I looked around and realized that everyone knew me, while I only knew a few of them. Eyes met mine easily, with familiarity I had not earned, and a few people even smiled as if we had shared something longer than a handful of days. Some of that familiarity felt curious rather than warm, like they were still deciding what to make of me, but the fact remained. They knew my name. I knew almost none of theirs.

  The imbalance sat oddly in my chest, not painful, but noticeable, like a weight I had only just become aware of. I had been the last one to join the class, mostly because my family lived the farthest away, as far as I could tell. By the time I arrived, everyone else already seemed settled into one another, forming small clusters that moved together without thinking. Greta had not done introductions then. I supposed it was not her style to force that kind of formality, especially when she cared more about what people could do rather than what they were called.

  The mess hall around us made that difference obvious. This was not a small room meant for quiet meals. It was a wide, open space built to feed dozens at once, maybe more. Long tables ran the length of the hall, their surfaces scarred by years of use. Benches scraped softly against the stone floor as people shifted or stood. Overhead, heavy beams crossed the ceiling, darkened by age and smoke, and the light that filtered down came from high windows and hanging lanterns that swayed slightly as people moved beneath them.

  The sound never fully stopped. Even between conversations, there was the constant undercurrent of life. Cutlery clicked. Plates slid across wood. Boots thudded in steady rhythms as guild members passed through, some already armored, others fastening straps as they walked. There was the smell of fresh bread, of meat cooked not long ago, of something sweet and yeasty that made my stomach twist painfully with hunger.

  I shifted slightly on the bench and cleared my throat, the movement careful. “I feel a little out of place,” I said, keeping my tone light even as my body protested the effort. “You all at least have a name for me.”

  A few smiles appeared at that, some quick and sympathetic, others amused. I smiled back, already resigned to the fact that Runt would probably sit with me for a long time. Maybe it would sit with me forever. The thought lingered, but it did not bother me as much as I might have expected. Names had weight, but they also had a way of becoming familiar if you let them.

  “But I know very little of your names,” I continued. “I know Winnie. I know Meka. I know Koo. And I know of Sean . But what of the rest of you? Would it be too much to ask for your names?”

  Greta looked down at me, then blinked once, as if genuinely surprised by the oversight. For a moment, I wondered if she had simply assumed it would sort itself out on its own. “Oh,” she said. “Yeah. I did not actually do the introductions. Fair enough.”

  She straightened slightly and gestured with one hand, her presence settling the room without effort. Even with the noise and movement around us, her voice carried clearly. “Everyone, this is Azolo.”

  She glanced down at me. “Last name?”

  I looked to the rest of my fellow trainees, feeling the weight of their attention settle briefly on my shoulders. “Azolo Ouizem,” I said.

  Her gaze moved methodically, starting with the people I already knew, as if anchoring me before moving outward. “Azolo Ouizem, you already know Winnie Neckhammer.” Winnie lifted her chin proudly, clearly pleased to be named first.

  “Koo–tahm Grookson,” Greta continued. Koo gave me a small nod, one corner of his mouth lifting in a way that suggested he found the whole situation mildly amusing.

  As Greta spoke, movement continued behind her. Iron Ranked adventurers were filtering toward the exits, some carrying packs already heavy with supplies, others pausing just long enough to finish a bite or drain a mug before heading out. Their voices were low and focused, conversations clipped and practical. They did not look our way much. To them, we were children and trainees, something separate from the work that awaited them outside the walls.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Opposite us, at the far side of the hall, the magic trainees sat together. They had chosen their distance deliberately, leaving a clear gap between themselves and the Iron Ranked tables. No one had told them to do it. It was simply understood. They kept their eyes mostly to themselves, shoulders angled inward, voices quieter. There was tension there, but it went unspoken, manifesting only in where people chose to sit and who they chose not to look at.

  “Meka…” Greta paused, glancing sideways at the minotaur girl. “I do not actually know your last name, since you are not from my class.”

  “It’s Meadowshine,” the minotaur girl squeaked, drawing her broad shoulders inward as if trying to take up less space than her body allowed. The effort only made her seem larger. Her voice, however, was soft, almost startlingly so, like it did not quite belong to someone of her size.

  “This is Meka Meadowshine,” Greta said, as if nothing about that contrast surprised her in the slightest.

  As if on cue, Myrda moved into view behind Greta. She carried two plates at once, balanced easily in her broad hands, steam rising from them in thin curls. She moved quickly, efficiently, weaving between tables without hesitation. Where she passed, food appeared. Fresh bread. plates of eggs. Thick cuts of meat glistening with fat. She did not linger, did not chatter. She placed plates down with a practiced motion and moved on to the next table.

  “Sean Silverstein.”

  Sean inclined his head. Up close, I could see him better than before. He was a half-elf, with the lithe build that came with it, all lean muscle and coiled readiness. There was a restless quality to him, something jumpy under the surface, as if he was always prepared to move at a moment’s notice. Even sitting still, he looked like he might spring up without warning. It made sense, suddenly, that he had been the one to skip off the path when we first arrived in the Iron Zone.

  Greta’s hand moved on. “This is Raven Stridefeather.”

  The elven girl met my gaze calmly, her expression unreadable. I had heard of the Stridefeathers. An unequalled line of rangers, once renowned for their skill and discipline. Even if their name carried less weight now than it had in my original time, there was still potential there. Considerable potential. She held herself like someone who knew how to watch without being seen.

  Greta gestured to the boy who had broken the dummy on the first day. “This is Glim Um–Kila.”

  The name settled into place immediately. Troll lineage, without question. A common troll name, and his build confirmed it. His strength had been far beyond the rest of ours, yet he was very young, twelve at most. His horns had not grown in yet, and his tusks had not emerged. Without them, he looked almost like a large human child, though his skin carried a pale gray tone with faint blue highlights. His arms and legs were longer than proportion suggested, but he stood straight, without the hunch people often assumed trolls had.

  When Greta spoke his name, his eyes lit up, pride shining openly. He knew who he was, and he was not ashamed of it.

  Greta moved on again. “This is Mildred Goldberg.”

  The girl waved shyly. She was human, probably eight years old, maybe ten at most. I thought of her as little, even though she was taller than me. That said more about my size than hers. Her name did not ring any bells, but her expression was earnest and eager, and when I extended my hand, she shook it with surprising seriousness, like the gesture itself mattered.

  I moved down the line, shaking hands with each of them in turn, committing names and faces to memory as best I could.

  Before Greta could continue, the last boy stepped forward on his own and stuck out his hand. “I’m Tom,” he said. “I ain’t a human like you might be thinkin, just so you know. I’m half gnome, half elf.”

  I blinked once internally. The pairing was unusual, though not unheard of. The physical logistics alone were enough to raise questions, especially since he was the size of a regular human. I kept my face neutral, offering my hand without hesitation, and he shook it firmly.

  “Yes,” Greta said, cutting in smoothly, as if she had been waiting for him to say it himself. “This is Tom Stillpockets.”

  Myrda returned then, stopping directly in front of me. She set down a plate with both hands, the wood of the table creaking faintly under the weight. The plate was covered edge to edge with food. Sweet-smelling rolls piled high, thick slices of meat, eggs cooked in more than one way, all of it steaming and rich and overwhelming. Set carefully to one side, almost as an afterthought, was a single banana.

  I stared at it.

  It was larger than my entire body.

  Myrda did not comment. She only nodded once, already moving on to the next table, leaving me alone with the impossible task set in front of me. The smell alone made my hands tremble, hunger roaring up to meet it. Around me, the mess hall continued as it always did, full of motion and sound and lives intersecting briefly over shared meals, while I sat there, small and newly changed, faced with the simple, daunting reality of needing to eat.