The first day of classes started with three things:
1. A headache.
2. A lecture on magical theory.
3. And the creeping realization that nobles have no concept of punctuality.
The classroom looked like someone tried to blend a cathedral with a laboratory. Vaulted ceilings, floating chalkboards, and shelves full of books that probably bit back if handled wrong.
I sat in the back.
Not because I was lazy.
Because it's where the smart people sit.
The quiet ones.
The ones who don't need to raise their hands to get answers. They already have them.
Also, less chance of being randomly called on. I wasn't ready to explain why Caleb suddenly stopped writing sonnets about Aris and started muttering about "narrative momentum."
The professor walked in.
Old. Bearded. Floated two inches off the floor for no reason other than flexing his mana control.
"Professor Alder," someone whispered.
He tapped his staff on the ground. The air shimmered.
"Magic," he began, "is not merely energy. It is intention. Structure. Language given form."
Someone in the front scribbled that down like it was prophecy.
I leaned back.
The theory was simple enough. Spells required incantations to guide mana. The stronger your affinity and understanding, the more control you had.
Thunder and light—my affinities—were about speed and precision.
Unfortunately, Caleb had neither. He tried brute-forcing spells through raw emotion.
I, however, had something else.
Study habits.
As the lecture continued, Professor Alder conjured diagrams midair. Lines of mana flowing in symbols—sigils and glyphs forming circuits.
"This," he said, gesturing to a glowing wheel of runes, "is the base structure for Voltic Discharge, a second-tier lightning spell. Can anyone replicate it?"
Silence.
Then—Aris raised her hand.
Of course she did.
She walked up and drew the glyphs near-perfectly. Slight wobble in the fourth sigil. Still better than 90% of the class.
Applause.
The professor beamed. "Excellent. Anyone else?"
I didn't move.
I didn't need to.
This wasn't my moment.
But then some smug noble kid near the front—Tyrien, I think—tried to show off. His glyphs sparked. Collapsed. Blew a small crater into his desk.
People laughed.
Professor Alder sighed. "Clearly, more practice is required."
Then his eyes swept the room—and landed on me.
"You. In the back."
I froze.
Plot twist.
"…Yes?"
"You've been sketching the glyphs since I started. Care to try?"
Damn.
He noticed.
Slowly, I stood. Walked to the front. Picked up the chalk.
The class went quiet.
I didn't say anything.
I just redrew the glyph.
Flawless.
Every symbol. Every circuit. Perfectly spaced. Clean mana flow.
I heard someone gasp.
I stepped back and handed the chalk to the professor like I'd just returned a borrowed pen.
He looked at the board. Then at me.
"…Hmph. Not bad, Thorne."
I shrugged. "I had a good view from the back."
I returned to my seat before anyone could ask more questions. Kept my expression flat. Unimpressed.
But inside?
Oh, I was thriving.
The whispers started as soon as class ended.
"Was that Caliban?"
"Did he just—wait, wasn't he the weirdo?"
"Why does he look good now?"
"Did he always know that stuff?"
The narrative was shifting.
Not fast. But enough to make waves.
I didn't need to be the protagonist.
I didn't even need to be liked.
I just had to be noticed—just enough but not too much.
Because if they see you coming?
You're playing their game.
But if they forget you're even on the board?
That's when you win.