The horn blast shatters the silence.
Obinai's eyes fly open—one heartbeat he's lost in the fading remnants of some half-remembered dream, the next he's jackknifing upright so fast his vision swims.
Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.
He can already hear the distant shuffle of students in the hallways, the muffled shouts of early risers. The morning light slants through his window, painting stripes of gold across his tangled sheets. He kicks at them, his legs trapped in a knot of fabric that feels suspiciously like it's actively trying to sabotage him.
"Oh, come on—"
His hip connects with the floor first—a jolt of pain that shoots up his side—followed by his shoulder, then finally the back of his skull thunks against the wood. He lies there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, debating the merits of simply staying on the floor.
Could skip. Just... not go. Roll over. Sleep.
The thought is tempting. So damn tempting.
But then he hears it—the distant chime of the academy's second bell. The one that means "you're already late, idiot."
"Ugh. Fine."
He drags himself upright with a groan, muscles protesting. His mouth tastes like something died in it. Rubbing at the sore spot on his head, he stumbles toward the adjoining room, his bare feet slapping against the cold floor.
The common room is quiet. The remnants of last night's chaos are still scattered about—a half-empty mug of something, and a discarded plate left splayed about with food like a gutted animal.
Obinai yawns so wide his jaw pops, stretching his arms over his head until his shoulders creak. That's when he sees it.
Erion's door.
Open.
Just a crack.
Obinai freezes.
Erion doesn't leave his door open. Ever. Not even when he's inside. The guy treats privacy like it's a religion.
"Guess he's up already...?" Obinai mutters.
He turns to see a crisp ivory envelope just inside the doorway, its edges perfectly aligned with the floor seams. Too precise to have been dropped. Placed.
Obinai crouches, fingers brushing the parchment. The moment he touches it, the academy's wax seal—a phoenix—cracks with a faint snap. His name stares back at him in that unmistakable, looping script: Lyth's handwriting.
The hell...?
He tears it open, the paper whispering as he unfolds it. His eyes dart across the lines:
"Obinai,
You are excused from classes this week due to tournament participation. All missed material will be reviewed upon return. Additional one-month absence granted for mana circle repairs.
-Lyth"
Obinai chuckles. A month? His thumb traces the words, the ink slightly raised, as if Lyth had pressed the pen too hard. A slow grin spreads across his face.
"Well, shit," he murmurs, tucking the letter into his pocket. "Guess I'm in the clear."
"Bram!" Obinai calls, shoving their shared door open with his shoulder. "You won't believe what Ly—"
What...
Bram's bed, which is usually a chaotic mess of blankets and pillows, is… neatly made. Despite the usual clutter around it, the bed itself is pristine.
Obinai frowns...
He never makes his bed.
Obinai's fingers pause mid-air, hovering over it. The sheets are pulled enough to bounce a coin off, the pillow fluffed as well.
"Bram?" He says. No response.
He crosses the room in three quick strides, shoving the bathroom door open. The hinges creak.
Empty.
The mirror's still fogged from someone's shower—recent. A damp towel hangs crookedly on the rack.
This is something alright...
Then—movement.
A flutter of parchment near the baseboard. He crouches, fingers brushing cold tile as he snags the crumpled paper.
The paper unfolds stiffly in his hands, edges trimmed in crimson ink that glints faintly in the morning light. The script is too elegant, but reads:
VOUCHER FOR THE I.M.P.
Obinai's thumb catches on the back—a smeared kiss mark in violent red.
"What the actual fuck..." The words leave his lips in a breath.
His pulse kicks up as he shoves the paper into his pocket alongside Lyth's letter. He dresses haphazardly—buttons misaligned on his shirt, his belt buckle clanging against the bedpost as he yanks it free.
As he buttons up his shirt, he shakes his head. "Where the hell is this guy?" he mumbles under his breath, grabbing his bag and heading out the door.
Everything is of today jeez...
...
...
Obinai drags his feet down the corridor. His boots scuff against the mixed wood and steel, leaving faint smear streaks in his wake. The morning light filtering through the arched windows does nothing to ease the weight pressing behind his eyelids.
Gods, I need more sleep.
Students part around him like water around a boulder.
"That's him—"
"—saw what he did in the Tournament?"
"—looks half-dead—"
He ignores them. His thoughts are a sluggish mess, tangled between exhaustion and the lingering ache in his ribs.
Erion... where the hell is he? His jaw tightens. And Bram—since when does Bram clean? The memory of their dorm room surfaces—stains on the walls, clothes piled in the corner, the ever-present stench of sweat and old food. I had to corner the bastard just to get him to wipe his own piss off the floor once. And now he's gone?
His fingers twitch against the crumpled piece of paper in his pocket. He should check it. Later. Maybe.
Then—
"Hey, Obinai!"
He stops, blinks, turns.
Two figures approach.
The first is a gnome—tiny, barely reaching Obinai's hip, with skin the color of sunbaked clay and a mess of brown hair that looks like it's been attacked by a hurricane. His uniform is neat, the black jacket fitted, silver embroidery gleaming—but the way he tugs at his sleeves, the way his eyes dart, gives him the air of a rabbit ready to bolt.
Next to him, gliding more than walking, is a girl.
Nymph-blooded, no doubt. Her hair is a cascade of gold bleeding into vibrant green, like sunlight through leaves. Her skin glows faintly, a soft radiance that makes the air around her hum. She moves like she's half in a dream, her half-lidded eyes scanning Obinai with detached curiosity.
Obinai stares.
The gnome fidgets. "Uh. Hi. You—by some chance you are Obinai, right?"
Obinai's brow furrows. "Yeah." His voice comes out rougher than he intended. "Who're you?"
The gnome swallows so hard his prominent Adam's apple bobs like a fishing float in rough waters. His stubby fingers worry at his already frayed sleeves, unraveling threads with nervous energy. When he speaks, his voice cracks:
"I-I am Tibbin Aloysius Weltshard the Third, Junior Archivist and provisional member of the Arcane Taxonomy Department." He bows slightly, then immediately straightens when his spectacles nearly slide off his nose. "At your service. Hypothetically."
Obinai blinks. "The fuck kind of name is Aloysius?"
Before Tibbin can respond, movement catches Obinai's eye. The nymph glides forward with unnatural grace, her bare feet whispering across the floor without making a sound. Where Tibbin is all nervous energy, she moves like smoke on water - fluid and vaguely unsettling.
"And I," she murmurs, "am Aylia-of-the-Dappled-Shadows." A tendril of her moss-green hair curls inquisitively toward Obinai, tiny white blossoms blooming along its length.
Her heavy-lidded gaze drifts over Obinai with detached interest one might show a mildly interesting stain on the wall. There's something vaguely insulting in her appraisal, as if she's mentally categorizing him between "disappointing mushroom" and "particularly dull rock."
Tibbin elbows her sharply. "Aylia! Your face is being rude again!"
The nymph blinks slowly, the motion lasting just a heartbeat too long to be natural. "I spoke no insult."
"You were horticulturing him with your eyes!" Tibbin hisses, his spectacles fogging.
Aylia tilts her head, causing a shower of pollen to drift from her hair. "Merely observing. That essence of his has... interesting textures." She reaches out as if to touch Obinai's chest, but stops just short. "Like bread left out in the rain."
Huh...
Obinai takes a deliberate step back. "The hell's wrong with you two?"
Tibbin adjusts his spectacles with trembling fingers. "Apologies, dear junior! My colleague lacks what one might call... conventional social graces." He shoots Aylia a glare. She responds by plucking one of her own flowers and chewing it thoughtfully.
The gnome continues, his words tumbling out: "We're here on business to inquire about your recent... shall we say... unconventional application of—"
"You smell like fear and old meat," Aylia interrupts, sniffing the air. Her nose wrinkles delicately. "But also... ashes? How curious."
Tibbin makes a sound like a teakettle left too long on the fire. "AYLIA! We discussed this! No personal commentary!"
The nymph shrugs, sending another cascade of pollen drifting to the floor where it immediately sprouts into tiny, glowing mushrooms. "Merely adding context."
Obinai's eye twitches. He's been in some strange situations before, but this might take the cake. "Listen, if you're here to lecture me about magic rules or some shit—"
"Oh no no no!" Tibbin waves his hands frantically. "Nothing so mundane! We're simply fascinated by your... unique... approach to—"
"You broke seven bylaws and two natural laws," Aylia says dreamily. "We're here to see if you'll do it again." She leans closer, her breath smelling inexplicably of fresh-turned earth. "Preferably on purpose this time."
"The hell kind of—"
"Aylia, please!" Tibbin groans as he drags his hands down his face, his wire-frame spectacles slipping precariously down his nose. He catches them at the last second with a clumsy swipe, then adjusts them with trembling fingers. "By the Seven Spheres, must you always—" He cuts himself off with a visible effort, puffing out his chest.
The gnome produces a crumpled parchment from his sleeve - the paper so worn at the creases it threatens to disintegrate. He unfolds it with care, revealing what appears to be a guild charter covered in dense script and several suspicious stains.
"Ahem." Tibbin clears his throat twice. "As I was attempting to articulate before my colleague's... enthusiastic interruption... our primary purpose in seeking you out was to inquire..." His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "Has any academic consortium or scholastic fraternity yet extended to you the olive branch of membership?"
Obinai's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "You mean a school guild? No... should they have?"
The change is instantaneous. Aylia's languid posture straightens slightly, her ever-present half-lidded gaze sharpening with interest. Tibbin's spectacles fog up from his sudden excited breathing.
Then—
With a sound somewhere between a whimper and a battle cry, the gnome launches himself forward. His stubby fingers clamp around Obinai's wrist with surprising strength.
"W-We'd—" Tibbin manages. He swallows hard...
"That is to say, the Whispering Grove Guild would be honored—nay, privileged!—to count among its members an individual of your... unique... talents!"
Obinai's skin prickles. Something's off.
Tibbin's sweating buckets—tiny beads rolling down his temples despite the hallway's cool draft. His nostrils flare with each shallow breath, and his knee won't stop jittering.
Why's he so nervous?
Obinai tilts his head, feigning nonchalance. "So… where's this guild hang out?"
Tibbin explodes with motion. "Oh! Oh! Ah! Splendid inquiry! Our esteemed guildhall is situated just beyond the alchemical laboratories—the final structure along the western thoroughfare! A rather quaint edifice adorned with intricate ivy motifs along its façade. Truly, one couldn't possibly overlook it!"
Oh, this is weird...
...definitely checking it out.
"Sure," he says, peeling Tibbin's damp hands off his wrist. "I'll swing by."
Tibbin's entire body sags with relief. "Wonderful!" he squeaks, then immediately coughs to cover it. "I mean—cool. Yeah. Cool."
Aylia's thumb traces a slow circle on Obinai's collarbone. "We'll be waiting."
"Ok..."
Obinai turns on his heel, the strange encounter still prickling at the back of his neck like static. His boots scuff against the polished stone floor as he makes his way down the corridor.
What the hell was that?
He can't help himself—at the corner, he glances back over his shoulder.
Aylia and Tibbin haven't moved.
They stand there, frozen in the hallway like statues, their smiles stretched just a little too wide, their eyes just a little too bright. Aylia's fingers are curled delicately against her collarbone, while Tibbin's hands are clasped together so tightly his knuckles have gone white. The second Obinai meets their gaze, Tibbin jerks like a puppet on strings, giving an exaggerated thumbs-up.
Obinai nearly trips over his own feet.
That's creepy as hell.
He whips back around, picking up his pace. "Weirdos," he mutters under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck where the hairs are still standing on end.
But why does that want me to check that damn place out even more.
...
...
The scent of something rich and savory curls through the air.
Right. Food. Now.
The cafeteria doors swing open before Obinai with a hiss of steam, revealing a cavernous space that should be roaring with the usual lunchtime chaos. Instead—silence.
Oh. Right.
His boot heels click against the floor as he steps inside, the sound echoing unnaturally in the vacant hall. Rows of long tables stretch before him, all empty. Not a single student in sight.
A slow smirk tugs at his lips. Lyth gave me the whole damn month off. Forgot about that.
The thought sends a ripple of satisfaction through him as he grabs a tray from the stack, the metal cool against his fingers. Ahead, the serving line hums—steam-powered automatons clanking behind the counter, their brass limbs moving in smooth, repetitive arcs as they dish out today's offerings.
Obinai's stomach growls loud enough to startle even himself.
When was the last time I ate in quite like this?
He steps up to the first station, where a glowcap fungus quivers under a heat lamp, its bulbous cap pulsing a slow, hypnotic blue. Juices drip from its gills, sizzling where they hit the tray beneath. The scent is earthy, almost spicy—like rain-soaked bark.
The automaton slaps a portion onto his plate without ceremony.
Next comes the roasted oarthbeast flank, thick slices of dark meat marbled with iridescent fat that shimmers like spilled ink. The smell hits him like a punch—rich, gamey, with an underlying smokiness that makes his mouth water.
Then, the amberroot mash, its golden surface glistening under a drizzle of syrup that smells like caramel cut with black pepper. The scent is so intoxicating he barely waits for the serving spoon to withdraw before dragging a finger through it and licking it clean.
Damn.
But the real prize sits at the end of the line—a massive vat of live silverthread noodles, each strand writhing. They twist and coil as the ladle dips in, squirming as if trying to escape.
Obinai doesn't even bother waiting for his plate to be fully loaded. He snatches a fork from the counter and spears a noodle mid-air. It wriggles frantically for half a second before he shoves it into his mouth.
The taste is instant.
Cold. Sweet. Like frozen honey dissolving on his tongue, followed by a faint, fizzy tingle that spreads across his palate.
Oh, hell yes.
He shovels in another before the automaton has even finished piling his plate.
I could eat a whole wyrm right now.
The thought makes him chuckle as he finally steps away from the line, tray loaded with enough food to feed three normal people. Not that it'll stop him.
He drops into a seat at the nearest empty table, the wood groaning under his weight, and digs in.
Month off. No classes. No bullshit.
Life's looking pretty damn good.
He scans the hall again as if things will change.
No Bram.
Where the hell is he?
He sees someone.
Wait—
His eyes catch sight of someone sitting alone, far in the back of the cafeteria. Obinai clicks his teeth, squinting to make out the figure. After a moment, he recognizes her.
Fiora.
A lone figure in the back, silver coils of hair catching the dim cafeteria light. Her usually perfect posture slumped over, shoulders rounded as she stares at a plate of untouched food. The sight makes his stomach clench in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.
Damn. She's still torn up about the tournament.
He hesitates...
With a quiet click of his tongue, he gets up, weaving through the tables toward her.
Fiora doesn't look up when he slides into the seat across from her. Obinai busies himself arranging his tray—the still-twitching silverthread noodles, the steaming hunk of oarthbeast meat oozing juices. He takes his time, giving her space to acknowledge him first.
When she doesn't, he risks a glance. The tear tracks glistening on her cheeks almost makes him choke on his food. Before he can think better of it, he blurts out, "You gonna eat that or just stare it to death?"
Fiora's head snaps up. Her pale pink eyes—usually so sharp—are rimmed red. She swipes at her face with the back of her hand, the motion quick and angry. "Why are you here, human?" The words come out brittle. "Leave me be."
Obinai shrugs, already digging into his food. He speaks through mouthfuls, his tone casual. "Trust me, I wish I could. But you saved my ass back on the first day, remember? Sure, the debt's been repaid, but… the only reason I made it through was because of you."
Fiora's eyes narrow even more, her lips pressed into a thin line. She looks like she's about to snap at him again, but Obinai keeps talking, looking directly into her eyes. "So I want to know what's going on."
For a moment, Fiora just glares at him, her pinkish eyes burning with contempt. "How dare a lowly human show me such familiarity," she hisses. "I should execute you where you stand."
Obinai groans, rolling his eyes as he chews. "Doesn't that get old?"
Fiora's stern expression falters, just for a second, but she keeps her voice sharp. "Of what do you speak, human?"
Obinai swallows and looks her dead in the eye. "The constant threats. I get it—you hate humans. You think we're all 'lowly creatures' or whatever. They did some bad stuff. Neat. But guess what? One of those lowly creatures just got a privilege to house with the grounded and bested most of the first-year student body in that tournament." He raises his hands in mock surrender, a smirk forming on his lips. "So, really… I don't see much of a difference."
Fiora chuckles darkly. "A fluke. That's all it was."
Obinai snorts, going back to his food. "Hell of a fluke," he mutters between bites. He looks up at her again. "Look, I'm not going anywhere. So you might as well spill it."
Fiora stares down at her plate, her expression wavering as she grips the edge of the table. She doesn't speak for a long moment. Finally, she glances up, her voice quieter now. "If I tell you… will you keep it to yourself?"
Obinai grins slightly, nodding. "Not a soul. Besides, no one would believe me anyway."
Fiora's lips twitch into a half-smile, but there's bitterness in her expression. "That's true," she says. She hesitates, her gaze drifting down to her hands. After a long pause, she sighs and starts...
"Do you know much about noble titles?" she asks.
Obinai shakes his head slowly, a piece of strange-looking meat halfway to his mouth. "Not really."
She nods, as if that was the answer she expected, and starts to explain. "Under the royal court, nobles are arranged in their own hierarchy, based on their contributions to the nation and the glory they bring to themselves and their people. It goes from Grand Duke at the top, followed by Duke, Marquess, Earl, Viscount, and finally, Baron."
Obinai listens, his chewing slowing down as she talks.
Fiora's voice drops a little more. "Each of these titles also has its own hierarchy." She pauses, then asks, "Do you understand that?"
"Yeah," Obinai replies, swallowing his food. He sits up a little straighter, now fully paying attention.
Fiora continues, her gaze distant. "The Draelith noble family—my family—was one of the first to volunteer for conflicts with other kingdoms. One of the first to be selected by the royal guard to defend the nation." Her voice falters, and she breaks off for a moment, closing her eyes briefly as if to steel herself.
"But because of that eagerness, most of my family was… reduced. Killed in battle. We are only a fraction of what we once were." Her hand clenches into a fist on the table. "The few of us left... we've only given subpar results. We've become… weak."
Obinai says nothing, just watches her as she stares ahead, her voice growing heavier.
"When a noble house suffers like this," she continues, "it begins to fall out of favor. We lose our status. Other noble families stop associating with us because they don't want to be dragged down with us. My family, the once-proud Draeliths, have fallen to the status of Viscount. No one wants to be seen with us now."
Tears begin to stream down Fiora's face, but her voice doesn't waver. "Lyra didn't know my last name until the tournament. When she found out… everything changed. I heard her say, 'How could I make such an error?'" Fiora's face tightens, her pink eyes shimmering with tears.
Her voice cracks as she continues, "When I collapsed during our first exchange, I heard her whisper, 'How dare you try to deceive me.'"
Obinai grits his teeth, his fists clenching under the table. "That bitch…" he mutters.
Fiora wipes at her face, trying to hold herself together, but her tears come faster now, turning into soft sobs. "My noble house is nothing now. Lyra kicked me out of their group the moment she realized what I was. I'm nothing but a fallen name."
Obinai listens in silence, the only sound being the soft clatter of his fork as he sets it down. Then, after a long pause, he speaks.
"So get your reputation up," he says simply.
Fiora looks up at him, her eyes wide. "What?"
Obinai shrugs, leaning back slightly as he grabs another bite of food. "Right. You've got nothing to prove to anyone anymore. The only place you can go from here is up."
She blinks, her tears stopping for a moment as she stares at him in disbelief.
Obinai continues, looking straight into her eyes. "Think about it. Now you can focus on one thing—getting your family's honor back. Nothing's holding you down anymore. You've got nothing to lose."
Fiora's lips part slightly, and she stares off for a moment, her sobs quieting as his words sink in. Her expression softens, and for the first time, there's a glimmer of hope behind the pain in her eyes. "Y-Yeah…" she says weakly, nodding. "You're right…"
Obinai nods, going back to his food. "Damn straight, I am. Look, if you need something to keep your mind off things, you can always sit with me and the others." He gestures with his fork toward a table nearby. "We don't bite. Well, maybe Bram does, but he's not here right now."
Fiora follows his gaze, looking at the table where Obinai pointed. She hesitates, then turns back to him. "Why are you doing this?" she asks. "Why are you helping me?"
Obinai shrugs, not really knowing the answer himself. "I dunno. Feels good, I guess."
He flashes her a small, genuine smile. It's the first time he's smiled like that all day. Fiora's eyes widen slightly, and she quickly looks down, hiding her expression. After a moment, she smiles too. "Yeah... it does."
Obinai grins again and takes another bite of food, while Fiora wipes the last of the tears from her cheeks, her posture a little straighter than before.
Obinai and Fiora talk for a bit longer, though most of the conversation is driven by her. At first, she hesitates, keeping her responses short and guarded, but as they continue talking, Fiora's words spill out more freely. She starts by mentioning her older brother—he was actually rivals and best friends with Lyra's older brother, which is why they were connected in the first place—who had disappeared years ago in search of power. Rumors said he was looking for forbidden magic, something to restore their family's honor. The more she speaks, the more Obinai realizes that Fiora, despite her usual cold demeanor, has a lot bottled up.
She talks about her family's history, her frustration with the noble system, and how she had always hated how it took over her life. Her voice grows more animated as she rants about the expectations placed on her and the pressure she feels from constantly trying to live up to her family's name and raise it's status.
Obinai mostly listens, nodding occasionally, and letting her vent. It becomes clear to him that Fiora, though normally quiet, likes to talk a lot once she gets going. He sits back and lets her rant, knowing that sometimes all people need is a sounding board.
As a couple of hours pass by, Fiora finally falls silent. She glances at the clock, her eyes widening slightly as she realizes how much time has passed. "I should go," she mutters, standing up and gathering her plate. She pauses for a moment, her back to Obinai as if she's unsure about something.
Then, suddenly, she turns around and walks back to him. Her posture is more relaxed now. "I… I appreciate your words," she says quietly.
Obinai chuckles lightly, rubbing the back of his neck. "You're welcome," he replies with a small grin.
Fiora gives him a brief nod and then turns, walking away with more confidence in her steps than when she first sat down.
As she disappears from view, Obinai leans back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck again.
"Did I do the right thing?" he wonders aloud.
He wasn't sure what the long-term consequences would be, and he really hoped it wouldn't make things awkward between them. Still, he chuckles softly to himself, thinking about how strange the whole interaction was.
...
...
Later on, Obinai pushes back from the table with a satisfied groan, his stomach pleasantly full. The empty plates on his tray are practically licked clean—only a few smears of amberroot syrup and a single, stubborn silverthread noodle (still twitching faintly) remain. He gathers his dishes, the clatter of ceramic and metal echoing in the deserted mess hall, and dumps them into the steaming sanitizer basin. The automatons hum as they take over, their brass arms already scrubbing away the remnants of his meal.
Stepping outside, the evening air greets him—cool, crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew-kissed grass. The courtyard stretches before him, bathed in the soft golden hues of twilight. A quiet hum lingers in the air, a vibration just at the edge of hearing. Obinai pauses mid-step, his ears straining.
What the hell is that?
He turns his head, scanning the empty courtyard. Nothing. Just the neatly trimmed grass, the occasional flicker of fireflies, and the distant murmur of evening classes still in session.
Probably just tired.
He shakes it off, rolling his shoulders as he resumes walking. His fingers twitch at his side...
A smoke would be perfect right now.
The thought lingers as he crosses. The dormitory looms ahead, its walls casting long shadows in the fading light. By the time he reaches the door, exhaustion finally catches up to him—his legs feel like lead, his eyelids heavy.
Damn, maybe I overdid it with the noodles.
His footsteps echo as he makes his way toward his room. He opens the door then—
—crash.
The sound comes from the bathroom. Something heavy hitting the tile, followed by the frantic rustling of supplies being tossed around.
Obinai slows, his instincts prickling.
The hell?
Curiosity wins out. He veers towards it, pushing the door open just enough to peer inside.
Bram is hunched over the sink, his reflection wild-eyed in the mirror. Cabinets hang open, their contents spilled across the counter—soap bottles, towels, vials of healing salve. He's digging through them, his movements jerky, uncoordinated.
Obinai frowns.
This isn't right.
"Hey," he says, stepping inside. "What're you looking for?"
Bram freezes. For a heartbeat, he doesn't move—just stares at Obinai's reflection in the mirror, his breath coming too fast. Then, like a switch flipped, he exhales sharply and shakes his head.
"Never mind," he mutters, voice rough. "Just leave me alone."
Obinai doesn't move. His fingers brush against the crumpled parchment in his pocket—the I.M.P. voucher.
This has to be his.
But Bram's never been secretive. Never snapped like this. Something's off.
Linea said to tell her if Bram acted weird.
This is definitely weird.
Bram whirls, his patience snapping. "I said leave me alone!"
Obinai holds up his hands, taking a step back. "Alright, alright. Just—"
Bram's gaze flickers to Obinai's pocket. Just for a second. Then he's shoving past, shoulder-checking him hard on the way out.
The door slams behind him.
Obinai stands there, the silence pressing in.
What the hell was that about?
His fingers tighten around the voucher.
...Should I tell Linea?
The question lingers, unanswered, as Obinai trudges into his dorm room. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing him in the dim, familiar space. His boots hit the floor with two dull thuds, kicked off without care. His jacket follows, sliding from his shoulders to crumple in a heap near the foot of his bed.
The voucher remains in his pocket—a stiff, folded presence against his thigh.
Bram was acting like a damn lunatic.
He peels off his shirt next, the fabric sticking slightly to his skin with dried sweat. The air is cool against his bare torso as he flops onto the bed, the thin mattress groaning under his weight.
If that voucher's his... why wouldn't he just say so?
His fingers twitch toward his pocket again, hesitating.
Because something's wrong.
Obinai exhales through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. .
Tell Liora.
But what if I'm wrong?
He shifts, the sheets rough against his skin. The events of the day replay behind his eyelids—Fiora's troubles, Erion missing, the strange hum in the courtyard, Bram's wild eyes in the bathroom mirror.
Too many damn questions.
Sleep tugs at him, relentless. His limbs grow heavier, his thoughts sluggish.
I'll figure it out tomorrow.
But even as he drifts off, his dreams are restless. Shadows twist at the edges of his consciousness, taking shape...
Somewhere in the dark, the voucher burns a hole in his discarded pants.
Waiting.