Kalen forced a smile, but inside, he felt like he was crumbling. He had no idea what to expect or what the Academy of Magic was all about. Just yesterday, he was a student in a world where the most magical thing was trying to figure out when his scholarship would arrive. Now, he had to live up to the expectations of his father, a general who had even the meat on his plate laid out in a straight line.
"I believe in you, Kalen," his father finally said, picking up his cutlery again and making a dismissive gesture with his hand, as if to put an end to it. "The Lionhearts do not give up."
With that, he returned to his food, as if the conversation was over.
Kalen breathed out in a small exhalation, wiped his palms on his trousers under the table, they were sweating. He could feel the eyes. His mother was studying him again, her gaze thin, almost predatory. Not with the intention of accusing, but rather to understand who was sitting before her. The sisters giggled. The brothers were silent. It was all too… not his.
— What academy?" — What is it? " he asked, trying to sound interested.
"Well, I mean, I've submitted the documents, haven't I?"
"Knoxpear, of course," the mother replied calmly, her eyes fixed on him. "Did you insist on it, or have you changed your mind?"
"No, no! It's just... it's so unexpected." He forced a smile. His insides were churning. Noxpear. Good. At least it was something.
"By the way," Noreia interjected, idly twirling her fork in her fingers, "you've received another letter from the academy. It arrived yesterday. I placed it on your bedside table, but judging by your expression, you haven't read it."
"Oh... Thank you," Kalen said, quickly hiding the tremor in his voice. He hadn't found any letters in his room. Or... he just hadn't realized where to look.
"Don't forget to prepare," his father said. "The preparation week will begin in a month, and you must be there on time. This time, no one will be there to cover your back."
"Yeah… Understood.
The meat on his plate felt rubbery. He mechanically brought a piece to his mouth, but he didn't even taste it. His mind was in turmoil: Noxpear, the academy, his family, the new world, the damn symbol on his wrist. Who was the person who left the diary? Why did they give up their body?
"What if I mess it up?" the anxious thought flashed through his mind.
"And yes," added his father, wiping his lips with a napkin, "you'll go to the city with Lair tomorrow. We need to find you a uniform. Don't be late. You'll leave in the morning."
"Laer?" Kallen turned to his older brother automatically.
Without changing his expression, he simply nodded without stopping chewing. He didn't care about the questions. He seemed like someone who acted without words. He was silent and perhaps dangerous. One glance was enough for Kalen to understand that it was best not to argue with him.
"Now eat," said the mother, "and don't forget to thank the food. We are not in a tavern."
"Thank you for the food," he muttered, even though the food still seemed foreign, like everything else.
After dinner, he returned to his room. Now he noticed the letter. It was a small white envelope with a complex rune seal that was as black as charcoal. The paper smelled of ink and a spicy smoke.
He opened it.
"Kalen Lionheart,
You have been accepted to the Noxpear Academy of Magic. The orientation week begins on September 4. Please arrive before noon.
Your patron: Master Raen Tarvel.
Initial admission: Gray level. Class unknown. Power disclosure expected.
Special notes: the mark has appeared. Register it immediately.
Please exercise caution. The Academy is not responsible for the safety of students outside the learning area."
Kallen sat staring at the letter. His fingers unconsciously stroked the edge of the parchment—rough, thick, nothing like ordinary paper. It all seemed ridiculous. A gray level, an unknown class, a master patron... Hell, even the words sounded like they'd been ripped from a cheap fantasy game.
He lay back, staring up at the carved ceiling, trying to digest what he'd read. "The mark appeared"—which meant that someone already knew about the symbol on his wrist. And if they knew, maybe they were watching. He looked at his left arm again. The mark was no longer pulsing, but it seemed to be embedded deeper into his skin. The shadow beneath it seemed to be waiting.
The class is unknown.
This doesn't seem to be a good thing. In a world where magic is the foundation of society, being without a clear class is likely to make you an outcast. Or worse.
What if his power is not just unknown, but forbidden?
He squeezed the letter
He clutched the letter, tucked it under his pillow, and stood up. It was already dark in the room, and outside, the wind was howling through the trees and the sky was overcast with clouds. The approaching storm was rumbling softly.
Kalen walked over to the mirror and stared at his reflection.
"What the fuck," he muttered. "What the fuck am I doing here?"
He rolled up his sleeve and looked at the mark again. It seemed to be mocking him. A black spot, pulsating in time with his heart, like a living thing embedded under his skin.
— "Class unknown," "tag appeared," "register." Yeah, right. I don't even know what it is, and they already know. Great, just fucking great.
He paced back and forth in the room, feeling his insides boiling. Panic mixed with anger. Everything was wrong. His body wasn't his own. His voice was someone else's. The people he'd never met before were looking at him like they knew him, waiting for something. And he? He didn't know a damn thing. And he couldn't tell them the truth. Because who would believe him?
He stopped at the table, picked up the inkwell, and threw it into a corner. It shattered with a soft, squelching sound, and dark droplets splattered across the carpet.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Total fuck."
He sat down on the bed again, his head in his hands. His heart was pounding. He wanted to wake up. He wanted to go home. To his rented room with its shabby walls and creaking bed. Even if it was filled with debts, work, and exhaustion, it was his life. And this was not it.
Still, there's no turning back.
He exhaled and slowly raised his head.
"Well, if I'm in, I'll go all the way."
He stood up, went to the wardrobe, and opened the doors. Inside were neatly hung clothes: dark frock coats, shirts, and waistcoats. They were clearly tailor-made. He reached for one of the suits, felt for one that seemed comfortable, and changed his clothes.
"Let's see what you're made of, Noxpire... Just try to pull some magical shit, and I'll show you what an unknown class is."