The waiting hall was suffocating.

  Aiden sat on a worn wooden bench, his fingers curled into his palms. The other applicants—strong, confident men in polished gear—stood in small groups, talking, ughing, adjusting their armor. They had nothing to fear. They had noble blood, wealth, or powerful mentors backing them.

  Aiden had nothing.

  The door at the far end of the room creaked open. A guard stepped out, scanning the room before calling out a name.

  “Aiden Valtor.”

  Aiden stood up, ignoring the quick gnces thrown his way. He walked past the other applicants, their smug expressions stabbing at his pride.

  He entered the office. Inside, a round table sat in the center, behind it three men in formal uniforms. The one in the middle, an older man with sharp eyes, leaned forward.

  “You’re here to apply for the role of protector?”

  “Yes, sir.” Aiden straightened his back.

  The man picked up a sheet of parchment, scanning it with disinterest. “No notable combat training. No family backing. No magical ability.” His gaze lifted. “What exactly makes you think you are qualified?”

  Aiden clenched his jaw. “I may not have formal training, but I’m willing to learn. I’m strong, fast, and I won’t—”

  “You’re weak.” The man’s voice was ft.

  Aiden felt his stomach drop. “Sir, if you would just give me a chance—”

  “We don’t accept dead weight.”

  The words hit harder than any punch.

  “Next applicant,” the man called, already looking past him.

  Aiden’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to argue, to fight back, but he knew it was useless. He forced himself to turn, to leave with whatever dignity he had left.

  As he stepped outside, the ughter and conversation of the other applicants felt louder.

  He wasn’t even worth considering.