The end of the classes was marked by a strident ringing that seemed to free the students from their straitjacket of concentration. It had been a rough day, mixing the roughness of physical training with the mental exhaustion of etheric control. Hakime felt every muscle in his body screaming, and his mind was like a sponge too wrunge.
As he left the control room, a calm voice called out to him.
"You managed to stabilize it."
He turned around to find Lyra standing by the door, her uniform impeccable despite the effort. His silver hair was slightly unhooked, and a thin film of sweat beaded his forehead. In his usually cold eyes, there was a glimmer of professional interest.
"At the end," Hakime corrected, stopping. "It took time."
"For an SSS grade, even a controlled spark is a feat on the first day," she retorted, without unnecessary compliments. It was a statement. "Your light... it's dense. Different. My glass reacted when you lost control. He was vibrating."
Hakime raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Really?"
"Glass and light have an ancient history. They transmute, reflect, concentrate." She crossed her arms, thoughtfully. "Your final sphere... if I could channel it through a prism of my glass, the effect might be interesting."
It was an opening, not friendly, but strategic. A proposal for a tactical alliance. Hakime felt it. He nodded slowly.
"Maybe. When we both have better control."
A little nod back." Of course, see you later."
With that, she turned her heels and took a confident step, leaving Hakime with the strange feeling that she had made a deal more than engaged in a conversation.
Returning to the dorm room, he found the atmosphere radically different. Arthur was collapsed on his bed, moaning theatrically.
"I'm dead! Completely dead! My body is just an envelope of pain! Even my hair hurts!"
He raised a trembling hand." Rylan is a tyrant. A magnificent tyrant who is right, but a tyrant nonetheless!"
Conor, sitting at his desk, studied the screen of his etheric watch with intense concentration. He did not whine, but the stiffness of his shoulders betrayed his fatigue.
"I wasted 8% of my ether to harden two forearms," he grumbled without looking up. "It's ineffective. I need to find a more economical way."
Hakime sat on his own bed with a tired smile on his face. The contrast between his two roommates was already a familiar comfort.
"What about you, the future Monarch?" said Arthur, painfully straightening himself up. "You managed to do something other than fireworks?"
"A little light," Hakime admitted. "Nothing more."
"A controlled light is already a miracle," commented Conor, still riveted on his stats. "It means it's possible. That's the main thing."
The evening took place in this strange atmosphere, between exhaustion and residual excitement. They shared their impressions of the other students, of the difficulty of control, of the fear and expectation of the coming expedition. Arthur, with his natural talent for relaxing the atmosphere, imitated Master Rylan with hilarious precision, even making Conor laugh, a rare and short sound that seemed to surprise him.
Hakime, silent for part of the time, listened to them. He felt a nascent comradeship, forged in sweat and common adversity. It was not the easy friendship of the orphanage, but something stronger, more conscious. They were three links in the same chain, as Rylan had said, and each one was beginning to understand the form and resistance of the others.
As the dorm lights went out, plunging the room into a darkness only disturbed by the distant glow of the city's spotlight, Hakime closed his eyes. He saw the little sphere of light in his palm. Stable. Controlled. It was a tiny victory, but it was his. And in the silent darkness, populated by Arthur's budding snoring and Conor's regular breathing, this little inner light seemed to him to be the beginning of everything.