Chapter 1
Draven had always known he was different. He just didn’t know why.
At five years old, he was the smallest child in the orphanage. He never spoke much, never caused trouble, but he was always the one who drew stares. The matron said it was his eyes—“too strange,” she muttered when she thought he couldn’t hear.
Most days, Draven sat quietly in corners, watching the other children play. He was used to being alone. He was used to being whispered about. But nothing could have prepared him for the night the storm came.
Rain hammered on the roof so hard it sounded like stones. Wind howled through cracks in the walls, and thunder boomed like giants fighting in the sky. Draven lay awake in his little bed, hugging his thin blanket, while the other children tossed and turned.
That was when Carrel came.
Carrel was one of the oldest boys in the orphanage, and he hated Draven. Maybe it was because Draven was quiet, or maybe because of those strange eyes. Whatever the reason, Carrel never missed a chance to bully him.
“What are you staring at, ghost-eyes?” Carrel hissed as he crept closer. His grin was mean and sharp. “Think you’re special? You’re not. No one wanted you. That’s why you’re here.”
Draven shook his head quickly, but Carrel shoved him anyway. His head hit the wall, pain stinging his skull. Tears filled his eyes.
And then—everything changed.
It started in his chest, a hot, twisting feeling that spread through his body. His vision blurred. Carrel stepped back, eyes widening.
“Your eyes—” Carrel whispered.
Draven blinked. His eyes glowed red. Bright, burning red.
The matron, who had just come in with her lantern, gasped. “By the heavens…”
But the strange power didn’t stop with his eyes. The shadows in the room began to move. They stretched across the floor and walls like long, dark fingers. The air grew heavy, making it hard to breathe.
Carrel screamed. The matron tried to reach for Draven, but her hand shook, frozen halfway. For one terrifying moment, it felt like the whole room belonged to him.
Lightning flashed outside. The window shattered, glass spraying across the floor. The children shrieked and hid under their blankets.
And then it was gone.
Draven’s eyes faded back to their usual pale blue. The shadows slipped back into place. The air grew light again.
Carrel collapsed on the floor, sobbing. The matron clutched the lantern, her face pale.
She looked at Draven as though he weren’t a boy at all. “Monster,” she spat. “What are you?”
The word struck harder than Carrel’s shove. Monster.
Before Draven could speak, she ordered two older boys to grab him. They dragged him down the narrow stairs into the cellar and locked the door.
Alone in the dark, Draven curled into a corner and cried until his eyes stung.
When sleep finally came, so did the dream.
He stood in a long hall filled with tall mirrors. Each mirror showed his reflection, but his eyes were always different red, gold, silver, black. The reflections whispered all at once.
You are the vessel.
You are the storm.
You are the thief of power.
In one mirror, a shadowy man appeared. Cloaked, tall, with glowing green eyes. He smiled like he knew Draven.
“Little one,” the man’s voice echoed, though his lips never moved. “I have been watching you.”
Draven tried to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. The shadow pressed its hand against the glass. Cracks spread like lightning.
“When the time comes,” the man whispered, “you will open the way.”
The mirror shattered
And Draven woke, screaming in the cellar.
The matron never asked about the dream. She never asked about his glowing eyes. From that night on, she gave him the worst chores, the smallest meals, and a wide berth.
But when Draven was alone, he began to notice it. His eyes would shift colors like secrets he couldn’t control.
Blue when he was calm.
Green when he was happy.
Yellow when he was afraid.
And red always red when the storm inside him rose again.
Draven didn’t know what it meant. All he knew was that he wasn’t normal. And somewhere out there, beyond the orphanage walls, someone or something was waiting for him.
Draven sat in the cellar, tracing circles on the damp stone floor with his finger. Days had blurred together since the storm. The matron barely looked at him now, except when she needed something scrubbed or carried. The other children whispered more than ever.
Monster. Ghost-eyes. Curse-born.
He hugged his knees tighter, wishing he could make the whispers stop. Wishing he could make himself disappear.
That was when he heard it.
A soft tapping—tap, tap, tap—at the small barred window above. Draven’s head lifted. No one ever came to that window; it was too high for the children and too hidden from the outside.
The sound came again. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Draven stood slowly and peered up. Through the grime and dust, two bright, beady eyes stared back. A crow. Its feathers were black as midnight, gleaming faintly even in the dim light.
The bird tapped its beak once more, then dropped something through the bars. A scroll, tied with silver string, landed on the floor with a soft thud.
Draven blinked. Hesitant, he picked it up. The seal on the parchment shimmered, a swirling crest shaped like broken glass reflecting moonlight. His fingers trembled as he untied the string.
The words inside seemed to glow faintly, as though written with starlight itself:
To Draven Phoenix,
By decree of Archmage Selvaris, Headmaster of Shadowglass Academy, you are hereby summoned to attend the School of Wizards. You are chosen, not cursed. You are marked, not broken. On June 28th—two days from now—a carriage shall arrive to escort you to the Academy, where your training shall begin.
Prepare yourself, for the storm within you is not to be feared, but to be shaped. Shadowglass awaits.
—Archmage Selvaris
Draven read the words again and again, his heart racing. Chosen. Not cursed. For the first time in his life, someone was calling him wanted.
A faint caw pulled his gaze back to the window. The crow still perched there, watching him with uncanny intelligence. Then, with a single sweep of its wings, it vanished into the stormy sky.
Draven clutched the scroll to his chest. Somewhere beyond these walls, there was a place for him. A place where he wasn’t a monster. A place where answers waited.
And in just two days, a carriage would come to take him there.
