The grand chambers of the student jury were silent, save for the faint murmurs of disapproval that filled the air like static.

At the center of the room stood Aris Venholm, a once-proud noble, now bearing the weight of accusations. The light filtering through the stained-glass windows cast a yellow of colors on his sharp, aristocratic features. His emerald eyes glinted with restrained fury, his jaw tight as the council read out their verdict.

"Aris Venholm, heir to House Venholm, you stand accused of sabotaging the entrance exams by tampering with the spell matrix, endangering lives in the process. The council has reviewed the evidence. While we acknowledge your status as a noble, your actions cannot go unpunished. You are hereby suspended for two weeks."

The words echoed in his mind, but all he could focus on was the smirking faces of his so-called peers seated in judgment. Two weeks? He, Aris Venholm, would be humiliated for two weeks because these plebeians dared to think themselves above him? His temper, already a simmering cauldron, boiled over.

"What?" His voice was a whip crack, silencing the murmurs. "Two weeks? For what? For an accident? You dare to disgrace the name of Venholm for something so trivial?"

"Trivial?" One of the council members, a young mage named Renna, rose to her feet. "You could have killed someone! Lives were in dange—"

Aris raised his hand, and a blazing fireball materialized in his palm, cutting her off. The room tensed.

"You think you can lecture me? You, a nobody from the countryside, presume to judge me?"

"Aris, stand down!" barked the head of the council, but the warning fell on deaf ears.

Aris hurled the fireball at the ornate wooden table in front of the jury, sending shards flying. Chaos erupted as students scrambled for cover, and a second fireball struck a pillar, showering the room in dust and debris. Guards rushed in, pinning him down with restraining spells. Even as he was dragged out of the chambers, his laughter echoed—wild and unhinged.

The corridors of the academy buzzed with whispers and poorly concealed laughter. Everywhere Aris Venholm went, he felt their eyes on him—mocking, jeering, reveling in his disgrace. Word of his fiery outburst at the student jury had spread like wildfire, feeding the ever-hungry rumor mill.

"The mighty heir to House Venholm, reduced to a tantrum-throwing brat."

"I heard he tried to burn down the council chamber."

"They should've expelled him outright."

Aris heard it all, the words slicing into his pride like daggers. By the time he returned to his dormitory, his composure had fractured entirely. He slammed the door shut and sank onto his bed, head in his hands.

For the first time since the incident, he allowed himself to reflect, to unravel the tangled mess that had led him here. His mind drifted to her—Lydia Reinholt, the miscount's daughter. She was beautiful, poised, and everything he had ever desired in a partner. As the son of a count, he had assumed she would see him as the perfect match. Their union would have strengthened both houses, and Aris believed he had all the charm and status needed to win her over.

But then there was him. The commoner boy.

Aris clenched his fists at the memory. The boy was nothing—no title, no wealth, no lineage. Yet Lydia had smiled at him, laughed with him, and given him attention she had never shown Aris. Every glance, every word exchanged between them felt like a dagger to his ego. He was Aris Venholm, heir to one of the most prestigious houses in the kingdom. How could she not see that he was her best option?

Driven by jealousy and spite, Aris had concocted his plan. During the entrance ceremony, he sabotaged the reception's power supply, plunging the hall into darkness. It should have been enough to ruin the commoner's moment, to humiliate him in front of everyone. But when that wasn't enough, Aris had gone further.

He planted bombs in the vicinity, fully aware of the risks. The ceremony was packed with students, teachers, and staff, but in his mind, their safety was irrelevant. His only focus was the boy. When the bombs failed to detonate due to a magical interference field, Aris stormed the scene, hurling fireballs with reckless abandon.

It was chaos. Screams filled the air as students scrambled to shield themselves. Some fought back, restraining him with powerful binding spells. Even then, Aris hadn't stopped. Bound and immobilized, he gripped a knife between his teeth, lunging at the boy in a last, desperate attempt to end him. His efforts were thwarted, of course, and he was subdued before anyone could be seriously hurt.

Now, alone in his dormitory, the weight of his actions pressed down on him like a crushing tide. The memories played over and over in his head—the chaos, the fear in their eyes, and the absolute humiliation of being overpowered and restrained like a wild animal.

He stared at his trembling hands, the faint smell of burnt fabric still clinging to them. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he had gone too far, if the scorn and mockery were deserved.

But then, his anger returned, bubbling up like molten lava.

"No," he whispered, his voice sharp with venom. "It wasn't my fault. It was their fault."

He stood, pacing the room, his thoughts spiraling into rage. "That commoner… he wormed his way into her favor. And that miscount bitch… she chose him over me, me! If they hadn't been so blind, so insolent, none of this would've happened."

His breathing grew heavy, the flames in his palms reigniting. The world had turned against him, but it wasn't because of his actions. It was because they had failed to see his greatness, to recognize his rightful place above them all.

"I'll make them pay," he vowed, his voice a low growl. "All of them. The commoner, Lydia, the council, the academy. They'll regret ever crossing me."

Hours later, Aris sat in his dormitory, the silence oppressive. He replayed the scene over and over in his head, not with regret but with satisfaction. Let them fear him. Let them know their place. He would show them all.

A sharp knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. A servant entered, bowing deeply.

"Master Aris, this letter arrived from your father."

Aris snatched the letter and dismissed the servant with a wave. The seal of House Venholm glinted in the dim light. Breaking it open, he read the letter, his expression darkening with every word.

Aris,

Your actions have brought shame to the Venholm name. We cannot condone such recklessness, especially not in public view. Effective immediately, you are disowned. Your accounts have been frozen, and you are no longer welcome on Venholm grounds. Do not return.

The letter slipped from his fingers, fluttering to the floor. For a moment, he was frozen, the weight of the words crushing him. Disowned. Stripped of his title, his wealth, his privileges.

Then came the rage. His fists clenched, flames licking at his fingertips. How dare they? How dare his father, who had always prided himself on the family's strength, abandon him so easily?

"I'll show them," he muttered, his voice venomous. "I'll show all of them. If I'm not good enough for the Venholm name, then I'll make sure the world burns under my own."

The flames in his hands grew brighter, hotter. Aris Venholm, once a noble, was now a man cast into the shadows. But from the ashes of his old life, a new fire would rise. And it would consume everything.