The Reaver

At his Crucible, Declan Ashworth doesn't manifest an ability. He drains one. Six generations of essence stored in the testing stone. Gone in seconds. Along with the Warden conducting the ceremony, every mage in the front three rows, and any version of his future that didn't involve the Conclave taking a very close interest in him. He's a Reaver. He doesn't generate magic -- he consumes it. Passively, constantly, from anything within range. Ward-stones, enchanted objects, people. There's no off switch. The only question is whether he learns to control it before someone decides controlled isn't the point. The Academy assigns him a trainer who walks into sessions like she's already done the math on acceptable losses. His mother, the most feared combat mage in three provinces, warned him at the Crucible with five words that have been eating at him ever since: whatever you are, you're mine. Not whatever you become. Whatever you are. Like she already knew. Four Reavers have existed before him. The Conclave kept detailed records on each one -- intake, training, deployment, outcome. Declan finds the archive. He reads the files. There's no fifth file because the fifth file would be his. He has other plans.