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Chapter 1 – Part 7T II (Night Before Departure) scene 1
The moon hung high over the academy, its silver light spilling across empty courtyards and stone walkways, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch like silent sentinels. Jofyn Vale sat cross-legged on the hard floor of his dormitory, shoulders stiff from hours of sitting still, yet his eyes remained fixed on the faint glow pulsating beneath his chest. The Forge Core throbbed like a quiet drum, a heartbeat that seemed to echo in rhythm with the distant wind whistling through the spires.
At his side, the robe floated lazily, twisting midair, its folds shifting in the pale light. "Vale," it muttered, voice low, almost sleepy, "tonight the whole world feels like it's holding its breath. You, me, the Hollow… even the walls are listening."
"I don't feel like the world's holding its breath," Jofyn replied, brushing a strand of sweat from his forehead. "I feel it pressing down… like it's waiting to see if I'll falter."
The robe gave a lazy flick of its hem. "Pressing down? Perhaps. But you? You're a hammer against the anvil of expectation. One strike, one spark… that's all it takes to leave a mark. Or… to break."
Jofyn clenched his fists, the iron pulse of the Core resonating in his veins. Break? he thought. No, he would not break. Not tomorrow, not ever. His parents had fallen to sickness and despair, leaving only the echo of their hope and the meager savings that had sent him here. Every drop of sweat, every ounce of effort had been his own. He would honor that.
Outside, the quiet academy seemed alive. The distant hoot of an owl, the rustle of unseen leaves, the faint scurry of night creatures in the shadowed halls—it all whispered to him, threads of life woven into a tapestry that he alone could feel. Perhaps it was the Core, or perhaps the world had always noticed those willing to listen.
The robe drifted closer, voice dropping to a near whisper. "Do you hear it? The Hollow… it hums. Not with beasts, not with traps… but with mana unshaped, restless, like a river too eager to carve its path. You think the expedition is a test of skill? Ha. It's a test of endurance, cunning, and… something else."
Jofyn tilted his head. "Something else?"
"Instinct. Luck. And the courage to ignore warnings. Even mine." The robe snorted, a faint puff of wind stirring the room. "I warned you once. Twice, maybe. But you never listen."
"I don't need warnings," Jofyn muttered, though his pulse quickened. "I need… preparation."
He reached to the small desk where his scattered tools, shards, and crystalline fragments lay. Each one was a tiny puzzle piece: some for enchanting, some for forging, some simply to feel the hum of life beneath his fingers. Tonight, he would practice—not weapons, not scrolls, but control. The Core demanded focus, demanded rhythm, demanded patience.
He began to move, tracing delicate patterns in the air, threads of light spiraling between his fingers. Runes and glyphs, carefully memorized from library scrolls, shimmered faintly, responding to the Core's pulse. His mind danced between techniques, imagining each application: reinforcing a blade mid-forge, stabilizing a faltering enchantment, sensing the subtle flow of mana in a beast's blood.
Hours passed like a single exhale. His stomach gnawed at him, the muscles of his back and legs ached, but Jofyn did not stop. The night deepened, and the moon shifted across the high windows, tracing silver stripes on the wooden floor.
A faint tapping sound made him pause. Somewhere in the academy, perhaps a branch against glass or the scuff of a nocturnal student on patrol, it came again. The Core flared in recognition—an anomaly, a pulse.
"Something stirs," the robe murmured. Its tone had shifted, no longer mocking, now serious, almost reverent. "The Hollow calls, even from here. Do not ignore it."
Jofyn inhaled, steadying his pulse. "I won't."
And for the first time that night, he allowed himself a moment to imagine the dungeon: shadowed halls carved from stone older than the academy itself, mana unbridled and singing, creatures lurking with senses sharper than any eye, traps designed to punish hesitation. And through it all, the faint glimmer of possibility: shards, relics, untamed power waiting to bend to his will.
His fingers brushed a shard on the table, faint blue light pulsing in response. He whispered to it, half-chanted, half-prayer: "Tomorrow, I endure. I survive. I create."
The robe hummed softly, almost approving. "And if you fail?"
Jofyn's green eyes gleamed in the pale moonlight. "Then I'll rise again. Every time."
Silence fell, heavy and warm, as if the room itself waited with him. The distant stars reflected in the window seemed to pulse faintly, faint echoes of the dungeon's unseen heartbeat, whispering of trials yet to come.
At last, he laid back on his cot, drawing the robe close. For the first time that night, exhaustion claimed him—but not fear.
Tomorrow, the Hollow awaited. And Vale would meet it, not as a student, but as the spark before the storm.
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