The grand dining hall of Gravemont Academy had begun to quiet. Silverware clinked softly as the last of the students finished their meals, the long tables now littered with emptied plates and drained goblets. The rich aroma of roasted venison and spiced bread still lingered in the air, mingling with the faint tang of candle smoke.
Damien had eaten in silence at the far end of the table, the noise of the hall washing over him without ever touching him. His gaze drifted lazily over the others — some laughing in clusters, some speaking in low, conspiratorial tones. Here, in this corner, it was almost peaceful. Almost.
A bell tolled softly above the chatter.
The Headmaster, with a commanding presence, stepped forward from the main doors. Conversations quieted, though not entirely — the older students merely lowered their voices. He waited a moment before speaking.
"New students of Gravemont," his deep voice carried easily, "your first day within these walls draws to a close. I trust you have eaten well — you will need your strength in the days to come."
Several students glanced at each other at that, and Damien noticed a few stiffen.
"It is time you were shown to your dormitories. Rest well tonight — tomorrow, the Academy begins shaping you into what you were meant to become."
He gave a final nod, the faintest shadow of a smile on his lips.
"I bid you all good night. May the Path you walk never falter."
The Headmaster turned and left, his white robes sweeping after him like the trailing smoke of a candle just snuffed. For a moment, the room seemed quieter than before. Then the clinking of plates resumed.
A stocky woman with rolled-up sleeves and hair bound in a tight bun clapped her hands at the entrance. Her voice was brisk but not unkind.
"First-years! Follow me. Name's Mistress Harrow — dormitory caretaker for your year. You'll address me as 'Mistress Harrow,' not 'madam,' not 'miss,' and certainly not 'hey, you.' We have rules here, and I'll see to it they're followed."
Her sharp gaze swept the group, landing momentarily on Damien before moving on, thinking why this one was without any belongings.
The new students began filing out of the hall. Damien joined the end of the group, hands in his pockets. Ahead, he could hear Taron talking to Bran in hushed excitement.
"You think the dorms are split by Path?" Taron asked.
"Probably," Bran replied. "They wouldn't put Strength and Energy Paths together… training schedules would clash."
Selene Cross, a few steps ahead, overheard and interjected smoothly without looking back.
"They'll separate by rank maybe, rather than Path. It's more efficient."
Kael Varenth gave a low chuckle.
"Or maybe they'll just toss us in wherever they please, before letting us fight to decide the rooms on our own!"
Silas Relmar smirked faintly but said nothing.
The corridor they followed was dimly lit, the glowstones along the wall shedding pale, steady light. Damien noticed how the hum of the Academy's day had softened into evening — the shuffle of footsteps, the occasional murmur from distant halls, the muted thud of doors closing.
Mistress Harrow's voice cut through the quiet.
"Your dormitory wing is in the eastern quarter. First-years should not wander beyond it without permission— also, if you get caught outside curfew, you'll be scrubbing the training grounds until your hands bleed. Understood?"
A chorus of "Yes, Mistress Harrow" followed. Damien kept silent, but her sharp glance back told him she'd noticed.
They passed through a heavy archway into a smaller, warmer hall. Here the air smelled faintly of old wood and oil from the lanterns. The caretaker slowed her pace, gesturing to the long corridor ahead.
"Each of you will be given your own room. Keep it clean. Doors will stay locked when you're out. Keys will be marked with your room number — if you lose it, you will answer to me."
One student raised a hand hesitantly.
"Mistress Harrow, there are… curfews?"
"Lights out by the second bell after dusk," she replied. "That's about an hour from now. You can talk quietly in the common lounge if you like, but noise travels here. Test me on that and you'll regret it."
Selene's voice was smooth as silk.
"And meals?"
"Breakfast at dawn, dinner at dusk. Miss either and you will have to wait until the next mealtime. We don't run a kitchen on demand."
Kael leaned toward Silas, muttering something Damien didn't catch, but it drew a faint smirk from both.
They reached a tall, arched window at the corridor's midpoint. Outside, moonlight spilled over the eastern training fields, painting them silver. Damien slowed a fraction, letting the cold, pale glow settle in his mind before moving on.
Finally, Mistress Harrow stopped before a long stretch of numbered doors. She called out servants and distributed the keys between them, then they all began calling names and handing out the keys. Damien's name came last.
"Room 999," she said, dropping the key into his palm. "End of the hall."
Her eyes held his for a moment — searching, weighing — before she turned away.
The others had already begun unlocking their doors, peering inside, and calling out to friends. Damien walked the long corridor alone, each step ringing faintly against the boards.
The key turned in the lock with a satisfying click. The door swung inward, revealing a modest but well-kept space: a single bed with fresh linens, a desk under the window, a narrow wardrobe, and a small shelf for books. Moonlight striped the floor in pale bars.
To his surprise, the wardrobe was stocked — the dark red uniform of the Academy, probably because he was following the strength path, crisp casual wear, even a pair of boots.
Closing the door behind him, he stood for a moment, letting the muffled noises of settling students fade into the background. He set the key on the desk and sat on the bed, eyes drifting to the pale moon beyond the shutters.
.Here, alone, the world felt still again.
His eyelids lowered for a single breath.When they opened again —
— Virelius Dreadmore stood at the foot of the bed, his dark robes whispering in the moonlight. His gaze was fixed on Damien, cold and unreadable, like a shadow that had learned to breathe.