Nolan shrugs, giving me a lopsided smile. “Yeah. I’m not First blood or a legacy. I, uh… earned a place here on scholarship. Barely.”
He ducks his head, then glances up at me, eyes bright with curiosity behind his crooked glasses.
“I mean…neither are you, right? First blood, I mean. I don’t think…” he trails off, looking horrified at his own words.
I laugh, the sound surprising both of us. “Yeah. You can say it.Human.”
Nolan winces. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—I just…people are idiots. That’s all. And you're as rare as a unicorn here.”
The awkward rush of words makes me smile wider.
“It’s fine. I’m getting used to it. I've always been different. Although, usually it’s me being the asshole, not other people.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath.
“Well, for what it’s worth…I’m glad you’re here.”
I pause, caught off guard. “Thanks.”
Before either of us can say more, the door swings open with a low thrum of magic. Students straighten. Conversations hush.
Professor Marris enters, robes trailing, silver runes glinting along her sleeves.
But even as I shift to attention, I can feel Nolan’s sideways glance. Not hostile, but curious.
The door closes with a soft hum, sealing the room. Professor Marris strides to the front, movements graceful and deliberate. She’s tall and willowy, silver-streaked hair pinned back with rune-etched combs. Her robes shimmer faintly, layered in deep charcoal and indigo, sleeves traced with delicate shards of glass of different colors and shapes.
Her presence is quieter than the other professors so far, but no less commanding.
She lifts a hand. Without a word, the globes overhead pulse, the glow brightening over the tables.
“Welcome to Runic Arts,” she says. “In this class, you will learn the foundational languages of magic.”
A flick of her fingers, and glowing runes bloom mid-air—intricate, shifting symbols that pulse in rhythm with her words.
“Runes are the bones beneath the body of spell-craft,” she continues. “They bind. They shape. They endure long after raw magic fades. Without them all you have is a pretty illusion.”
I stare, breath caught. The symbols move like they’re alive, forming elegant patterns in the air. Nothing in Combat Casting felt like this. This is precision. Art. Beauty.
Professor Marris gestures again. The runes scatter into smaller glyphs, each drifting down to settle on the surface of the tables.
“You will begin with the basics,” she says. “Form, intent, flow.”
Around me, quills come out. Scrolls unroll. Students shift into work mode. At my side, Nolan is already scribbling in his battered notebook, mouth moving soundlessly as he traces shapes with his finger.
He catches me watching and flushes.
“I, um… I practice the stroke order,” he whispers. “Makes it stick. I remember it better.”
I grin. “Whatever works.”
He hesitates, then leans in a little. “If you need help, just…let me know. I'm really good at this.”
The offer is awkward, a little rushed. But genuine. For the first time since I stepped through that damn portal, someone other than Tamsin is being nice.
I nod. “Thanks. I might take you up on that.”
Nolan beams, then nearly knocks over his ink pot again in his excitement. I bite back a laugh and turn my attention to the glowing rune still hovering above my parchment.
