Discarded Support Mage of the Hero’s Party

"Support mages will be conditionally tested due to recent failures on the frontlines."

The guard's announcement cut through morning chatter like a blade. Around me, a dozen applicants shifted nervously. Threadbare cloaks marked us as borderland trash. The kind of desperate recruits the academy chewed up and forgot.

Dawn fog clung to iron gates thirty feet high. Warning glyphs pulsed along the spikes with wards that could fry a man's brain if he touched them wrong. Stone walls stretched toward the mountain peaks, embedded with crystals that made the air taste metallic.

From upper windows, noble children in silk-lined cloaks pointed and laughed. Their registration would happen in the main hall with ceremony and wine. We got processed like livestock.

"Failures," The Voice whispered. "They blame support mages for their losses."

My jaw tightened. Memories surfaced, Caelum bleeding out while his party escaped. The "failure" who'd saved their lives a hundred times over.

I forced my face neutral. Kept my head down. Just another refugee seeking shelter.

The line shuffled forward. Support applicants got herded toward a side entrance. Second-class citizens from the start.

Distant sounds drifted from practice courtyards. Spell-fire crackling. Steel ringing against steel. The academy's war machine in motion.

Cold mountain wind bit through my cloak. I pulled it tighter, hiding the way my eyes reflected the morning light.

⸻

The registration hall felt designed to intimidate. Vaulted ceilings showed constellation maps of magical theory. Portraits of famous alumni watched from gilded frames. Their painted eyes seemed to follow movement.

Scribes sat behind enchanted desks, checking bloodlines against imperial records. Sorting crystals hummed with detection magic that made my skin crawl.

"Name?" The registrar didn't look up from her ledger.

"Kale. From Millhaven."

She pressed a crystal against my palm. It burned like ice, scanning for magical aptitude. The device flickered when it touched me. For a heartbeat, I thought I was caught.

Then it settled into a dull red glow. Barely competent. Exactly what I wanted it to show.

"Village confirmation?"

I produced the forged letter. Burned parchment with an officer's seal I'd copied from memory. "Lieutenant Gareth spoke for me before the raids hit."

Her expression softened slightly. Dead heroes made good references. No way to verify the story.

"I'm sorry for your loss." She stamped my papers. "Section D. Dormitory assignments are posted by the west gate."

Section D. The academy's forgotten corner where unwanted students went to disappear.

Perfect.

Other sections got guided tours through marble halls. Section D got pointed toward a back alley that smelled of garbage and broken dreams.

The supply officer handed out worn textbooks without looking at our faces. "Classes start at dawn. Miss three, you're expelled. Questions?"

No one spoke. We all knew the rules already.

⸻

My room was a testament to neglect. Cracked stone walls wept moisture. A single window overlooked the garbage yard. The bed frame was missing half its springs.

Previous occupants had carved their despair into the wooden desk. "Marcus was here." "Three days until I break." "They'll never see me coming."

That last one felt personal.

A soft knock interrupted my inspection. A pale boy stood in the doorway, practically vibrating with nervous energy.

"I'm Ryn," he whispered. "Shields and barriers. You?"

"Kale. Support."

He winced in sympathy. "At least you're honest about it. Some guys lie and say they're battle-mages."

Down the hall, I caught glimpses of other misfits. A trembling girl who flinched at loud noises. A boy whose hands shook too much to hold a wand steady. The academy's collection of broken toys.

Ryn showed me the unspoken rules. Meals in the kitchen annex, never the main hall. Library access restricted to basic texts. Practice rooms available only after midnight when real students were sleeping.

Constructors patrolled the corridors after curfew. Magical guardians that reported unusual activity to the faculty.

"Don't let them catch you out of bed," Ryn warned. "Markus tried to practice late. They found him three days later in the infirmary."

I filed that information away. The academy kept its rejects on a tight leash.

Through my window, a floating eye rune drifted past. Surveillance familiar. I noted its magical signature—Professor Ardyn Vellhart's work, according to the registry I'd memorized.

"Watching the watchers," Ayrith murmured. "Smart."

⸻

First classes were exercises in humiliation.

"Support magic," Professor Hendricks droned from his podium, "serves the vital function of battlefield cleanup. Your role is predetermined. Don't aspire beyond your station."

Students took notes on proper submission. How to stay behind stronger mages. How to accept orders without question.

My fists clenched under the desk. Ayrith fed on my anger, growing stronger.

"Simple healing exercise," Hendricks announced. "Touch the practice dummy and channel basic restoration."

Around me, Section D students struggled with the most elementary magic. Flickering light that died before it could heal paper cuts. Embarrassing displays that drew snickers from observing upperclassmen.

My turn came. I placed my palm on the dummy and deliberately fumbled the casting. Light appeared, sputtered, faded. The textbook picture of incompetence.

"Minimally competent," Hendricks marked in his ledger. "Try harder next time."

From the observation balcony, Section A students laughed at our failures. Their silk uniforms caught the light like armor. Tomorrow's heroes enjoying today's entertainment.

The system's cruelty was surgical. Precise. Designed to break spirits before bodies.

But broken spirits could be rebuilt. Especially when they had reasons to hate.

⸻

Midnight found me in an abandoned practice room deep in the basement. Dust covered everything. Equipment that hadn't been used in years.

I placed my hand on a training dummy and whispered an inversion spell.

The dummy exploded.

Wood splinters embedded in the walls. Stuffing scattered across the floor. My reversed buff had turned the construct's structural integrity inside out.

I quickly repaired the damage with basic telekinesis. Swept up the debris. Erased the scorch marks.

"Careful," Ayrith warned. "Your signature is too distinctive."

She was right. I needed patience. Observation. Time to understand the system before breaking it.

A sound in the doorway made me freeze. The floating eye rune hovered in the entrance, its lens focused directly on me.

I stumbled backward, pretending to struggle with a basic light spell. Let it record another failure. Another worthless Section D student wasting time.

The familiar watched for ten seconds, then drifted away. Satisfied with what it had seen.

⸻

Back in my dorm room, I stared at the cracked ceiling. Processed the day's intelligence.

Surveillance patterns. Security gaps. Faculty schedules. The academy ran on routine. Predictable. Exploitable.

A whisper from across the room broke the silence.

"They don't expect us to succeed." Ryn's voice was barely audible.

I rolled over to face him. "Good. That's our advantage."

Outside my window, the eye rune returned. Hovering just beyond the glass like a mechanical vulture.

Professor Ardyn's voice echoed from somewhere in the distance, spoken to a colleague I couldn't see.

"Interesting."