The room was stuffy. The air was stale, as if it didn't believe that anyone actually lived here. The window was slightly ajar, but the only sound coming from outside was the faint noise of the academic city: the muffled footsteps, the ringing of a bell in a tower, and the cheers of students celebrating their first days of freedom.
Kallen closed the door behind him and leaned against it. For a moment, he just stood there, staring into space. His head was spinning. The tattoo beneath his skin still felt slightly warm, as if to remind him: you are now a part of this.
He ran his fingers over his wrist, looking at the swirling mark again. It was like smoke embedded in his flesh. It was even pretty... if you forgot that it was the mark of the weakest class possible. A shame, as those teachers would say.
"What the fuck are you awake for, huh?" he said to the air. "You could have slept some more. Now get out of here, and be a good girl and get me out of here."
There was no answer, of course. Only the creaking of the floorboards as he walked over to the table and sat down. There was already a scroll on the table—the entrance papers, the list of subjects, and the schedule for the first few weeks.
He opened it, and after a couple of seconds, his face twisted.
"Oh, fuck, algebra, history of magic, aether physics, and the damned ethics of a mage... Fuck it all. Where's the combat class? When am I going to get a chance to fucking wave a stick?"
He leaned back and looked at the ceiling. Behind all of this, behind the new clothes, behind the name Lionheart, behind the emotionless faces of the teachers, there was fear. Simple, stupid fear. Because everything here was foreign. And if he messed up now, he wouldn't be able to unwind. There would be no second chance in this life.
It's only been two days. July 7. The day he joined the academy. Six days later, it's his birthday. July 13. Fifteen years old. And ironically, a new age, a new life.
"Happy birthday in advance, you asshole," he muttered, looking up at the ceiling again.
He stood up, pulled off his shirt, and walked over to the mirror. There was nothing on his back. His chest was clean. But on his left wrist, a mark was writhing like a snake. He touched it again.
— Weak, rare, and nobody gives a fuck. That's great. At least they won't notice until it's too late.
He chuckled maliciously, wearily, and a little crazily.
Somewhere deep inside, under all this fatigue, under the curses, the fear, and the anger, there was a building up of anger. Not immediate, but viscous. The kind that doesn't go away. The kind that grows. The kind that will one day burst out.
And then the whole academy will burn in his Shadow.
He stepped to the bed, sat down without undressing, and stared out the window. It was raining outside. Light, but constant. The whisper of raindrops on the windowsill.
Kalen ran his fingers across the glass and whispered:
"Remember this day, you bastards. It was the day you missed your hero."
The sound of a bell was mixed in with the rain. The dull, measured beats. It seemed to mark the end of the day's classes. Dozens of students scurried around the academy—some hurrying to the dining hall, some heading to the library, and some, like him, probably just lying in their rooms, digesting the first slap of the new reality.
Kalen didn't go anywhere. He sat on the windowsill, his elbows on his knees. The wet streaks of water on the glass were mesmerizing. It was as if the world outside was different. There was the real Ennarcha, and here, in this room, was him. A fake, torn from his own time and forced into the body of some aristocratic son.
"Lionheart, блядь. Big name. I wonder how many people this name has put in the ground before me?" he chuckled. "And now they have a son with the strength of a dead cockroach and a face that everyone here wants to punch."
He stood up. That's it, enough of this.
It was time to at least take a look at who I'd be studying with. The schedule for tomorrow was already on the table. The first item was "General Combat Practice: Initial Assessment." Here it was. My first time in the arena. My first fight. They'd probably give us some practice, measure our strength, compare it... and, of course, laugh at Lionheart with his Shadow power, which was barely enough to burn his own ass.
Kalen stretched, then went to the washbasin to wash his face. The water was icy cold. He blinked against the sudden chill and looked into the mirror.
His eyes were his. Almost completely. Not the guy who was lying on a rented bed, wondering how he was going to make it until his next paycheck. But the guy who had learned to hate quickly and for a reason.
He leaned closer to the mirror.
"You gave me a weak power? Great. Then you won't care if I break the rules."
There was something hoarse in his voice. Something unfamiliar. It was as if the Shadow itself was beginning to speak.
He chuckled. He dressed in his training uniform—black with red trim and the academy crest—a sword surrounded by a ring of flame and lightning. Irony. He had neither sword nor lightning. Only gray smoke.
He took one last look at his wrist.
The shadow shuddered slightly in response. It was as if it could sense that tomorrow would be the real beginning.
He left the room, closing the door behind him. Quietly, but with purpose.
The corridor greeted him with the smell of magic oil, slightly burnt fabric, and the usual annoyance. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the voices of students.
Kalen walked past them, not looking back, not responding. Let them think he was a silent jerk. Let them think he was weak. Let them forget about him.
Until it's too late.