Dorm of Trials

The dormitory assigned to me was on the eastern wing of Sevren Academy—a high stone structure with wide balconies and hanging banners stitched with the academy's insignia: a sword overlaid with a flame. The inside smelled of old parchment and polished oak. It reminded me of a war library, not a place for young minds.

I was led there after the brief ceremony where Headmaster Lorian handed me a crest of silver and blue—proof of my scholarship and admittance. Alice lingered only long enough to ruffle my hair and mutter, "Don't pick fights unless they're worth it." She was gone before I could respond.

My new room was small but clean. A simple bed, desk, and a wardrobe. No swords hung from the walls. No portraits of ancient heroes. Just quiet.

The egg pulsed faintly beside my bed. Still warm.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at it.

"What are you?" I murmured.

No answer, but I didn't expect one.

Later that evening, I explored the dorm. Students crowded the halls, laughing and arguing in equal measure. Most wore tunics embroidered with thread showing their focus: blue for magic, red for swordsmanship, and violet for both.

I kept mine plain.

"Hey, new guy."

I turned. A tall boy with slicked-back hair and a smug expression leaned against the stair railing.

"Heard you got in with a scholarship. That true?"

I nodded once.

He looked me up and down. "No aura, no magic. No sword either. You sure you're not a misplaced servant?"

His friends chuckled. There were three of them. All armed. All clearly from noble lines.

I didn't rise to it. "I'm sure."

"Then prove it."

He drew a wooden practice blade from his belt and tossed another to me. I caught it mid-air.

"Here?" I asked.

He smirked. "Training yard. Five minutes. Unless you're scared."

The yard was lit by floating orbs, casting long shadows across the sand. Students gathered quickly. Dueling was a tradition at Sevren. Even unsanctioned matches drew attention.

The tall boy took a stance that was more flash than substance. I recognized the posture—Rolen Vale form. Popular among nobles, but brittle under pressure.

I didn't take a stance. I just watched.

He charged.

His blade came down hard. I sidestepped, letting it skim past me, and tapped his shoulder with the flat of mine.

The crowd gasped.

He growled and attacked again—more furious, less controlled. I deflected each blow with the minimal movement possible, guiding his strength away, letting him exhaust himself.

Finally, I stepped in and swept his legs.

He hit the ground. Hard.

Silence.

Then someone clapped. And another. Soon half the yard was applauding.

I offered him a hand.

He slapped it away, face red.

"This isn't over," he muttered.

"It never is," I replied.

But I noticed something as I left. The others weren't smiling.

They looked at me like I didn't belong.

Like I'd broken something sacred.

The next morning, I reported to my first class. The chamber was wide, with tiered seats and a crystal projection orb floating above the professor's lectern. Elder parchment lined the walls, and diagrams of mana flows and core structures hung from stands.

Professor Rhalin, a sharp-eyed man with silver-rimmed spectacles, tapped the orb and began.

"Today we begin the study of mana sparks and circles. The foundation of magic and martial enhancement."

He drew a diagram in the air. Light traced his fingers, forming a glowing ring.

"This," he said, "is a basic mana circle. Mages begin by forming one inside their core. Refining it strengthens their magic and control."

He drew a small flicker beside it.

"Swordsmen, on the other hand, awaken what we call a 'mana spark'—a condensed burst of mana that fuels body reinforcement, reflex enhancement, and blade techniques."

A student raised her hand. "What about hybrids? Mage swordsmen?"

Professor Rhalin's expression turned serious.

"A rare path. Dangerous. It requires both a circle and a spark in harmony. Most bodies can't handle the strain. It shreds the nervous system or accelerates aging. The few who manage... are not quite human by the end."

I felt several eyes flick toward me, though I hadn't said a word.

"But the theory exists," he added. "And for those brave—or foolish—enough, the choice is theirs."

He turned to the class.

"Now. Who here has already awakened their core?"

Half the students raised their hands. I kept mine down.

Professor Rhalin pointed at me. "You. In the back. What's your name?"

"Valen Stormveil."

"Have you begun your awakening?"

"Not yet," I replied. "I was advised to wait."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Caution isn't weakness. But delay too long, and your path may narrow."

I said nothing, but I glanced down at my palm. A faint pulse still lingered from the egg.

Later that day, I passed the central training field. Dozens of students sparred under the watch of instructors. Sword clashes, spell bolts, and elemental surges filled the air.

For a moment, I felt something stir within me.

Not fear.

Anticipation.

I took a few steps toward the edge of the field and sat on the stone bench. A group of first-year sword students sparred under the direction of an instructor. Their movements were decent, if predictable. Then, one of the older students, a silver-haired girl named Iselle, launched into the ring.

She disarmed two boys in under ten seconds.

I narrowed my eyes. There was something oddly familiar about her footwork—reminiscent of techniques I had used years ago. Or would use. My memories of my past life and this new reality sometimes blurred at the edges.

"You thinking of stepping in?" someone asked beside me.

I turned. A short boy with round glasses and a mage's emblem on his chest smiled at me. "I saw your duel yesterday. That was clean."

"Thanks."

"I'm Oren. First-year magic division. You?"

"Valen."

He offered a hand. I took it.

"Just a heads up," he said, leaning in. "You made some enemies yesterday. Tall guy you embarrassed? That's Renald Varas. His uncle funds half the sword division's training arena."

"Good to know."

He laughed. "You're too calm. I like that. We should partner up in practicals. I need someone who won't explode if I mess up a spell."

"I'll think about it."

Back in my dorm that evening, I studied the egg again. The surface glowed faintly with my touch.

Somehow, it was responding.

I concentrated, letting my thoughts drift inward, the way Alice had warned me not to. I felt the edges of my mana core—unstable, unfocused. The instructors were right. Forming a circle or a spark without training could be fatal.

But this egg... it responded not to power, but to intent. I focused my will. A flicker of warmth surged in my palm.

Then I heard it.

A sound. Not with my ears, but within my thoughts.

A heartbeat.

The egg pulsed again.

Something inside was waking up.

And it had chosen me.

Tomorrow, I would return to class. I would walk the halls, face stares, and hear the whispers.

They didn't know me.

They didn't know what I was capable of.

But soon, they would.