He was breathing. He was lying down. He was looking at the ceiling. There wasn't a scratch on his skin. There weren't any marks. There wasn't any blood. There weren't any needles. There weren't any monsters. There was only a throbbing pain on his back, as if his skin had come to life.
A door creaked nearby.
"He's awake," Reina said in a voice as calm as morning.
He turned his head slowly.
She was standing against the wall, by her bed, not in her battle or her dress, just in a long black robe and dark trousers. Her hair was loose, and her scarlet eyes looked at him as if he were a broken object she was going to examine.
"You passed out in the hallway," she said. "I dragged you here. You were mumbling some crazy shit. Did you hit your head hard?"
Kallen sat up with difficulty. Everything inside him was shaking. His muscles ached as if they had been implanted with pieces of iron.
He didn't say anything. He just looked at her in silence.
"You know, I'm used to having strange neighbors," Reina said, folding her arms and narrowing her eyes. "But you're going overboard. Have you eaten something hallucinogenic? Or did you have a ritual?"
"No," he said hoarsely.
Reina nodded silently, as if she had checked a box that said "she can talk."
"That's good," she said, retreating to her bed. "I've left you some water. If you die again, I won't pick you up."
Kallen stretched slowly, sat down at the foot of the bed. His shirt stuck to his back. He pulled it off, and...
My skin throbbed.
A tattoo glowed on his back. The shape of a dragon. A huge one. Rising as if it were alive. Its wings were darkness. Its eyes were flashes of light. Its claws were curved, and its mouth was open in a silent roar.
"If a person can't handle the power of the Shadow, it will consume them."
"But you're strange. Are you human… or not?"
The dragon's words echoed in his ears like a scar on his brain.
He looked at Reyna. She was already sprawled out on her bed, as if nothing had happened.
She didn't know anything.
Morning came without warning.
Kalen was already awake when the sun slipped through the blinds and hit the floor. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, barefoot and wearing a black shirt. He was staring at a point in space. Reina was breathing slowly as she slept, wrapped in the covers like a shell.
There was a slight burning sensation on my back.
He didn't touch the place. He didn't look in the mirror. No sound. No magic. Just... a mark. As if nothing had happened.
He stood up, put on his vest, adjusted his collar, and left, trying not to wake her.
The corridor was empty.
The first lesson is the theory of first-level magic.
The teacher is Archmage Lokhai.
He was sitting in the third row, his back straight. He didn't move, didn't talk, and didn't make any unnecessary movements. Two people were whispering behind him, discussing who had fought with whom in the fiction hall. A girl was quietly drawing in a notebook in front of him.
Lohrai, tall, with graying hair, in a silver robe, snapped his fingers. Glyphs flashed on the board.
"Magic," he began without preamble. "It's not about magic. Magic is the abuse of reality. And your task is to learn how to abuse it wisely."
Kalen listened. Very carefully. He caught the wording, watched the logical chains being built. Everything that was said – he digested and stored in his head. Silently. Without writing.
It was as if a network was forming in my head.
Then came the fiction lesson.
They went out into the courtyard. There, in a circle of gravel, were the duels. Kallen waited his turn, standing in the shadow of a pillar.
"Hey, bookworm," said a voice behind him. Tall. Blond. The kind who carries his back like he's descended from twenty dukes.
"I'm with you. I'll warm up on the first level," he grinned, standing in front of me.
Kalen left without saying anything. He stood up. He looked into my eyes.
"Let's go," the instructor said.
The enemy rushed forward, activating a simple fire spell.
Kallen moved sideways—not with a block, not with a shield, but just with a movement—and got in his back. An elbow to the ribs, a sweep, and he was on the ground.
"What the..." he began, but Kalen was already leaving.
The instructor raised an eyebrow.
"Not by force, but by reason," he said quietly.
The third lesson is epheta. The basics of energy.
The classroom was dimly lit. There were glass spheres with floating crystals all around. You had to direct the flow of mana precisely and in moderation. Some people were blowing up the spheres. Some couldn't light them at all.
Kalen managed it the second time. Calmly. Without effect. Just the way it should be.
"Perfect," the teacher muttered, adjusting her glasses.
He didn't say anything.
The last lesson: fictza. Working with perception. Illusions. Brain errors. Kalen watched as the teacher immersed the students in false memories. How people don't recognize their own names. How they confuse time.
When it was his turn, he just sat down.
"Close your eyes," she said.
He closed it.
"Now tell me what you see."
Silence.
"Kalen?"
He opened his eyes.
— I don't see anything. It's clean.
"Not even a light?"
— No light. No darkness.
The teacher frowned.
"That's odd. Very strange.
He shrugged and stood up. No explanation.
In the evening, he returned to his room. He took off his shirt. The tattoo didn't glow. But it burned. It wasn't painful, but it was tense, as if an animal was moving within it.
Reina was already sitting by the window. A teapot was steaming on a stand, and a book was open next to it. She glanced over her shoulder.
"I heard you took out Lutzer with two hits."
"His legs are crooked," he said.
"You're being cheeky now, aren't you?"
He didn't say anything. He walked over to his bunk, collapsed on the mattress, and stared at the ceiling.
The silence dragged on. She didn't say anything else. It was a pleasant feeling.