The boy didn't have a name.
Not yet, at least.
He didn't speak in class. Didn't walk in groups. Didn't smile.
He came early, sat last, and left before the echo of the closing spell had even faded. Ayra would've ignored him, like all the other silent things in Velaria — except for one detail:
He never looked at her.
Not once.
And that, to Ayra, was unnatural.
Even the professors hesitated when saying her name. Even nobles from the enchanted provinces bent slightly when she passed. Her presence demanded notice — that was how the world worked. How it always worked.
But he?
He was an exception to everything she understood about power.
His robes were too plain for someone confident. His hands too still for someone afraid. And his silence — his silence wasn't heavy or awkward.
It was deliberate.
That made it worse.
She started noticing more: how he never used magic to open his books, how he only touched spells with his bare hands, how the enchanted lights flickered slightly every time he walked under them.
A ripple. A shift. A hum.
It was like the school itself didn't know what to make of him.
And that made Ayra curious.
But she didn't chase.
Not yet.
Instead, she watched — from behind mirrors, between classes, through the soft blur of rainy windows. She told herself it was just curiosity. That he was nothing more than a puzzle. That the only reason her thoughts wandered in his direction was because he refused to wander in hers.
But that wasn't true.
Not fully.
Because on the fifth morning, something changed
The rain had been soft, barely brushing the glass with mist. Students filed in with their usual chatter — illusions glowing in their palms, wet cloaks vanishing with drying spells.
Ayra entered, late as always, and paused.
He was in her seat.
Not just close. Not beside.
In. Her. Seat.
The one by the tall window where the sun poured gold through her hair every morning. The seat no one ever dared to take.
He sat there like it belonged to him.
She approached slowly. Her steps made no sound, but her presence did — sharp and commanding, like a string pulled tight.
Still, he didn't look up.
Didn't move.
Didn't even blink.
Ayra stood there for a heartbeat longer, waiting.
Nothing.
So, she said the words carefully. Softly. But edged in steel:
"You're in my seat."
Finally, he looked up.
And it was the eyes.
Not just gray — but hollow stormlight. Deep. Unreadable. Cold.
"I know," he said.
Then looked away.
And Ayra, for the first time in years, had no idea what to say back