The next morning arrived far too soon.
The bell rang softer than yesterday—first call instead of second—but it still jolted him awake from restless dreams. He lay completely still for a long moment, staring up at the familiar ceiling runes. They pulsed with the same gentle blue light, unchanged and indifferent. The room looked exactly as it had the night before, but somehow he felt different. Smaller. More exposed. More vulnerable.
The tablet on his desk blinked urgently with the day's schedule:
COMBAT THEORY – HALL 7 – 9 MINUTES UNTIL START
(Backlash Excused – Observation Only Permitted)
He exhaled very slowly, relief mixing with shame.
At least they weren't forcing him to try demonstrating magic again today.
He dressed quickly in the same dark academy robes, fastening the same silver clasps that clicked smoothly into place without any effort, and headed out into the hallway.
The stone corridors were noticeably busier than yesterday morning. Students moved in tight friend groups, their voices louder and sharper, their glances more pointed. Several heads turned deliberately as he passed. Some students whispered behind raised hands. Most just stared at him openly now, not even bothering to hide their curiosity. The initial novelty of Rank One's dramatic failure had worn off completely; pure curiosity had hardened into something much colder and more calculating.
He kept his eyes fixed straight forward and walked faster.
Hall 7 looked identical to yesterday—the same wide circular fighting pit, the same tiered stone benches rising up the walls, the same sand floor still radiating warmth from previous classes. But the atmosphere inside felt completely different. Heavier. More oppressive.
Instructor Gravel stood in the center again, arms crossed tightly over his chest, sharp eyes watching as students paired up for practice.
He spotted Varyn immediately.
"Varyn," he called out curtly. "Back row. Observe only today."
No questions asked. No false pity offered. Just a short, dismissive nod.
Varyn climbed quickly to the same shadowed seat tucked behind the stone pillar and sank down gratefully, relieved for the distance and darkness.
Class began promptly.
Today Gravel focused his lesson on colored counters—specifically how to properly block or redirect an opponent's affinity flare during combat. Students paired off again across the sandy pit. Bright red flames clashed violently against shimmering blue water shields. Writhing green vines wrapped tightly around flickering yellow light illusions. The entire pit filled rapidly with bright, violently clashing colors—beautiful and absolutely terrifying all at once.
Varyn watched it all unfold from the shadows, both hands clenched tightly in his lap.
Every single time a student failed to successfully block an incoming strike, Gravel barked harsh corrections at them. Every time someone succeeded in countering, the victor's affinity color flared even brighter—like a proud boast to everyone watching.
He could feel the stares on his back. Not everyone was watching the fighting pit. Some were definitely watching him.
A girl with striking red-streaked hair glanced up toward his seat every few minutes, lips twisted in a knowing smirk. A boy wearing orange-trimmed sleeves kept whispering urgently to his practice partner, his eyes flicking repeatedly toward the back row.
Varyn kept his face carefully blank and expressionless.
When the class bell finally rang, students filed out in noisy groups. Gravel didn't call him over this time. No additional words. No private warning.
Just one long, measuring look that somehow said absolutely everything.
He left the hall last again, waiting until it was completely empty.
The rest of the morning passed in a frustrating blur of observation-only classes. Elemental Foundations where he sat silently. History of Affinity where he took notes mechanically. He sat in the very back row of every classroom, head down, trying to be as invisible as physically possible. No instructor asked him to demonstrate anything. No student spoke directly to him.
But somehow the heavy silence felt even louder than any whispered conversation.
Lunch was held in the main dining hall as always.
He took the same isolated edge table, sitting alone once again. His tray appeared automatically. He ate quickly and mechanically, eyes fixed firmly on his food, deliberately ignoring the growing hum of animated conversation swirling around him.
By afternoon, the whispers had definitely grown sharp teeth.
He heard fragments of conversations as he walked to his next scheduled class:
"...didn't even try anything today..."
"...probably too scared to show everyone he can't do it..."
"...heard the petition's already got twelve signatures..."
His stomach dropped sickeningly.
Twelve.
Only thirty-eight more signatures and they could legally force a public verification test.
He quickly ducked into a quiet side corridor, pressed his back against the cool stone wall, and forced himself to breathe slowly.
He desperately needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one would think to look for him.
The greenhouse.
Arlen had offered it freely without any strings attached. No watching audience. No harsh judgment.
He had absolutely nothing left to lose.
The minor greenhouse sat at the very far edge of the sprawling academy grounds, tucked carefully behind a row of ancient stone towers and half-hidden by thick climbing ivy. It was significantly smaller than the prestigious main greenhouse—less important, less crowded, less noticed by most students.
Perfect.
The wooden door was unlocked.
He slipped inside quietly and closed it behind him.
The air hit him like a warm, humid wave—thick and rich with the smell of earth and growing green things. Neat rows of raised beds held an incredible variety of plants in every imaginable color: deep crimson roses that glowed faintly in the shadows, delicate blue water-lilies floating peacefully in shallow ceramic pools, tall yellow sunflowers that tilted slowly toward some invisible light source. Thick vines draped dramatically from the curved glass ceiling, dripping with hundreds of tiny glowing green lanterns.
In the center of it all, Arlen knelt beside a raised bed of silver-leafed herbs, both hands buried deep in dark soil. He didn't look up immediately at the sound of the door.
"Figured you might show up eventually," he said calmly.
Varyn stayed uncertainly near the door, not sure if he was truly welcome.
Arlen glanced over his shoulder with a small smile.
"No one else ever comes here after regular hours. Groundskeeper's got the night off. We're completely alone."
Varyn stepped forward slowly, carefully.
Arlen brushed loose soil from his hands and stood up smoothly.
"Thought you might need a safe place to just breathe for a while. No mandatory classes, no watching eyes constantly judging."
Varyn nodded once, not trusting his voice.
Arlen gestured toward a low stone bench positioned near a small trickling fountain.
"Sit down. Rest. You don't have to talk if you don't want to."
Varyn sat gratefully. The smooth stone felt cool and solid through his thin robes.
Arlen returned to his plants, working quietly and methodically. The silence wasn't awkward or uncomfortable at all. It was... careful. Respectful. Like he somehow understood the crushing weight Varyn was carrying.
After several peaceful minutes passed, Arlen spoke without looking up from his work.
"I heard what happened today. Observation only for all your classes. Smart move on the instructors' part. No need to push you too hard too fast."
Varyn stayed completely quiet.
Arlen continued, his voice low and thoughtful.
"Backlash stories are actually pretty common after the big trials. Most affected people recover fully within a week or so. Some take significantly longer to heal. And a few..." He trailed off meaningfully, shrugging. "Never do recover at all."
Varyn's throat tightened painfully.
Arlen finally turned to look directly at him.
"But you're not like most people, are you? Rank One doesn't get to that position by pure accident or luck."
Varyn didn't answer. Couldn't answer.
Arlen wiped his dirty hands clean on his robes casually.
"I'm not asking you to prove anything to me. Not at all. Just... if you want to try something small and simple, there's no pressure whatsoever. And no one else will ever know what happens here."
Varyn stared down at his empty, useless palms.
"What if there's absolutely nothing to try?" he asked quietly. "What if it's just... gone?"
Arlen tilted his head thoughtfully.
"Then we wait patiently. Or we figure out something else entirely."
Varyn looked up sharply.
"Something else? Like what?"
Arlen shrugged again, unbothered.
"Some people never recover their original affinity color completely. So they adapt to their new reality. Find new ways to survive and succeed. Tools. Strategic alliances. Specialized knowledge. You're Rank One, Varyn. You've got time before anyone can legally force you to take a public test."
Varyn's voice came out barely audible.
"The petition's already at twelve signatures."
Arlen's calm expression didn't change at all.
"Thirty-eight more needed. That takes real time and effort. Most people are naturally lazy. They'll wait around for someone else to do the hard work of gathering signatures."
He paused significantly.
"But if it does actually happen... you'll definitely need a solid plan."
Varyn looked away, ashamed.
"I don't have any kind of plan."
Arlen studied him carefully for a long, measuring moment.
"Then we'll make one together."
He stood and walked purposefully to a nearby bed filled with deep purple flowers—tiny, incredibly delicate blooms that seemed to mysteriously absorb ambient light rather than reflect it naturally.
"Purple affinity plants," he explained. "Extremely rare. Very sensitive to mental and spiritual energy. They bloom best when the gardener's mind is perfectly calm and focused."
He plucked one flower gently and held it out.
"Hold it carefully. Don't try to force anything at all. Just... feel it. See what happens."
Varyn took the delicate flower carefully between his fingers. The soft petals felt cool, almost silky smooth against his skin. For just a brief second he thought he felt something strange—a faint pressure building, like a distant door trying desperately to open.
Then nothing at all.
Just emptiness.
He held the flower back out to Arlen.
Arlen didn't take it back.
"Keep it. Might help you sleep better tonight."
Varyn tucked the small purple flower carefully into his robe pocket.
Arlen returned to his patient work with the herbs.
They stayed together in comfortable silence for another half hour. No probing questions. No uncomfortable pressure. Just the soft, peaceful sounds of soil shifting and water dripping steadily from hanging leaves.
When the evening bell rang distantly, Arlen straightened up and stretched.
"Curfew's in thirty minutes. You should probably head back."
Varyn stood up slowly.
"Thank you," he said sincerely. "For this. For everything."
Arlen waved it off casually.
"Door's always unlocked after dinner service. Whenever you need it."
Varyn nodded gratefully and left the warm greenhouse.
The walk back to his assigned room felt noticeably different. Not lighter, exactly. But somehow less absolutely crushing than before.
He locked his door firmly, sat down on the edge of his bed, and carefully pulled the small purple flower from his pocket.
It hadn't bloomed open.
But it hadn't withered and died either.
He set it gently on the narrow windowsill.
The tablet chimed sharply.
ACADEMY BULLETIN: PETITION STATUS – 14 SIGNATURES
Fourteen now.
He stared at the glowing number for a long time.
Then he lay down flat on his bed, the flower's faint, cool scent slowly filling the small room—quiet, calming, almost comforting in the darkness.
Tomorrow would inevitably bring more mandatory classes. More constant stares. More petition signatures.
But tonight, alone in the dark, he had discovered a safe place to hide.
A quiet place to breathe freely.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough to survive one more day.