The dining hall at midday was louder than usual.
Students crammed around long tables, forks scraping plates, voices overlapping in a dozen different conversations.
Lucien found a spot near the end of one bench, wedged between a first-year whose name he still couldn’t remember and a third-year girl who kept sighing dramatically over her notes.
The stew smelled rich—herbs and root vegetables—but it sat heavy in his stomach today.
He ate anyway.
Across the table a group of second-years argued about the upcoming practical exam.
One of them, a boy with ink-stained fingers, slammed his cup down.
“I’m telling you, the resonance chain has to be at least twelve links or Professor Lirien docks points.
I lost half my score last time because I stopped at ten.”
His friend waved a spoon dismissively.
“You always overthink it.
Just make them stable.
Who cares if they’re pretty?”
Lucien listened without joining in.
The noise wrapped around him like background static from the old delivery routes—radios playing in shops, horns blaring, people shouting orders out windows.
Familiar in a way that made the academy feel almost ordinary for a moment.
He took another bite.
The bread was stale at the edges.
The third-year girl next to him sighed again, louder this time.
“If I fail herbology again my mother’s going to write another letter.
She already thinks I’m wasting time here instead of marrying into the Silverthorn line.”
The first-year beside Lucien snorted.
“At least you have options.
My father just wants me to ‘stop embarrassing the family name.’ Easy for him to say.
He doesn’t have to graft thornvine while it tries to stab him.”
Lucien almost smiled at that.
He pushed his bowl away half-finished.
The conversation flowed on without him.
No one asked for his opinion.
No one whispered about Nightshades or duels or golden-haired church girls.
Just normal complaints.
Normal pressures.
It felt like slipping into the crowd on a busy Tokyo sidewalk—anonymous, unremarkable, strangely comforting.
He stood to leave when a voice called out from further down the table.
“Wait—Lucien, right?”
Cecilia.
She balanced a tray in one hand and a stack of notes in the other, golden hair slightly frizzy from the greenhouse humidity earlier.
She set everything down carefully across from him, nearly knocking over a cup in the process.
“Sorry.
I’ve been meaning to ask.
Did the neutralizer work?
For the thornvine sap, I mean.
It can be stubborn sometimes.”
“It did.” Lucien sat back down.
The bench creaked under his weight.
“Smelled awful though.
Like old milk left in the sun.” Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
Cecilia laughed, a bright sound that drew a few glances.
She fiddled with the edge of her notes, folding one corner repeatedly.
“That’s the wild sage in it.
I keep telling Professor Lirien we could improve the recipe but she says tradition matters more than comfort.” She leaned forward a little, voice dropping.
“Between us, I think she just likes watching us suffer through it.”
Lucien found himself smiling despite the heavy stew in his stomach.
“Sounds about right for this place.”
They talked for a few minutes—nothing important.
She rambled a bit about a new hybrid strain she was trying to cultivate, words tumbling faster when she got excited.
He mentioned the way the grafts felt different when the shadows held them steady.
Simple exchange.
No subtext he could detect.
No testing.
Just two students comparing notes after a messy morning.
A server bumped the table while clearing plates, sending Cecilia’s notes scattering.
She yelped and lunged to catch them.
Lucien helped gather the ones that slid toward him.
One page had a small doodle in the margin—a lopsided flower with exaggerated thorns.
He handed it back without comment.
“Thanks,” she said, cheeks faintly pink.
“I’m usually more organized than this.
Or at least I try to be.”
Before he could reply, the third-year girl from earlier stood up abruptly.
“I need to go rewrite this entire essay.
Again.
If anyone sees me studying tonight, lie and say I was at a party or something.” She gathered her things in a flurry and left.
Cecilia watched her go, then turned back to Lucien.
“Everyone’s stressed this week.
The practicals are coming up faster than I expected.” She hesitated, fiddling with her notes again.
“If you ever want to practice grafting outside class… I mean, not that you need it.
But it helps me too.”
The offer hung there.
Genuine.
A little awkward.
Lucien nodded.
“Might take you up on that.”
She smiled, gathered her tray, and left with a small wave.
The table felt quieter after she was gone.
The second-years had moved on to complaining about dormitory food.
Lucien sat for another minute, listening to the general hum of the hall.
No one paid him any particular attention.
The weight of expectation that usually pressed on his shoulders felt lighter today.
Not gone.
Just… manageable. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
He left the dining hall and headed toward the practice yards out of habit.
The paths were busier than usual.
Groups of students rehearsed lines for some drama club presentation.
A first-year tripped over his own robe and dropped a stack of books, cursing loudly.
Lucien helped him pick a couple up without thinking.
The boy thanked him profusely and rushed off.
The yards themselves were half-empty.
Captain Harlan wasn’t there.
Instead a substitute instructor ran a light drill for the few students who showed up.
Lucien joined without much enthusiasm.
His movements felt mechanical at first.
The graft work from earlier had left his fingers slightly stiff.
He dropped a practice staff once.
Picked it up.
Kept going.
No grand improvements.
No sudden breakthroughs.
Just the steady repetition of form after form until his muscles remembered the patterns better than his mind did.
When the session ended early due to the substitute’s scheduling conflict, he felt neither disappointed nor particularly accomplished.
Just tired in the ordinary way.
On the way back to the dorms he passed a small group celebrating someone’s successful exam.
They cheered loudly, one of them waving a graded paper like a flag.
Lucien kept walking.
The sound followed him for a while before fading.
His room was quiet when he reached it.
No notes on the desk.
No unexpected visitors.
He sat on the edge of the bed for a long moment, flexing his sore fingers.
The faint scent of thornvine sap still clung to his skin despite the wash.
He thought about the greenhouse, the dining hall conversations, the way Cecilia had fiddled with her notes.
Small pieces of a larger place he was still learning how to exist in.
A knock sounded at the door.
One of the dormitory attendants, voice muffled through the wood.
“Message for you, Master Nightshade.
From the captain.
Practice rescheduled for dawn tomorrow.
Don’t be late, he said.”
Lucien called back an acknowledgment.
The attendant’s footsteps retreated down the hall.
He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The day hadn’t been remarkable.
But it had been his.
Messy.
Ordinary.
Real.