---
The familiar door clicked shut behind him as Kael stepped into his dorm room for the first time in three days.
It was quiet. Dustless. The air held that faint mixture of lavender soap and iron—remnants of clean clothes and polish, undisturbed in his absence. The bed remained untouched, the bookshelf untouched, the faint light filtering in through the half-curtained window casting long, sleepy lines across the floor.
He dropped his pack in the corner and stood still for a moment, letting the silence stretch out around him. It was jarring how normal everything felt after what he had been through.
His limbs ached—not with injury, but with the weariness of something much deeper. Trials, beasts, battles. And now, this quiet room, as if none of it had happened.
He turned toward the small door beside his bed. Inside was his private washroom, and beyond that, the inbuilt bathing chamber—one of the rare luxuries awarded to a handful of select students. A curved porcelain tub, a smooth-stone floor with enchanted heating runes, and brass fixtures that glowed faintly when turned.
He twisted the valve.
Steam rose instantly, carrying the scent of cedar and herbs from the embedded aroma crystals in the tilework. As the water filled the tub, Kael stripped his bloodstained undershirt off with a slow tug, the fabric stiff with dried sweat and dirt from long, unbroken travel. His pants bore a scuffed patch from where he had rolled away from a collapsing stone beast.
He lowered himself into the water.
It embraced him like a second skin—hot, near-scalding, soothing. For a while, he didn't move. Just sat still, head resting on the edge of the tub, eyes half-shut. The sound of the water dripping from the faucet was the only noise in the room.
Kael didn't think.
Didn't plan.
He just let himself breathe.
And somewhere, between steam and silence—
He drifted into sleep.
---
When he awoke, the morning light was already breaking through the curtains. He rubbed at his eyes, groaning softly as he rose from the bath. The water had gone lukewarm, though it still carried traces of healing essence from the residual runes.
He dried off, dressed without rush—clean uniform, slightly wrinkled. His shirt collar was open, his tie lazily knotted. His hair, damp but tied back, had that usual half-bothered look that had become his standard.
By the time Kael stepped out of his dorm room, the sun had climbed halfway into the sky.
And the class… had already started.
---
He entered the main lecture hall 15 minutes late.
The heavy door gave a soft creak as it opened. A few dozen heads turned. Some were quick glances—others longer, lingering, like they were trying to confirm whether he was real.
Kael walked in without a word, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. He didn't look left or right. Just straight ahead.
Professor Elren paused at the board, glancing over his shoulder.
"Well," he said mildly, "15 minutes, Mr. Varian. Should I presume you were communing with the spirits of punctuality?"
Kael scratched the back of his head.
"I think they overslept too."
A few students chuckled.
Elren's lips twitched. "Let's aim for no further rituals during my class, shall we? Take your seat."
Kael gave a two-finger salute and strolled toward his usual spot by the window. He sat down with the kind of grace only exhaustion could create—where every movement was deliberate and minimal.
He pulled out his notebook—stained at the corners from mud, and with the faint scent of smoke still clinging to it—and started pretending to write.
Sylara was there too.
Same row. Different seat.
She didn't look at him.
But she noticed.
When his chair scraped the floor, her page-turn faltered for the briefest second.
That was enough.
---
The class went on—something about terrain-based spell variance and elemental resonance in high-pressure battlefields. Kael let it wash over him, his pen scribbling occasional lines without thinking. He didn't need to absorb any of it.
He already knew more than what was being taught.
More than what he could explain.
The real weight wasn't in the content—it was in the act of being present again. The ritual of return.
He kept his posture relaxed, eyes half-lidded, his attention drifting in and out as the professor continued.
But the moment the bell rang to mark the end of class—
He felt it.
That familiar, unwanted pressure.
Like a shadow drawing closer.
Kael was still closing his notebook when a voice dropped behind him like a dull axe.
"Well, well. Look who's finally back."
He sighed.
"Let me guess," he said without turning, "Still bitter about last time?"
The voice belonged to Garron Vale.
Of course it did.
Kael turned slowly to face him, his expression the picture of casual indifference.
Garron, broad-chested and full of second-year arrogance, was flanked by two lackeys, as always. His sneer was forced but loud enough for nearby students to catch the tone.
"You disappear for a few days and come back acting like nothing happened," Garron said, voice rising just enough to draw attention. "I'd be embarrassed if I were you."
Kael raised an eyebrow.
"Embarrassed that I didn't spend the week polishing my father's boots for new gear?"
Garron's nostrils flared.
A few students smirked, but the tension crackled in the air now.
"You think you're clever," Garron said. "Think you're better than the rest of us just because you got lucky in one spar."
Kael stood up, slipping his notebook into his satchel.
"Didn't need luck."
Garron stepped closer.
"One week," he growled. "Dueling yard. High sun. Let's see if your mouth can still move after I'm done with you."
Kael stared at him, then yawned.
"I'll be there," he said quietly, brushing past. "If you're still standing in a week."
Garron didn't respond right away.
But his silence was enough.
Kael walked out of the lecture hall with the same lazy gait—but in his wake, whispers began to spread like sparks on dry leaves.
One week.
Another duel.
And this time, the crowd would be watching.
---