Cursed(7)

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The silence after the chair landed stretched longer than it should have.

No one moved. No one spoke. Even the nervous glances being exchanged were subdued quiet, cautious, uncertain. The kind of quiet you only get when everyone in the room is watching to see who's going to make the first move after something has gone wrong.

Rhyka still stood behind his desk.

His arms were at his sides now, but his fingers remained clenched. His jaw was locked tight. His whole body was stiff, like it was taking effort not to do more. His chest rose and fell in shallow, quiet breaths. There was no regret in his eyes. No hint of second thoughts.

Just anger Cold and bitter.

Then, from the front of the classroom, Emmet spoke.

The calm in his voice wasn't real. Not this time.

"Rhyka," he said, eyes fixed on him. "Don't you think that's a little much?"

He said it like a teacher trying to keep things light. Like he could walk it back if needed. Like it was just another minor disruption in a room full of kids.

But it wasn't.

The words hung there for a moment.

Rhyka didn't respond.

He didn't move.

His expression didn't change.

The hateful look on his face stayed in place—like it had been carved in.

He turned slowly, without a word, and reached for his satchel. The strap was half-wrapped around the leg of his desk. He yanked it free with one hand and started packing up his things. Methodical. Quiet. No rush. No panic. Just done.

His slate. His worn copy of "Foundations of Channeling." A small cloth pouch with ink-stained quills. He slid everything into the bag like he'd done it a hundred times before.

Emmet took a step forward.

"Where are you going?" he asked, voice still low. "Class isn't over."

Rhyka finally spoke.

"I'm leaving early."

His tone wasn't loud. But it was flat. Final.

The words didn't invite discussion.

There were no raised voices. No dramatic declarations. Just the quiet certainty of someone who had already decided and didn't care if anyone else agreed.

Emmet blinked. "You can't just walk out—"

"Yes, I can," Rhyka cut in. "There's no one to say I can't."

It was true.

Normally, if a student wanted to leave early, they needed permission. A note from a parent. A message from a guardian. Someone in authority to back the decision.

But Rhyka didn't have any of that.

No parents.

No sponsor.

No one to call or report to.

Emmet hesitated. He looked at Rhyka like he wanted to argue. Like he was considering whether this needed to turn into something bigger.

But he didn't speak again.

Because he knew—technically, Rhyka was right.

And more than that, Emmet could see it in his eyes. The tight set of his jaw. The way his shoulders were squared. The way he wasn't asking permission.

There was nothing left to say.

Rhyka pulled the satchel strap over his shoulder.

The entire room watched as he turned toward the aisle.

The students seated closest to the middle of the row shifted in their seats, unsure of what to do. A few looked like they were trying to shrink back, others just froze. Rhyka didn't slow down.

He shoved past the first one—shoulder hitting the edge of their desk, sliding it sideways with a dull scrape.

The next student leaned out of the way just in time to avoid the same.

Another whispered something under their breath. Rhyka ignored it.

He walked straight through the room like nothing else existed. No apologies. No glances back. Just one step after another, past desks, past people, through the thick, stunned quiet that no one seemed willing to break.

He reached the door.

Opened it.

Didn't look back.

And then he was gone.

The door shut behind him with a quiet, final click.

For several seconds, no one moved. The classroom stayed frozen—half-shocked, half-afraid to be the first to breathe too loudly.

Then, slowly, the sound of students shifting returned. Chairs creaked. Someone whispered. Someone else began picking up the ink-stained papers that had spilled earlier.

But the mood hadn't returned to normal.

It wouldn't not for a while

Rhyka moved through the village streets with a cold expression, his face blank and unreadable.

The energy from the classroom hadn't left him. It clung to his skin like heat after a fever—unseen but heavy, sticking to the back of his neck, coiled in his shoulders. Every step he took felt stiff, like his body hadn't quite caught up to the fact that he'd already walked out. That it was done. That he was no longer in that room.

He kept his head down, eyes focused ahead.

The village wasn't crowded. Midday in Darren usually meant quiet movement—vendors packing up, laborers heading home, temple aides going between errands with baskets tucked under their arms. A few children ran past him on the left, laughing about something meaningless, and Rhyka stepped out of their path without looking at them.

He didn't want to be noticed.

But today, after what had happened, he wasn't sure that was still possible.

A few adults glanced his way as he passed. Some just looked. Others stared a second longer than normal. Nothing was said, but Rhyka could feel the weight of their eyes trailing behind him, the way people sometimes watch a wild dog—not scared, not hostile, but wary. Like they were waiting to see if he might bite again.

He ignored them.

His boots made steady contact with the stone pathway, each step quiet but deliberate. His satchel bumped lightly against his side with the rhythm of his stride. The village buildings stretched around him in muted colors—sun-bleached walls, moss-draped roofs, old wood that had begun to crack in the corners.

He wasn't headed anywhere special. Just to the small food stall near the southern square. One of the few that didn't overcharge, run by a man who barely spoke unless you shorted him on coin.

Rhyka liked that kind of place. Simple. Direct. No questions.

The stall came into view—a low wooden counter with a faded cloth canopy overhead and two baskets set out on display. One filled with brown-shelled eggs stacked in a pyramid. The other with fresh, dense loaves of bread wrapped in cloth to keep the heat in.

He approached and stood in front of the counter, saying nothing.

The vendor, a broad-shouldered man with graying stubble and sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, looked up from the basket he was organizing. His eyes met Rhyka's.

There was a pause.

Not long.

Just enough to be noticed.

Then the man turned, reached into the egg basket, and began filling a small paper pouch without being asked.

Rhyka pulled a few coins from his coat pocket copper and one iron-mark and placed them on the counter. The sound of metal tapping wood was sharp in the quiet.

The man glanced at the coins, said nothing, and reached for a loaf of bread.

Still warm. Still soft at the edges. He wrapped it tightly and handed both the bread and the eggs across the counter.

Rhyka took them without a word.

Their hands didn't touch.

The exchange was done in under twenty seconds No questions. No smiles No judgment

Just trade

Just routine

Rhyka tucked the bread into his satchel, held the egg pouch carefully in one hand, and turned to leave.

As he walked away, he didn't look back. Didn't check if the man was still watching. He didn't care.

He had what he needed.

And that was enough