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Chapter 1 – Part 7B.1
(The Quiet Steps of the Lowest)
The first gray light of dawn crept timidly across the cracked shutters of Jofyn's dormitory room. It did not flood the space like in noble chambers with wide glass windows; it slipped in cautiously, like an unwelcome guest ashamed of being seen.
The room itself was hardly larger than a storage closet. A single straw mattress sagged in one corner, its blanket a patchwork of cloth stitched so many times that the seams looked like scars across a wounded beast. Against the opposite wall, a crooked desk leaned forward as though bowing under the weight of books scavenged from discarded shelves. Rust crawled along the hinges of a tiny washbasin, and the floor creaked with every breath of wind that slipped beneath the ill-fitted door.
Yet to Jofyn, this room was more than enough. It was his corner of the world, his fortress, his cell—and, now, the birthplace of something extraordinary.
"Ughhhh…" a groan broke the silence.
The robe—folded messily on the desk—shifted as if stretching from a long sleep. One sleeve dangled lazily, swaying like a hand too tired to wave.
Jofyn sat up from the straw mattress, rubbing his stiff shoulders. His muscles screamed from last night's forge work. He winced, then chuckled softly. "Don't tell me you're already complaining this early."
"Early?" the robe's muffled voice yawned, words dragging like a sleepy drunk. "Do you know what hour you kept me awake hammering? My threads are still ringing. I should sue you for labor abuse."
Jofyn shook his head, half amused, half bewildered that his creation truly spoke. Every time the robe opened its mouth, it reminded him he wasn't dreaming.
He pushed himself off the mattress, his bare feet pressing into the cold, splintered floor. The robe shifted again and muttered, "You could at least say good morning, you ungrateful sack of bones."
"Good morning," Jofyn replied obediently, a faint grin on his face.
"That's better."
The room settled into quiet again, broken only by the distant clang of bells echoing across the academy's battered courtyard. The sound wasn't crisp, like the harmonious chimes of noble academies where each bell was tuned to perfection. Here, the clang was uneven, sour at times—as if even the metal resented being struck awake.
It signaled the start of another day at Ashen Hollow Academy, the lowest-ranked academy in the realm.
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Jofyn washed quickly at the basin, ignoring how the rust bled orange into the water. He pulled on his simple trousers and tunic, their fabric faded to the color of worn parchment. Finally, he hesitated before lifting the robe.
The cloth was still rough, seams uneven, shards faintly glowing within like trapped stars. It looked more like a scavenger's patchwork than a mage's attire. Yet when he draped it over his shoulders, the air seemed to shift ever so slightly. Not powerful—no surge of mana, no radiant aura—just a subtle hum, like the whisper of a heartbeat beside his own.
The robe mumbled, "Hmm. Cozy enough. Though I'd prefer silk. Or velvet. Or literally anything that doesn't smell like burnt cabbage."
"Be grateful you're even stitched together," Jofyn muttered as he tied the frayed belt around his waist.
"Gratitude is for saints. I'm a robe. I demand comfort."
Jofyn ignored it, pushing open the door.
The corridor beyond was dim, lined with doors like his, most closed, some hanging crooked on broken hinges. Students shuffled through—some yawning, some grumbling, a few already quarreling about stolen boots or missing bread.
Unlike the polished marble halls of Landmark Realms Academy—where nobles trained beneath golden chandeliers—Ashen Hollow was little more than decayed stone patched with desperation. The ceiling leaked in places, leaving stains that spread like bruises. The stair railings wobbled dangerously, and entire sections of wall bore cracks large enough to fit fingers through.
But this was home to those unwanted elsewhere. The poor, the cast-out, the clanless, the failed scions.
Jofyn descended the stairs slowly, each step groaning beneath his weight. The courtyard awaited below—a wide, uneven field where weeds sprouted between broken stone tiles. Students gathered in clusters, some practicing weak sparks of magic, others gossiping about the upcoming tournament.
He lingered at the edge, pulling his robe tighter as conversations drifted to his ears.
"Did you hear? Landmark Realms is already holding pre-selections for the Five-Year Tournament."
"Of course. Their royals have bloodlines older than empires. We'll be lucky if Ashen Hollow even gets a spectator's bench."
Snickers followed. Jofyn's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
The robe, however, whispered in his ear, "Oh, charming. The future champions of mockery are already warming their tongues."
"Quiet," Jofyn muttered under his breath.
"Why? They can't hear me. Unless you want me to shout."
Jofyn's lips twitched, torn between annoyance and reluctant amusement.
He glanced across the courtyard. At the far end stood the academy's flag—tattered, colors faded, its emblem of a hollow flame barely visible. Once, perhaps, it had symbolized pride. Now it looked more like a warning not to hope.
But Jofyn's gaze lingered on it. Something in his chest stirred.
The robe noticed. "Don't tell me you're thinking of that shiny tournament."
Jofyn remained silent.
The robe snorted. "Oh, brilliant. Farmer boy versus bloodlines forged in royal wombs. This'll end well."
Still, Jofyn's eyes didn't waver from the flag. Beneath the ridicule, beneath the decay, a quiet fire smoldered.
One day, he thought. One day, he would stand where no one expected him to.
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