# CHAPTER 1.1
*Six years later*
---
The library is empty.
*Perfect.*
Same table. Third row, window side. Same book he's read twice already.
Not reading it now either.
Outside, the training grounds are loud. Swords cracking. Instructors yelling. The usual.
He watches Andrian block a strike. Counter. Win in two moves.
*Show-off.*
Three years of this and Andrian's gotten good. Really good.
*Good for him.*
The book is still open. Page forty-seven.
He turns it. Pretends to read.
---
"Still here?"
Doesn't look up. Knows that voice.
Andrian pulls out a chair. Sits. Uninvited, as always.
"Where else would I be? The theatre? Opera? Oh wait—I'm broke."
"You could watch training."
"Hard pass."
"The instructors wouldn't mind—"
"I said pass." Looks up. Smiles. "I'm good here. Living my best life."
Andrian's jaw tightens.
The jokes annoy him. The attitude. Probably thinks it means giving up.
It doesn't. But explaining that would require caring what Andrian thinks.
"At least you should watch me practice," Andrian says. "We spend less time nowadays."
*Ah. Guilt trip time.*
"You're busy." Shrugs. "Training. Missions. Being useful. I get it."
"That's not—"
"When's the last time you came here without feeling sorry for me first?"
Silence.
Andrian's mouth opens. Closes. Nothing comes out.
*Yeah. Thought so.*
Stands up. Gathers his books.
"Seriously, go back to training. You're good at it. Don't waste time on charity work."
"Dorian—"
"I'm fine, Andrian. Really." Grins. "Never better."
Leaves before Andrian can argue.
---
The library empties out around noon.
Students heading to lunch. Then afternoon training sessions.
He packs up his books. Checks the time.
One o'clock.
General studies starts at two.
*Pain in the ass.*
---
The general studies classroom is on the ground floor. Away from the advanced magic halls. Away from the combat arenas. Away from anything useful.
Perfect location for the rejects.
He walks in five minutes late. On purpose.
The instructor—Mr. Harrow, ancient and perpetually disappointed—looks up from his desk.
"Mr. Vale. How kind of you to join us."
"Couldn't stay away. Your lectures are riveting."
A few students snicker. Most ignore him.
There are twelve of them total. Kids who tested low. Kids with minor affinities. Kids with physical limitations.
And him. The anomaly.
He takes his usual seat. Back corner. Window side.
Maximizes distance from everyone else.
Harrow starts the lesson. Something about magical theory. The basics of mana flow. Stuff he learned when he was seven.
He stops listening after thirty seconds.
Instead, watches out the window. The advanced class is visible across the courtyard. Real magic. Real training.
Melissa's probably over there. Practicing healing techniques. Looking competent.
Good for her.
"Mr. Vale."
He blinks. Looks at Harrow.
"Yes?"
"Perhaps you could answer the question?"
"I wasn't aware there was a question."
"The question," Harrow says slowly, "was about the three primary types of mana affinity."
"Elemental, physical, divine." Doesn't even think about it. "Next question."
Harrow's eye twitches. "And can you elaborate—"
"Elemental covers fire, water, earth, air, lightning, and the rare variants. Physical is body enhancement. Divine is healing and holy magic. Anything else?"
Silence.
A girl in the front row—Sarah something—turns around. Glares at him.
He smiles back.
Harrow clears his throat. "Yes. Well. Thank you for that... concise summary."
"Anytime."
The lesson continues.
He goes back to looking out the window.
Someone throws a wadded paper at his head.
He doesn't turn around. Just lets it bounce off.
Picks it up. Unwraps it.
*Freak.*
*Creative.*
He crumples it. Tosses it in his bag.
Adds it to the collection.
---
Class ends after an hour.
Feels like three.
He's the first one out the door.
In the hallway, a group of advanced students passes by. Third-years. Combat focused.
One of them—broad shoulders, probably physical enhancement—notices him.
"Hey. Anomaly kid."
He stops. Looks over.
"That's me. Want an autograph?"
The guy's friends laugh.
"Still pretending you belong here?"
"Still pretending you have a brain?"
The guy's face darkens. Steps forward.
A hand catches his shoulder.
*Andrian.*
*Great.*
"Leave him alone, Marcus."
Marcus looks at Andrian. Back at him. Grins.
"Your little charity case?"
"Marcus—"
"It's fine," he interrupts. Looks at Marcus. "He's right. I'm a charity case. Tragic story. Very sad. Now if you'll excuse me, I have places to be."
Walks away before anyone can respond.
Doesn't look back.
Behind him, he hears Andrian say something. Marcus laughs.
*Whatever.*
He leaves the academy building.
Heads toward the market.
Better than sticking around.
He takes the long route through the market.
More interesting. More noise. More people who don't know him.
*Better.*
He passes a stall selling practice swords. The vendor perks up.
"Looking for equipment, young man?"
"Do I look like I'm looking for equipment?"
The vendor blinks. "Uh—"
"Rhetorical question." Keeps walking.
Behind him, someone mutters something about manners.
*Whatever.*
Further down, an enchantment stall. The woman running it smiles at him.
"Interested in charms? Protection spells? We have—"
"I'm allergic to magic."
"...What?"
"Breaks me out in hives. Terrible condition. Very sad." Deadpan. "Thoughts and prayers appreciated."
He walks away before she can respond.
A kid—maybe twelve—is staring at him. Recognition in his eyes.
"You're that—"
"The anomaly kid? Yeah. Want an autograph? Fair warning, it's worthless."
The kid's face goes red. Scurries away.
Dorian smirks.
That never gets old.
---
Halfway through the market, he spots her.
*Melissa.*
At a food stall. Laughing with the vendor about something.
He turns down a different street.
Not in the mood for the whole "are you okay?" routine. The concerned face. The offers to talk that she won't have time to follow through on.
Easier this way.
She doesn't notice him anyway.
*Good.*
---
His street is quiet when he gets there.
House between Andrian's and across from Melissa's. Close enough they used to run between yards without asking.
Now? Not so much.
His parents won't be home for another hour. Dad at work. Mom at her second job.
The house is empty.
He stands in the entry hall for a second.
Quiet.
*Perfect.*
---
His room looks like it has for years. Books everywhere. Desk covered in notes about... everything.
History. Music theory. Philosophy. Poetry. Architecture. Whatever he grabbed from the library last.
Nothing practical. Nothing useful.
Just... stuff to read.
Stuff to think about that isn't his own life.
He pulls a book off the pile. *A Comprehensive History of Pre-War Musical Composition.*
Couldn't care less about music theory.
But it's 400 pages.
That's a week of not thinking.
Good enough.
He sits at his desk. Opens it. Starts reading.
Gets through three pages before his mind wanders.
Closes it. Grabs another book. *Architectural Principles of the Norther Kingdoms.*
Five pages this time.
Closes it.
Grabs another.
*The Philosophical Musings of—*
"Fuck," he mutters.
Can't focus.
Never can when it's quiet like this.
He stands. Paces. Sits. Stands again.
The restlessness is worse today.
Starts humming. Some tune he heard in the market last week. Doesn't know the words. Doesn't matter.
Just fills the silence.
He hums louder. Turns it into actual singing. Makes up words that don't make sense.
Sounds stupid.
Nobody's listening anyway.
Keeps singing until he runs out of breath.
Silence again.
Worse now.
He sits back down. Grabs the music theory book again.
Reads. Doesn't retain anything. Keeps reading anyway.
Pages turn. Time passes.
His dad's key in the lock downstairs.
He blinks. Looks at the window.
Dark already.
How long has he been sitting here?
Doesn't know.
Doesn't matter.
"Dorian?" Mom's voice from downstairs. "Dinner!"
"Coming!"
Closes the book. Leaves it on his desk with the others.