Every corner of the room was bathed in daylight. Half of my body hung off the bed; a tumultuous, torn sleep left no memories. In my head only bright red flashes flared, and a crimson river boiled. My pillow had ended up on the floor, and the arm under my head was throbbing.
I had to sit up on the edge of the bed and stare out the window. An involuntary grimace crossed my face—my arm had fallen asleep and wouldn't move; an invigorating, throbbing pain washed over me like a bucket of cold water[1]. After about five minutes, everything settled back to normal. As expected, the other cadets in the dorm weren't late for classes. My throat was scratchy, and a slight chill suggested I'd caught a cold. The first symptoms were ignored, and I changed into fresh clothes.
Walking along the now-familiar clean corridors, it suddenly struck me that I was getting used to this place. At the dormitory exit, a man behind a small window called me over. I approached and waited; meanwhile, he leisurely cleaned his glasses. "Young man, I was instructed to hand this over to you," he said, and opening the grille, he placed on the counter a small rectangular book and five round tokens.
"What is this?" I asked, picking up the "book" and the coins. They didn't look like money: no emblems, just large bold letters "AT" on them. "This 'book' is a pass: free movement to the library, into the city and back, and to the dorm," the man explained. "And these round things you're fidgeting between your fingers are the Academy's points. You can exchange them for imperial money from me or at the checkpoint at the city gates. And you can use them to pay for breakfast, lunch, and dinner too."
Turning toward the light and holding the coins up to my face, I examined the Academy engraving, wondering if they could be faked. They felt like metal coated with some film, easily scratched by a fingernail; the engraving itself was layered in many overlaid levels. Quite a piece of craftsmanship. I had assumed they wouldn't bother so much—"Why "bother? Hardly anyone will get them anyway." I'd never seen any lines at the dormitory to exchange them and hadn't heard of such among the cadets.
"And what's the exchange rate with imperial coins?" I asked, leaning toward the window. He mumbled so only I could hear, "You're predictable, young man. One to twenty-five." "One Academy point to twenty-five imperial silver," he said more audibly, tossing the coin in his hand.
Ah, one to twenty-five. Out loud I said nothing, but noting my disappointment, he added, "One Academy coin equals twenty-five silver imperials." The situation immediately seemed more impressive. On the village market street, we'd count in copper or barter in kind: no one wanted to swap with me, and I had no money. If prices here were like the village… For a moment I felt like a local elder. I had to change plans: I moved training to the evening and headed into the city.
In the academy gardens there were almost no cadets around; only a few women tended the flowers—no one paid me any mind. I saw the walls of the Academy up close for the first time: stone, in places covered with moss and vines; in the seams glinted grains of luminous thread.
"Something the matter, cadet? Why are you standing?" a man at the gate snapped me out of my thoughts. "Enough staring at the walls; get back to class," he frowned, not waiting for an answer. Coming closer, I noticed he had one hand near his belt. I acted as if I didn't notice and continued digging in my pocket. "Here," he handed me the passbook. The man unclenched his hand at the belt, and relief washed over me completely. Scratching his chin, he went over to his partner: they compared notes, glancing at me and the book, quietly muttering between themselves.
"Edric. I confirm your identity and the validity of your free pass," the second man said, handing back the book. "I've recorded your first exit. We'll mark your return upon coming back. No penalties for tardiness. You may proceed."
Outside the gate, the city exhaled a different life: cobblestones pressed under patches of sunlight, the squealing laughter of children, and somewhere in the alleys, a forge rang out. Right there at the checkpoint, beneath the long steps, an old woman sat behind a wooden stall selling round, flat cakes—they looked almost like small loaves of bread. "What is this?" I asked, eyeing the stand. "Cookies, young man," replied the old woman. "This one is with dried grapes, that one with a sprinkling of sweet beet, and these with sweet potato. Academy cadets get a discount: only one silver each!" One silver for a cake the size of my palm seemed steep, but the children passing by were already begging their parents for them.
"All right, I'll take one with… dried grapes," I decided, pulling out a silver coin. Nearby, a bench had freed up—two women stood up, adjusting their baskets of greens. I sat down, leaned back, and started breaking off pieces. Sweet and sandy; each bite dried my mouth as if I had swallowed dust. Not bad, but I had expected more.
I continued up the sloping street. Here they didn't sell from carts; above the doors hung signs: a blacksmith's anvil burned into a board, a chicken on a plate, scissors, a quill, a hammer, a bottle, and a candle. From one shop there came the smell of tanned leather; another gave off ink and dust; from somewhere—fresh bread. In the shaded alley it smelled of wet wood and cool stone; a cart rolled by slowly, its wheels thudding on the cobblestones. At an intersection a herald bellowed the news, while a guard leaned on his halberd, lazily watching the queue at the water column. Walking these streets was a pleasure—the city lived with a steady, confident hum; no one glared at me, and I didn't hear any of that "Bedrik this, Bedrik that" nonsense.
On the way back, I stopped at the chicken shop (a faded sign depicted a chicken reaching for several herbs, beak ajar, seemingly willing to be the dinner). Inside it was cramped and noisy. The tables were like in our dining hall, four to each; the floor was strewn with coarse salt and dark crumbs of burnt skin. The kitchen's heat radiated out: drumsticks sizzled on a long grill, and knives clacked steadily on a chopping block. It smelled of smoke, garlic, and something warm, sweetish—maybe honey, possibly something else. "What would you recommend?" I asked at the counter.
"The house special: chicken with potatoes and onions. Ninety coppers," replied the owner—a burly, red-cheeked man with a towel over his shoulder. He was polishing a plate as if preparing a shield for a parade. Ninety cents was cheaper than my fancy cookie. I paid with a silver. The owner ducked under the counter, counted out ten coppers, then grinned: "Have a seat; we'll bring it out."
A seat opened by the window—three lads just got up, leaving warm imprints on the table and a couple of chicken bones in the bowl. Sounds and laughter of children burst in from the street, and somewhere farther off—a faint "clang" of a forge. Such noise made my head ring, and I caught sight of the passersby: many had pale skin and thin wrists; the strength of the city folk often lay not in muscles but in wallets and family names.
A thin, burned youth with a wooden tray put a clay bowl in front of me. The aroma hit immediately: the crust cracked under the knife, juices ran over the potatoes, and peppered onions. I ate slowly, as one is supposed to when starved at last. Inside I grew warm and peaceful. I couldn't pick out any seasoning—everything had blended into one taste.
The people around chewed in silence and businesslike. Some were whispering about the price of flax; a woman in a headscarf replaced a bit in a child's bowl with a skinless piece—"Too spicy for you yet?" The owner, without looking, caught empty bowls: a light clink—and the lad was gone with them.
I wiped my fingers with the cloth provided and left the bones in a neat pile. I stood up. The lad silently took the plate, and I squeezed past two guys at the exit. Outside the air felt fresh and light: sunbeams filtered through the awnings, gently warming the streets. I counted my remaining coppers on the go, pocketed them, and headed down the street toward the Academy gates. When people don't recoil from you, they're not so bad. The city streets were the cleanest, if not the quietest, but walking through that hubbub was invigorating.
"You're quick," said the guard at the gate as he noted my arrival time. "Thought you'd return only by night." The cadets were finishing classes and leaving in small waves. Some hurried through the gardens back toward the dorm, others toward the gate, cutting across the lawns. Small clusters formed with lively debates; for a moment I felt a dozen eyes on me.
I sat in a gazebo among flowerbeds. The bench creaked softly as a breeze stirred the delicate blue blossoms, and bees lazily flew out of the buds. I ran a finger along the edge of the seat, squinting against the sun.
A short girl about my height detached herself from the crowd and came toward me. I stood aside to give her a seat and buried my eyes in the flowers. "Edric?" She stopped in front of me, leaning in to peer. "I don't know anyone by that name," I replied without raising my eyes.
She tugged at the corner of her mouth and turned away, going back to her group—four girls and two boys. They all began jabbering at once, pointing at me; one girl smirked, and a boy shrugged. The short one hurried back—this time quicker and with her fists clenched.
"You lied to me!" she blurted out, slamming her hand on the gazebo post. "What do you want?" I leaned back, crossing my arms. The bench gave a short squeak. "We just wonder," she said, glancing at her friends who had fallen silent, "they say you were pulled out of classes, and now you're preparing for exams on your own!" There was a hint of excitement in her voice.
"So what?" I asked, shifting my gaze to a bee crawling on a petal. "A class schedule doesn't stop training."
"Is it because you turned out stronger than the descendants of heroes?" She stepped closer, her boot scuffing the gravel. "'Descendants'? Maybe just one," I scoffed. "Yes, I won a duel against Eryl Krast. There haven't been any more duels."
"They say you even 'defeated' the descendant of Rozfit, Selli Rozfit," the girl tilted her chin, eyes flashing. "And moreover, you had a scuffle with the Sacred Order!"
"They say"—I raised an eyebrow—"is that your new textbook? Tell the authors they're missing some facts."
I was more than done with this conversation, but the girl kept pressing, always stepping back into view with her crumpled skirt. After a minute of ignoring her, she pouted and stormed off. She yelled something at her friends, then they dispersed. There was still time before supper; sitting in the library made no sense—I hadn't even properly learned the old lessons yet.
I quickly made my way to the training grounds; it was even more crowded than yesterday. In my corner, two boys were already seated, breathing in unison and "listening" to their throw. I squeezed in at the other end next to another guy. I mimicked their breathing, steadied my head, and cleared my thoughts—nothing. No burning sensation, not even weight. Only blood.
"Lend me a spear for a moment!" I suddenly jumped up and approached the man practicing his stance.
"What? Why?" he stared at me, confused.
"Just for a second, please," I insisted. He hesitated, then handed me the shaft. I ran my palm along the cold metal edge—unsuccessfully. The blade bit into me, opening a thin cut, and blood welled out. No feedback, nothing—just a sharp, burning pain as if I'd scalded it.
"Are you an idiot? What are you doing?!" the man shouted, yanking the spear back and stepping away.
"It's fine, thanks," I muttered, returning to my spot, pressing my palm to stop the bleeding.
As soon as I closed my eyes and regulated my breathing, my mind "switched over." There it was—a numbness, only awareness. In the background I saw a multifaceted shape appear, no longer sucking up light black, but a dark gray instead. A shove suddenly threw me unbalance, and I snapped my eyes open to find the boy next to me, who had bandaged me yesterday, shaking my shoulder.
"What?" I snapped irritably.
"Band-aid!" he said. "Your hand is bleeding again."
"Thanks. I can manage it," I said, and he left.
Looking at my palm, I saw crimson threads emanating from it—the same kind that flickered when others used magic. Books mention many ways to manifest powers: visualizing, formulas, and even speaking the words so the body can follow. But these crimson threads gave no sense of a water orb, no flash of light, none of my basic three attributes. Red threads against living blood hammered one thought into me: my sub-attribute—blood. Three days ago I wouldn't have believed I could find it so quickly. A smile slowly crept onto my face.
"Everyone back up from him…" voices said nervously. Reluctantly, people moved aside, revealing the far corner. There again the Air and Water students practiced. In my head a memory rang clear: the air mage's dagger slicing my calf yesterday. I raised my hand toward the water mage and simply imagined yesterday's cut—the line, the pulse of it, the direction of flow. Crimson threads wrapping around my palm unraveled into wavy lines and shot forward. The water mage jerked, interrupted his casting, and grabbed his leg. The air mage didn't immediately understand and bounded to help. They tore at the cloth on the boy's thigh, beneath which the cut was wider and deeper than yesterday's, blood pouring out; no magic could staunch it.
"Medic!" someone shouted. The bench creaked as a few people jumped up.
The water mage whimpered, voice breaking into a shriek. The field fell silent for a moment, then buzzed with whispers. I realized what I'd done. I took a breath and gathered my thoughts. Furthermore, I pictured the threads of blood tightening, how the edges of the wound would "sew" together. There was a faint click in my chest, and the threads reaching from the wound twisted and tied into a knot. The bleeding didn't stop completely, but the flow became steady and slow, about a drop a second. The air mage finally caught on and blew a dry puff of air, raising no dust; the water mage, growing pale, channeled moisture to the edges, cooling the skin.
I tried the same trick on my own hand—focused and "sewed" the threads on my palm together. But fatigue hit like a wall: the crimson threads faded out, and a sharp ache settled in my chest. Bandaging my palm, I pushed through the crowd and stepped outside. I needed to cool off, to sort my thoughts in silence.
At the gatepost a middle-aged woman was on duty. I was already passing by when she called softly, "Young man." I approached and handed over my pass. She flipped through the booklet, opened it, and made an entry on the first page. "Go on through," she croaked.
I hadn't noticed Delis with the dimples sitting there, which irritated me a bit—I was sorely in need of someone to quiz about the lesson. On a shelf I found yesterday's book, "Rejected Magic," grabbed another on the peculiarities of manifestation, and sat at a table. The more I turned pages, the less I understood: hieroglyphs, ambiguous formulas, as if the author had indeed written them upside down. I leaned back, rubbing my eyes.
"You're reading that author again?" a familiar voice whispered. I opened my eyes to see Delis already seated across from me without invitation. "Yeah. But the last part is a mess. Feels like it was written upside down," I sighed.
"True, that one's tougher…" She glanced at my bandage. "What's wrong with your hand?"
"I cut it. Nothing serious," I waved her concern away.
"You treated it?" she squinted. Seeing my head shake, she sighed, "That's not smart. You can pick up an infection in a heartbeat."
She stood up, walked over to a locked cabinet by the wall, took out a small bottle and a roll of clean bandage, and rushed back. "Hand out," she commanded, adjusting her glasses on her wrist.
I silently held out my arm. She maneuvered her stool close, her knees nearly touching mine, and carefully unwrapped the bandage: her warm fingers rustling against my skin, the scent of healing herbs, ink, and something light and clean of her own filling the air. She tried to open the bottle, but the lid wouldn't budge. I wordlessly offered my free hand; our fingers brushed for a moment, her nail slipping slightly across my palm. With a click, the cap popped off quietly.
"Try to hold still," she said, noticing me flinch at the next drop.
I jerked the injured hand away.
"Hey, don't move," she grumbled and leaned over me, tying the bandage tight, so tight that bending my fingers became difficult. "There, now you surely won't pick up anything," she said, straightening up—and promptly slipped, nearly falling onto me. Her cheeks flushed; she jerked back to her chair and looked down.
Before I could thank her, she nodded curtly, said goodbye, and disappeared between the bookshelves. Fine by me; hunger was already reminding me to eat, and outside it was steadily getting dark.
By the dining hall, the cadets were crowding in line. The doors were still closed, but everyone waited eagerly. I had thought I'd have time for lunch—I was wrong. Ten minutes later the doors opened and the crowd surged inside. The menu was the same, and the separation at the counters was unchanged. I didn't experiment and took my usual and immediately found a seat. Passing cadets elbowed me, muttering to hurry and leave, even though three seats remained empty. That actually worked in my favor—I didn't intend to linger. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Trenn's friend standing near; she glanced in my direction but did not come over. It was only now that I realized I hadn't seen Trenn since that day.
Then I remembered the golden-eyed fellow—there he was, the "Chosen of the gods"—again "trying to shove some scrawny boy out of his seat, extorting food from him. Do the sacred families always go hungry, or are they under a fasting oath? He apparently didn't recognize me—praise his gods. I buried my face in my bowl, ate quickly, and left before trouble found me.
[1] It means not just cold water, but ice-cold — like solid nitrogen. I just didn’t want to include such modern things and terms in a concept that’s closer to the medieval period.