His unruly blond hair refused to obey, no matter how he tried. At last, he let it fall across his broad forehead. He pulled on his old brown cloak, its collar turned up and frayed with age. From the small round wooden table, he picked up a pair of half-rimmed silver spectacles—the color suited his pale, marble-like face.
He lifted his cloth satchel and set it atop an old leather suitcase. The worn brown case was scarred with age and weather, its wooden handle smooth from years of use. Gripping both the satchel and the suitcase, he dragged them behind him. At the wooden doorway, he did not look back. He felt no longing for this place—he belonged nowhere. With a small shrug of his shoulders, he pushed the door open.
Lifting his head, his bright green eyes met those of the landlady, an old woman waiting in the threshold.
"Good morning, Mrs. Morn," he greeted politely.
The wrinkles on her face deepened. This well-mannered, handsome half-blood boy was a thorn in her side. Zavier raised his empty hand, revealing a small bronze key. The old woman pursed her thin, wrinkled lips and snatched it from his palm.
"Good riddance, Zavier," she spat.
His green eyes crinkled with a charming smile as he replied with grace:
"Thank you for putting up with me, madam."
The landlady waved her hand dismissively.
"Go! Go on!"
Zavier gave her a small, amused smile and descended the narrow, dark staircase. The old birchwood groaned beneath his calm steps. At the bottom, he stepped out into the morning air. Sunlight stung his sharp green eyes. He tugged his hood lower over his face to shield himself. After a few paces, he glanced back at the narrow house he had rented.
It stood in Chill District, one of the poorest quarters of the Holy Empire's capital. Without hesitation, he turned away. He had long since learned never to grow attached to any place—fear for his life kept him always on the move. Slowly, he blinked, watching the people of Holyvish rush to open their shops and stalls. Darkness retreated once more, ceding the stage to daylight.
The teenage boy walked quietly along the filthy cobblestones. His old leather suitcase rattled and scraped with every turn of its wheels. From beneath the shadow of his hood, Zavier's watchful eyes swept the street. Ramshackle stalls of the lower city were beginning to stir. He followed the cobbled street toward the district square.
The stones were more black than gray, worn down by years of grime. The sunlight stung his sharp vision again, and he drew his hood further forward to hide more of his skin. At last, he reached the small square of Chill. A two-wheeled carriage stood near a modest statue of the Goddess of Light. The sight soured his mood—he had no fond memories of that goddess's followers.
With bitterness still burning inside, he walked toward the carriage. The driver sat slouched at the back, wrapped in a tattered gray cloak. As Zavier drew closer, the brown draft horses sensed his dark emotions. Their hooves clattered nervously against the filthy stones. The driver straightened at the sound, shifting inside his cloak.
Zavier clenched his teeth and cast a sharp glare at the beasts. A low growl rumbled from his chest—so faint that only the animals could hear. At once, the horses stilled, cowed by his quiet fury.
The driver, noticing his horses' strange behavior, tightened his grip on his long whip. A lean stranger was approaching his carriage. The man furrowed his thick brown brows.
"What do you want, stranger?"
His voice was rough and hoarse from years of shouting. Zavier lifted his head slightly, though his bright green eyes remained hidden beneath the shadow of his large brown cloak hood. He moved his trembling red lips.
"I want to go to the Hyun-Earth Academy."
The middle-aged man sized him up. The boy looked thinner and weaker than most fifteen-year-olds—an easy target. True, Hyun-Earth Academy accepted students from every class, unlike the other imperial academies of the Holy Empire, but its tuition was enough to deter anyone. The man sighed.
"Go on, boy! There's no place for you there."
Zavier tossed the small cloth bag of coins at him.
"Just do your job."
The man caught it midair and peeked inside. Ten silver coins of the Holygane Empire glittered back at him. He gestured for Zavier to climb up.
"Hop in, you dying little runt! I'm under no obligation to bring you back!"
Without a word, Zavier seated himself in the carriage. The driver cracked his long whip against the horses.
"Giddy up! Move, beasts!"
The carriage began to roll smoothly. The hooves clattered loudly against the cobblestones of Holyvish, leaving echoing taps in the streets. Stone and timber houses passed quickly behind him, carrying Zavier toward an uncertain future.
Zavier reached into his satchel and pulled out a book. Its cover was faded and worn. He had scoured half the capital's money changers to find it at a fair price. The title, Spatial Geometry, was stamped faintly on the leather.
Opening the book, he found pages filled with mathematical equations and magical runes. Some were in his own hand, others belonged to the previous, unnamed owner. He studied the theories carefully, noticing a few small flaws in the runes.
If he could correct them, he could cast spells without reading the chants aloud. He pinched the bridge of his narrow nose. Concentrating was difficult; the pull of his daily nap called to him incessantly. He pressed his eyelids together and resisted sleep.
"Just ten pages… then a short nap," he muttered.
With that promise, he kept himself awake a little longer. Picking up a pencil beside the book, he began writing his own hypotheses. Before he realized it, ten pages had passed. He rubbed his pale face with one hand, closed the book with the pencil inside, and hugged it to his chest.
Soon, sleep overtook him. As always, his dreams slowly twisted into childhood nightmares. Zavier stood and wandered a few steps through the total darkness of the carriage, lost in thought.