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Chapter 1 – Part 7T (Scene 2/2: Dawn at the East Hall)
The first pale light of dawn crept across the academy's courtyard, brushing the high spires in silver and rose. Mist clung to the stones like a shroud, curling between the carved statues of long-dead archmages, giving them the semblance of silent watchers. Jofyn Vale adjusted the straps of his pack, its weight familiar and grounding. Around him, the air hummed with anticipation, mingled with the scent of wet stone and dew on iron-wrought gates.
The east hall doors opened, groaning on ancient hinges. Students filed out, boots echoing against the stone in rhythm, forming ranks under the watchful eyes of expedition captains. The first-year teams were small, their numbers modest, though the tension in the air made it feel as though a dozen battalions had gathered.
Jofyn walked beside his assigned team, three in total, the only companions he would have for the descent. One was a wiry boy with quick eyes, clutching a dagger more for show than skill; another, a pale girl muttering to herself as she traced glyphs on her arm; the last, silent and broad-shouldered, whose gaze occasionally flicked toward Jofyn with thinly veiled curiosity.
"Looks like we get the forge-born glow in our party," the wiry boy whispered, his tone a mix of awe and derision. "Wonder if he even knows how to survive a real dungeon."
Jofyn ignored him, but the robe's voice dripped from his shoulder, low and amused: "Ah, the chorus begins. Critics, doubters… and yet, you're the one holding the spark."
Ahead, Cynric Drayven and his entourage strode with deliberate arrogance. Their polished boots glinted in the rising sun, armor inscribed with silver runes reflecting a pretense of invulnerability. Cynric's storm-grey eyes found Jofyn's, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to narrow to the cold calculation in that gaze.
Then there was Liora Kaelith, standing apart from her noble peers, cloak catching the first light. She didn't smirk. She didn't whisper. She only nodded subtly when her eyes met Jofyn's. A single motion, but it carried a weight he could not yet measure—curiosity, perhaps, or the recognition of potential.
The robe fluttered at his side, voice soft but edged with warning. "Two storms again. One barks, one watches. Do not mistake the silence for harmlessness."
The sun climbed higher, gilding the walls and casting long shadows of the banners above the east hall. Master Orin appeared at the top of the steps, staff in hand, a presence commanding immediate respect. The courtyard fell silent. Even the murmuring of early birds seemed to pause, as though sensing the gravity of what was about to unfold.
"Vale," Orin said, voice carrying clearly over the assembled students, "you stand on the threshold of the Ashen Hollow. Observe closely, act deliberately, and remember—every choice you make echoes deeper than you know."
He glanced at the first-year groups, gaze piercing each one. "Do not presume that bravery is measured in speed, nor wisdom in silence. Tomorrow, each of you will encounter the unexpected. Trust only what endures, what responds, and what can be commanded."
Jofyn felt the weight of Orin's words settle like stone in his chest. He nodded once, subtly, feeling the Core pulse beneath the surface of his skin—a quiet hum of anticipation and readiness.
The teams began to march, formation shifting into organized ranks. The morning air was crisp, carrying the tang of wet stone, iron, and the faint trace of mana lingering from enchantments long since cast. The distant gates to Ashen Hollow yawned open, blackness curling beyond the threshold like a living thing. Even from this distance, he could feel the pull—mana unshaped, waiting to test, to challenge, to devour.
The robe floated closer, voice a whisper now, barely audible to anyone but him. "Tomorrow, Vale, the Hollow will speak. Listen. Move. Endure. And do not let the pride of the forge blind you to its whispers."
Jofyn's eyes narrowed, pulse steady. The sun struck his features, highlighting the faint glint of sweat and the sharper angles of determination carved into his expression. "Then I will hear it," he whispered. "I will endure."
Footsteps echoed against stone, boots of nobles and commoners alike striking the courtyard with rhythm. The Hollow awaited, dark and hungry, yet alive with the promise of trial and reward.
As the first rays of light kissed the edge of the dungeon's threshold, Jofyn felt the Core pulse stronger, responding to his heartbeat, to the anticipation in the air. The robe's faint shimmer of color shifted, almost in approval, its fabric rustling like quiet laughter.
And so, they crossed the final threshold into the shadowed halls of Ashen Hollow, the air thick with ancient power, shards of mana shimmering faintly in the dark, whispering promises, warnings, and the first hints of danger that awaited them within.
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