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Chapter 1 – Part 7T (The Turning Path)
(Part 1/2)
The last rays of sunlight burned low across the academy's spires, staining the stone in molten hues. The day's lessons had long ended, yet the air was thick with murmurs. Students did not scatter to taverns or dormitories as usual; instead, clusters lingered beneath the archways, eyes shifting toward one name whispered again and again.
Vale.
Jofyn felt the weight of it pressing from all directions as he walked the long colonnade toward the east hall. His footsteps echoed against polished marble, too loud in his ears, though most voices dimmed when he passed. Nobles in silken cloaks lowered their tones to conspiratorial whispers. Common-born apprentices, seated along the stairwells, stared openly, a mixture of awe and unease in their faces.
It was not recognition that pressed against him — it was expectation. The kind that sought cracks, waiting for him to stumble.
Floating at his shoulder, the robe of shadow and ember let out a low whistle. "Quite the parade, Vale. If glares could etch stone, this corridor would be carved in your likeness by now."
Jofyn tightened his grip on the strap of his satchel. "They'll forget by tomorrow."
"Oh, no, no." The robe's chuckle was soft, curling like smoke. "Tomorrow is the dungeon. Forgetting you is the last thing they'll do. Dungeons strip illusions bare. If you shine, you'll blind them. If you falter—" It paused, savoring the words. "—you'll confirm every whisper that you are mistake rather than miracle."
Jofyn said nothing. But the robe's words clung, like burrs to his thoughts.
At the end of the colonnade, the east hall loomed — a great arched chamber lit by cold lantern-fire, its banners etched with silver glyphs of warding. Already, expedition groups assembled here: upper-year students polishing weapons, adjusting enchanted mail, whispering mantras before departure. The sharp tang of oiled steel mixed with the acrid scent of alchemical dust.
Master Orin stood at the center, staff grounded against stone, his eyes scanning the gathered like a hawk's. When his gaze cut to Jofyn, it lingered with the faintest flicker — approval, or calculation, Jofyn could not tell.
"Vale," Orin said, his voice carrying easily over the chatter. "You came."
"As ordered," Jofyn answered, bowing slightly.
"Not ordered. Offered." Orin's brow furrowed, as if in correction. "Remember this: you walk into the Hollow by choice. That choice will matter when the dark presses against you."
Jofyn swallowed, nodding.
Behind Orin, Cynric Drayven leaned lazily against a pillar, arms folded, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. His entourage clustered around him, armored in gleaming runed steel though the expedition was meant to be observation rank. Every glance they cast toward Jofyn dripped with unspoken promise — that if the dungeon did not break him, they would.
Liora Kaelith stood apart from them, silver hair catching the lantern light. She adjusted the clasp on her spell-sash, movements calm, deliberate. Unlike Cynric, she offered no smirk, no sneer. Only a single glance toward Jofyn, steady and unflinching, before she turned her attention back to her preparations.
The robe whispered slyly, low enough only Jofyn could hear. "Two storms watching you, Vale. One born of envy, the other… of curiosity. Which do you fear more?"
He ignored it.
Orin raised his staff, striking the stone floor once. The sound cracked through the hall like thunder. All voices hushed.
"Tomorrow," Orin said, "the Ashen Hollow will open to you. It is not the deepest dungeon, nor the deadliest… yet it is true. Its core bleeds wild, unshaped mana. Its beasts hunger without ceasing. There is no stage, no pretense there. What you are, you will show. What you are not, you cannot feign."
Silence stretched. The words weighed heavy, like chains settling around their chests.
Then Orin's gaze returned to Jofyn once more. "Vale. You will not walk in alone. Remember this: a mage without allies is a spark in the void. But a mage who learns when to stand… and when to yield… survives."
The staff struck stone again, ending the gathering.
Expedition captains barked orders, students began to file into their groups, and the east hall filled with the clamor of preparation.
The robe leaned closer, ember-eyes narrowing with something that was not quite mockery. "So, Vale. The professor warns, the nobles sharpen daggers, the curious noble-girl watches… and still, your path leads downward. Do you tremble?"
Jofyn stared toward the sealed arch at the far end of the hall — the door to the Hollow. His heart pounded, but his voice was steady when he answered.
"No."
He could not afford to.