Cursed(5)

The next day, Rhyka made his way into the classroom with slow, heavy steps. The faint light from the high windows filtered in through streaked glass, dim and gray with the weight of an overcast morning. Dust motes hung in the still air, floating through weak beams of sunlight that couldn't quite reach the corners of the room.

He looked tired. Not in the way everyone looked tired after a long day or a poor night's sleep. No this was different. The kind of tired that clung to the skin. The kind that sank into the bones and stayed there. His eyes were ringed with dark bags, the shadows beneath them bruised and deep His posture was slouched, his gaze distant.

He blinked as he entered, eyes scanning the room slowly.

Why does everyone look so excited? he wondered.

The energy in the room was strange—off. Students leaned forward in their seats, talking in hushed, hurried tones. Some pointed toward the front of the classroom. Others were practically buzzing with nervous anticipation. There was no laughter, but there was an edge of electricity in the air, a sense that something unusual was about to happen.

Rhyka moved through it without a word, silent as always. No one turned to greet him. No one paused in their conversation. It was as if he wasn't there at all. He lowered his eyes and made his way to the back of the room, slipping into his usual seat without drawing attention. The bench creaked faintly beneath him, but no one looked up.

That was when the door at the front opened again.

A woman entered, walking beside Professor Emmet.

She moved with calm, deliberate steps—unhurried, but precise. Her robe was a deep slate color, edged with subtle golden thread Not ornate Not gaudy But unmistakably crafted by practiced hands. Her hair was tied back, her expression neutral, but her presence was sharp. Focused. Like a knife hidden under silk

Professor Emmet raised a hand, casually as always, to quiet the class.

"Alright," he said, voice steady. "Eyes up. We've got a guest today."

He gestured to the woman beside him.

"This is Magister Veyra. She's a mage, originally from the north used to work locally before transferring to the capital."

He paused for a breath, then added with mild emphasis, "Vollchan."

A wave of surprise rippled through the room.

Vollchan the capital for a whole continent from the stories it's where all the great mages of Harlen got their start

"She trained under the imperial schools and served as a court mage for some time," Emmet continued. "She's here to talk about something most of you are starting to encounter or will be soon. Cores."

He stepped back, and Veyra took his place at the front.

Her voice was measured and clear—not cold, but precise.

"You can think of a core," she began, "as a self-made organ. One that doesn't exist at birth. It must be formed intentionally, carefully through will and repetition."

She let that settle for a moment.

"When it is formed, your body begins to generate mana. That mana, the energy inside you, rises in strength depending on the quality of your core. We classify them in ranks One through Five are considered common stages accessible through consistent training and discipline. Most of the adult mages you'll meet never pass Rank Five."

She glanced around the room.

"But to reach Rank Six, and beyond? You must be among the less than 1% of mages that reach that level

Several students gasped quietly.

Veyra continued without breaking stride.

"More than raw energy, a core gives you access. The ability to hold and direct magic. It unlocks the structure needed to learn spells formulas, incantations, rituals. Without a core, spellcasting is limited to ambient manipulation. Basic things Flickers of power. But with it…"

She lifted a hand. A small, precise arc of light bloomed at her palm thread-thin, controlled, forming a perfect circle of glimmering runes that hovered in the air.

"…with it, you shape the world."

Then she closed her fingers, and the light vanished.

She turned her eyes back to the class.

"Rather than explain further, I've asked two of your classmates to assist with the demonstration. The rest, from here, they can explain themselves."

There was a beat of silence.

Then motion

Eto stood

Calm. Poised. There was a small smile on her lips—not mocking, but certain. The smile of someone who had already seen the next ten steps ahead. She walked forward with her chin slightly raised and turned to face the class.

No incantation.

She raised her hand and spread her fingers.

Light poured forth thin lines, threads of energy dancing between her fingertips like strands of silk pulled taut by wind. It shimmered with ease, flowing around her hand as if it had always been there.

There was no effort in her face. No struggle.

The room was silent Staring Eyes wide.

Then, without warning, Rinnte stood.

More hesitant More unsure. His shoulders were stiff, and he moved with a kind of shy determination. But he didn't falter. He stepped beside Eto and raised his hand.

It wasn't as dramatic no dazzling pattern, no effortless glow but the light was there.

Dimmer.

But real.

It pulsed gently at his fingertips. Barely visible. A newborn flame in cupped hands.

Still, it was enough.

A wave of shock rolled through the class like a sudden storm. Murmurs erupted Whispers flew back and forth in hushed excitement Some students gawked. Others leaned closer, as if proximity might let them feel the magic for themselves.

Even Professor Emmet gave a low nod of approval.

Rhyka sat frozen.

His teeth clenched slowly, almost unconsciously The back of his jaw tightened His eyes didn't leave the front of the room

He could feel it again that deep, sour twist in his stomach. Not just jealousy.

Envy.

It burned like old iron. Rusted and raw.

The attention they were getting. The awe. The pride in Emmet's eyes. The admiration in everyone else's. Even the stranger Veyra looked at them with respect.

No one was looking at him.

No one had ever looked at him that way.

His fingernails dug into the edge of the desk.

He knew he shouldn't feel this way.

He told himself he didn't care.

But gods, he hated the way they shined.

And he hated more that he couldn't.

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