The dining hall was louder than Kiria expected.
Not the rowdy kind of loud—more like the constant hum of too many voices, footsteps, and the faint clinking of silverware against polished stone plates. The ceiling arched impossibly high, painted with moving clouds that occasionally let sunlight break through. Along the walls, towering windows overlooked the academy's sprawling inner courtyards.
Hundreds of students sat at long enchanted tables, where dishes refilled themselves and cups floated politely into reach.
Kiria hesitated in the doorway.
It wasn't the noise that stopped her.
It was the way conversations thinned as she stepped in—like someone had taken a blade and sliced a notch through the sound.
The whispers began almost immediately.
> "That's her."
"The one from First Sigils."
"Heard she blew up half the table."
"Blew it up? I heard it bent toward her. Like it wanted to—"
"No, no, she's just untrained. Probably an accident."
"Accident my ass. You saw Professor Deren's face?"
Kiria kept her chin low and made for the far end of the nearest table. The benches were long, but every seat she considered seemed to suddenly be taken by someone "saving it" for a friend.
Her tray was light—some bread, fruit, and a pitcher of orange-red juice. She focused on pouring it, willing her hands to stay steady.
The juice flowed smoothly for the first second…
Then, with a soft crack, the glass in her hand frosted over. A thin web of ice raced across its surface before—
Snap.
The base of the glass broke clean off, spilling juice across the table.
Kiria froze.
Nearby students snickered.
Someone muttered, "Guess she can't even eat without breaking something."
A sharp clearing of the throat drew her attention to the high table at the front of the hall. Professor Deren was seated there, a fork halfway to his mouth, eyes locked on her.
He didn't scowl. He didn't smile. He just… watched.
Kiria set the broken glass aside and wiped the table with a napkin, pretending her pulse wasn't hammering. She managed a few bites of bread before pushing the rest away.
Her appetite was gone.
And the whispers hadn't stopped.
Kiria slipped out of the dining hall the moment she finished cleaning her tray, grateful to leave the watchful eyes and murmurs behind.
The west corridor leading toward the classrooms was quieter, lit by rows of floating lanterns that bobbed gently overhead. Her boots clicked against the marble floor, the sound too loud in the stillness.
She rounded a corner—
And stopped.
Three students lounged against the wall ahead, dressed in the deeper blue robes that marked them as upper years. Their wands were tucked into polished leather holsters at their belts, but the way their hands rested near them felt… deliberate.
One of them, a tall boy with straw-blond hair, stepped forward with a lazy grin. "Well, if it isn't the academy's newest accident."
Kiria kept walking, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Excuse me."
"Excuse you?" A girl with sharp eyes pushed off the wall, blocking her path. "You can't just waltz in here breaking tables and freezing drinks without introducing yourself."
"I didn't—" Kiria began.
"Didn't what?" the blond boy drawled. "Didn't mess with a sigil until it bit back? Didn't freeze half your glass this morning?"
Another boy, shorter, with a perpetual smirk, twirled his wand between his fingers. "Maybe she's hiding something."
"I'm not hiding anything." Kiria's voice was flat, but her heart thudded against her ribs.
The girl with sharp eyes tilted her head, then flicked her wand. A harmless little ball of flame bloomed at its tip—probably meant to make her flinch.
It didn't.
Instead, as the flame drifted toward her, it wavered—like it had hit a sudden gust of wind—then reversed course.
The girl yelped as it zipped back toward her, singeing the edge of her sleeve before sputtering out.
The corridor went silent.
Kiria stared at her hands. She hadn't moved.
The blond boy narrowed his eyes. "Lucky reflex."
"Yeah," the smirking one muttered, though his gaze was sharper now. "Lucky."
A voice from behind broke the tension.
"Is there a reason you're blocking the hallway?"
The upper years stepped aside instantly as another student strolled up—dark-haired, carrying a stack of books under one arm, looking like he'd just stepped out of a library.
He glanced at Kiria, offered a small nod. "You're headed to class? Come on."
She didn't argue.
As they walked, the boy introduced himself. "Taren. You're Kiria, right?"
She nodded.
"They'll get bored eventually," he said casually. "Or they'll get caught trying. Either way, don't let them see you rattled."
Kiria managed a faint smile. "Thanks."
Taren grinned. "Besides… you've got more bite than you think."
The west wing wasn't on any of the maps Kiria had been given.
Taren claimed it was "quicker" to cut through it to reach the upper lecture rooms. Judging by the peeling gold leaf on the doors and the faint musty smell in the air, Kiria suspected it was also the wing most students avoided.
"Half these rooms aren't used anymore," Taren said, balancing his books as they passed another row of tall, dusty windows. "They say the spells here got… temperamental."
"Tempera—"
Before she could finish, he stopped in front of a door.
It was different from the others—dark wood, carved with intricate swirling lines like vines frozen mid-growth. The handle gleamed faintly, though no one had polished it in years.
"This one's always locked," Taren said, curiosity tugging at his voice. "Wanna see if—"
The door clicked.
Neither of them had touched it.
A faint draft slipped out, cool and dry, carrying the scent of old paper and something sharper—like ozone after a lightning strike.
They exchanged a glance before stepping inside.
The room beyond was larger than she expected. Sunlight streamed through high windows, but it felt muted, as if the air itself was filtering it. Bookshelves lined the walls, their contents half-collapsed and coated in dust. In the center stood a single desk, its surface covered in strange etchings that seemed to shift when she looked too long.
And the sound—
Or rather, the lack of it.
The moment the door closed, the noises of the academy vanished. No footsteps from the hall, no echo of voices. Only a low, steady hum, barely on the edge of hearing, thrummed in her ears.
Kiria reached toward the desk. Her fingers tingled before she made contact—like the air between her and the wood was charged.
For a split second, her vision flashed white. Shapes—circles, lines, burning symbols—swam across her sight before fading.
She jerked her hand back.
"You okay?" Taren asked, his tone light but his brows drawn.
"Fine," she lied.
He glanced around, unimpressed. "Just looks like a dusty old classroom to me."
The hum grew louder in her ears. She turned toward the far corner, certain—just for a moment—that something had moved there.
Then, just as quickly as it had opened, the door behind them creaked.
A sliver of light from the hallway sliced across the floor.
"We should go," Taren said. "Before someone finds us here."
Kiria didn't argue, but as she stepped out, she could still feel the faint vibration in her fingertips.
The afternoon sun slanted low over the academy grounds, casting long shadows across the practice yard. Kiria followed Taren along the colonnade, its pillars framing wide arches that overlooked the open space below.
The yard was alive with movement.
Students in combat robes sparred in pairs, flicks of their wands sending streaks of fire, frost, and wind across the air. Training dummies clanged and shuddered under precise strikes. Overhead, faint shimmering barriers snapped into place whenever a spell flew too close to the crowd of onlookers.
Kiria slowed her pace without thinking.
At the far end of the yard, away from the groups, one student stood alone. His stance was loose but certain, the kind of posture that made it clear he didn't need to prove himself to anyone watching.
A flick of his wrist sent a line of deep blue light lancing across the air, striking a target dead center. Without pause, he turned and conjured another—this time splitting the target into two equal halves.
Even from this distance, Kiria could see the focus in his expression. Not strained, not intense—just… measured.
"Who's that?" she asked before she could stop herself.
Taren glanced toward the figure. "Veylan Dros. Don't get in his way."
"Why?"
Taren's lips twitched in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Because he'll win. Whatever it is. And he won't be gentle about it."
Below, Veylan holstered his wand, turning toward a group of instructors who had been quietly observing. His gaze swept the yard, skimming past the crowd—
And for the briefest moment, caught hers.
It wasn't long enough for her to read anything in his eyes, but the flicker of acknowledgment—if it was that—sent a strange current through her chest.
Then he looked away, already moving toward the instructors.
Taren resumed walking. "Come on, we're going to be late."
Kiria followed, but as the colonnade curved out of view of the yard, she found herself glancing back one last time.
Veylan was gone.