The parchment trembled in his hands, its empty lines mocking him. Two weeks had been given for the assignment, yet even now his quill had traced little more than hesitant scratches across the page. A mercenary had no use for ink and paper, only steel and blood. But Trinity Academy demanded more—it demanded proof of the mind as well as the blade.
When the work was finally handed in, his heart sank with unease. Yet the professor, a mountain of bronze muscle wrapped in the discipline of a scholar-warrior, studied the pages with surprising approval. The mercenary's words lacked flourish, but they were sharp, direct, and free of wasted ornamentation. A soldier's report, not a poet's tale.
But something was missing. His own place within the group had been left blank. The professor's roar thundered like an avalanche, shaking inkpots and rattling parchment. Reluctantly, he was forced to write of himself.
What was his strength? Others spoke of mastery over steel or flame, but he remembered only the defiance that surged whenever he was cornered—the stubborn fire that refused to kneel before force or tyranny. He wrote one word.
Rebellion.
The professor frowned, demanding its meaning. And so the mercenary spoke of the rage that flared when authority pressed unjustly upon him, of the instinct that made him bare his teeth even before nobles and kings. It was not righteousness, nor justice, only refusal—the unwillingness to bow.
And his weakness? That was easier. Lies sat poorly on his tongue, and his emotions carved themselves openly across his face. The professor read in silence, then finally gave his nod of acceptance. The task was done. Relief washed over him like cool rain.
Yet before he could rest, new storms loomed. Midterms approached with merciless swiftness, followed by a study abroad program—no mere academic excursion, but field training to hunt meteors beyond the academy's walls. The words weighed heavy on him, but heavier still was the professor's cryptic warning:
Gifts are not always blessings. Some are curses that eat away at the soul.
Two days later, the academy gates stood open to the city of Chorus. Students streamed outward, their belongings swept over by the palm-light of weary magicians stationed as sentries. This was no ordinary academy; accidents born of unchecked power were too common, and vigilance was demanded even at the threshold.
The mercenary clutched his modest coin purse. Within it, barely enough to buy a trinket. Yet he wanted something—a gift for the captain, a spark of joy to carry with his letter. At the edge of his thoughts, his unseen companion whispered warnings and fragments of futures, of alchemical shops destined to burst into flame, of dangers ignored. But still he stepped forward, eager to taste the city's pulse.
Chorus, born from nothing, had grown into a vibrant sprawl around the academy, merchants flocking from every corner of the world to chase the scent of coin. Its streets were thick with spice-smoke and sizzling meat skewers, with oddities both delightful and grotesque. A place where the ordinary and the impossible mingled freely.
And then he saw it—a stall marked with the words Chorus Newspaper. Students and townsfolk alike placed coins upon the counter and walked away with rough gray sheets of inked paper. It was no rumor whispered in taverns, nor secrets sold by shadowed dealers, but knowledge laid open for all to see.
Curious, he paid his coin and unrolled the pages. The texture was coarse, the scent of fresh ink sharp. Yet the words struck him like a blade of ice.
The front page bore news not of distant wars or merchant squabbles—but of Trinity Academy itself.
Of him.
And in that moment, the mercenary understood: the academy walls were no shield. The world beyond watched, whispered, and judged. Every step within these halls carried weight, not just in the clash of blades, but in the gaze of a thousand unseen eyes.