The cafeteria at midday hummed with energy. Voices overlapped in a steady din, the smell of roasted meats and baked bread heavy in the air, punctuated by the sharper notes of spiced stews drifting in from the serving counters. Long tables stretched across the hall, each claimed by groups of students clustering with their cliques—mages in ink-stained robes poring over scrolls, sword trainees laughing boisterously with blades propped against their benches, and mixed groups where legacies commanded the attention of everyone around them.
Alex slipped into the hall with his tray, already aware of the eyes that lingered. Not many, but enough. Whispers had been circling since the training session, when things had gone… wrong. He forced himself not to hunch his shoulders, instead searching for a seat that wasn't already claimed by someone ready to dissect him with words or glares.
He found one—near the end of a long table where space gaped between groups. Sliding into the seat, he kept his focus on the stew steaming in its bowl. The noise around him seemed almost suffocating today.
From across the room, Elya Runehart entered. The hum of conversation shifted slightly, an almost imperceptible ripple. Not silence—she wasn't so much feared as she was… watched. Runehart was a name that carried weight, her reputation making her untouchable to most. Draped in the light indigo of her order, she moved without hesitation, but not arrogantly—her expression as neutral as ever.
Her eyes swept the hall briefly before she stepped toward Alex's table. He stiffened instinctively, though he forced himself to look occupied with his meal. The last thing he expected was to be aknowleged by her in such a public setting.
But she sat two seats away, her tray set down without so much as a word. The students closest to them glanced over—some curious, some whispering—but Elya didn't acknowledge any of it. She ate in silence, posture composed, every movement deliberate.
Alex risked a glance. Neutral, like always. She wasn't looking at him, but he could still feel the presence of her awareness—like she noticed everything within reach, whether she cared to or not.
"Your friend isn't here today."
Her voice was even, calm, but Alex nearly jolted. It took him a second to respond.
"Brinn's on errand duty." His voice was low, but he managed to keep it steady.
A small hum of acknowledgment escaped her. No judgment, no comment. Just recognition.
They ate in silence for a while. Across the hall, legacies laughed loudly, their voices dominating the space. A couple of younger students darted between tables, nearly spilling a tray as they hurried. Somewhere, a mug slammed down with a crack, drawing brief laughter.
Here, though, it felt different. Alex caught himself sneaking another glance at Elya. She was as composed as always. And yet—her choosing this seat, instead of the many others where she could have surrounded herself with influence and attention, spoke volumes in its own quiet way.
They were rather acquaintances than friends since their private night sessions with Fenrik didn't automatically place them on the 'friend' level.
Finally, she set down her spoon and looked his way—not sharply, but enough that Alex straightened in reflex.
"You should eat before it cools," she said. A simple, neutral line.
He nodded once. "Right." A blush crept it's way up his cheeks.He began to eat awkwardly
Elya finished her drink, setting the mug down with quiet precision. Alex found himself watching her hands, the way they moved with deliberate calm, and realized he was staring again. He looked away quickly.
"You'll get used to it," she said suddenly.
He blinked. "Used to what?"
"The looks. The whispers. Being where people think you don't belong."
The words landed heavier than he expected. He studied her face, but her expression gave nothing away. She could have been speaking from experience, or maybe it was just observation.
"Do you?" he asked before he could stop himself.
Her eyes met his, cool and level. "I've learned not to care."
And just like that, the conversation ended. She stood, her tray in hand, and walked away—leaving Alex with questions he couldn't shape into words, and the strange weight of her presence lingering across the table.
—————
Back in the dorm, Alex sat on his bed cross–legged. The scroll—Old Dialect of Draconics—laid in front of him. He'd tried hard to decipher the text, eyes tracing looping, angular symbols but the more he tried to concentrate, the more he felt understanding slip out of his grip. He let out a frustrated sigh, his fingers brushing through the black curls of his hair.
He recalled Fenrik's teaching: "The old draconic language is as much about feeling as structure. Dragons communicated with intention. Words carried more than meaning—they carried power. That's why translation is tricky."
Alex tightened his grip on the quill until his knuckles whitened. The symbols blurred if he stared too long, but he forced himself to breathe slowly, steadying the tremor in his hand.
Feeling. Intention. Fenrik's words repeated in his mind. He traced the looping sigil again, this time not trying to translate it, but to sense what it carried.
A hush seemed to fall over the room. The firelight guttered once, as though responding. His heart thudded.
The symbol wasn't just "flame." It was becoming flame. Not static, but alive. He saw it in his mind—sparks bursting, heat surging, fire leaping into form. The word was motion, a command, a memory, all in one.
His lips parted without meaning to, and before he could stop himself, he whispered the sound the mark suggested. Not the word itself—he wasn't foolish enough to speak a spell aloud—but the shadow of its tone.
The air shifted. The quill in his hand grew warm.
Across the room from him, Brinn sat on his bunk, a length of leather stretched across his lap. The strap of his training vest had torn again during drills, and he muttered under his breath as he threaded a needle. A small jar of resin sat at his side, along with scraps of cloth. His hands moved with easy confidence, tugging thread tight, knotting it, testing the pull before stitching the next line.
The scratching of quill and the quiet scrape of Brinn's needle through leather set the rhythm of the dorm: steady, domestic, ordinary.
Then the air shifted.
At first it was subtle—Brinn thought it was just the draft sneaking under the window shutter. His needle slipped, pricking his thumb. He cursed softly, sticking the finger in his mouth before reaching for the resin jar.
That was when he noticed the candlelight. The flames no longer burned steady. They bent toward Alex's desk, as though caught in a wind that Brinn couldn't feel.
"Alex?" he called, half-distracted as he tried to thread his needle again.
No response.
Brinn frowned and set the needle down, which felt a little warmer than it should have been. The leather strap in his hands grew warm. He hissed and dropped it onto the bedspread. "What in the—"
Brinn's head shot up. "Alex—"
But Alex was already leaning forward, the scroll drawing him in. His eyes darted to the next glyph, the one paired with flame. It spiraled downward, a curve that suggested containment, focus. He didn't just see it—he felt it. The meaning wasn't "vessel." It was holding what cannot be held.
Flame contained. Fire mastered.
The realization crashed into him with the force of certainty. He drew a shaky breath, the rush of it lighting his nerves like sparks through dry kindling. His hand trembled, but he wasn't afraid. For the first time, he understood why Fenrik had insisted on this exercise.
Dragons didn't just speak. They wove meaning and will into being.
Brinn 's voice cut through his trance. "What in the hells…" Brinn muttered. " Alex whatever you just did—the air—did you feel that?"
Alex nodded slowly. His mouth was dry, but his voice was steady. "I think… I understood it. Just for a moment."
Brinn stared, eyes wide, then laughed once in disbelief. "That wasn't just understanding. The room reacted."
Alex sat back, pulse still racing. He looked at his hands, half expecting to see scorch marks, but they were clean. Still, something inside him thrummed, alive and dangerous.
And through the haze of adrenaline, he heard Elya's voice from earlier:
"You'll get used to it. The looks. The whispers. Being where people think you don't belong."
Maybe she was right. Maybe this was what it meant—to belong not by acceptance, but by power. By proof.
He smiled faintly to himself, for once not caring about the whispers that would circle tomorrow. If the scrolls were the key, then he'd keep unlocking them. And if people were watching—so be it.
For the first time since the disastrous training session, Alex felt not like a danger to himself, but like someone standing at the threshold of something vast.
Something only he could awaken.