It's a cold morning, and Cale makes his way down the narrow, slippery stairs toward the dining hall. His fingers grip the wooden railing for balance, boots knocking softly against the stone as the scent of warm food drifts upward to meet him.
Inside, the hall is surprisingly quiet. Compared to yesterday's chaos, only a few scattered groups of students sit huddled at the long tables, talking in low voices. Cale grabs a plate and piles it high with steaming eggs, crisp bacon, and a few pieces of the softest, warmest bread he has ever seen. The heat of it seeps into his hands, making him realize just how cold the morning really is.
He finishes his meal quickly, but as he gets up to leave, he remembers Chloé—and the half-starved look she always tries to hide. Glancing around to make sure no one is watching, he snatches a few extra pieces of bread and stuffs them into his pockets before heading back toward the dormitory corridors.
As he turns a corner, he spots Chloé striding down the hallway with her usual impossible pace. Cale breaks into a jog to catch up.
"Chloé, wait!"
She stops and turns, her expression softening as she sees him hurry toward her. Cale comes to a halt beside her, slightly breathless from the short run.
"You're going to have to work on your running if you're already tired," she teases, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
He finally catches his breath and pulls the bread from his pocket, offering it to her. Her eyes brighten instantly, the dull tiredness replaced with a spark of gratitude.
"Thank you," she murmurs, already chewing on a warm piece.
"I should get to my first class," Cale says, suddenly aware of how close they're standing.
"Yes, you should." She steps even closer—close enough that he can smell the faint scent of woodsmoke and old paper on her clothes—and reaches up to adjust the collar of his shirt. Her fingers brush lightly against his neck, and for a moment time seems to slow. He notices the small freckles on her cheeks, the way her eyes catch the light, the softness in her expression he hadn't seen before. For the first time, she doesn't look like the guarded, hungry girl he found in the shadows—she looks warm, alive, almost radiant.
"Hup hup, off you go," she says gently.
Cale shakes himself from the moment and straightens up. "Yeah… of course." He turns and heads down the corridor toward his class, still feeling the warmth of her touch on his collar.
Chloé watches him leave, a small smile playing on her lips before she continues on her way
He pushes open the big wooden doors and steps into the classroom. The room is larger than he expected—wide, with rows of seats arranged in a half-moon that slopes gently downward toward the center. There, a massive desk sits in front of a towering slab of carved stone, its surface covered in swirling runes and grooves. Cale can only guess it's meant for demonstrations, though he has no idea what kind.
He scans the room and quietly takes a seat at an empty table. A few students mumble among themselves, most looking half-asleep. Minutes pass. Then the big doors swing open again—hard enough for the sound to echo through the hall.
No one appears at first.
Then Ingrid steps in.
She walks to the desk with her usual stern determination and settles her notes. "Welcome everyone. I'll be your lector for Basic Elementology. This is a class exclusively for those with fire capabilities, so our focus will naturally be on fire manipulation."
She claps her hands once. "Let's begin."
With a flick of her wrist, small balls of flame leap from her fingertips and shoot across the room, igniting each wall torch in smooth, bright succession. Warm orange light fills the chamber.
The lesson is long, and every few minutes a bored groan rises from somewhere in the room. But Cale isn't bored—far from it. Every word is new, every movement Ingrid demonstrates feels like a key to something locked deep within him.
They learn the basic ways to call on their powers, to sense the heat within their own bodies, to coax fire into existence rather than forcing it. Ingrid moves like she's shaping water, not flame—precise, controlled, purposeful.
When the lesson finally ends, the students shuffle out, murmuring complaints about how early it is or how pointless the exercises feel. Cale stands to leave as well, but Ingrid raises a hand.
"Cale. Stay a moment."
He freezes. The last student slips out, and the door closes with a soft thud.
Ingrid crosses her arms. "I spoke to the principal after what happened yesterday. You can stay… but this is your last chance." Her voice softens, but only slightly. "We can't have anything like that happening ever again."
She steps closer. "Now. Let me show you something. You need a safe, simple way to summon a small flame."
She raises her hand and demonstrates slowly.
"Curl your fingers slightly—as if holding a small sphere. Relax your palm. Then breathe out as if you're warming your hands on a cold day. While you exhale, focus all the heat inside your chest into the center of your palm. Not through force. Through release."
Cale mimics the motion. Nothing happens.
He tries again. And again.
After what feels like forever, a faint spark flickers in his hand—then a tiny flame, no bigger than a candle's tip, shivers to life.
He stares at it, breath caught in his throat.
"Good," Ingrid says, a rare hint of pride in her voice. "Do this to get your powers under control. We can't have you exploding again." She gives a small smirk at her own joke.
"Oh—and practice it. A lot. You need to be able to do it without thinking. Even if it takes you a thousand tries." She taps his chest lightly. "Get. It. Right."
With that, she gathers her things and leaves the room, the door closing behind her in a soft echo of flame-warm air.
The wind bangs against the old window, rattling the frame of the room plunged in darkness. The only thing that silences the storm outside is a weary groan from Cale. He has been practicing for hours—far past midnight—and the ache in his arms is a constant reminder of it. He's only left his room once, quickly grabbing whatever food he could carry before locking himself back inside.
A small flame flickers in his hands, lighting the room just enough to reveal the sweat dripping down his face. A single droplet hangs from the tip of his nose before falling onto the floor.
His flames are getting more consistent now—still unstable, but no longer the tiny sparks he struggled with earlier. They're growing, forming faster, lasting longer. He even managed to light his candle simply by holding his hand over the wick, coaxing a flame into being without a single match.
Satisfied—though exhausted—Cale finally lets the fire die out. He stumbles into the small bathroom and sinks into a warm bath, the heat soothing the stiff muscles from a whole day of grinding practice. Steam curls around him, carrying away the sweat, the frustration, and the lingering fear of losing control again.
When he's clean and dry, he collapses into bed. The moment his head touches the pillow, sleep claims him completely.