Chapter 3: Rise and Shine
I wake before dawn, as I always do. The room is still dark, lit only by the phosphorescent carvings beneath the ceiling beams—elven runes that glow with the memory of starlight. My eyelids peel open slowly, as if reluctant to sever the last thread of sleep, but my mind is already alert. I lie there for a heartbeat, breathing in the cool draft that slips beneath my window's latticed frame. The subtle hum of protective wards weaves through the air, reminding me that even in rest I am never entirely free of magic's embrace.
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the cot. The blankets rustle like distant whispers—silk and wool interwoven with minor enchantments to regulate warmth. I stand, feeling the smooth shift of runic tattoos along my spine, residual glow from yesterday's lingering enchantments. My feet touch the cold stone floor. The dormitory corridor outside is silent, save for the distant drip of water in the communal bathrooms. I slip into my workout tunic: charcoal gray linen, ruched at the shoulders, warded to wick moisture and neutralize odor. No color, no flourish—just function.
Crossing the hallway, I nod to the empty doors of classmates still in slumber. I pass the pale oak washbasin—carved with protective runes that keep water fresh for days—and draw an elderwood bowl to rinse my face. The water tastes of rain on stone and the faintest hint of jasmine, a warded infusion meant to sharpen senses. I lift the cool liquid to my cheekbones, then tilt my head back and let it cascade down my neck. Each drop feels like a memory unspooling: the first day I mastered a ward, a laugh I forced at a social event, the sting of the orb that exploded in my first year. With each breath, I discard those echoes, leaving only clarity.
Outside the dorm, the academy's training yard awakens in pale pre-dawn light. I step into the open courtyard, where sandstone statues of ancient elven archmages stand sentinel, their runes still faintly glowing. I stretch—arms overhead, back arching—and feel muscles loosen from weeks of academic tension. My workout is precise: a cycle of fifty lunges, thirty push-ups, and four circuits of shadow-sprints. Shadow-sprinting is simple in concept: you accelerate and decelerate so quickly, you momentarily slip into the Periphery, touching another plane before snapping back. It's a controlled exertion, a physical echo of sensory displacement. I didn't invent it, but I perfected it. It leaves me lightheaded, every fiber of my being humming.
By the tenth lunge, sweat beads along my hairline, glimmering against silver strands. I wipe it away with the back of my hand—no ward for sweat, because clinging to discomfort reminds me I'm alive. I transition to push-ups, each repetition a prayer of strength, dropping my body low enough that the embroidered hem of my tunic kisses the sandstone. My arms burn, but I count steadily, modeling effort rather than emotion. Forty-nine. Fifty. I rise and touch my fingertips to the cool stone, grounding myself, then launch into shadow-sprints. The courtyard blurs; for a fraction of a heartbeat, I slip into the faint gray between worlds. When I return, the torches lining the yard have ignited, their runes all but blazing in approval.
A half-dozen students trickle in—mostly humans, some halfling acrobats, a lone tiefling with horns etched in burnished silver—but none attempt to join my routine. I finish in silence, chest rising and falling, legs trembling. My lungs expand with the dawn air, tingling with residual Periphery shimmer. I leave the yard, muscles humming, mind sharpened.
The communal showers are modest: a row of brass nozzles mounted on slate walls inscribed with wards that drain waste magically. I step under the warm spray, heat blooming across my skin. Steam rises in lazy spirals, scented with pine and mint—the water ward churns out a cleansing infusion that relaxes muscles and exfoliates without soap. My silver hair falls in wet sheets, plastered to my shoulders and back, and for a moment I savor the sensation of warm water tracing every line. I lather a small amount of charcoal soap—gritty, scented with juniper—to sweep away sand and sweat. There's no chatter here, just the soft hiss of falling water and the faint click of wards resetting.
I wrap myself in a towel woven from water-repellent fibers, patting my hair dry. I stand before the basins again, considering my reflection. Pale skin, high cheekbones, eyes the color of moonlit seafoam—features that draw stares in human lands. I pull a cold-iron comb through wet strands, detangling with the precision of someone who knows every hair's path. My ears—tipped and slender—remain uncovered, a testament to my heritage. Most elves hide those tips with hair or magic; I do not. I secure my hair in a loose braid, letting silver and moon-white threads cascade down my back. The braid is not merely practical—it's a minor charm of calm and memory anchoring. In every plait, I weave a rune for stability. Even my hairstyle is a spell.
For attire, I favor tailored garments that blend practical warding with subtle style. Today, I select a white tunic of lightweight dragonhide weave—pliable, warded for weather and abrasion—with deep cuffs cinched by golden buckles. Over it, I shrug a white and gold trimmed half-cloak fastened at one shoulder by a rune-carved brooch. The cloak is lined with a reversible ward: one side, a fog-fogging charm for discretion; the other, an aura-dampening field for privacy. My trousers are snug black leather—flexible enough for long walks yet durable for fieldwork. I slip into knee-high boots of midnight-dyed elk hide, soles soft-shod with warded moss that muffles footsteps. Each piece carries runes: temperature regulation, anti-odor mesh, minor aura-control. My pack holds scrolls, a water flask bound in runic silver, my stylus case, and a small journal of half-written spells.
Before leaving, I pause at the armoire mirror to adjust the cloak's hood, letting the muted white swirl around my shoulders. I touch my collarbone—tracing the scar from a miscast ward in my fourth year. I'd rather not talk about it now—and smile faintly at the memory. Wariness tempered me then; now it anchors my resolve. I step into the hallway and lock my door with a warded lock I designed myself. No one enters unbidden.
The academy grounds are awake now: torchlights flicker along the curved cobblestone paths; banners of house colors snap in a cool breeze. I walk the main quadrangle, dwarven architecture meeting elven filigree. Students cluster in animated groups—laughter, debates, the occasional prank unspooling. I navigate through them with minimal acknowledgment, though low bows and murmured greetings follow my wake. I'm the sole elf in my cohort; I carry that distinction in every glance cast my way. Some look curious, others wary. I assess their emotional signatures in passing: admiration, envy, trivial excitement. None linger.
At the base of the east spire, I pause at a street vendor's stall built into the stone wall. A halfling woman with soot-dark skin and fiery orange hair tends a cauldron of spiced tea, swirling steam above it like dancing will-o'-the-wisps. She looks up when I approach, smile crinkling her amber eyes.
"Morning, Miss Virelle," she calls, voice warm as hearth-fire. "Your usual?"
I meet her gaze, noting the ward she wears—two nightly wards to ward off lingering nightmares. She's thorough, like me. "Green-root tea," I reply. "Extra shade of mint."
Her grin widens. "You're the only elf who drinks that. Keeps you grounded, you say?"
I nod. "You remember." She pours the tea into a carved wooden goblet, handed through a warded opening to preserve heat. I take it and inhale—herbs, mint, moss, the faintest tickle of ginger. "Thank you, Lina."
She bows her head. "Anytime. You look… spirited this morning."
I take a sip, savoring the cool burn. "Preparation." I continue walking.
My first class is Advanced Memory Weaving. The lecture hall is oval, benches rising in tiers around a glass-floored stage where fractured memories glow in shards below. Professor Anselm—an elderly dwarf whose beard is laced with runic charms for rapid recall—paces the dais, clipboard in hand. He spots me and nods a curt greeting. I take my usual seat in the front row, just left of center. Visibility matters.
Today's topic: anchoring traumatic memories so they may be studied without shattering the mind. He discusses weave patterns, frequencies, harmonic dissonance. Most students furiously copy notes, heads bowed. I lay my stylus beside my journal—blank pages ready. My fingertips itch to test a new weave pattern, something gentler, more secure. But I hold back, listening. Memory weaving can be too invasive. I've learned restraint cures more wounds than reckless application.
After the lecture, a pair of human students—Selene and Jori—approach. They're my only acquaintances here, both third-year adepts. Selene's cinnamon-brown hair is braided with a ribbon ward for stress relief; Jori's spectacles shimmer with a focus spell.
"Feyri," Selene greets. "Your notes were spot-on again. Did you capture the new equation for warp-hush binding?"
I tilt my head. "Yes. I'll share them when I finish refining the glyph." I close my journal, offering the stylus in passing. She tucks it into her pocket with a grateful nod.
Jori smiles too broadly. "Any chance you can help me later? I'm stuck on reverse-weaving." He rubs his jaw, anxious aura pulsing. "Your hands are steadier than any ward I've seen."
I glance at my watch—an hour until my next commitment. I weigh the effort versus the benefit. "Two hours from now. Front of the library."
Their relief is immediate. "Thank you!" Selene exclaims. "You're a lifesaver."
I offer a slight nod and steer back into the corridor, drink in hand.
My next stop is the Cloistered Garden, an arbor of white-marbled paths and shadowed benches. I sit on my preferred stone seat beneath a wisteria-covered archway. The midday sun filters through lavender petals, casting dappled light across my lap. I unwrap my meal: spiced millet cakes and pickled root, each component warded for freshness but still vibrant in flavor. I eat slowly, listening to the subtle spells humming in the garden's ward lattice—protection against pestilence and overheard secrets.
An older halfling gardener, Varric, passes by with a basket of moon-blossoms. He stops when he sees me.
"Good afternoon, Miss Virelle," he says, voice as soft as moss. "Thought you might appreciate these." He plucks a drooping bloom and tucks it into a fold of my cloak. "Night's wards will breathe easier with moon-blossom fragrance."
I run a thumb along the violet petals. "Thank you, Varric."
He nods, then leans close. "You're the only elf I know who treats this place like home."
"Home is a concept," I reply evenly. "Adaptation is skill."
He chuckles. "Skillful, indeed."
At two o'clock, I enter the Memory Practicum Room. Dense wards line the floor and ceiling; twin cyclopean mirrors on opposite walls amplify projected memories for group critique. Today's assignment: project a non-threatening childhood memory into the mirror while maintaining personal boundary wards.
Professor Anselm supervises. "Begin, Miss Virelle."
I inhale, summon the memory—my first snowfall in Moonshade Glade, the hush of ice on leaves, the soft crunch beneath my boots. I weave the memory-spiral glyph at my chest, then anchor it with runic lines carved in the air. The memory blooms: crystalline fields, ghostly trees, my breath fragile in the cold air. The class gasps at the clarity. My boundary wards—three concentric circles at shoulder height—shimmer lightly, containing the memory in a tempered bubble.
Professor Anselm nods. "Excellent control. Few can maintain such precision with an emotionally potent scene."
I bow my head. The memory fades from view when I dispel it, and the empty mirrors reflect only me, resolute and composed.
Selene and Jori exchange awed glances. They linger after class, peppering me with questions about the boundary circles. I answer each with clinical clarity, then depart for the library as promised.
The Grand Library is silent, shelves towering with scrolls and tomes. I settle at a reading desk beneath a warded lamp that glows without flame. Selene and Jori arrive minutes later, notebooks in hand. We spend the next ninety minutes dissecting reverse-weaving patterns, my stylus dancing between their journals and mine. I critique their glyph alignment, emotion calibration, and sealing strokes. They absorb every word, corrected strokes shining beneath their horrified admiration.
When they finally depart—Selene carrying my refined notes, Jori cradling the borrowed stylus—I close my journal and lean back. My mind hums with runes and resonances. Exhaustion settles in my limbs like a welcome friend. I gather my things and slip from the library's hush back into the corridor's twilight.
I pause at the eastern balcony to watch the sunset drape the spires in violet and rose. The distant chanting of the Chorister's Path—a daily hymnal of ward-refreshing incantations—floats up on the breeze. I close my eyes and inhale that sound: the convergence of voices tuned to the same sacred frequency. It reminds me of the beach at dusk, of quiet communion between sea and self.
I trace the rune on my wrist—an evening seal that preserves mental clarity through sleep. My eyelids grow heavy. My final stop is the dormitory, where I perform my nightly ritual: extinguishing each warded candle one by one, whispering a brief thanks to the runes that guard me. I slip between cool sheets and draw the blankets up, walls humming in darkness. My mind drifts to tomorrow's lesson—memory-anchoring, ocean resonance, perhaps another five-foot experiment.
Sleep comes easy, but not before I think: tomorrow, I will rise again to the sound of starlit runes and silent dawn. Tomorrow, I will continue refining both my craft and my self, one rune at a time.
In the quiet that follows, the academy settles into dreams. My breathing slows, wards breathe, and the runes overhead glow the faintest shade of moonlight—ready for another day under my careful guidance.