Chapter 24 - The Room of Misfits

A few days passed in the cold quiet of the infirmary. Days filled with pain that slowly subsided thanks to elven magic, the tense and volatile presence of Seraphine (who appeared and disappeared like a temperamental shadow, alternating between insults and almost obsessive vigilance), and the concerned visits from Greta, Lira, and even the clumsy Oracio, who once nearly set the curtains on fire trying to "warm up the room" with a controlled puff of smoke.

For Gabriel, they were days of slow, painful processing, not just of the physical injuries, but of Fay's sentence echoing in his mind like a macabre clock: Two years... Evolve or die... No return...

Finally, the healers decided he was "stable," though far from recovered. Magic had done its work on bones and tissues, but the exhaustion, residual pain, and the very nature of the injuries would require time – time Gabriel felt he didn't have.

With his left arm still firmly cast and supported in a makeshift sling, and his right leg bandaged and protesting every step he took with the help of a rustic crutch (courtesy of Greta, who had yanked it from somewhere), he was released.

Akane Thaloria personally escorted him to the less... prestigious wing of the male dormitories. It was evident the administration wanted to keep him under discreet observation and, perhaps, away from Seraphine to avoid further "incidents."

"This will be your new lodging, Mr. Gabriel," Akane said, stopping before a dark, unadorned wooden door that seemed slightly crooked on its hinges. Her expression was professional, but there was genuine concern in her blue eyes. "Your roommates have already been informed of your arrival. Try... try not to get into any more trouble. The situation is still delicate."

Gabriel just nodded, too tired for sarcasm. Trouble seemed to be his natural state in Faytheria. Akane gave him one last appraising look, as if hesitant to leave him there, but then turned away, her elven steps silent in the corridor.

Taking a deep breath, Gabriel pushed the door open (with difficulty, using his good shoulder). The room was… small. And peculiar. It definitely lacked the implied luxury of the areas he'd seen Seraphine frequent. Three simple wooden beds occupied most of the space. A small barred window offered a dismal view of a moss-covered stone wall. The air smelled like a strange mixture of damp earth, wet fur, and something vaguely metallic.

In one corner, crouched on the floor beside a cracked pot from which sprouted a twisted plant with leaves that looked like dark leather, was a small humanoid figure. Moss-green skin, hair resembling a tangle of dry green vines, and feet… yes, the feet were turned backward. A Caipora. He hummed a dissonant, wordless melody while gently pruning a leaf from the bizarre plant with a small obsidian knife.

On the farthest bed, near the window, a mass of orange-striped fur was curled into an almost perfect ball, snoring softly. A long, furry tail with a white tip twitched occasionally. A Feral.

The Caipora raised his head as Gabriel limped in, his small, shiny eyes like onyx beads fixing on Gabriel's injuries with primitive curiosity.

"Hmm… The broken-branch human has arrived," the Caipora's voice was a hoarse whisper, like dry leaves rustling in the wind. He pointed at the pot with the knife. "Smells like green lightning and old fear. Energy all twisted. Like rotten roots."

Gabriel blinked, unsure how to respond to that reception.

The Feral on the bed stirred, uncurling slowly. It was a humanoid creature, but clearly feline. Short, dense fur of vibrant orange with black stripes, a short snout with long white whiskers, pointed ears atop its head that swiveled towards Gabriel, and large eyes, an intense green with vertical pupils, that assessed him from head to toe with an expression of pure boredom and indifference. He yawned, showing sharp fangs, and stretched luxuriously, retractable claws momentarily extending and retracting from his fingertips.

"Ah. The noisy one." The Feral's voice was a sleepy bass, with a slight guttural accent. He sat up on the bed, his furry tail swaying slowly behind him. "Heard the commotion yesterday. Too much drama. Unnecessary." He licked one paw distractedly. "Try not to bleed on my side of the room. Hate the smell of human blood. Too… metallic."

Gabriel sighed internally. Great. A forest hermit and a giant lazy cat for roommates. At least they didn't seem immediately hostile, just… weird. Painfully weird.

"Er… Hi," Gabriel managed to say, leaning heavily on the crutch. "I'm Gabriel. Looks like we're… roommates."

The Caipora turned his attention back to the plant but muttered, "Bartolomeu. The plant is Berenice. Don't touch her. She bites."

The Feral yawned again. "Gertro." He curled back up on the bed. "Don't wake me before noon. And don't touch my shiny things." He indicated with his tail a small pile of glittering objects (a belt buckle, a strange coin, a shard of mirror) hidden under the bed.

Gabriel looked around the cramped room, at his new and eccentric companions, at his own bandages and crutch. He felt a weight in his stomach. Isolated, injured, with a death sentence hanging over his head, and now stuck in a room with a plant protector with backward feet and a kleptomaniac cat. The situation was so absurd it was almost funny. Almost.

He limped over to the only empty bed, near the door, and sat down carefully, the pain reminding him of his fragility. The Mark on his hand seemed to pulse slightly, a silent reminder of the urgency, the need for power, the race against time that had just begun.

He looked at Bartolomeu and Gertro. Would they be allies? Obstacles? Or just part of the bizarre scenery of his doomed life in Faytheria? He had no idea. But he knew he needed to find out soon.

A few more days passed. Days of strangely silent coexistence in the room with Bartolomeu and Gertro. The Caipora spent most of his time murmuring to Berenice or disappearing for hours, returning smelling of wet earth and with leaves in his hair.

Gertro slept, stretched, or occasionally went out to "patrol his territory" (which Gabriel suspected was an excuse to nap on some sunny rooftop or steal more shiny objects). Gabriel, meanwhile, focused on minimal recovery, the pain gradually lessening, though the crutch was still an uncomfortable necessity. Fay's revelation was a constant weight on his mind, an urgency compelling him to act, but his body's weakness frustrated him.

Finally, the day came when he could postpone it no longer. The healers cleared him for light activities, which, at the Arcane Academy, meant returning to classes. With a resigned sigh and leaning on his crutch, Gabriel faced the corridors again.

If before he felt watched for being a "player," now it was a thousand times worse. The news of the brutal attack and the rumors about his relationship with Seraphine Noctaria had spread like wildfire. The hallways didn't just whisper; they buzzed with gossip, speculation, and judgment.

The stares were a disconcerting mix. Some students – mostly younger ones or those from less arrogant species – looked at him with curiosity mixed with pity, perhaps even reluctant admiration for the "human who survived."

Others, especially elves and vampires from minor lineages who might envy or fear the Noctarias (and now the Incorpuses), shot looks of pure contempt and disgust. "Filthy player," he heard a pointy-eared elf mutter as he passed. "Mixing with rabble and still causing trouble."

There was also the "divided support" group.

The academy's great hall buzzed like a poisoned hornet's nest. On one side, the purists—elves, other creatures, and vampires, in black cloaks embroidered with ancestral crests, pale faces twisted in sneers of disgust, fingers clenched into claw-like fists. On the other, the "dangerous romantics," creatures whispering "It's so... human!" with a mixture of scorn and fascination, like children poking an exotic animal with a stick. Gabriel, in the center, was an insect trapped in amber: alive, but motionless, under the weight of hundreds of stares.

The worst were the looks from the attackers. He saw them from a distance. Vlad and Ulric, surrounded by their usual entourage, gave him smirks and veiled threats. They didn't approach – perhaps orders from the administration, perhaps fear of repercussions or that strange energy blast – but the promise of future retaliation was clear in their eyes.

Lysandra watched from afar, long fingers tapping an ancient grimoire. Her gaze was a scalpel blade, dissecting Gabriel: "What is your limit, human? How far do you bleed before you break?"

And Lilith... Lilith smiled. Not with her lips, but with her eyes—pools of black oil where Gabriel saw his own reflection burning. She licked her canines slowly, provocative and desirous, the succubus still wanting to taste her prey.

Reaching the Elemental Manipulation classroom was an ordeal.

Each of Gabriel's steps echoed like a war drum. The stone floor, worn by centuries of secrets, seemed to tremble beneath his weight. Students whispered behind books and raised hands:

"—It's him... the fragile one..."

"—How does she stand him?"

"—He'll die quickly, won't he?"

His seat in the classroom was surrounded by a palpable void, like a magic circle of rejection. Even the air there seemed denser, charged with static.

And then, she entered. Seraphine.

The door creaked like nails dragged across a tombstone.

Seraphine entered not as the ice princess Gabriel knew, but as a marble statue cracked by lightning. Her black dress, once impeccable, hung in uneven folds, small bat wings on the back a reminder of the Noctaria curse. Her shocking pink hair, loose and luminous as live embers, fell in disheveled strands over shoulders that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. The undone braids—those usually adorned with black satin ribbons—now resembled torn spiderwebs.

Greta and Lira, her sentinels, advanced in feline synchrony, eyes glowing like embers in coal. Each of their steps echoed like a distant drum, but Seraphine... Seraphine floated. There was no other term: her feet barely touched the ground, and the puffed sleeves of her dress revealed wrists too thin for someone carrying the curse of an entire clan.

As she passed Gabriel, the air crackled like a power line about to snap.

Their gazes collided for a nanosecond:

"—You shouldn't be here—" her ruby irises burned with the intensity of a blood-red sunset, but her hands... her hands trembled, pale fingers clenched into fists that looked ready to crumble. A flash of too-white fangs cut the air as she growled, low, almost inaudible.

"—Neither should you—" he wanted to say, but the phrase died in his throat.

Because, for an instant, he saw it: her translucent skin, the feverish flush on her cheekbones, the way the shadows around her seemed to breathe in sync with her ragged breath. She's falling apart, he thought. And, worse, she knew he knew.

The class began, but Gabriel could barely pay attention. He felt the stares on him, on Seraphine. He felt the tension between them, an invisible, crackling barrier. He felt the threat of the attackers waiting in the shadows. And he felt, above all, the crushing urgency of Fay's sentence.

Two years.

He looked down at his hands – one still recovering, the other marked by the Sigil that was his only hope and his greatest curse. The need to get stronger was no longer a vague desire; it was a matter of survival. He looked at Seraphine, at Greta. Their strength was undeniable; maybe they were the key. Or part of it.

The decision began to form in his mind, hard and necessary. He needed to swallow his pride, his anger, his fear. He needed to ask for help. He needed to train as if his life depended on it.

Because, in fact, it did.