Rain came down in fits and starts the next morning.
Not the dramatic downpour of stories, just enough to make the stone paths slick and turn the air thick with the smell of wet earth and old wood.
Lucien’s ribs still throbbed when he breathed too deep.
The burn on his shoulder pulled tight under his uniform shirt.
He kept his steps careful on the way to Mana Theory, one hand pressed absently against his side.
Class had already started when he slipped in.
Professor Aldric paused mid-sentence, glasses slipping down his nose.
“Nightshade.
Late again.” Short.
Annoyed.
The man never used more words than necessary.
“Sorry, Professor.” Lucien dropped into a seat near the back.
The chair scraped loud against the floor.
A couple first-years glanced over.
One smirked.
Another—a girl with braided hair—quickly looked away like she’d been caught staring at something embarrassing.
Aldric resumed droning about mana resonance.
Lucien tried to focus, but his mind kept drifting to the duel.
The way Darius had laughed right before every big swing.
The heat that had seared his sleeve.
How close he’d come to just—
“—practical demonstration,” Aldric said, suddenly louder.
“Nightshade.
Front.
Now.”
Lucien blinked.
Of course.
Right when my head’s elsewhere.
He stood.
The walk to the front felt longer than it should.
His ribs protested with every step.
The professor pointed at a crystal array on the desk.
“Resonate.
Steady pulse.
No outbursts.”
Lucien placed his hands near the crystals.
Shadows flickered at his fingertips, thin and hesitant at first.
The array hummed.
Too weak.
He pushed harder.
The shadows thickened, but one crystal flared too bright and cracked with a sharp pop.
Glass fragments skittered across the desk.
Snickers from the back row.
Someone whispered, “Nightshade temper.”
Aldric sighed.
“Again.
Control it.”
Lucien’s face burned.
Frustration bubbled up hot and sudden.
He tried again.
Better this time, but still uneven.
The class dragged after that.
Notes.
A headache building behind his eyes.
When the bell finally rang, he gathered his things quickly, wanting nothing more than fresh air.
A voice stopped him near the door.
“Hey.
Wait.”
Cecilia.
Golden hair slightly damp from the rain, uniform sleeve smudged with what looked like ink.
She shifted a stack of books in her arms.
“I saw the duel yesterday.
From the upper path.
You held on longer than most first-years would against Darius.”
Lucien shrugged, awkward.
The movement pulled at his burn.
“Still lost ground.
Literally.”
She smiled, small and genuine.
“Most people just fall over when he starts throwing fire.
You didn’t.
That counts for something.”
Before he could answer, another student pushed past them in the doorway, muttering something about “shadow freaks clogging the hall.” Cecilia frowned but let it go.
Lucien stepped outside with her.
The rain had eased to a drizzle.
Puddles reflected the gray sky.
They walked a short way in silence.
Cecilia adjusted her books again.
“I’m still figuring things out here too.
The nobles… some of them look at me like I don’t belong.
Church backing only goes so far.”
“Yeah.
I get that.” Lucien kept his reply short.
Part of him wanted to say more—ask about her classes, warn her about the undercurrents he remembered from the old story.
But the words stuck.
Too soon.
Too risky.
Elara appeared at the next intersection, coat draped over one arm.
She didn’t hurry.
Just fell into step beside them like it was natural.
“Brother.
Lady Vale.”
Her tone stayed even.
Polite on the surface.
But Lucien caught the slight lift of her eyebrow when she noticed Cecilia.
Testing again.
Always watching how he handled things without her stepping in.
Cecilia nodded respectfully.
“Lady Elara.
Your brother’s improving quickly.
It was impressive yesterday.”
Elara’s gaze flicked to Lucien’s singed sleeve, then away.
“He has potential.
Whether he uses it remains to be seen.” She left it there.
No elaboration.
No warmth.
An awkward beat stretched.
“Well.
I should get to Herbology.
Good luck with your next classes.”
She left with a small wave.
Lucien watched her go for a second, then turned toward Elara.
“You could have said something.”
“Should I have?” Elara started walking again.
Her steps clicked sharply on the wet stone.
“You managed.
Barely.
But you did.
Voss will remember that.”
Lucien fell in beside her.
The burn on his shoulder itched.
Rain dripped from the eaves of a nearby building, cold against his neck.
He felt a strange mix of relief and irritation.
Relief that he hadn’t completely embarrassed the family.
Irritation that Elara’s approval still felt conditional.
Distant.
They passed a group of third-years arguing loudly about tournament brackets.
One of them laughed too loud at something.
Lucien caught a snippet—”Nightshade got lucky, that’s all”—before the wind carried it away.
Elara didn’t comment.
She never did on things like that.
Just kept walking, shoulders straight, expression cool.
But her pace slowed slightly when they reached a quieter stretch of path.
Almost like she was giving him room to speak if he wanted.
He didn’t.
Not yet.
The words felt tangled.
Later that afternoon, during a solo practice slot, Lucien worked alone on the far field.
Shadows coiled and uncoiled around a training post.
Each successful bind brought a small, quiet satisfaction.
Each miss reminded him how far he still had to go.
No grand revelations.
Just the steady rhythm of trying again.
Elara didn’t join him.
Not that day.
But she left a note on his desk before evening study.
Short.
Unsigned.
Wrists next time.
Higher.
He stared at it for a long while, thumb tracing the neat handwriting.
The paper smelled faintly of the lavender sachets she kept in her things.
Progress.
Maybe.
Or just another test.
The rain picked up again toward nightfall, drumming against the window panes.
Lucien sat with his notes, ribs aching, mind turning over the day’s pieces.
No neat conclusions.
Just the slow, messy work of figuring out where he stood.