Thaddeus woke before dawn, the dorm still dim and cold. For a moment he lay still, staring at the cracked ceiling and the faint beam of gold creeping in through the blinds. A strange, unsteady feeling tugged at him — not fear, but the quiet disorientation of a boy who was used to waking on concrete floors, not clean sheets. He rubbed his face, sat up, and forced himself to move.
Today wasn't a nightmare.
It was real.
He was alive.
And he was in the Academy.
The hallway was already buzzing with students when he stepped out. Some looked exhausted, some excited, some dressed as if they expected to duel before breakfast. Thaddeus kept his eyes low and his pace steady. After last night — the stares, the whispers, he really just wanted get past without having to deal with they're snobby attitude.
The dining room opened wide like a cathedral. Rows of tables. High ceilings glowing with warm enchanted lights. And the food—
He froze.
More food than he had ever seen in one place. Warm loaves of bread stacked like bricks, golden eggs steaming in giant bowls, spiced meats, fruits he didn't even recognize, pitchers of milk and juice lined like soldiers. The scents crashed into him — savory, sweet, dizzying.
Thaddeus swallowed hard.
Back in the slums, breakfast meant whatever stale scrap you could fight someone for. Sometimes nothing at all. Plates this full… tables this full…
It didn't look real.
He grabbed a tray mechanically, hands almost shaking, and began piling food onto it. Bread. Meat. Eggs. Fruit. More meat. He didn't even realize how much he had taken until he noticed a group of first-years staring at him.
One whispered to another,
"Is he… gonna eat all that?"
Another snorted,
"Slum rat must not know how buffets work."
Thaddeus ignored them, jaw tightening, and found an empty seat near the middle of a long table. Students were talking loudly around him, laughing, comparing Trial memories, bragging about class placements.
That was when he saw her.
A girl. Sitting at the very end of the same table — but far from anyone else. Not eating. Not speaking. Just quietly pulling apart a piece of bread with careful, delicate fingers.
Something felt… off. Not in a dangerous way more like she didn't know how to belong in the room.
He glanced around, confused.
When did everyone else get up?
Why did she sit alone?
He took a breath, pushed his tray aside, and stood. His legs felt heavier than they should've — old instincts warning him not to bother people who wanted to be left alone.
But something about her expression — the slight tremble in her fingers, the way her eyes stayed downcast — wouldn't let him walk away.
Thaddeus approached slowly.
"Uh… hey," he said quietly.
She didn't react. Didn't look up. Didn't flinch. It was as if his voice hadn't even reached her.
He tried again, louder this time.
"Hey."
No response.
Thaddeus leaned forward, peering at her face.
Her eyes flicked up abruptly — wide, startled, almost frightened. She jerked backward as if he had shocked her, fumbling with her hands, patting her pockets in frantic motion. Finally she grabbed a small notebook and a piece of charcoal and scribbled quickly.
She turned the page toward him.
I'm deaf. Sorry.
Thaddeus blinked. Oh.
She bowed her head apologetically, as if she'd committed a crime. Her hair — a pale lavender-white, almost silver — fell over her face like a curtain. Her eyes were striking: pale golden, soft and unfocused, like morning sunlight through fog.
Thaddeus raised both hands to show he meant no harm, then pointed to himself.
Thaddeus.
He mouthed the name slowly, exaggerating the shape of his lips. She studied his mouth carefully, then nodded.
Her charcoal scratched quickly across the paper.
Lyra.
He smiled a little. "Nice to meet you, Lyra."
She watched his lips again, then scribbled:
Your plate is… a lot. First time?
He felt his ears burn.
Was it really that obvious?
He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck.
Lyra's shoulders relaxed slightly, and a tiny, almost invisible smile appeared. Not mocking — just understanding. She pushed her own plate toward him. One small loaf of bread. A few slices of fruit.
You like food. I don't eat much. Balance?
Thaddeus blinked.
Was she… offering to give him half her breakfast?
"N-No, I'm good," he said quickly. "Really."
She tilted her head, studying his lips again. Then wrote:
Your Trial… people are talking. They said your armor looked like it was alive.
Thaddeus stiffened.
Of course they were talking.
He exhaled slowly. "It is alive," he said. "Sort of."
She watched his lips, then wrote with slower, careful charcoal strokes:
Does it hurt you?
He hesitated.
Images flickered back — red mist, metal bursting from his skin, the bite of teeth drinking his blood.
"…Yeah," he admitted softly. "A little."
Lyra's gaze softened.
"When it manifest it takes your blood my aspect revolves around blood so I doesn't bother me as much, I can give it just enough to come to and if you want it to be stronger. Either give it your blood or the blood of your enemy stuff like that."
Lyra stood, bowed her head politely, and walked toward the exit — soft, silent, and alone.
Thaddeus watched her go, then gathered his tray and headed toward the first class of the day, unaware that the quiet girl with golden eyes had already seen more of him than most ever would.