Night had fallen, and his small room knew only the pale glow of the cold moon.
Rayan sat on the floor, barefoot, his back against the iron bedframe. Everyone else was asleep. The corridors were quiet, silence so deep he could hear his own heartbeat.
He raised his right hand before his eyes.
It trembled slightly.
He thought long and hard and finally decided to do it despite his fear.
First Attempt
He closed his eyes. Let himself sink into memory. That night. The pit. The flames that raged beneath his feet. The scream. Unspeakable pain that nearly erased his consciousness.
His anger was growing and his temperature was rising.
He opened his eyes slowly and focused on his palm.
The flame appeared.
It was red. Not bright orange, nor pale yellow. But deep red, like clotted blood, rising from his skin as if growing from within him, as if it were a part of him. It didn't burn his flesh, but its warmth was different.
Then the scars began.
On his chest. On his arms. On his back. They began to burn with a pain he hadn't felt in months. As if every scar was an eye opening onto an ancient fire. As if his body remembered what his mind didn't want to recall.
Rayan gasped, but he didn't extinguish the flame.
The scars were burning now. A sharp pain, like hot needles pricking, but deeper. Reaching the bone.
"Four..."
He clenched his fist. The flame didn't vanish. It grew slightly. It lit the room with its undulating red glow, casting frightening shadows on the wall that looked like ghosts.
"Five..."
The counting stopped And Ryan stop the fire from appearing. He raised his hand to his chest involuntarily, but he touched nothing. The scars were beneath it. The skin looked intact on the surface. But the pain was real.
He whispered:"Damn, only five seconds, and why do these scars hurt so much even though they're healed?"
Ryan wanted to do it again, but he hesitated.
'Maybe I should just sleep and try again tomorrow.'
Ryan got up and went into bed, in the end, he decided not to try again today.
**********
Rayan was hungry. And his body needed food, and the dining hall was the only place he could get it.
But he didn't want to eat in the presence of many people so that no one would bother him.
He waited until the hour grew late. Until the majority had left. Until only tired servants and a few night-owl students remained in the corridors. He did it because he didn't want to see anyone.He wanted to eat in silence, return to his room, and do what he had to do.
The dining hall was almost empty. The light was dim, and most of the seats were vacant. He sat in the far corner, where no one would look at him. He took a plate of bread and cheese, some mashed potatoes, a small piece of meat, and a glass of cold water. It wasn't a fancy meal, but it was enough.
It also appears that meals were distributed to all students in this manner.
Although he was curious to know the reason, but he knew that things would improve when the old students, especially the noble ones, arrived.
He returned to focusing on his food.
He ate slowly. He wasn't in a hurry. He enjoyed the quiet.
When he finished his meal, he stood up. He threw the leftovers in the trash can and went out into the corridors. His steps were light on the marble floor.
He reached his room. He locked the door and closed the window that had been open.
He sat on the floor, his back against the iron bedframe. The moon was high, and his small window let in a cold light enough to see the details of his room.
He raised his right hand. Looked at it for a moment. It trembled slightly.
he whispered.
"Again."
He closed his eyes. He remembered that night. The pain, the screaming, then the fire that consumed his body
He opened his eyes.
The flame appeared. Red. Dim. It fluttered on his palm like a torn flag in the wind. It wasn't large, but it was real.
Then the scars began.
Every scar on his body – on his chest, on his arms, on his back, even the small marks on his neck – began to burn with a sharp pain, as if red‑hot needles were piercing his flesh.
he whispered, his voice strained.
"One..."
The fire still burned. His hand trembled, but he didn't extinguish it.
"Two..."
The pain grew worse. As if the fire wasn't in his hand, but in his veins. As if every cell in his body was burning from the inside. He sweated. His forehead beaded with cold sweat despite the heat of the flame.
He hesitated.
He could put out the fire now. But he continued.
"Three..."
He gritted his teeth. The pain was unbearable, yet bearable.
"Four..."
The scars pulsed. Like small hearts buried beneath his skin, pumping pain instead of blood.
"Five..."
He breathed with difficulty. He felt nauseous. But he didn't stop.
"Six..."
His voice rose slightly. It sounded like a groan, but it wasn't a groan. More like the grunt of a wounded animal trying to rise.
"Seven..."
He clenched his fist. The flame grew slightly. Its heat intensified. The pain intensified.
"Eight..."
His heart pounded fast. His body wanted to give up.
"Nine..."
Now the struggle was entirely internal. Part of him wanted to scream "Enough!" and another part wanted to continue.
"Ten."
He extinguished the fire.
His hand fell to the floor. He gasped, breathing like someone who had run for miles. His body was drenched in sweat, his face pale.
He looked at his hand. It wasn't burned. It was unharmed. But the scars still throbbed with pain, reminding him of what he had done.
he whispered.
"Ten seconds."
This was the first time he had used fire for ten consecutive seconds. An achievement.
But he didn't feel pride. Only pain, and fear of tomorrow.
He lay down on the bed. He didn't fully close his eyes. He remained half‑conscious, thinking about the red flame in his hand.
he whispered.
"It doesn't matter.I'll continue."
He closed his eyes. Finally, he slept.
In the end, Ryan spent the days he had before the Start of Year Ceremony practicing.
And He focused on the element of fire.
Then came the date for the start of year ceremony.