"Say that again," the instructor said, smiling wide.
Tarefin stood at the front of the hall, slim, straight-backed, sunlight glinting off his buzz cut silver-black hair.
Chalk dust clung to his fingers. Red eyes tracked the figures on the board.
"It balances the load," he said. "If you reroute here, the strain disappears."
A murmur rippled.
"Brilliant," another teacher said loudly.
"Truly gifted."
Hands clapped. Desks scraped. Smiles bloomed.
Later, in the tool room, the smiles vanished.
"Strange," Tarefin muttered, lifting a snapped compass. "This was working earlier."
"That's yours?" another asked lightly.
"Looks careless."
At lunch break, whispers followed him.
"Thinks he's better than everyone."
"Yeah, he's a know it all."
A mentor pulled him aside, voice lowered. "Tarefin. You shouldn't isolate yourself."
"I don't," Tarefin said. "I just think."
The man's eyes hardened. "That's the problem."
Another day. Another lesson. His design appeared on the board with someone else's name beneath it.
Tarefin opened his mouth.
A warning glance stopped him.
"You're dangerous," the instructor said quietly, almost kindly. "When you think alone."
That night, staring at his ink-stained hands, Tarefin whispered, "Maybe they're right."
_____________________________
Tarefin closed the door softly behind him, easing the latch so it wouldn't click.
His mother lay propped on pillows, breath shallow, one hand pressed to her chest. Lamplight washed her face a tired bronze.
"Don't be long," she murmured. "The medicine…"
"I'll be quick," he said, forcing a smile. "The apothecary's still open."
Her fingers caught his sleeve. Weak. Warm. "Keep your head down."
"I always do."
He stepped into the night.
The courtyard was empty, moonlight pooling between columns. His footsteps echoed once. Then stopped.
A laugh broke the quiet.
"See? Always walking alone."
Shapes peeled from the shadows. Familiar voices. Boys he'd shared benches with. Smiles gone sharp.
"You think you're special," one said. "Standing up there like you own the board."
"I never said that," Tarefin replied, pulse ticking faster. "Move."
Another blocked his path. "Ha! Where are you going?"
Tarefin's breath hitched.
"You make us look small," another mentioned.
"That's not my doing."
A hand shoved his shoulder. Hard. He stumbled back, heel scraping stone.
"Say it," someone hissed. "Say you're nothing."
Metal caught moonlight.
The blade flashed once, quick, clumsy, desperate.
Pain bloomed hot along his side. His breath tore from him. The world tilted.
Footsteps scattered. Laughter dissolved into running.
Tarefin hit the ground, stone cold against his cheek, fingers slick as he pressed his wound. Above him, the moon blurred.
His mother's words echoed as darkness crept in.
Keep your head down.
____________________________
Footsteps slowed beside Tarefin's fallen body.
A stranger knelt, coat brushing stone, fingers hovering just above the dark smear spreading beneath him. The man glanced once at the empty courtyard, then toward the wall.
Letters stared back in uneven strokes.
HUMBLING GENIUS.
Red. Still wet.
The stranger exhaled through his nose. "So they've started early," he murmured, more observation than pity. He tore fabric, pressed it hard against Tarefin's side.
White ceilings replaced moonlight. Machines hummed. A nurse whispered about blood loss, about timing, about luck. His mother's name was spoken softly, like a fragile thing.
Days blurred. Sound thinned. Thought unraveled.
Then heat.
Wind.
Cracked earth stretching forever beneath a bleached sky.
Tarefin's eyes snapped open.
He was standing.
And the wasteland was already watching him.