In the Hall of Theory, Professor Kael lectured on arcane discipline, glyph layering, and energy bleed in combat scenarios. The subject was dry, but it kept most awake. Arin sat at the edge of the third row, notebook closed, eyes half-lidded.
He didn't need notes.
"As you all know," Kael droned, pacing before the silver-etched board, "The Battle Trial is in two weeks. Class standings will be revised. Partnerships will be observed. Magic will be restrained, not removed. Injuries are likely. Failing is permitted."
He turned, letting his sharp eyes skim the class.
"Cowardice is not."
A rustle went through the students. Some straightened. Others sunk in their seats.
Arin remained still.
When class ended, most filed out in a flurry of murmured questions and bravado. Two students lingered.
One of them was Elias Calder. He had a lean build, tousled auburn hair, and freckles that stood out against pale skin. His uniform was always a little disheveled, his grin quick and irreverent. Elias had a way of speaking like the world was just a punchline waiting to land.
"You didn't write anything down," Elias said, cocking his head. "That because you already know everything, or just gave up in advance?"
Arin blinked. "Neither."
"Cryptic. I like it."
Beside him stood Talia Wren. Her dark braid was looped precisely over one shoulder, her uniform immaculate. She had an archer's poise and the sharp, unflinching gaze of someone who measured everything—and everyone. Quietly known for ranking near the top of their class, she spoke little, but when she did, it counted.
"He's not trying to impress you, Elias," she said.
Elias shrugged. "Sure, but he still might surprise us at the Trial."
"If he shows up," Talia said. Her gaze cut to Arin. "Are you?"
Arin studied her for a moment, then said, "Yes."
Elias grinned. "See? That's the spirit."
Talia didn't smile. "Then you should train with us."
Arin raised a brow.
"You can't be a ghost forever, Valemourned."
The sparring hall echoed with the clash of magic and steel. Training dummies lined the walls, some cracked from overuse. Glyphs sparked faintly along the tiled floor, reacting to stray spells and footwork.
Elias adjusted the straps on his staff and motioned to the empty dueling ring.
"Alright, mystery boy. Let's see what you've got."
Arin stepped forward without hesitation. No dramatic stance. No flair. Just presence.
Talia leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching closely.
Elias opened with a feint—a quick arc of fire meant to draw movement. Arin didn't move. The flame dissipated inches from him, veered by a soft glyph pulsing beneath his heel.
"Redirect sigil," Talia muttered. "Subtle."
Elias switched tactics, shifting to close range. Wind and kinetic bursts hammered toward Arin, meant to break his footing. Instead, Arin flowed with the force, stepping sideways with eerie precision. His hand glowed briefly—not a spell, but something else. A command woven through intent, not incantation.
He raised one palm. Glyphs spiraled out from his wrist like ink in water.
Elias was flung backward, not violently—just enough to land on his feet, dazed.
"Okay," he said, catching his breath. "What the hell was that?"
"Command sigils," Talia said. "Old technique. Rare. Very few use them anymore."
Elias eyed Arin with newfound curiosity. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?"
Arin shrugged. "I train alone."
"Maybe you shouldn't," Talia said.
They stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of others training echoing around them.
Elias finally broke it. "You know, people say things. About your family. About that name."
Arin didn't respond.
Talia's voice was quiet. "Names don't define power. But they do cast long shadows."
The rest of the afternoon passed in trials. Rotating duels, magical theory, and evasion rounds filled the hall with tension. At one point, Arin paired with a lanky, sharp-tongued girl named Sera who specialized in time-stutter hexes. She barely looked at him until after the match ended in a draw.
"Didn't expect a sigil-user," she muttered, brushing hair from her eyes. "They say your bloodline burned out generations ago."
He didn't reply.
Another student, thick-shouldered and armored even for training, challenged him without words—just a nod. They exchanged blows for ten minutes, until Arin disabled his gauntlet glyphs with a precision strike. The student left without another glance.
By dusk, Arin's hands ached from sigil-burn, the faint shimmer of residual magic flickering along his fingers.
He returned to his dorm quietly, the halls dim and cool.