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Chapter 1 – Part 7A: Morning After the Forge
The dawn came reluctantly.
A weak light seeped through the cracked shutters of Jofyn's cramped dorm, turning the dust floating in the air into drifting golden motes. His head pounded, his arms ached, and his back screamed as if he had carried boulders the entire night. He groaned, rolling over on the straw mattress that creaked beneath his weight.
"…What… time…" he muttered, his tongue dry as sand.
The answer came not from his own memory, but from the thing lying across the chair nearby.
"Late," the robe said, yawning loudly. "And if you keep lying there like a corpse, you'll miss your first bell. Don't blame me when the instructor kicks you out."
Jofyn blinked. For a brief, foolish second, he thought he had dreamt it all—that the hammering, the chanting, the sparks, the voice—had been some delirium caused by exhaustion. But there it was. The robe. Folded clumsily on the chair, stitched with uneven seams, faint shards pulsing dimly beneath the fabric… and speaking with more sass than ten classmates combined.
"…You're still here," Jofyn whispered, sitting upright. His hair stuck out in every direction, stiff with sweat and soot.
"Where else would I go? You stitched me into existence, remember?" The robe stretched itself, the fabric rippling as though it had muscles. "Honestly, you could've made me prettier. Or at least given me a less uneven shoulder. I look lopsided. People will stare."
Jofyn rubbed his temples. "I didn't exactly have a manual on how to give life to a robe."
"Excuses."
"Ungrateful piece of fabric."
"Ungrateful? Excuse me, I'm the most magnificent robe in this entire academy. In fact, I'm the only magnificent robe in this entire academy. The others just sit there like… cloth corpses."
Jofyn chuckled despite his headache. There was something surreal, absurd even, about arguing with a robe. But that laughter—light, unrestrained—was the first he'd felt in so long.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and immediately winced. His arms trembled. His palms were blistered and raw from the forge. His shoulders ached from endless hammering.
The robe noticed. "You look like you lost a wrestling match with a troll. And the troll won by sneezing on you."
"…Thanks."
"Do you want me to carry you to class?"
Jofyn raised an eyebrow. "You don't even have legs."
"Minor detail. I could drag you. Dignity is overrated."
Jofyn snorted. He forced himself to stand, every muscle in protest. He stumbled toward the small basin in the corner, splashing his face with cold water. His reflection stared back—pale skin smudged with soot, green eyes dim but restless, lips cracked.
Yet there was something else. He leaned closer.
A faint glimmer.
Just behind his pupils.
His core.
He could feel it more than see it. Last night, when he poured everything into the forging, something had shifted. His chest felt… heavier. No—fuller. His heartbeat wasn't just his own anymore; it pulsed with a strange resonance, a second rhythm, faint but undeniable.
"Something's different," he whispered.
The robe tilted its collar, as if raising an eyebrow. "Oh, so he notices. Took you long enough. You breathed too much of that forge smoke, farmer boy. Something inside you cracked open."
Jofyn touched his chest. "Cracked?"
"Or maybe awakened. Depends on how poetic you're feeling." The robe hummed, almost smug. "Point is: you're not the same dull rock you were yesterday. Something inside you sings now. I can hear it."
He froze. "Hear it?"
The robe nodded its empty hood. "Like an echo. Low and deep. Not the clean, sharp sound of a single element core. Yours… is messy. Chaotic. But strong. It makes me shiver, in a good way."
Jofyn swallowed hard. He had read about cores since childhood—basic forges, elemental alignments, single affinities. But never had he heard of a core that… sang.
A knock rattled the door.
"Vale!" a sharp voice called. "You'll be late again. Move or you'll earn demerits!"
Jofyn jumped, nearly dropping the basin. "Shards—"
The robe muttered, "Great. The angry morning rooster."
Jofyn grabbed the robe and shook it. "Quiet."
"Ow! Abuse!"
"Do you want people to think I'm insane?!"
"They already do," the robe replied flatly.
Despite the panic, Jofyn couldn't help a laugh. He threw the robe over his shoulders. The fabric clung to him instantly, adjusting to his frame with a faint hum. For a moment, warmth spread across his body—comforting, steady, almost protective.
And then, faintly, a whisper inside his mind: Don't worry. I've got your back.
He stiffened. Had he imagined it? Or had the robe actually… spoken within him this time?
"Come on, farmer boy," the robe said aloud. "Let's go see what kind of circus this academy has in store today."
Jofyn exhaled, bracing himself. His hands were still blistered, his core still strange, and his life no less fragile than before. But as he stepped into the hallway, his new companion hanging proudly on his shoulders, for the first time in years, he didn't feel entirely alone.
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