loud enough to carry across the hall. "A cup? You've got to be joking."

Cedric's hand trembled. He tried again, willing the magic to bring forth something else—something bigger. A chair. A shield. Something worthy of his family name. But the results were the same: small, simple objects that faded as soon as they appeared, fragile and temporary.

His father's expression hardened into stone. "This is what you call power?"

"I—" Cedric's voice cracked. "It's creation magic. I can create—"

"You've created nothing," Duke Alistair interrupted, his voice a knife cutting through the air. "We are warriors. Mages of strength and destruction. Your gift is weak. Useless. I see no place for it in this family."

The words hit Cedric like a blow, stealing the breath from his lungs. He opened his mouth to protest, but no words came. He could feel the eyes of the court upon him, cold and judgmental.

"You are no Valebrook," his father declared, his voice final and unforgiving. "From this day forth, you are exiled. You will leave this keep, this family, and never return."

Cedric stood frozen, the weight of his father's decree crushing him. Exiled. His life, his home, gone in an instant. The room seemed to tilt as the reality of it sank in. He had no choice but to leave, to step into the unknown—alone.