There isn't much after dinner. By the time Obinai collapses onto his bed, the fatigue hits him like a wave. The mattress is stiff, but it doesn't matter. His breathing evens out, his muscles unwind, and for he lets go. His mind slips away, the day's events dissolving into the edges of his subconscious.
Then, it happens.
He isn't in his bed anymore.
It's sudden, like the floor beneath him has vanished, yanked away by unseen hands. One moment, he's safe, weight sinking into the mattress, and the next—
He's falling.
The pit of his stomach lurches up into his throat. His body twists, limbs flailing for something, anything, to hold onto, but there's nothing. Just empty, endless void stretching in every direction. The wind howls past his ears, whipping against his skin, tugging at his clothes. His heart slams against his ribs, a frantic, erratic drumbeat. The disorientation is overwhelming, nauseating—
Am I dreaming? No. No, this feels too real.
His gut clenches, his insides twisting as gravity turns against him, pulling him deeper into the abyss. His breath comes in sharp gasps, panic clawing at his chest. His mind races, scrambling for a way out, for some kind of explanation, but the overwhelming sensation of freefall swallows every rational thought.
This isn't real. This isn't real. Wake up. Wake up!
Then—
A sound. A piercing, shrill blast.
The world snaps back into focus.
His body jerks, and he wakes with a violent start.
"AAAHH!"
Obinai bolts upright, his eyes flying open. The dorm room swims into view, dimly lit and unfamiliar in the haze of his vision. His pulse hammers in his ears. The sensation of falling lingers, his body still convinced he's plummeting through the void.
Then, before he can fully gather his bearings—
He tips too far forward and crashes off the bed.
The floor meets him with a painful thud, knocking the breath from his lungs. His head spins, the room tilting as he groans, clutching his ribs.
Across the room, Bram startles awake with a loud, confused grunt. "Wha—?!" He flails, disoriented, before his own weight betrays him, and he, too, tumbles straight off his bed a thump.
"Ugh—dammit—" Bram groans. "What the hell was that?!"
Obinai winces, pushing himself up on shaky arms. He swallows hard, glancing around wildly. "Did—Did you hear that?!"
Bram squints at him, bleary-eyed. "Hear what?"
"The—" Obinai pauses. The fall. The wind. The abyss. No, not that. Something else. The noise. "The blaring! That—that damn sound just now!"
Bram blinks, groggy, and then groans as he flops back onto the floor. "Oh. Yeah. That's the bell."
Obinai stares at him. "That was a bell?!"
Bram yawns, stretching like a cat. "Mmhmm. The wake-up bell or somethin'. Didn't think it'd be that loud, though…"
Obinai presses a hand to his chest. He lets out a shaky breath, shaking his head. "That was the worst wake-up call ever."
Bram grunts in agreement. "Yeah. Shit's awful." He finally rolls onto his stomach and lifts himself up on his elbows, squinting at Obinai. "Uh… why the hell were you screamin', though?"
Obinai stiffens. He hesitates, glancing away. His throat is dry. "I… don't know."
Bram stares at him, then shrugs. "Whatever. If we don't get up, they're probably gonna blast that thing again."
Obinai groans, dragging a hand down his face.
With a tired sigh, he stumbles toward the door and peeks out into the hallway. His gaze flickers toward Erion's room, something gnawing at the back of his mind.
Pushing the door open, Obinai steps inside and frowns. The bed's empty. The sheets are still slightly wrinkled, but there's no sign of Erion.
"Wait… where's Erion?"
Bram, halfway through yanking on his uniform, glances up, his brows scrunching together. "Eh?" He follows Obinai's gaze, eyes landing on the empty bed. "Oh… uh, maybe he already left?"
Obinai frowns, a strange unease settling in his chest. "But… isn't the bell supposed to go off when the first class starts?"
Bram tugs his boots on, his face slowly shifting from confusion to realization. His eyes widen slightly, and Obinai sees the exact moment it clicks.
"Wait… oh, no."
A heavy silence lingers for about half a second before Obinai feels his stomach drop. "Oh, shit. We're late, aren't we?"
"Damn it!" Bram shouts, suddenly scrambling, shoving his arms through his sleeves and nearly tripping over his own feet. "We're so late!"
Obinai doesn't waste another second. He practically dives for his uniform, yanking the jacket on while trying to stuff his books into his bag at the same time. "I can't believe this! First damn day, and we're already screwing up!"
Bram hops on one foot, trying to get his other boot on, nearly falling over in the process. "I told ya this school's tryin' to kill us! Who makes a bell that loud and expects us to be functional after?!"
Obinai fumbles with the last button on his jacket, slinging his new bag over his shoulder as he rushes for the door. "Less talking, more running!"
Bram stumbles after him, still trying to adjust his uniform. "Where're we even goin'?!"
"History class! West hall, first floor!" Obinai shouts over his shoulder.
"West what now?" Bram says. "Where the hell is that?!"
Obinai shoots him a look. "Aren't you supposed to know?"
Bram throws his hands up. "Do I look like a damn compass to you?!"
Obinai grits his teeth. That's literally your job since I only been in this damn place for barely a week—
Then Bram's voice cuts through his thoughts. "Oi...shortcut?"
Obinai doesn't like that tone. He slows just enough to shoot Bram a wary look. "What? No. Whatever dumb idea you just had—no."
Bram's already grinning. "C'mon, trust me."
"I don't—"
Before Obinai can react, Bram grabs his wrist and yanks him toward a window.
Obinai's stomach drops. "Bram. No. Stop. Don't—"
Too late.
Bram flings himself forward, dragging Obinai with him, and suddenly, there's nothing beneath his feet.
The air rushes past them in a violent gust, and Obinai's brain short-circuits.
He's falling. Again. Just like in the nightmare. His stomach twists itself into knots, and for a horrifying second, he forgets how to breathe.
"WOOOO!" Bram whoops beside him, arms spread like he's some kind of damn bird. "This is awesome!"
"YOU'RE INSANE!" Obinai shouts, voice nearly ripped away by the wind.
The ground is racing toward them way too fast. His pulse spikes, panic overtaking his senses. "[FEATHER FALL]!" he roars, and the spell takes effect just in time. Their descent slows dramatically, turning from a death plunge into a gentle drift.
Bram lands first, his boots hitting the grass with a soft thud. He rolls once, then pops up like nothing happened.
Obinai, on the other hand, lands hard on his side with a grunt, his bag nearly smacking him in the face. He groans, sprawled out in the grass, trying to process what just happened.
Bram jogs over, grinning like an idiot. "See? Told ya it'd work."
Obinai lifts his head just enough to glare at him. "I am going to strangle you."
Bram just laughs, offering a hand. "Ya can do that after class."
Obinai swats it away and pushes himself up, still shaking slightly from the adrenaline. His uniform is covered in dirt and grass stains, his hair an absolute mess.
Bram looks down at himself and snorts. "Guess we're not lookin' too fresh, huh?"
Obinai levels him with a deadpan stare. "You threw us out a window."
Bram shrugs, completely unfazed. "But we ain't that late now." He jerks his thumb toward the west hall. "Class's right there."
Obinai glances up, and sure enough, the building is just ahead. His eye twitches. "That does not justify anything."
Bram claps him on the back. "Eh, details."
Obinai exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I hate you."
"Nah, ya love me."
"Debatable."
They both break into a run, boots pounding against the pavement as they sprint toward the entrance. Obinai's mind is racing just as fast as his feet. First nightmare, now window diving—what the hell is next?
As they skid to a stop outside the classroom door, both panting heavily, Bram leans against the wall. "Told ya we'd make it."
Obinai, hunched over with his hands on his knees, glares at him. "Barely."
Bram wipes some dirt off his sleeve, entirely unbothered. "Better than bein' late."
Obinai, still panting from the rush, presses a hand to his chest and mutters, "[Cleanse]." A cool, tingling sensation washes over him, wiping away the sweat clinging to his skin and replacing the suffocating heat with a crisp, refreshing chill. His body sighs in relief, but the moment he glances down at his uniform, his lips press into a thin line.
His once-pristine jacket and trousers are still a mess of grass stains and scuff marks. "Well, that's just great. I feel clean, but I still look like I lost a fight to a shrub."
Bram snorts beside him, wiping a hand over his own sweat-slicked forehead. "Better than smellin' like a wet dog," he says, shaking out his arms like that'll do something.
Obinai rolls his eyes but reaches out anyway, placing a firm hand on Bram's shoulder. "Hold still." Another muttered "[Cleanse]," and the same refreshing wave sweeps over Bram, clearing away the sweat and filth.
Bram blinks, flexing his fingers. "Oh, huh. Feels nice. Like dunkin' your head in a cold stream." Then he grins, ever the menace. "But now we just look like we had a bath in our uniforms. Ain't that gonna be real confusin'?"
Obinai exhales sharply through his nose, trying not to dwell on how correct Bram is. "It doesn't matter. We're already late. Let's just get this over with."
They push open the heavy brass door, stepping into the lecture hall mid-lecture.
The room is a massive amphitheater of copper and dark wood, curved rows of tiered seating overlooking a grand, circular stage. Gears tick softly within the walls, their subtle hum mixing with the low murmur of cooling pipes and the faint scent of oil and aged parchment. The overhead slightly glowing tubes cast a warm, golden glow, flickering slightly from the subtle vibrations.
Every head swivels toward them.
Standing at the podium is not their history professor.
It is him.
Tall and severe, the elvish man looms like a marble statue brought to life, his long silver hair tied back with not a strand out of place. His robe—a white garment lined with delicate filigree that shimmers under the chandeliers' glow—only serves to highlight his rigid, almost inhumanly perfect posture. He holds a long, ornate pointer in one hand, the slender instrument tapping rhythmically against his palm with a slow.
His piercing green eyes land on Obinai first—recognition flickering in their depths. Then they shift to Bram. The smallest crease forms between his brows.
Behind him, Bram stiffens, then mutters under his breath, "Shit."
Obinai barely turns his head. "What?"
Bram leans in slightly, voice tight. "That ain't Garvin." His fingers twitch by his side. "Why'd it have to be him?"
...
"Ah," the professor finally says. "It appears our tardy guests have finally deigned to grace us with their presence."
Obinai clenches his jaw as the weight of a hundred eyes settles on him like an avalanche. The professor doesn't raise his voice, yet it carries through the hall.
From the back of the room, he catches a flicker of movement. Lyra. She's lounging with an elbow propped on the desk, chin resting on her hand, watching him with amusement. Her friends whisper among themselves, lips curling into barely-contained smirks.
Obinai exhales through his nose and forces himself to move. Each step toward an empty seat feels like wading through tar.
Bram, unbothered or just too dense to register the social peril, ambles toward a spot on the far end, throwing up a lazy wave. "Yo."
Obinai nearly slaps a hand over his face.
The professor does not sigh, but his fingers tighten around the pointer, tapping it once against the podium with quiet finality. "As I was saying before we were so… colorfully interrupted," he continues, "we were discussing the geopolitical formation of the five major kingdoms that comprise the eastern continent of Xanwasia, with particular focus on Amrosia's ascension as the dominant seat of power amongst them."
Obinai slouches slightly in his seat, arms crossed, trying to make himself as small as possible. He already hates this class.
"Now," the professor continues, his hands clasped behind his back as he strides leisurely across the front of the room, "can anyone enlighten us as to why there is, at present, a semblance of peace between the great nations?"
A moment of silence. Then, from the side of the room, a thick, meaty hand shoots up. Obinai clicks his teeth, already regretting turning his head because, of course, it's Durin. The broad-shouldered dwarf sits up straight.
"Ah, Mr. Stonehammer," the professor drawls, barely sparing him a glance as he gestures lazily. "Do enlighten us."
Durin clears his throat, his gravelly voice carrying across the room. "Cuz there was too much blood, sir. The 3000-Year War damn near wiped folk out."
Obinai smirks. Straight to the point. He can appreciate that.
The professor exhales through his nose, a faint smile curling at the edges of his lips. "A crude summation, but not incorrect." He pivots on his heel, clasping his hands behind his back once more as he begins to pace. His voice drops. "The 3000-Year War... a conflict so vast, so devastating, that it swallowed entire civilizations whole. It is the very foundation upon which our fragile peace now teeters."
He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle over the room. "Cities were razed. Kingdoms fell into ruin. The rivers ran red, and the sky choked on the smoke of burning lands. The devastation was so absolute that even the very land bears the scars—a cursed, barren reminder of our history. And then… the war ended. Not because one side emerged victorious, but because there was no one left to fight."
The room feels colder. Even Bram, who had been lazily slouched in his seat, shifts uncomfortably.
"And what," the professor continues, his sharp green eyes gleaming, "of the races lost to time?" His voice is softer now as he turns toward the rows of students. "Where did they go? Are they truly gone? Or do they wait, hidden in the corners of the world, biding their time?"
A shiver runs down Obinai's spine, but he rolls his eyes at himself.
A hand goes up from the opposite side of the room. Obinai glances over. A gnome—small, wiry, wild-haired—adjusts his oversized glasses with jittery fingers. His clothes are a mess, all wrinkled layers that look thrown on in a hurry, but his bright eyes gleam with curiosity.
"P-Professor," the gnome stammers, voice high but frantically clipped, "c-c-considering the c-cataclysmic r-ramifications of s-such pr-prolonged c-conflict, w-what, uh, is the p-precise d-d-duration of th-this s-s-so-called p-p-peace?"
A few students chuckle under their breath. Obinai sighs, shaking his head. Leave it to a gnome to make a simple question sound so complicated.
The professor shoots a glare at the class, and the laughter immediately dies down.
Slowing his pacing, the professor turns his gaze to the gnome. "A fair inquiry," he murmurs, folding his hands behind his back once more. "A thousand years. Merely a breath when measured against the longevity of our world. A brief intermission between acts of devastation—a fleeting pause before history inevitably repeats itself, a testament to how millions of years of innovation were nearly undone by a mere 3000 years of discourse."
He begins walking again, his footsteps eerily soft. "It is just enough time for the grandchildren of those who wielded the blade to rise to power, just enough time for those in authority to pretend history is but a distant memory. But let us not be mistaken," he says, "a thousand years is not long enough for the wounds to heal. It is not long enough to erase what was lost.
"In fact, if one were to examine history closely—" and here, his gaze flicks, just for a second, directly at Obinai, that infuriating smirk returning, "—one might find that peace is little more than a polished veneer, hiding the rot beneath."
Obinai clenches his jaw. He knows that look. Like he's some puzzle piece the professor has already fit into place. It's the look he's seen on teachers before. The ones who liked to remind him, over and over, that he was just a step behind and always would be.
Yeah. He's going to hate this class.
He stops at the front of the room and turns to face the class once more, steepling his fingers. "Now," he says, his tone deceptively light, "does anyone know what sparked this long and bloody war? What was the catalyst that plunged the world into this conflict?"
A pause. The students glance at each other, but no one speaks. Obinai shifts, resisting the urge to drum his fingers against his arm. Then, from the back of the room, a slender hand rises.
Lyra.
She already knows the answer. Of course she does.
The professor's eyes brighten slightly. "Yes, Ms. Valthoris?"
Lyra leans back in her chair. "Humans...,"