In the land of Celestria, every noble child dreamed of Valeon.
Founded by the legendary mage-swordsman Rafel Valeon, the academy was more than a school—it was a gate to greatness. Children from noble houses across all four continents were sent there at the age of five, beginning a twelve-year journey that would shape them into knights, mages, and leaders.
Graduation came at seventeen, but acceptance itself was a mark of status.
The academy did not open its doors to commoners. It did not welcome those born without mana. It did not care for bastards—especially ones like Ansel.
And yet, on the eve of his fifth birthday, Ansel watched the carriages leave the Greenal estate, carrying his older half-siblings toward Valeon in robes embroidered with silver threads and house sigils.
He stood by the window, silent, as their laughter faded into the wind.
That night, as his mother tucked him into bed, he asked the question.
"Mother… could I go to Valeon?"
The words struck like a blade to Alena's heart. Her hand froze mid-motion.
She looked down at her son—his violet eyes wide with quiet longing. He was so small, and yet the weight he carried was already too great for his shoulders.
"You know the academy is only for nobles with mana," she said gently, brushing hair from his face.
Ansel didn't speak. He just stared at the ceiling, eyes full of dreams he wasn't allowed to have.
Alena pulled the blanket higher, holding him close.
"They won't see you, Ansel," she whispered. "No matter how bright your light is."
"Then I'll make them see," he said softly.
Alena didn't answer right away. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the old books hidden beneath the bed—the ones she'd kept from her youth, filled with stories of rebellion, freedom, and forgotten truths.
If the world would not make a place for her son, then perhaps… he would carve one himself.