The journey to the academy was about as comfortable as a bed of nails. The convoy of wagons rattled and groaned with every bump in the road, making sleep about as likely as sprouting wings and flying there myself. Days were spent jostling around in a cramped wagon, and nights were a chaotic mix of setting up camp, taking watch shifts (which I, thankfully, was excused from), and preparing food.

  It was during that first night that I realized just how spectacularly unprepared I was for this trip.

  After the campfires were lit and the watch set, I sauntered up to the mess wagon, only to be turned away like an unwanted stray. Apparently, while my ride was free, my food was not. So, naturally, I took my concerns to the caravan master, Zane, expecting some kind of reasonable explanation.

  What I got instead was a lesson in suffering.

  “If you wanna eat,” he said with a crooked, almost gleeful grin, “you’ll need to either forage, beg, or offer a service to the caravan.”

  The way he said service sent a full-body shiver down my spine. Yeah, not doing that last one.

  So, I spent my first night curled up under a wagon with nothing but my threadbare blanket and an empty stomach. The second night, I managed to forage some berries—ones that promptly tried to kill me the next morning. By the fourth day, I was weak, starving, and had taken a beating from one of the drivers for “not pulling my weight.” By the fifth day, I was hungry, sick, cold, and bruised. And to really drive the misery home, the drivers decided I was better off walking, claiming it would “build my obviously lacking endurance.”

  Gee, thanks for the fitness regimen, guys.

  On the sixth day, we arrived at a slightly larger town called Sharvine, where we picked up an adventuring party—two mages, an archer, and a swordsman—hired to protect the caravan from bandits.

  Now, I’d heard stories about adventurers before, but witnessing them in action? That was something else entirely.

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  During our first real bandit attack, the archer became a whirlwind of death, every arrow finding its mark with terrifying precision. The swordsman moved like a phantom, his blade flashing so fast it seemed to disappear, only to reappear coated in fresh blood. One of the mages, a blonde woman, unleashed spell after spell, freezing enemies in place and making them easy pickings for the archer. The last member of the group—a mousy brown-haired healer—worked in the background, effortlessly patching up wounds and restoring her teammates’ stamina.

  And me?

  I was under a wagon, hoping nobody noticed how little I contributed to the battle.

  Unfortunately, my luck ran out on the eighth day.

  After another bandit ambush, the swordsman apparently decided he’d had enough of me. He dragged me out from under the wagon like a sack of potatoes, lifted me effortlessly with one hand, and gave me a once-over before wordlessly dumping me at the feet of the healer.

  I lay there, blinking up at her. She shook her head and sighed.

  “My name is Shay,” she said, kneeling beside me and placing a warm hand on my shoulder. A soothing energy coursed through me, melting away my aches and pains. “Looks like you’ve had a rough go of it so far.”

  Understatement of the century.

  “What’s your name, and why are you here?” she asked gently.

  I hesitated, giving her a once-over before answering. “Jackson. I’m on my way to the academy from Mur.”

  She smiled, a genuine one—not the usual mocking or condescending looks I’d grown used to. “That’s a splendid name.”

  She helped me up and led me toward the wagon where the adventuring party was riding. “When was the last time you ate, Jackson?”

  Ah. That question.

  My gaze dropped to the ground, my face heating with embarrassment. “…I managed to get some scraps from the waste pile a few days ago.”

  The moment the words left my mouth, Shay’s expression darkened. It wasn’t pity—it was anger. A slow, simmering fury.

  That was about the time one of the wagon drivers noticed me near the adventurers and decided to chime in. “Oi, what the hell do you think you’re—”

  Shay’s head snapped in his direction, and the look she gave him could have melted steel.

  The man wisely shut his mouth and walked away.

  For the rest of the trip, I stuck to Shay like a lost puppy. She and her party shared their rations with me, and for the first time in a long while, I ate real food. As we traveled, she told me about the academy and the capital city, filling in the gaps of what little I knew. In return, I told her about my past and my so-called gift.

  She never pitied me. Never looked down on me. She just listened.

  And for that, I was grateful.