Hatchling and Steel

It happened just after dawn. The egg broke.

The pulse I had come to know—the warm, steady thump like a second heartbeat—suddenly surged. A sharp spike of heat flooded my palm. I jolted awake, eyes locking on the egg.

A hairline crack split its surface. Then another. The glow beneath the shell intensified, gold and violet dancing like firelight.

I didn't move.

The crack widened, and the shell split with a faint hiss. Not a dramatic explosion or magical burst. Just a quiet release of pressure, like a held breath finally exhaled.

From within, something stirred.

A small creature unfolded itself awkwardly from the fragments—wet, shivering, but undeniably alive. It blinked up at me with enormous eyes. The creature looked like a cross between a fox and a bird, covered in sleek silvery fur with tiny feathers lining its back and tail. Its ears twitched, and two nubs on its head sparked with faint arcs of mana.

It sneezed.

A puff of violet mist shot from its mouth and singed the blanket.

"...You're adorable," I muttered.

It squeaked in response and immediately clambered onto my lap, curling up as if it had known me forever.

I felt a strange bond form—not just emotional, but magical. The mana spark I had awakened was still raw inside me, but it pulsed in rhythm with the creature.

We were connected.

A familiar weight settled in my chest.

"Guess you chose me, huh?"

The creature yawned, tiny lightning crackling around its tongue.

I skipped breakfast again.

The pet—if I could call it that—followed me everywhere, riding on my shoulder or hiding in the folds of my cloak. When a fourth-year tried to ask what it was, it growled and zapped the air. He backed off.

I didn't have a name for it yet.

Sword training came first. Kaelen raised a brow as I walked onto the field with the fox-bird tucked into my scarf, but said nothing.

"You're late, Stormveil."

"Had a... magical emergency."

She narrowed her eyes, then smirked faintly. "We all do. Get in line."

The red-threaded group had shrunk since the first week. A few had been transferred, one had broken a wrist, and another had outright quit.

We practiced katas with weighted blades today.

Each movement tested balance and breath, and Kaelen watched with brutal attention. I adjusted to the weight quickly, muscle memory from my past life returning faster than I liked.

Still, I kept up the act. Imperfect, but improving.

Kaelen nodded once. "You're learning."

As we ended, she walked by and muttered, "You're hiding something. I don't care. Just don't let it get you killed."

Fair enough.

After class, I ducked into the library again. The upper floors were locked as usual. I needed clearance or senior mentorship to go beyond.

"Only years two and up," the librarian said.

I returned to the beginner section, setting the fox-bird creature—still unnamed—on the desk. It cooed and nibbled a corner of my book.

Today, I studied hybridization.

Spellblades. Rare. Dangerous. But not impossible.

A diagram showed the human body with both a mana spark and a mana circle. The key was harmony.

Too much spark? The circle collapsed. Too much circle? The spark destabilized.

One quote stuck out:

"To become a spellblade is not just to balance two forces. It is to become the fulcrum itself."

The creature yawned. I scratched its ears.

"Fulcrum it is. That's your name."

It chirped happily.

Fulcrum wasn't just magical. It was smart.

During spell theory, it listened to the lectures, mimicking the professor's tone with adorable chirps. At lunch, it refused anything that wasn't warm. When Oren offered it a biscuit, it fried it to ash.

"Your pet's terrifying," he whispered.

"It's called Fulcrum."

"Fitting."

We trained together that evening. Oren worked on precision spells; I practiced sparring moves and spark control. Fulcrum helped, in its own chaotic way—shocking me every time I lost focus.

I started calling it 'training encouragement.'

Oren didn't disagree.

But not everything was light.

On the third night, someone left another note under my door.

This one was written in crayon.

"You're not special! Just because you have a cool pet and can swing a sword doesn't mean you're better than everyone! We're watching you!"

The stick figure this time had a crown and was being zapped by another stick figure. A poorly drawn Fulcrum hovered over it with wings and lightning bolts.

I shook my head.

"At least they're getting creative."

Fulcrum tried to eat the note.

The spark inside me grew stronger each day. With practice, I could channel it briefly into my limbs—short bursts of speed, sharper strikes, improved awareness.

Kaelen noticed.

"You're accelerating. Why?"

"Because I have to."

She didn't question further. But that day, she stayed behind after training.

"Stormveil," she said, "come back here tonight. Bring your blade."

That night, the field was empty. Stars hung low above, and the lamps around the arena cast long shadows.

Kaelen stood at the center, her real blade unsheathed.

"You want to be more than a swordsman. Prove you deserve it."

She attacked without warning.

I dodged barely in time. Her strikes came fast and silent. Each one tested a different angle, a different weakness.

I used my spark.

My body responded with a burst of energy, but it wasn't perfect. My aim overextended, and I lost footing. Kaelen disarmed me with a flick and held the tip of her blade to my throat.

Then she smiled.

"You really might survive here."

She lowered her weapon.

"Train harder. You're walking a thin edge, Stormveil. And if you fall, there's no one to catch you."

When I returned to my dorm, Fulcrum was curled up on my pillow, twitching softly in its sleep.

I stared at it.

Then at my hands.

Then at the mana pulsing quietly in my chest.

I wasn't just surviving anymore.

I was becoming something else.

Something sharper.

Something stronger.

They didn't know who I was.

But soon, they would.