"Better to be invisible... than noticed too soon."
The first day of class arrived with the same solemnity as an execution.
The students crowded into the central hall, dressed in their new cloaks, some already adorned with family artifacts or crests engraved with their names. Ashen — Caelen, to everyone here — kept his head down. He wore the black cloak without a crest, plain, austere. And he always stood a little apart.
He listened.
He observed.
And he took notes.
Names. Voices. Gestures. Budding alliances.
Because in this place, war wasn't fought with swords. But with words, glances, and contempt.
The first classroom was circular, lined with ancient frescoes and animated scrolls. A woman with brown skin and steel-gray eyes greeted them.
— Professor Aryel. Elemental Enchantments. Forget what you think you know. Here, mistakes are costly.
She snapped her fingers. A ring of fire sprang up in the center of the room, then vanished instantly.
— Your hands are not made to cast spells. Your minds, perhaps. But they must first be opened.
She walked between the rows. Stopped in front of Ashen.
— You. Name?
— Caelen. Caelen Sareth.
She narrowed her eyes.
— Unknown in the register of magical families. You're a scholarship student?
— Recommended by Mage Caldor.
— Hm. That means nothing here. Remember: without results, you are nothing.
She moved on. Some students snickered quietly.
But Ashen remained impassive.
The following days were a silent ballet.
The other students formed circles.
He remained alone.
Mockery, in hushed tones.
Light provocations.
Objects moved in his room.
But he didn't react.
He listened.
And he remembered.
One evening in a corridor, a boy waited for him.
Golden hair, a scornful smile.
— You, black blood. Got a minute?
Ashen stopped.
— My name is Léontius. House Bravarn. Seven generations of mages. And you... you don't even have a name on the door.
He circled around him like a predator.
— What are you doing here, Caelen? Trying to rise? To become our equal?
Ashen stared into his eyes.
— No.
— Oh?
— I don't want to be your equal. I want to be your end.
Léontius paled for a moment. Then laughed, nervously.
— Very funny. You talk big for a rat.
Ashen walked past him without touching him. Just a whisper as he left the corridor:
— Don't come looking for me. You're not ready to find me.
That night, he wrote in an old notebook by candlelight:
Day 3.
Silence is a weapon.
The glances are testing me.
I let them.
For now.
He closed the notebook, blew out the candle, and fell into a dreamless sleep.
The next day, during a magical manipulation class, a group exercise was announced. Students had to form trios. Quickly.
No one approached Ashen.
He waited.
Aryel frowned.
— Caelen. No group?
He shrugged.
— I prefer to work alone.
A muffled laugh rose from the room. Aryel raised a hand.
— Very well. Prove it.
She traced a circle on the floor. A blue flame emerged.
— Extinguish it. Without touching. And without words.
Ashen stepped forward. Knelt before the flame.
He breathed in softly.
He remembered Caldor.
"Magic is not a command. It's a conversation."
He closed his eyes. Searched for the invisible thread.
The flame flickered.
A breath. A tension in the air.
Then... it went out.
Silence in the room.
Even Aryel raised an eyebrow, surprised.
— Interesting.
Ashen stood up, silent.
He met Léontius's gaze at the back of the room.
The scorn had given way to something else.
A shadow.
That night, on his chair, Ashen sat still.
But in the dark, he still heard the Fool's voice.
— You're walking well... but don't forget why you're walking.
He whispered:
— I forget nothing.
And his gaze, turned toward the moon, was that of a boy... or perhaps a god.
A god awaiting the hour of judgment.