He looked again and saw nothing, he thought it cold had been his imagination and he drifted off to bed.
Spandrex never expected kindness. Not here.
Umbran University was a place built on names—old ones, sharp as swords and just as heavy. Students wore tailored cloaks stitched with family insignias, spell-engraved rings, and shoes that never touched mud. Their fathers funded wars, their mothers founded kingdoms. They inherited spellbooks and dined with High Seers.
Spandrex had a patched coat, a scholarship, and a name no one could pronounce without laughing.
By midmorning on his second day, he had been tripped three times, shoved twice, and called "mudblood" more than he could count. It was break time when things turned worse.
He'd thought the far courtyard — under the drooping rustleaf tree — was quiet enough to be ignored. He was wrong.
"Oi. Look who's fouling up the air."
Three boys from House Solven stood behind him. Their accents were polished, but their grins were jagged. Each wore black-trimmed sleeves bearing silver serpents — and cruelty that glinted more sharply than the rings on their fingers.
Spandrex stood quickly. He didn't say a word.
"Where's your servant, beggar?" one asked.
Another reached into Spandrex's satchel and dumped it over. Ink vials burst. His only bread crust landed in the mud. The smallest boy, with copper hair and smirking eyes, stepped on it, twisting his heel as though squashing a roach.
"That was your lunch, wasn't it?"
"Let him be," Spandrex muttered.
The tallest one responded with a slap to the side of Spandrex's head — not hard enough to knock him down, but just enough to leave a ringing in his ears.
"Speak again, and I'll make you eat shadow through a straw."
They walked off laughing, and Spandrex bent slowly to pick up the ink-stained pieces of parchment. His hands trembled. No one helped. A few passing students glanced, then turned away. It wasn't their business. It never was.
When classes resumed, the humiliation continued.
Professor Helvin, who taught Ritual Foundations, announced they'd begin a long-term assignment — studying shadow-binding in pairs.
The moment the word "partners" left his mouth, whispers spread like wildfire.
One by one, the students paired off — highborn with highborn. Loud laughs and hugs. Names shouted eagerly.
Spandrex sat alone at his bench. He didn't bother raising his hand.
"Spandrex," Helvin called, finally. The professor glanced down the list. Then looked up, eyes dull.
"You'll work alone."
A few chuckles. One mock gasp. Someone clapped slowly, sarcastically.
Spandrex didn't flinch, but the back of his neck burned.
Later, during spell practice, they were told to form shadow circles and exchange energy pulses. No one came near him. When he took a hesitant step toward a pair, one girl recoiled and said loud enough for everyone to hear:
"My shadow's allergic to pity."
Everyone laughed.
When class ended, he left quickly — trying not to limp, trying not to show how badly his shoulder ached from where someone had slammed him against the door earlier.
He made it to his dorm before the tears came.
His room was small, cold, and tucked at the edge of the East Wing — far from the others. The kind of place built for someone who wasn't meant to belong.
Spandrex closed the door, locked it, and sat on the edge of his thin mattress.
For a long moment, he stared at the wall, breathing heavily, jaw clenched.
Then the sobs broke through.
He buried his face in his hands and wept — not just from the bruises, not even from the humiliation — but from the unbearable question hammering through his chest.
"Why did they choose me? Why am I even here?"
He rocked forward, knees to his chest, gasping as the ache in his ribs flared. He didn't know how long he sat like that.
But somewhere between the silence and the soft hiccups of breath, something shifted.
In the farthest corner of the room, where the lamplight didn't quite reach, the shadows deepened — unnaturally.
Not just darker. Alive.
They twisted, curling like smoke without fire, folding into themselves as if waiting. Watching.
Unseen. Unspoken.
But listening.