Luncheon

Around noon, a sharp, polite knock echoed against Amora's door—polite, yet carrying an undercurrent of command that brooked no refusal. Immediately, she thought of the brooding boy from Cabin 25. She rose reluctantly and opened the door.

"Lunchtime."

As expected, the boy stood there, hood drawn up as before. However, in addition to the numbered badge on his chest, there was now a black, shield-shaped emblem. It appeared he had received permission to cast spells, as Amora could now fully understand him through a translation spell.

From his pocket, he produced a small stack of brightly colored slips and handed them to her. "These are meal vouchers. Keep them safe."

Amora took the slips wordlessly. The boy paid her no further mind and moved past her door to knock on Cabin 23.

Soon, a girl of around fifteen emerged—a small figure with a round face, tousled hair, and sharp little canines that lent her an oddly fierce charm. The hem of her oversized coat nearly reached her knees, and the sleeves were rolled up several times to fit her arms.

The girl accepted her meal vouchers silently, glancing briefly at Amora. Their eyes met—hers were a pale brown, clouded and oppressive, like a sky thick with storm clouds.

Amora met her gaze calmly and offered a gentle smile. The girl acted as though she hadn't seen it, quickly pulling her hood up and hurrying downstairs with her vouchers. Amora didn't mind. She shut her door, adjusted her cloak, and followed the girl toward the dining hall.

The dining hall was located on the first floor. Its narrow entrance reeked of disinfectant, and the inside was an exercise in bleak minimalism. White tables, each able to seat four to six people, stretched in neat rows, their plain cloths patterned with the most uninspired designs. Each seat bore a number, with an empty set of utensils already arranged precisely at every place.

The air was still and silent, broken only by the occasional scrape of a chair. Those already seated—hats drawn low over their faces—spoke to no one, and the atmosphere resembled more of a solemn memorial than a dining hall.

Amora hesitated briefly, half-convinced she'd wandered into a laboratory instead.

The girl from Cabin 23 chose a table along the edge, marked for numbers 20 through 25. She sat quietly, setting her utensils in order with mechanical precision. Amora's number was 24, placing her directly beside the girl. She sat down without comment.

More passengers trickled in, filling the dining hall within minutes. Yet the silence remained unbroken, oppressive as ever. Amora glanced at the other tables; the occupants were of varying ages, from ten to twenty, and their appearances were as diverse as their regions of origin. But their eyes—uniformly dark and heavy, burdened with an unspeakable weight—were the same.

The clear chime of a bell interrupted the stillness, and the serving windows opened. A faint smell of food, far from appetizing, wafted through the hall. Starting from the far corners, students stood in unison, presenting both their identification and meal vouchers at the counters before collecting their meals.

Amora mimicked the others, obtaining a plate of hardened wheat bread, a cup of thick, cloyingly sweet cocoa, and a piece of overcooked, frozen steak. The food was edible, certainly, but no more than that.

She noticed her neighbor from Cabin 25 had stacked his plate with protein-rich meats, with only a token few leaves of lettuce beneath. Across the table, Student 22 had barely taken half a piece of cheese and a few fresh vegetables.

"Meal vouchers are limited. Don't waste them," said the boy from Cabin 25 abruptly, halfway through their meal. "We'll be on this ship for at least two months."

Amora had counted the vouchers earlier—thirty in total. One per meal wouldn't last two months. His warning struck her as particularly pertinent, especially the earlier emphasis on keeping them safe. If lost, it was likely they wouldn't be replaced.

The realization was dawning on Student 22 as well. Glaring down at his pitiful plate, he grumbled, "Aren't you the team leader? Why didn't you say so sooner?"

His words, spoken in clear Plomannian, carried easily to Amora's ears. She'd already deduced as much: the shield emblem marked Cabin 25's occupant as their group leader. Across the hall, other tables had leaders wearing similar badges, dividing the nearly one hundred students into teams of four to six.

"I'm telling you now." Cabin 25's voice was cold and indifferent, his focus on mechanically chewing the slabs of meat on his plate.

Student 22 scowled, shoving his vegetables into his mouth before leaving the table in visible frustration. The remaining students, however, remained seated, their movements methodical and silent, broken only by the occasional clink of cutlery.

Amora wondered if she'd manage to finish the dense bread piled on her plate. Just as she contemplated asking the leader if she could take it back to her room, a sharp sound shattered the quiet.

A student had been thrown against the wall near the dining hall's exit, his impact leaving the surface cracked and caved in. Thick, crimson blood—like spilled tomato paste—dripped down the pale wall as the student's body slid to the ground. Without any visible flames, his form began to smolder, the heat distorting the air around him.

Within moments, there was nothing left but a mound of ash in the vague shape of a human.

The other students barely reacted, turning to observe the scene with the same dull, apathetic gazes. Amora caught something worse than gloom in their eyes—numbness.

"Continue eating," commanded a calm, authoritative voice.

The speaker sat upright, composed and unshaken. His dark brown hair and coal-black eyes lent him a steely, unyielding expression, and the badge on his chest read 1. His words were obeyed instantly; all heads turned back to their plates, and no one spared another glance at the ashes.

A pair of students retrieved cleaning supplies from the corner, quickly scrubbing the blood and ash away. It was as though nothing had happened—save for the dented wall that now marred the pristine room.

"Don't provoke those with spellcasting permissions," said Cabin 25 through a silent communication spell. Amora noticed the others at her table flinch slightly, clearly receiving the same message.

"Don't start conflicts. Don't break the rules. Keep your meal vouchers safe. That way, you'll be fine."

Cabin 23 slammed her utensils down suddenly, ignoring the team leader's words. Without a word, she left the dining hall.

"Of course," Cabin 25 continued, unbothered, as he finished his meal, "no one is truly safe. It's said that only a dozen or so students survive to the destination each year."

He stood, placing his cutlery neatly beside his empty plate before walking away.

The remaining students ate mechanically, their faces devoid of fear or apprehension, and soon they, too, filed out like silent shadows.

Amora sat among the last few still lingering, staring at the three remaining pieces of bread on her plate with weary resignation.

But she couldn't eat another bite.

"Offer it to those who are still hungry," came a voice from across the hall.

Amora looked up to see One, his dark eyes fixed on her. With spellcasting permissions likely encompassing combat-level magic, he clearly held some form of authority—enough, at least, to execute a student with impunity.

Amora stood without hesitation, lifting her plate and carrying it across the room. She placed it in front of him—a piece of steak residue, one bitten piece of bread, and two untouched rolls.

"Please, help yourself," she said calmly, her voice unbothered.

Then, under the stunned gaze of his tablemates, Amora turned on her heel and left the dining hall.