The final, piercing shriek of Instructor Garrick's whistle echoed off the arena walls, releasing the pent-up energy of the combat class. I lowered my wooden practice sword, my shoulder throbbing dully where Kael's precise counter-tap had landed moments before. Sweat stung my eyes, blurring the retreating forms of other students, and my muscles trembled with a deep, satisfying ache mixed with a current of raw frustration. Across from me, Kael stood impossibly still, not a hair out of place, his breathing unnervingly steady. He gave me one final, unreadable look – a flicker of assessment that seemed to catalogue every flaw, every hesitation I'd exposed in the last brutal hour – then turned without a word and melted back towards his solitary corner near the heavy oak doors, becoming part of the shadows.
"Well," Lira appeared at my elbow, peeling off her heavy leather gauntlets. Her knuckles were slightly reddened, probably from pounding some unfortunate soul's shield, but she looked energized, flushed rather than drained. "That looked... educational."
I grimaced, wiping sweat from my brow with the rough sleeve of my tunic. "Educational? Felt more like getting dissected by a stone statue wielding a sword."
Lira chuckled, falling into step beside me as we joined the stream of students flowing out of the arena. The cool air of the corridor was a shock after the heat of exertion. "Kael doesn't waste words. Or movement. Consider it efficient brutality." She nudged me with an elbow. "He also doesn't get paired with just anyone. Garrick must see something."
I wasn't sure if that was meant to be comforting or terrifying. I glanced back over my shoulder. Kael was already leaning against the wall again, a solitary pillar amidst the departing crowd, his gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance. The faint, pale line down the side of his neck caught the harsh arena light. What *did* Garrick see? Potential? Or just a glaring, fundamental lack of skill screaming for correction?
Storm hopped onto my shoulder, letting out a soft, sympathetic chirp and nuzzling my damp temple with his cool beak. I reached up automatically, scratching the small drake under the chin, finding comfort in his solid presence. He'd watched the entire session from a high rafter with unnerving focus, occasionally letting out a low, raspy caw when I'd stumbled or when Kael's movements became particularly economical and lethal.
The chaos of the main academy corridors felt overwhelming after the focused intensity of the arena. A river of bodies flowed towards the refectory, voices rising in a cacophony of post-class chatter, laughter, boasts, and heated arguments. The air thickened with the smells of sweat, damp wool tunics, and the underlying scent of old stone, polish, and something vaguely metallic.
We managed to snag seats at a long, scarred oak table near a high arched window. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating swirling galaxies of dust motes dancing in the beams. Lira immediately attacked a hunk of dark, dense bread and a steaming bowl of thick vegetable stew. I unpacked the cloth bundle Elowen had pressed into my hands that morning: two spiced meat pastries still faintly warm, a wedge of hard, sharp cheese, and two sticky honey cakes. The familiar smells of home were a small anchor. I broke off a tiny piece of flaky pastry and offered it to Storm, who snatched it delicately with his beak, swallowing it whole.
"So," Lira said around a mouthful of bread, her sharp green eyes fixed on me. "The silent shadow. Kael. He's... an experience."
I tore off a piece of my own pastry, the spices warming my mouth. "What *is* his story? Why's he always alone? Why the..." I gestured vaguely towards my own neck, mimicking the scar's line.
Lira swallowed, her expression turning thoughtful, losing its usual playful edge. "Nobody knows much. Not really. He showed up maybe a year ago. Garrick brought him in personally. Doesn't talk to anyone. Doesn't join any cliques. Doesn't even seem to sleep much. Just trains. Obsessively. Especially hand-to-hand and small blades." She lowered her voice slightly, leaning in conspiratorially over the steaming stew. "Rumors say he came from the borderlands. Near the Scorched Steppes." She let that hang for a moment, the name alone carrying a chill. "That scar, people whisper it was a raider's blade. That he was... the only survivor."
A cold knot tightened in my stomach despite the warmth of the refectory. The Scorched Steppes were a lawless nightmare, a buffer zone crawling with desperate bandits, rogue mages, and things best left unnamed. A survivor. Alone. It explained the unnerving stillness, the hyper-awareness, the way he moved like violence was his native tongue, spoken fluently and without hesitation. "And Garrick just... lets him be? Like that?"
Lira shrugged, tearing off more bread. "Garrick respects skill. Raw, undeniable skill. And Kael has that. More than anyone else here in pure, unadorned combat, I'd warge my next honey cake on it. He doesn't cause trouble. He doesn't brag. He doesn't interact. He just... exists. Like a very dangerous, very quiet piece of furniture." She dunked the bread into her stew. "Until Garrick points him at someone. Like a weapon. Like he did with you today."
I poked at my own stew with my spoon, the encounter replaying behind my eyes. The impenetrable defense, the pinpoint counters that felt less like blocks and more like surgical strikes, the utter lack of wasted breath or motion. It hadn't felt like training; it had felt like being systematically dismantled, piece by clumsy piece. "He saw everything," I muttered, the frustration bubbling back up. "Every time I even *thought* about shifting my weight, about feinting... he knew."
"That's his thing," Lira nodded, her mouth full again. "He *sees*. Doesn't miss a twitch, a shift in the eyes, the way you breathe. Makes him utterly terrifying in a fight and probably useless at parties." She grinned, the momentary seriousness fading. "Look on the bright side. If you survive Kael's 'tutelage', sneering Lordling over there," she jerked her chin subtly towards my earlier opponent, who was watching us from another table with a superior smirk, "will be easy pickings. Like swatting a fly."
I managed a weak smile. Survival felt like an awfully low bar to aim for. I broke off a piece of the honey cake, the sweetness a brief, sticky comfort on my tongue. Storm, perched on the table edge near my bowl, chirped hopefully, his head cocked, large reptilian eyes fixed unblinkingly on the golden treat.
As I held out the morsel, a fresh wave of frustration surged within me – frustration at my own clumsiness against Kael, at his infuriating silent perfection, at the smug face of the smirking boy across the room. Unconsciously, my grip tightened slightly on the piece of cake, my knuckles whitening.
Storm, stretching his neck to delicately take the offering, suddenly flinched violently. A tiny, brilliant spark, no bigger than a firefly but blindingly bright, snapped between my clenched fingers and the drake's beak with a sharp, audible *pop*.
"Ow!" I yelped, more from shock than real pain, snatching my hand back instinctively. The piece of honey cake crumbled onto the worn tabletop. Storm let out a startled, harsh caw, flapping backwards off the table edge before landing clumsily, ruffling his feathers frantically and blinking rapidly as if dazed.
Lira's eyes widened almost comically. "Whoa! What was *that*? Static?" She leaned forward, peering intently at my fingers, then at Storm, who was shaking his head vigorously. "That sounded sharp!"
I flexed my hand, staring at the spot where the tiny spark had appeared. It hadn't felt like static from dry wool. It had felt *sharp*. Sudden. Like a miniature bolt of contained lightning leaping from my skin. I looked at Storm, my heart suddenly pounding against my ribs. The drake was still ruffled, but seemed unharmed, eyeing the fallen cake crumbs with wary interest. He gave another soft, questioning chirp.
"I... don't know," I said slowly, the words thick in my dry mouth. I remembered the strange, prickling warmth in my hands during the energy manipulation class, the faint, impossible blue glow when I'd modified Thorne's rune. And now this. A visible spark, born of my own frustration, leaping directly to Storm. "Did I... hurt you?" I asked Storm softly, reaching out a tentative finger towards his head.
Storm tilted his head, considering my finger for a second, then cautiously pecked at a crumb of honey cake on the table. He swallowed it and chirped again, a sound that seemed more curious and slightly irritated than distressed.
Lira was still staring, her earlier levity completely gone, replaced by a keen, analytical look. "That wasn't normal static, Adam," she said, her voice low and serious. "Storm *reacted*. Properly. Like he felt that zap. Deeply."
I closed my hand into a fist, feeling the residual tingle in my fingertips, then opened it again. Nothing. Just my ordinary, slightly calloused palm. Had I imagined the intensity? But Lira had seen it, heard the pop. And Storm had definitely, undeniably felt it. A cold dread began to pool in my gut.
I looked up, scanning the crowded refectory. Had anyone else noticed the tiny flare in the sunbeam? Most students were engrossed in their own meals, conversations, and minor dramas. But then my gaze snagged, pulled by an instinctive unease.
Across the bustling hall, near the main entrance archway, Kael stood. He wasn't holding a tray. He wasn't looking for a seat. He was simply... there. Watching. His dark, impassive eyes were fixed directly on *me*. Not on Lira. Not on the table or the spilled crumbs. On *me*. And on Storm, who had now fluttered back onto my shoulder, carefully preening a slightly singed-looking feather near his wing joint.
The distance was too great to read any specific emotion on his face.