The morning arrived quickly.
Elias woke before the bell, before the sun had fully reached the towers.
The room was gray and quiet, the kind of quiet that felt deliberate—as though the world were holding its breath to see what he would do next.
For a moment, he lay still, staring at the ceiling.
No phantom warmth lingered on his mouth.
Good.
He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and stood.
Routine first. Always routine.
He washed his face, brushed his hair with steady hands, and dressed in simple academy purple.
No embroidery. Nothing that invited attention.
He walked toward his desk, where a small, stunted flower sat in a clay pot.
The room was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of his own breathing.
Elias rested his fingertips lightly against the soil.
He didn't push.
Didn't coax.
He allowed.
He felt for power in his gut—the side that usually sucked powerful magic—and he did something difficult.
He directed it.
