Chapter 10: Day
Sunlight filters through the narrow slats of my dormitory shutters, drawing sharp lines of gold across the floor. My body still aches in places I cannot name—remnants of last night's encounter with that shadow creature. I sit on the edge of my bed, forearms exposed beneath the chemise's sleeves, and study the long, red slash running from wrist to elbow on my right arm. It is jagged and swollen, its edges raw where black ichor met my flesh. My breath catches; I hate how real it feels. I sigh dramatically.
I reach for the small satchel beside my bed and extract a folded linen bandage, antiseptic brew in a glass vial, and a dried herb tincture for pain and infection. Methodically, I unwrap the bandage and apply salve in a thin ribbon along the wound, breathing evenly.
The pain prickles, but I will it to fade behind professional detachment. My focus remains on the task—align the bandage edges precisely, wrap tightly enough for support but not so tight that circulation stalls, knot with care.
Once secure, I tug the chemise's right sleeve over the bandage so it sits at mid-forearm, leaving the rest of my arm free. I test the fabric's pull on my elbow—perfect. The sleeve conceals the raw line of crimson without bunching. Next, I layer my shirt/vest, ensuring the long sleeves hide both arms entirely. The chemise's collar sits snug at my throat, warding sigils carved into the vest's lining hum with calm.
Dressing complete, I knot my braid with precision and step into the corridor. The ward-lock on my door clicks shut behind me. I press a fingertip to the seal rune, confirming its glow. My reflection in the polished stone wall shows a composed figure: pale hair braided, uniform immaculate, sleeves neatly buttoned. No sign of last night's terror remains visible—at least to any casual observer. Which everybody here is. They only care about themselves, trust me I've been alive for more than 100 years. I know how people are, and not just elves.
I cross the hall, boots clicking in measured rhythm. Morning classes await: Tide-Ward Practicum, then Advanced Warding Theory. I am ready, or so I tell myself.
I emerge into the courtyard as the sun climbs skyward. Students drift between classes—some arguing elemental lattices, others laughing with consumptive relief. The central fountain glints in the light, water dancing in rivulets over carved runes. I head toward the east wing, mind looping through tomorrow's ward diagram, when I see Selene and Jori approaching from the library arc.
They spot me at the same moment I hear their footsteps. Both wear lighter fabrics suited to spring's warmth—Selene in teal linen, Jori in pale amber. They pause five paces from the fountain, five from me. My shoulders tighten; they will notice my long sleeves.
"Feyri," Selene calls, voice bright. "Morning."
"Good morning," I reply, voice neutral as a drafted ward. I adjust my satchel strap. My arm's bandaged—but she doesn't know that. I cross my arms, sleeves brushing my knuckles.
Jori steps forward a pace. "You're really covered up today. Cold?"
I shake my head. "Merely prudent."
Selene studies me. "Is everything—" She hesitates. "—are you all right?"
I keep my expression calm. "I'm fine."
Jori's brow furrows. "You look… pale."
I stare at the fountain, ignoring the swirl of curiosity in their eyes. "I'll manage." My words are brief. I begin to step past them.
Selene reaches out. "Feyri, you know you can tell us anything, right?"
I halt, heart slackening. My friends always sense more. I smooth my sleeves. "There is nothing to tell." My tone leaves no space for discussion.
Jori's gaze darts to the walkways. "Lunch at the Commons? You rarely miss."
I raise an eyebrow. "I'll attend." With that single concession, I step over the fountain's shadow and continue on my path.
Tide-Ward Practicum passes in a blur of splashing water and warding commands. Each incantation feels hollow without focus beyond my sleeve. My mind loops to their questions, returning like tides. I force myself to perform, calibrating water currents in test basins with precision, but each time I see a stray splash on my shirt's cuff, panic flares.
After class, I traverse the east hall to Advanced Warding Theory. Selene and Jori materialize again in the hallway's pale light, near the mural of founders. They stand five paces apart, angled with practiced caution.
"Feyri," Jori says, voice gentle. "Please. We won't press further if you're uncomfortable—"
Selene cuts in. "We've been friends since induction. If something's wrong…"
I close my eyes, heart thudding. The lunch bell rings; nearby students surge like wind. For a heartbeat, I consider feigning illness, but my principle demands honesty when friendship calls.
My shoulders slump. "All right." My voice is low. "But not here." I gesture toward the practice basins room. "Meeting Room B." Without waiting, I turn and stride away. Their footsteps follow—a gentle stamp of leather on tile.
In the empty chamber, three long tables and parchment-streaked desks await. I seat myself at one end. Selene and Jori take chairs five feet on either side—meticulously measured. I lean forward, resting elbows on the table.
"You—told us nothing. We asked twice," Selene begins. "We deserve to know."
My gaze drifts to my swollen arm beneath the table. I wrap both hands around my satchel's strap. "Yesterday… I couldn't sleep. I woke—paralyzed." My voice is low, deliberate. "For nearly an hour, I could not move. Whispers haunted me—my own words accusing me… voices from the Siege of Elmfall… from the first-year I'd scolded." I pause, swallowing. "Then… a silhouette. A creature… tall, elongated limbs… it crawled across my ceiling runes, whispered single words—'Close,' 'Fear,' 'Begin'—and then it came onto my bed. It moved over me. It whispered my middle name." My throat tightens. I force one more sentence. "It clawed my arm before vanishing."
Silence. Their faces register shock, but they do not interrupt—honoring my recounting.
Selene leans forward. "What did it look like, exactly?"
I lift my sleeve slightly—five inches from my wrist to elbow shows nothing but faint scar. "A shape of living shadow. No face, only a flat plane that drank light. Limbs bent at unnatural angles." I trace a joint shape on the table. "It crouched like a spider at the bed's edge."
Jori's hand moves to her satchel, pulling out a scrap parchment. "Any sign of its origin? Any runes on it?"
I shake my head. "No runes. It erased light, corrupted ward threads as it moved. The crystals dimmed as it crawled across them." My voice is steady, but I taste blood in my mouth.
They rise together. "Tomorrow night," Selene says, "we should clear our minds. Stars at the hill overlook—near the western sentry tower. Will you join us?"
I inhale. Hopes flicker against dread. "Yes, I don'tsee why not." My tone holds no relief, but agreement. They smile.
The remainder of the day unfolds in a series of quiet tasks. After theory class, the three of us gather in the library's northwest alcove. Selene and Jori pore over tide-ward diagrams while I refine the empathy-weaving runes in my notes. They ask clarifying questions, but the conversation stays focused—no forced cheerfulness, only shared purpose.
At midday, we break for lunch in the sunlit courtyard. Jori unfurls a scroll of ward-breaking countermeasures; Selene passes around spiced biscuits from her satchel. I sip water, mindful of my sleeves. We discuss defensive layering—reflection sigils atop compassion folds. They jokingly debate whether the beast might be repelled by sorrow-infused wards or provoked to reveal itself.
After lunch, we move to the practice gardens. For the first time, I am not here to practice. I am only here to admire the views of the garden. Oh, and to hangout I guess.
As the sun dips past its zenith, Caelen approaches the practice gardens. He steps between our wards, bowing in greeting. Jori claps lightly; Selene's eyes brighten; I remain composed, uncrossing my arms.
"Feyri," Caelen says, voice friendly. "I didn't expect to see you here." He gestures to the area. "Lesson with Rowan later? He won't stop blabbering on and on about it. He must really like you."
"Yeah, too much." I reply.
He nods. "Selene and Jori, right? It's good to meet you both. Feyri here told me about you two."
They step forward together. Selene's cheeks pinken. "Caelen! Hi!" She sways with excitement. Jori flushes behind her spectacles. "We've heard so much about your role in the Relay."
Caelen smiles politely. "It was a team effort." He glances at me. "Is Feyri well?"
I incline my head. "I am perfectly fine, nothing is wrong with me." My tone is clipped. "Alright then." He replies
Before he departs, Selene pops the question, half-teasing:
"Do you have a crush on him?" She looks from me to Caelen, grin teasing.
I arch an eyebrow. "No."
Caelen blinks. Selene chuckles. Jori giggles behind her hand. I clear my throat.
He waves. "I'll see you both later."
And with that, Caelen strides away, leaving Selene and Jori giddy behind me.
Selene grins at me. "I tried!"
Jori nudges her. "We'll get him yet."
I fold my arms. "Focus." Then: "Stargazing tomorrow night. Overlook. Eight bells."
They nod vigorously. "We'll be there."
I slipped away from Selene and Jori just past the archway, forcing a smile that felt too tight for my nerves. Selene's laughter trailed behind me, warm as spring rain, and Jori's easy banter hummed in my ears like a half-remembered song. They lingered at the stone fountain, faces lit by morning sun and camaraderie, but I bit back the urge to stay. Discipline mattered more today than idle companionship, and I needed to chase down a routine I'd already put off.
Halfway down the marble corridor, the truth struck me like the snap of a bowstring: I'd forgotten my workout. My pulse hammered beneath skin as I spun on my heel and raced back toward the dorms, boots echoing in empty halls. My breath shuddered in my chest—frantic alarm mixed with determination. In that moment, letting pride slow me down felt like letting weakness claim victory.
I skidded through the dormitory doors, inhaling the hush of waking scholars before the dawn rush. My day clothes felt constricting, each sleeve and seam a reminder that I'd betrayed my promise. I slipped into the nearest chamber, anchored my braid overhead, and peeled off tunic and trousers in a practiced flurry. The mirror waited, unblinking, as I braced to reforge myself in movement.
Reaching for my leggings—black as midnight velvet—I pulled them up with swift precision. The fabric hugged my hips and thighs, ready for every lunge and leap. Next came the sleeveless tunic, bound by laces at the side, its material both taut and forgiving. I slid into fingerless gloves, the leather smooth against tense knuckles. Each article of clothing whispered a vow: "Here, you become stronger."
I stared at the neat bandages on my right forearm, white wrappings covering old bruises and fresh scrapes. My gaze drifted to the untouched left arm. With a decisive flick, I unspooled a length of linen and wound it tight around my wrist, concealing new marks beneath clean swaths of white. It wasn't just camouflage—it was armor, a statement of style born from necessity. I flexed my hand, cried comfort from the snug embrace of cotton.
The courtyard greeted me in a blaze of dawn. Marble statues of heroes long passed stood on pedestals, faces carved with resolute gazes. Golden light splintered across polished stone and dew-kissed grass. I stepped onto the emerald carpet, chest rising with anticipation. Here, ritual and reality merged.
My workout plan unfolded in my mind like a scroll: a sequence of five stances to align body and spirit; a circuit of dynamic lunges to forge explosive power; archery drills to hone precision; and, finally, breath control to rebalance mind and mana. I paused at the edge of cobblestones, fingertips brushing grass blades as I quieted thoughts.
Starting with a gentle bob of my head, I rotated my neck as if loosening an ancient hinge. Shoulders rolled back, spine arched, and hips responded in synchronized circles. Each joint crackled awake, unlocking memories of past triumphs and failures. The courtyard fell away; the statues stood as silent partners.
Feet planted wide, I sank into the first stance—knees bent just enough to feel gravity's coaxing pull. Arms raised to chest height, palms facing down, I breathed five counts in, five counts out. Muscles quivered beneath skin, a kaleidoscope of power and pliancy.
From there, I shifted into a forward lunge. My front knee hovered directly above my ankle, back leg stretched straight. Arms traced a diagonal line from hip to sky, as though I carried the sun's edge in my fingertips. Four breaths later, I twisted to mirror the movement on the opposite side. I repeated the drill until lines of sweat dotted my brow.
The third stance demanded grounded balance: feet staggered in a straight line, weight distributed evenly, knees bent. I curved my arms into a guard, imagining a blade's arc in my away hand. Silence reigned—save for the drumbeat of my heart anchoring me to purpose.
For the fourth, I rose onto balls of my feet, legs soft, and stretched my arms to carve space overhead. Every muscle sang with tethered energy, held just at the brink of launch. I lingered for six counts, calves trembling, until my legs whispered acquiescence.
Finally, I flowed into the fifth stance: a low crouch with legs splayed, hands skimming the grass beneath me. In that pose, I honored the earth's patience, grounded but primed for any direction. The courtyard's marble underfoot felt distant; I was tethered to soil and sweat.
I transitioned into lunges—forward, backward, and sideways—in looping sequences that tested my coordination. My sword hand carved phantom strikes mid-drift, forcing core engagement. Fifteen lunges each direction, muscles bright with fatigue and the sweet ache of progress.
Archery called next. At a target mounted against the southern wall, I nocked my first arrow. Fingers found grooves on the string by muscle memory. Drawing back, I felt the bow hum beneath my grip, an intimate resonance between wood and will. The arrow sliced the air and buried itself dead center. Nine more followed in a tight column, each release a communion with focus.
Switching to rapid-fire, I practiced quick draws at a smaller frame twenty paces out. No anchoring at the cheek—only instinct and lightning speed. Arrows thudded into target in staccato rhythm, echoing the pulse in my veins. My forearm trembled on the last shot; I tucked the bow away, chest heaving with satisfaction.
Dropping to grass, I crossed my legs and closed my eyes. Inhale for five counts. Hold for two. Exhale for seven counts. Each cycle stripped away lingering tension, leaving my mind as lucid as mountain air.
I arched my palms skyward and imagined drawing earth's mana through my limbs—roots of power anchoring me deep beneath the stones. Then I reversed the flow, guiding energy upward to ignite inner light. I felt the spiral tighten into a coil of steady strength, ready for any trial.
In that quiet, my elven hearing flared. The world's symphony rushed in: sparrows trilling overhead, distant scraping of brooms on marble, the soft murmur of passing students beyond the open gates. Every sound etched itself into my awareness—an unbidden atlas of noise.
A hush of human whispers drifted from beneath the wisteria arch. "Look at that cute elf," a voice murmured, brittle with gossip. Another chuckled, "She's so graceful." My chest clenched in irritation. I had trained to silence inner chaos, not to endure petty admiration.
Each tender syllable pricked my resolve. I clenched my fists and rose abruptly, heedless of the ache in my knees. No more calm for eavesdroppers. With a curt bow to the statues, I abandoned my cooldown and strode away, boots snapping on cobbles.
Boredom settled in the hours that followed. The academy hummed with recitals, lectures, and midday bustle, but none called to me. I drifted past the library's stained-glass windows and through the rose gardens where fragrant petals carpeted footpaths. Branches overhead cradled birds' nests like whispered secrets.
At the eastern grove, a voice called my name. I paused beside a fountain rimmed with moss. A young man ambled into view, hands tucked behind his back. Sandy hair caught sunbeams, and warm brown eyes studied me with gentle curiosity.
"I'm sorry to bother you," he began, voice clear and steady. "But I've been meaning to introduce myself. I'm Octavius Coleman—honestly, I think we shared Elemental Theory last term."
I tilted my head, opting for neutrality. "Feyri Virelle," I replied. "I remember you—the deputy scribe for the student council."
A slow smile curved his lips. "That's me. I hear you always have insightful questions about mana currents. I wanted to talk to you—get to know the person behind the bow."
His tone felt warm, respectful—no hidden edge of flirtation. I studied him: square shoulders, open stance, an easy patience in his posture. "Alright," I said, stepping aside to walk with him. "What would you like to know?"
He exhaled in relief. "Where I'm from—my family's vineyard by the River Nesh. Summers spent pruning vines, winters buried in tomes by hearthlight. You?"
I touched my gauntleted fingers to the silver filigree at my collar. "I grew up in a glave. I trained magic for a long time. Thats about it."
He nodded, genuine interest in his eyes. "That explains your skill. Do you always train alone?"
"Mostly," I admitted. "I find solitude helps me focus. But I'm not opposed to company—so long as they don't distract me."
Octavius chuckled. "Fair enough. What drives you to train so hard?"
I considered the question carefully—honesty the only compass. "Strength keeps ghosts at bay. Physical discipline quiets the storm inside." I glanced upward, half-afraid of revealing too much. "It reminds me I'm not helpless."
He nodded, his expression thoughtful. "I respect that. Vulnerability takes courage."
Silence bloomed between us, comfortable and unforced. The sun drifted across the sky, warming my bandaged arm. I found myself relaxing in his presence—an odd sense of ease.
As we neared the gate, Octavius paused. He turned to me, eyes earnest. "Feyri, I'd like to be your friend. Truly. If you ever need a sparring partner or someone to talk to off campus, I hope you'll consider me."
I lifted one corner of my mouth in a small, reserved smile. "I'll think about it."
Octavius didn't leave right away. After his offer of friendship, he lingered beside the mossy wall, hands tucked behind his back, gaze drifting toward the distant spires of the academy.
"I hope I'm not overstepping," he said, voice low, "but… do you ever get tired of being watched?"
I blinked. The question was unexpected, but not unwelcome. "Yes," I said simply. "Often."
He nodded, thoughtful. "I noticed it in class. People stare when you speak. They don't always listen, but they stare."
"They listen enough to repeat my words later," I replied, folding my arms. "Usually without understanding them."
Octavius chuckled. "That's true. You said something about 'mana resonance thresholds' last term. Half the room quoted it in their essays. I doubt any of them knew what it meant."
I shrugged. "I didn't say it for them."
He tilted his head. "Then who do you speak for?"
I paused. "Myself. And anyone who's serious enough to ask the right questions."
Octavius smiled. "That's fair. So… what's the right question?"
I glanced at him sidelong. "You're getting close."
He laughed again, soft and genuine. "Alright, then. What's the most misunderstood thing about magic?"
I considered. "That it's complicated."
He raised an eyebrow. "Isn't it?"
"Not inherently," I said. "People make it complicated. They layer systems on top of systems, build hierarchies of technique, and forget that magic is a language. If you learn the grammar, you don't need the poetry."
Octavius looked impressed. "You really think it's that simple?"
"I know it is."
He didn't press further. Instead, he offered a quiet nod and stepped back. "I'll let you go. I'm glad we talked."
I gave him a small, reserved smile. "So am I."
With a final wave, Octavius turned and walked toward the academy gates, his figure soon swallowed by the curve of the path. I watched him go, then turned toward the dormitory, the sun now dipping low enough to cast long shadows across the courtyard.
Back in my room, I peeled off my workout clothes and hung them neatly on the wardrobe hook. My arms ached pleasantly, and the bandages—still snug—reminded me of the morning's discipline. I unwrapped them slowly, inspecting the healing scratch on my right forearm. The skin was still raw, but the swelling had gone down. I rewrapped both arms in fresh linen, not for concealment this time, but for consistency. Symmetry mattered.
For the beach, I chose a sleeveless tunic in slate blue, light enough to breathe but thick enough to shield against wind. My leggings were sand-resistant, reinforced at the knees, and my boots—soft-soled and warded—would leave no trace on the dunes. I tied my braid higher than usual, letting it fall like a silver ribbon down my back. At my hip, I clipped a small satchel containing chalk, stylus, and a folded parchment of reference runes.
I stood before the mirror, studying my reflection. The bandages looked deliberate now—stylish, even. My posture was straight, my gaze clear. I looked like someone who knew exactly where she was going.
And I did.
The path to the beach wound through a grove of whispering pines, their needles catching the last light of day. I walked alone, boots silent on the mossy trail, ears tuned to the hush of wind and distant waves. The air smelled of salt and memory. This was my sanctuary—far from the academy's noise, far from the whispers and stares.
When I reached the beach, the tide was low, revealing a stretch of smooth sand and scattered tide pools. I made my way to my usual spot: a flat stone half-buried in the sand, warmed by the sun and framed by a crescent of driftwood. I sat cross-legged, the satchel resting beside me, and closed my eyes for a moment.
Y'know, most mages at the academy begin with the Runic Ward System. It's the foundation of magical education—the one everyone knows, the one everyone's tested on, the one etched into the stone walls of the lecture halls and scribbled across generations of spellbooks. It's considered the "safe" system. Structured. Visual. Easy to teach. Easy to regulate. And, in theory, easy to understand.
The basic principle is simple: you draw runes and wards to shape magical intent. Each rune represents a concept—fire, protection, movement, memory, and so on. Wards are the frameworks that hold those runes in place, like scaffolding around a spell. You combine them, layer them, and channel energy through the design to produce an effect. A flame glyph bound to a containment ward creates a fire spark. Add a directional modifier and a heat amplifier, and you get something closer to a fireball. It's like building a machine out of symbols. Each piece has a purpose. Each line has weight.
But simplicity is rarely allowed to remain simple.
Over the centuries, scholars have added layers of theory, tradition, and ceremonial practice to the Runic Ward System. What began as a practical method of spellcasting has become a labyrinth of academic jargon and historical reverence. There are debates over the curvature of certain glyphs, arguments about the "correct" sequence of ward layering, entire treatises written on the philosophical implications of rune placement. Some instructors insist on drawing with specific inks—silver for elemental spells, iron for defensive ones. Others demand that students memorize the lineage of each rune before they're allowed to use it.
It's not that the system doesn't work. It does. Brilliantly, in fact. But it's slow. Cumbersome. And often more concerned with tradition than function.
I've seen students spend ten minutes preparing a spell that should take ten seconds. I've watched duels where mages fumble with chalk and parchment while their opponent is already casting. I've read essays that analyze a single ward for thirty pages and still miss the point.
There's another way.
It's not taught in the academy. Not formally. Not in the curriculum or the sanctioned texts. It's older. Quieter. Less discussed. Some call it primitive. Others call it dangerous. Most just call it Mana.
Mana isn't about drawing. It doesn't rely on runes or wards or external symbols. It comes from within—from the caster themselves. It's not a language. It's a resource. A reservoir of energy that lives inside every person, waiting to be shaped.
Think of it like a storage system. Every individual has a pool of mana, a finite amount of magical energy that can be used, replenished, and trained to expand. Casting a spell is a matter of spending mana. That's it. No glyphs. No diagrams. No ceremonial ink. Just intent and energy.
Say you want to cast a fireball. In the Runic Ward System, you'd need to draw the flame glyph, anchor it to a heat sigil, bind it with a containment loop, and then channel elemental fire through the lattice. It's a process. With Mana, you simply spend the energy. A fireball might cost 110 mana. If you have it, you cast it. If you don't, you don't.
It's faster. Cleaner. But harder to master.
Mana casting requires a deep understanding of your own limits. You have to feel the flow of energy inside you—know how much you're using, how much remains, how much you can safely push. There's no visual aid. No rune to tell you what's wrong. No ward to stabilize the spell if your focus slips. Just instinct, discipline, and control.
Most people don't use it. Not because it's ineffective, but because it's unforgiving. You can't fake your way through a mana cast. You either have the strength or you don't. You either know yourself or you burn out.
The academy doesn't discourage it outright, but it doesn't encourage it either. It's considered "unstructured." "Unreliable." "Too personal to standardize." And maybe that's true. Mana casting doesn't lend itself to textbooks or exams. You can't grade someone's internal reservoir. You can't diagram their instincts.
But there's a kind of purity to it. A kind of honesty.
When you cast with mana, there's no barrier between you and the spell. No intermediary. No translation. It's just you and the magic. Direct. Immediate. Real.
I don't talk about it much. It's not something that comes up in casual conversation. Most people assume I use the Runic Ward System like everyone else. And I do, when I have to. When the situation calls for it. When tradition demands it.
But I've trained with mana. Quietly. Consistently. Long before I ever stepped into the academy. I know its rhythms. I know its weight. I know the way it hums beneath the skin when a spell is ready to be cast. I know the ache in the bones when the reservoir runs low. I know how to breathe through the burn, how to stretch the limits without snapping them.
It's not flashy. It doesn't leave glowing symbols in the air. But when you need a spell to work—now, without hesitation—it does.
There's a moment in combat, a breath between action and reaction, where the difference matters. When drawing a rune takes too long. When a ward fails to anchor. When the enemy is already moving and you don't have time to think. That's when mana shines. That's when instinct beats theory.
I've seen mages falter because they relied too heavily on structure. I've seen spells collapse because a single line was drawn wrong. I've seen wards shatter because the caster didn't account for environmental interference. Mana doesn't care about any of that. It's not bound by ink or geometry. It's bound by will.
Of course, it has its risks.
Push too hard, and you'll burn yourself out. Cast beyond your reservoir, and you'll collapse. Misjudge your limits, and the spell will fail—or worse, backlash. There's no safety net. No stabilizer. No rune to absorb the shock.
That's why most people avoid it. That's why the academy prefers the Runic Ward System. It's safer. More predictable. Easier to teach. Easier to control.
But control isn't everything.
Sometimes, you need speed. Sometimes, you need instinct. Sometimes, you need a spell that doesn't wait for permission.
Mana gives you that.
It's not for everyone. It's not for the faint of heart. But for those who can master it—for those who can feel the flow, shape it, trust it—it's a power unlike any other.
I don't claim to be an expert. I don't wear it like a badge. But I've walked that path. I've trained in silence. I've cast in moments when there was no time to draw. I've felt the edge of exhaustion and learned how to dance along it without falling.
And when the moment comes—when the spell needs to be cast, when the runes are too slow, when the wards are too fragile—I don't hesitate.
I reach inward.
And I let the magic speak for itself.
I drag my fingertip through the sand, slow and deliberate, carving spirals that mean nothing. The tide's pulled back just enough to leave a wide stretch of damp canvas, untouched except for the occasional shell and my idle marks. I'm not drawing anything real—just motion, just rhythm. Just something to keep my hands busy while the wind tugs at my braid and the sky bleeds gold.
He's late.
I don't mind. Not really. I like the quiet. The hush before things begin. The way the sea pretends it's harmless when it's calm.
I hear him before I see him—his footsteps uneven, like he's trying not to run but failing. I don't look up. I wait until he's close enough to speak but still outside my five-foot radius. He knows better by now.
"Hey," Rowan says, breathless.
I glance sideways. His hair's a mess, his satchel's half open, and he's got that look—like he's been arguing with gravity all day and losing.
"You look like you ran here," I say, brushing sand off my palms.
"I kind of did." He drops his bag with a thud and exhales. "I have an exam tomorrow. A big one. And I'm—" He hesitates, then laughs, a little too high-pitched. "I'm not ready. Like, at all. I might actually fail."
I raise an eyebrow. "You're usually good at this."
"Not this," he groans. "It's enchantment theory. Nested sigils, layered intent, all that abstract junk. I swear the textbook was written by a drunk philosopher with a personal vendetta against clarity."
I snort. "That's most textbooks."
He sits down, careful to keep his distance. Good. I don't want to have to remind him again.
"I hate exams," I say, almost to myself.
Rowan looks up. "Really? You seem like you'd ace them."
"I do," I admit. "But that's not the point."
I draw another spiral, tighter this time. "Exams aren't about understanding. They're about performance. Pressure. Pretending there's one right way to think. They reward parroting, not intuition. And they punish anyone who learns sideways."
He blinks. "That's… actually kind of profound."
"It's just true."
He watches me for a moment, then smiles. "You know, if you ever wanted to start a rebellion against the academic system, I'd follow you."
I don't respond. I reach into my satchel and pull out my notebook, flipping to the page with the diagrams he's probably butchered. "Let's start with the basics. What's tripping you up?"
He leans in slightly, then catches himself and shifts back. Good. I sketch in the sand, layering sigils with my fingertip, explaining as I go. He listens, nods, asks questions. He's sharper than he gives himself credit for.
"You know," he says after a while, "you're kind of amazing when you teach. Like, intimidatingly competent."
I don't look up. "That's not a question."
"It wasn't meant to be," he says, grinning.
I keep drawing.
A few minutes later, he tries again. "If I pass this exam, I owe you dinner. Or a sword duel. Your choice."
I circle a sigil. "Focus."
He sighs dramatically. "You're immune to charm. It's tragic."
"Charm is a distraction," I say, finally glancing at him. "And you're here to learn."
He holds up his hands in surrender, but the smile doesn't leave his face.
We fall into rhythm—me guiding, him absorbing, the sun sinking lower until the beach glows with that soft, dying light. The tide whispers. The wind carries salt and something older.
Then I freeze.
My hand hovers above the sand, mid-sigil. My breath catches.
Rowan notices. "What is it?"
I don't answer. I'm staring past him, toward the dunes.
It's there.
The black figure.
Standing on the crest, motionless. No features. No movement. Just presence. Like a shadow that forgot how to fade.
Rowan turns, follows my gaze. "Is that—?"
"Yes," I say.
He stands slowly, brushing sand from his pants. "I'm going to check it out."
"No."
He pauses.
I reach out and grab his arm.
It's instinct. Immediate. My fingers curl around his sleeve—fabric, not skin. Not too close. But firm.
"Don't," I say, voice low. "We don't know what it is."
He looks at me, surprised. Not just by the touch, but by the fear in my eyes. I know it's there. I feel it. Cold and sharp. But I keep it contained.
"It's just standing there," he says.
"That doesn't mean it's safe."
He hesitates, then nods. "Okay. I won't go."
I let go and step back, reclaiming my space. My eyes never leave the figure.
It doesn't move.
Doesn't vanish.
Just watches.
Or waits.
The wind picks up, scattering my diagrams. Rowan steps a little closer—not too close—and whispers, "Do you think it's the same one from before?"
"Yes," I say. "And I don't think it's done with us."
We stand there, side by side, five feet apart, as the sun slips beneath the horizon and the shadows stretch long across the sand.
And the figure remains.
I keep my gaze fixed on the dune as the sun slips behind the sea, but by the time I blink again, the black figure is gone. No whisper of feet in the sand, no trickle of movement across the windward slope—just empty dune and rippled ridges leading to the shore.
I let out the breath I've been holding and trace my finger through the sand again, erasing the last sigil of our lesson. My heart is still hammering, but I force it to steady. I tuck my satchel over my shoulder and look at Rowan, who's hovering five feet away, unsettled.
"Was that everything you were stuck on?" I ask, trying to sound as calm as my voice feels in comparison to the tremor in my limbs.
He swallows, smoothing out the front of his tunic. "Yeah. I think I've got it now, thanks to you. The nested containment wards, the directional modifiers—none of it fazes me when I see it laid out like that." He offers a relieved half-smile. "Seriously, Feyri, I owe you."
I nod once. "Good. Now make sure you review these notes before tomorrow." I slip my notebook back into its satchel pocket. "Any more questions?"
He glances at the empty dunes where the shadow once stood, then back to me. "No… but I—" He sniffs and clears his throat. "Thanks again."
I tuck my braid behind my ear. "You're welcome." With that, I stand. Sand cascades off my leggings, tiny diamonds of granules falling back to the shore. I brush my hands together, dusting away the final grains.
"Good night, Rowan." I turn and take deliberate steps away, the wind catching my cloak and pulling it wide. I move first into the cooler tone of twilight, boots imprinting a steady line in the sand.
He remains where I left him until I'm about twenty feet down the shore, then calls out, voice gentle. "Feyri—do you mind if I walk you back to the dorm?" His tone is careful, polite.
I halt mid-stride and look back. His posture is uncertain, but respectful of the five-foot rule. I can feel the faint warmth of his gaze even at that distance. After a heartbeat, I reply, "Sure."
He falls into step, careful to keep just enough distance. We walk side by side along the shore path carved through the dune grass, the academy spires glowing pale behind us. The air is salt-sweet and growing cool. The sea's hush is our only soundtrack.
For a while we walk in companionable silence, each of us contained within our own thoughts. I think about the ripple of fear that shadow creature stirred in me—and how, when Rowan stood with me, five feet away but present, the tremor in my mind eased.
He speaks quietly after a few minutes. "I—I hope I didn't make things awkward back there."
I tilt my head. "No. I… appreciate you walking me back." Do I though?
He nods, spurred by relief. "Good. Then—good night, Feyri."
"I said good night already," I point out, though I'm not annoyed. Only amused.
He chuckles, just a breath of sound. "One more time, then; good night, Feyri."
I allow a small smile. "Good night."
We round a final bend in the path and the dorm building emerges, its windows dark except for scattered glows of bedside candles. Lanterns at the entrance are warded, their flames unflickering. The hallway beyond promises warmth and safety.
Rowan stops at the threshold—less than five paces from me. He gives a courteous bow. "Sleep well."
"You too," I return curtly. Then I turn and pass through the door.
Inside, the hush of the corridor feels like exhaled breath. I pad softly to my room, unlatch the ward-lock and release the noise ward so the door will close silently. The corridor lights dim behind me as the door seals. Solitude wraps around me like a familiar cloak.
I set my satchel on the desk and strip off tunic and leggings in swift, methodical motions. Bandage and unbandage both forearms, inspecting the scratch on my right arm—it's still faintly red, but healing. I rewrap both arms in clean, snug linen, knotting them tight enough to hold but loose enough for sleep. I slip into a soft chemise and robe, tuck my braid into the collar, and extinguish the bedside lantern.
As I slip beneath the covers, the hush of the room presses in. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with the cool air. Mana pools behind my eyes, a quiet reservoir of energy waiting to be guided.
I exhale, and with that single breath, I cast Calm.
No parchment, no chalked runes in the sand—just a whisper of will. The salve of serenity spreads from my mind through my chest, lulling the tremor in my heart. The ward crystals respond, their glow softening. My pulse slows; the edge of fear recedes.
I slip my hands beneath the blanket and rest them on my abdomen. The soft fibers press against my skin, warm and still. I focus on the mana's hum, the gentle vibration like a lullaby in my bones. I know that this will drain a bit of my reservoir, but sleep will restore every drop—and more, as rest reinforces the internal weave.
Darkness settles over my eyelids. My breath evens out in a soft rhythm—four counts in, six counts out—each cycle weaving the Calm deeper. The wards overhead pulse in tandem, a subtle echo of my Mana spell.
For a moment, I lie perfectly still, feeling the silence grow, listening to the gentle thrumming at my core. My thoughts drift toward the dunes, toward the shadow figure I glimpsed, but the Calm holds it at bay. Tomorrow I will reinforce every rune, prepare for lessons, and guard against the dark return.
Tonight, though, is for rest. I pull the blanket tighter, cradle the last warmth against my chest, and let the mana weave the final chord.
In the hush of wards and Mana, I slip free of wakefulness. Limbs loosen. Mind unwinds. The last sensation is the slow fade of the busyness in my head—a final exhale before the slow drift into sleep.
And then I am gone.