The classroom is silent, save for the distant murmurs of students shuffling through the hallways. Obinai bursts in, his breath ragged, heart pounding from his mad dash through the corridors. His uniform is a crumpled mess in his arms.
"Shit," he mutters under his breath, shoving himself into his chair and yanking the fabric over his head. The stiff material drags against his sore shoulders, but the familiar weight of it settles his nerves—somewhat.
Deep breath. Okay. Now, find Bram.
He wastes no time, pushing back from the desk and striding out of the room. The scent of food grows stronger as he nears the cafeteria—roasted meat, simmering spices, something sweet that lingers just at the edge of recognition. The low hum of conversation swells, laughter and clinking trays filling the cavernous space. But as soon as Obinai steps in, a noticeable shift occurs.
Heads turn.
Some whisper. Others glance his way, eyes flickering with recognition before turning back to their meals. The tension is brief, but it presses against his skin before fading as the room returns to its usual rhythm. Ignoring it, he moves to the food line, grabbing a tray.
The stew smells hearty—thick, rich, dotted with chunks of meat and vegetables bobbing beneath the surface. He picks up a slice of warm bread, its crust crisp beneath his fingertips, and a strange fruit, mottled red and green like an overripe pomegranate.
His gaze sweeps the room until it lands on Bram, hunched over their usual table, inhaling his food with the enthusiasm of a starved animal. Obinai approaches, eyes narrowing at the fresh bruise darkening Bram's cheekbone and the dried blood cracked along his lower lip.
Obinai drops his tray onto the table and slides into the seat across from him. "What the hell happened to you?"
Bram barely looks up, shoving another spoonful of stew into his mouth. "Got my ass kicked," he mumbles, words slurred around his food.
Obinai snorts. "Yeah, no shit. By who?"
Bram finally pauses, licking the remnants of sauce from his spoon before jabbing it in Obinai's direction. "You know step techniques, right? The quick-move, footwork bullshit?"
Obinai nods, brow furrowing.
"Well, they had us drill that for hours. Then, 'cause that wasn't miserable enough, we had to use it in a fight." Bram scoops up another bite, barely chewing before continuing, "They had me fight Goran."
Obinai raises an eyebrow. "Big guy? The one built like a damn wall?"
Bram snorts. "Yeah. Bastard moves fast for someone that size. Thought I had him figured out—dude feints left, steps right, always just outta reach. But nah, soon as I tried closing the gap, he was already in my face."
Obinai watches the way Bram's fingers tighten around his spoon, the faint twitch in his bruised jaw. He's frustrated. Pissed, even. But underneath it all, there's a glimmer of excitement—like he relished the fight, despite the outcome.
"So, what? You just let him pummel you?" Obinai asks, tearing off a piece of bread.
Bram scowls. "Tch. Nah. Took me a bit, but I caught onto his rhythm. He's baiting people into overreaching. So I stopped taking the bait. Got a couple good hits in." He grins, then gestures vaguely to his face. "This one was the receipt, though. Landed one solid hit, then boom—ate a fist. Hard."
Obinai chuckles, shaking his head. "Sounds about right."
Bram finally looks him over properly, tilting his head. "Wait. What the hell happened to you? You look like you crawled outta a grave."
Obinai groans, slumping back against the chair. "Might as well have. Lyth dumped us into some twisted obstacle course. Told us to survive."
Bram barks a laugh. "That tracks. Did you?"
"Barely." Obinai exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "Screwed up my own course and ended up in someone else's."
Bram whistles through his teeth. "Dumb."
"Yeah, yeah." Obinai waves a hand. "Ended up stuck with Fiora. Helped her out of a trap, and we got through it together."
Bram smirks. "Ohhh, look at you. Making allies." He waggles his eyebrows. "She into you or somethin'?"
Obinai snorts. "Hell no. She won't even admit I helped."
Bram leans back, looking smug. "Denial. Classic."
Obinai rolls his eyes but doesn't push it. His fingers drum against the table absently, his mind drifting back to earlier—to Seraphina's glare, to the way her lackeys circled like vultures. He glances at Bram, debating.
Not yet. If something happens, I'll tell him. No sense in giving him more to clown me on, not when Seraphina could actually make things worse for us. If she even gets a whiff of suspicion that Bram's the one who threw that food at her... or worse, if she just decides to mess with me for being an outlier again…
Bram stretches, arms lifting over his head before cracking his neck. "You gotta be careful, man."
Obinai blinks, caught off guard. "Huh?"
Bram meets his gaze, surprisingly serious. "You're standin' out too much. These people? They don't play fair. One wrong move, and it ain't just some obstacle course you gotta worry about."
Obinai exhales slowly, pushing his tray aside. "Yeah. Trust me. I know."
...
Bram stumbles into their dorm first, half-dragging his feet as he tosses his bag onto the floor with a dull thud. He doesn't even bother changing, just collapses face-first onto his bed with a groan, muffled against the pillow.
"Shit…" he mutters sleepily, barely coherent. "Gonna… get him that damn money… one day…"
Then, like a light switch, he's out cold.
Obinai pauses in the doorway of the bathroom, raising an eyebrow. What the hell does that even mean? He shakes his head, locking the door behind him.
He peels off his uniform, the fabric stiff with sweat and dirt, and heads to the small sink in the corner. The cold water stings as he splashes his face, but it jolts him back to reality, grounding him—at least a little.
He stares at his reflection in the cracked mirror, water dripping from his chin. Dark circles hang heavy under his eyes. He exhales, long and shaky.
What the hell am I doing?
The thought creeps in like a whisper, then grows. He grips the edge of the sink, knuckles turning white. All these people… All these kids…
A noise—a faint, wet rip—echoes in the back of his mind.
No. No.
He shakes his head violently, trying to drown out the sound, but it's there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting. His fingers dig into his scalp, nails scraping against his skin. What if Vale fucked up? What if Beelzebub gets out while I'm asleep? What if I wake up and—
A shudder wracks through him. His hands tremble. His chest burns. And then—
Laughter.
Soft at first, then growing, bubbling up from somewhere deep inside him, slipping past his lips in breathless, uneven chuckles. His shoulders shake. I actually almost died today.
He wipes at his eyes, smearing the moisture across his face. What the hell is this? He sniffles, then lets out another weak, breathy laugh. And what is it with this place and falling? He groans, rubbing his temples. I thought Magic Missile was supposed to be my most-used spell, but at this rate, I should just train in acrobatics.
Slumping onto his bed, he digs through his bag and pulls out a battered notebook. The spine is cracked, the pages dog-eared and frayed. He flips it open, the paper crinkling under his fingers. If he doesn't write this down, he's going to forget.
And I can't forget.
He grabs a pen and starts scribbling, his handwriting a messy scrawl.
"So… I have to figure out what the hell the humans were prepping for," he murmurs under his breath. "And who screwed them over so bad that they ended up with this shit reputation."
He pauses, tapping the pen against the page. The rhythmic click click click is oddly soothing.
"What the hell was that dream about the apocalypse?" he mutters, shaking his head. That felt too real to just be a nightmare. He exhales through his nose, jotting down another line. "Need to look into the Church… Might help me understand more about… that."
His grip tightens around the pen as a shiver runs down his spine. The feeling of being taken apart… piece by piece… He forces himself to stop, shutting his eyes, jaw clenching.
No. No. Moving on.
He turns the page, pressing the pen down harder, as if he can physically bury the thoughts beneath ink.
"Right. Priorities."
His fingers drum against the paper, the dull tap tap tap filling the quiet room. He exhales, rubbing at his eyes before putting pen to paper again.
So I'm in Amrosia... The social ladder is complicated as hell. Royalty and nobility are the Exalted. The Neutrals basically lopped in with the Grounded. And people like me and Bram? The Forsaken.
He frowns, rolling his shoulders as the words sink in. It feels too... set in stone. Like the world itself already decided his place, and no amount of struggling is going to change that.
Bram and I talked about this. There are twelve royal families. Lyth's the ambassador. Each Exalted race has four royal families. And—of course—they all hate each other.
His grip tightens around the pen.
I think I've met three. Seraphina... that Ashmount weirdo... and Lyra.
His hand stops moving. The memory of the lord heir's words slithers back into his mind, uninvited.
They will try to kill you.
He swallows hard, tapping the pen against his lip. Shit. Gotta be careful.
His gaze flickers toward Bram's side of the room. The idiot is sprawled across the bed, mouth slightly open, snoring softly. Completely dead to the world. Obinai sighs and shakes his head. At least one of them can sleep easy.
He turns his attention back to the notebook, scrawling in rushed strokes.
Now, magic—or essence in general. Four known denominations: Aura, Mana, Ki, and Sciencia. Sticking to Mana for now since it's used for magic.
The words blur slightly as exhaustion creeps in.
Already know the levels... but there are too many damn spells. And affinities? Great. Just great. Some people are naturally better at certain types of magic than others. Makes learning harder or easier depending on the race. Terrific.
He rubs his temples, feeling the beginning of a headache forming.
There was something else Professor Kurst said...
His mind draws a blank.
Why the hell did I fall asleep? He exhales sharply through his nose, annoyed at himself. Can't remember it now.
With a frustrated grunt, he slaps the notebook shut.
"That's it," he mutters to himself, running a hand through his locs.
Even with all of this written down, he still feels like he's missing something—like there's a puzzle piece just out of reach.
He snorts softly, shaking his head.
"Probably skipped some shit," he mumbles, amused despite himself.
With that, he tosses the notebook aside, flopping onto his bed. The mattress creaks under his weight as he stares up at the ceiling.
His last thought before slipping away?
I really, really hope I don't wake up to a knife in my chest.