"You still haven't picked out your Candidates yet, have you?"
The Headmaster's voice broke the hush of his office — a chamber too large for comfort, walls lined with shelves that bent under the weight of scrolls older than some civilisation itself.
Talion stood a few paces from the desk, his hands clasped behind his back. He didn't meet the Headmaster's eyes. The dark wood floor beneath him creaked as if reminding him to speak.
"… … …"
Silence.
The Headmaster leaned back in his high-backed chair. The old leather groaned under his shifting weight. He looked at Talion like a father might look at a grown son who'd never quite learned when to act.
"Hm. You're the same boy I remember from a couple of decades ago," he said, voice low but cutting through the stale air. "Carefree. Always chasing more than you were asked to bear. Some spirits refuse to age, I suppose."
Talion lowered his head, silver hair falling forward to shadow his eyes. "I'm sorry, sir, that I've disappointed you."
The Headmaster let out a breath that stirred the stack of parchment on his desk. He tapped one yellowed sheet with a long finger — a list of candidates, most names crossed through in thick, black ink.
"You haven't disappointed me. Not exactly. But every other mentor here has made their choice. If you keep waiting…"
Talion's voice was quiet, but steady. "I know. I was trying to choose from the accomplished House's, but the others… they had stronger ties, or better fortune."
The Headmaster's gaze drifted past him, to the tall shelves where ancient contracts bound in cracked leather sat beside trophies from forgotten wars. This office belonged to him and only to him, he was bound to this duty by "her": to guide, to judge and to make people better.
Outside the narrow window, the Academy's courtyard stretched away into gathering dusk. Old statues stood half-swallowed by creeping vines, and somewhere in the shadows, the iron gates of the archives shuddered against the night wind.
"You know," the Headmaster said, his voice gentler now, "I built this place long ago. When most of the entities had yet to be born, I made it my home. But as the ages turned, I came to know age at last, and so I raised these halls to pass on what the ages themselves entrusted to me."
He fixed Talion with a look sharp enough to cut. "Time's thinning out. And so are the candidates."
Talion raised his chin, just enough to hold the old man's eyes. "Then I'll take mine from the Last Realm."
The Headmaster's brow arched, a pale line against his shadowed face. "Last Realm?" He gave a dry, humorless laugh. "They have no strength. Barely any Primordial Essence to speak of."
Talion's hands clenched behind his back. "I know, sir. But I believe if I train them properly, they'll hold. They might not shine like the others, but they'll stand."
For a heartbeat, the only sound in the room was emptiness.
Then the Headmaster leaned forward, folding his hands over the stack of lists. His voice dropped — calm, cold, the weight of a mountain behind each word.
"If you want to wager your record, your time, and your name, then so be it. But know this — if they fail, you answer for it alone."
Talion's breath caught in his throat, but he forced out the words. "Yes, sir. Thank you."
The Headmaster nodded once, a gesture that felt heavier than a blow. Even so calm, the air around him pressed down on Talion's ribs like iron bands.
"Good day, Professor Talion."
"Good day to you too, Headmaster."
Talion turned to leave, his boots brushing over old scuff marks on the floor — marks left by countless students who had stood here before him, made promises, gambled and paid dearly for it.
Outside the door, the corridor hummed with the faint echoes of life — pages turning in some forgotten study hall, whispers of spells drifting through cracked stone. Some students never went home, even in the dead of summer.
Talion paused, hand resting on the cold iron handle, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
Hardworking souls, he thought. Not like me.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the dim hall, the whisper of ancient paper and dying light following him out.
"What was that…"
He lay still, eyes open, caught between dream and morning.
Golden light spilled through the window, turning dust motes into slow-drifting worlds. Somewhere beneath the surface of his thoughts, the dream tugged.
He didn't chase it. Dreams liked to slip away anyway.
If it's important, it'll come back. If it's not, it won't.
He shifted on the thin mattress. The floorboards under his bed creaked like they were tired too.
7:17.
The clock ticked at him from the wall, its numbers glowing a little too smugly.
He stared. Then sat up. The blanket slid off his shoulders. The cold floor made his toes curl for a moment before he got used to it.
His morning routine passed in a blur. Shirt over his head. Hair — rebellious as always. He ran a hand through it, pushing it back. It sprang right back up. He let it.
The room looked neat at first glance. But a single chair in the corner carried every piece of dirty laundry like a loyal, overburdened servant.
Man, I should tell Mom before the pile becomes self-aware.
His reflection blinked back at him from the mirror. His eyes looked half-awake, but they felt awake enough. Awake was a loose word. He didn't mind drifting on the edges of it.
He grabbed his bag from the hook near the door and paused.
Hm… do I want to remember that dream? It could've been spicy. Or something nasty.
After breakfast, he stepped outside.
The sun was already warm — a soft heat across his arms and neck.
The fig tree by the gate waved its leaves like little green hands saying goodbye. Somewhere down the lane, a neighbor's kid laughed at something only kids understand.
He nudged a stone with his toe and watched it skitter down the sidewalk. He liked how it moved — no plan, no direction, just ground and gravity.
His bag thumped gently against his hip. A corner of a textbook dug into his back.
That damn book again… I should fix that.
But then again, bent pages still told the same stories.
Books liked being read even when they were a little broken.
Thinking is easy, he thought. That's the problem.
He hooked his hands in his pockets and kept walking. A bird zipped past — and for a second, the dream returned.
I'm seeing things. It's that dream again… messing with me.
I should think about something else — like the fact that there's a math test today. Yay.
Shit. I didn't study. And math is literally my worst subject.
Then—
Ring, ring.
Ring, ring.
"What's up? Where you at?"
"On my way."
"Come on, Avi, I've been wai—"
Click.
Avi slid the phone into his pocket, one hand still buried in the other. The street was mostly quiet.
Two kids kicked a plastic bottle past a parked car. An old man watered plants that didn't look thirsty at all.
Should've left earlier. Oh well.
He stooped, picked up a few rose petals, and began chewing them absently. Slightly bitter. Just how he liked it.
Math test, huh. Guess I'll wing it. Not like I'd get it even if I studied.
He imagined Wyn waiting at their usual spot, arms crossed, face already full of judgment.
He'll probably nag. But I can handle Wyn's nagging.
A sigh slipped from his lips. Not one of sadness — just a habit.
The sun warmed his back as he walked.
Maybe I'll buy a soda. Kill a few more minutes. I've got nowhere else to be.
The sidewalk cracked beneath his feet. Shops still shuttered. Power lines drooped overhead like sagging threads.
Another petal crunched between his teeth.
He paused outside the corner store.
The soda fridge buzzed behind its glass like it had something to prove.
He pulled it open, grabbed something vaguely cherry-flavored and carbonated, and tossed a few crumpled coins on the counter.
"How's your brother?" the elderly cashier asked without looking up.
"He's good. How's your grandson?" Avi replied, voice steady.
"He's also good."
"I'll take my leave then."
Outside, the sun had climbed higher. Heat shimmered off the pavement.
He cracked open the can with a hiss and took a sip. Too sweet. Still drank it.
By the time he reached the intersection — where the quiet road met the main highway — Wyn was already waiting.
Arms crossed. Foot tapping. Eyebrow raised.
"You're late, man."
"Yeah, my bad. Overslept."
"No worries. Hey, that hair cut's looking good on you."
Avi smirked, brushing a hand through his hair. "Thanks, Mr. Dolowyn."
"Yeah yeah, ease up with the sarcasm. You used to look like a half-lost stray or something."
Avi chuckled. "Gee, thanks. You don't look half bad either."
Dolwyn ran a hand through his medium-length brown hair. The strands fell naturally across his forehead — messy, but on purpose. His eyes, warm and earthy, carried a liveliness that rarely dimmed.
"Anyway," Dolwyn said, turning toward the street, "let's get going. Don't wanna be late for school."