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Chapter 1 – Part 7B.2
(Echoes of Ashen Hollow)
The courtyard of Ashen Hollow Academy was alive in its own quiet, rugged way. Patches of weeds tore through cracks in the stone tiles, swaying slightly in the morning breeze. Broken banners clung stubbornly to rusted poles, their colors faded, the academy's emblem—a hollow flame—barely visible. The wind whistled through gaps in the walls and around leaning towers, carrying whispers of old glory long forgotten.
Jofyn Vale stepped carefully onto the courtyard tiles, feeling the pulse of the morning in his bones. His robe shifted against his shoulders, a soft hum resonating faintly from the shards stitched within. Even at this early hour, the garment seemed alive, nudging him forward with subtle insistence.
"Careful," it muttered, voice low and sarcastic. "One wrong step and this ancient tile claims another limb."
"Noted," Jofyn murmured, eyes scanning the sprawling grounds. Though Ashen Hollow was the lowest-ranked academy in the region, it was still a place of life—gritty, raw, and fiercely enduring. Nobles from prestigious academies often sneered at its crumbling walls, its uneven floors, and its patched roofs. Yet beneath the decay, the spirit of the place was undeniable.
Groups of students milled about, forming clusters that mirrored the hierarchy of the academy. The commoners—tired, thin, and wary—kept to themselves, whispering softly, sharing scraps of food or notes from previous lessons. Nobles strutted across the tiles, robes pristine, cores faintly glowing with their elemental essences. They laughed, whispered, and sometimes jeered at those beneath their social station.
"Look," one noble drawled, voice sharp, "there goes Vale. A farmer, first layer Forge Core. Probably thinks he can keep up with us."
A snicker ran through his group. The nobles' steps were precise, measured, their auras of magic flickering faintly in synchronized pulses. It was elegance born of birthright.
The robe on Jofyn's shoulder grumbled, "Yes, yes, laugh while you can. The quiet ones are always the most dangerous. Or so the books say."
"I don't need to be dangerous," Jofyn muttered, adjusting the robe. "I just need to learn."
The morning bell rang—a jagged, uneven clang that echoed across the courtyard. Students straightened, some reluctantly, some with practiced poise. The sound carried a note of ceremony, though imperfect, as if even the bells themselves were tired of Ashen Hollow's struggles.
"Assembly!" a voice called from the cracked steps of the main hall. Headmaster Orven emerged, his robes patched in a hundred places, a long staff in hand. His core pulsed faintly emerald, steady and calm, a quiet contrast to the chaos around him.
"Students of Ashen Hollow!" he began, voice firm yet warm. "Another day begins. You are here not for the glory of your birth, not for the privileges you may or may not inherit, but for what you can create. The world will doubt you, underestimate you, and scoff at your efforts. It has always done so. And yet…" His hands clenched the staff. "…we endure. We persist. We grow. You are here to forge yourselves, as I have forged this academy from scraps of stone and will alone. Do not forget that."
A murmur spread through the crowd. The nobles whispered among themselves, some amused, others curious. "Endure? Grow? Hah. Words for children and fools."
Jofyn stood quietly, eyes focused on the tattered flag above the courtyard, its hollow flame emblem wavering in the morning light. Even here, it seemed to whisper promise—small, fragile, but persistent.
The headmaster's gaze swept across the students, lingering briefly on those who hung back, those with frayed robes and trembling hands. His eyes softened slightly as they passed over Jofyn, noting the quiet determination, the subtle pulse of the Forge Core beneath the fabric of his attire.
"Today," he continued, "you will engage in preliminary exercises to gauge the harmony between your cores and your wills. Every spark, every motion, every thought matters. Some of you may falter, and some may excel. That is the way of Ashen Hollow. That is the way of life."
Students moved forward, the courtyard alive with soft murmurs, the shuffle of feet, and the crackle of elemental energy flickering at fingertips. Fire flickered in the hands of nobles, water coiled gracefully for those with aquatic affinities, and minor air currents danced around those gifted in wind.
Jofyn stepped to the center, feeling the subtle rhythm of his convergence core respond. The shards within his robe pulsed faintly, their glow dim but steady, harmonizing with the faint pulse in his chest. It was not flashy. It did not demand attention. It whispered quietly of potential, of creativity, of work yet to be done.
"Forge Core," the headmaster intoned, voice carrying across the courtyard, "step forward and show us the first spark of your will."
All eyes turned to him. Nobles leaned back in amusement, commoners whispered softly, and the wind seemed to pause for a heartbeat.
Jofyn took a slow, measured breath, feeling the hum of the robe, the pulse of his shards, the faint echo of the forge in his muscles. His hands moved almost instinctively, weaving the faintest glow of energy into the air. It was subtle—a rhythm, a heartbeat, a spark of creation—but unmistakably alive.
The murmurs started softly, growing louder. A noble whispered, "What… is that?" Another leaned forward, eyes wide. "It's… different. Not flashy, but… precise."
The headmaster nodded slightly, a rare, approving glance. "Interesting," he murmured.
The robe gave a low whistle. "Well, would you look at that. Quiet, clever, and already causing whispers. I like it."
Jofyn allowed himself the barest smile. He had not yet reached greatness, had not yet proven himself. But for the first time, he felt a quiet acknowledgment—an unseen weight lifting, a recognition that even in the lowest-ranked academy, even among sneers and cracked tiles, something of worth could be forged.
The morning exercises continued, but for Jofyn, the pulse of potential had been noticed. And in that silent acknowledgment, amidst whispers, dust, and tattered banners, the seeds of creation stirred—ready to grow, ready to persist, ready to change everything.
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