Silence stretched heavily after Kael’s last remark.

  The hard-faced boy finally spoke, his voice clear and controlled:

  “Damian.”

  He straightened only slightly, yet even that small movement carried an air of authority—almost ceremonial.

  “And you, newcomer? Your name.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  It was a polite order.

  Kael slowly lifted his head, a piece of bread still in his hand.

  “Kael,” he answered calmly.

  Damian stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, before continuing:

  “So it’s true? You really come from the Broken Crown?”

  Kael shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

  “Yeah. And as you can see, I survived the trip. Incredible, right?”

  Then, without ceremony, he took another bite.

  Around them, conversations had fallen silent.

  Some watched the scene with curiosity, others with a mix of disgust and unease.

  Damian didn’t move.

  With a sudden gesture, he lifted his leg and kicked sharply at Kael’s hand.

  The piece of meat splattered onto the floor with a wet thud.

  Kael didn’t react.

  He simply stared at the fallen food at his feet.

  He let out a deep sigh, then said with dry irony:

  “Well… at least it got to experience gravity too.”

  A contemptuous smirk curled Damian’s lips.

  “Stop eating when Damian speaks to you, Ombrevu,” growled the pudgy boy behind him.

  Kael turned to him, intrigued.

  “Ombrevu, huh? You all have such a charming way of saying ‘hello.’”

  The boy stepped forward, but Kael scanned him slowly from head to toe with an almost academic expression.

  “But you—looks like you don’t stop eating very often, do you?”

  A stunned silence fell.

  The entire hall seemed to hold its breath.

  The pudgy boy turned crimson, fists clenched.

  “You little—!”

  He lunged forward, but Damian merely raised an arm.

  The gesture was clean, effortless—and enough to stop him dead.

  “Enough, Rion,” Damian said calmly.

  He hadn’t raised his voice, yet the effect was instant: both boys froze, rigid.

  Kael watched, genuinely surprised.

  He didn’t even have to shout… he thought.

  These guys listen to him like he’s commanding an army.

  Damian still hadn’t moved.

  He looked at Kael, his eyes as hard as stone.

  “But what are you even doing here, Ombrevu?” he finally asked.

  “No one of your kind has ever been a Trame Bearer.”

  Kael lifted his head, a smile ghosting across his lips.

  “Well, let’s say I’m the error in the equation. Happens even in the best calculations.”

  A few stifled laughs scattered around them.

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  Damian, unmoving, clenched his jaw.

  “It is a disgrace,” he said slowly, “to this Institute, that a cockroach like you treads the same stones as I do.”

  Kael met his gaze directly.

  “A disgrace, huh?”

  He tilted his head slightly.

  “And you—what do you know about disgrace?”

  “I do not know it,” Damian replied without hesitation.

  Kael let a cold smile spread across his face.

  “No?”

  He rose slowly, fingers tightening around the bench.

  “Well… let me introduce you to it.”

  The movement was sharp.

  Kael swung the bench he’d been sitting on straight into Damian’s knees.

  The impact was brutal: Damian collapsed to the floor with a grunt, pinned under the heavy wood.

  Before any of the onlookers even had time to react, Kael had already spun around.

  Rion—the bulky one—stood right next to Damian, arm raised, ready to strike.

  Kael pivoted on his heel and drove a punch straight into his face.

  The blow cracked sharply through the hall.

  Rion toppled backward, mouth hanging open, and crashed full-length onto the table behind him.

  Silence fell instantly.

  Kael lifted his gaze slowly.

  The last boy—the pudgy one—froze for a second, then hurled himself at Kael with outstretched arms, shouting in a voice that lacked conviction:

  “You filthy little rat!”

  Kael, startled, dodged awkwardly.

  The boy shot past him and, carried by his own momentum, slipped on the same piece of meat that had fallen earlier—thrown down by Damian.

  A wet smack echoed through the hall.

  He sprawled out on the floor, limbs spread wide, his face landing straight into a toppled carafe of wine, which splashed across half the tiles.

  Kael stood still for a moment, mouth slightly open, then let out a small, incredulous laugh.

  “Well… at least the floor’s clean now.”

  Around him, the students remained frozen between shock and fascination.

  Some laughed nervously, others whispered, but none dared step closer.

  Damian, still on the ground, struggled to push the bench off him—his eyes burning with fury and humiliation.

  Kael crouched down at a safe distance, his tone almost relaxed:

  “So? Introductions done?”

  Damian finally shoved the bench aside with a knee and got back to his feet.

  His face was red with rage, veins pulsing at his temples.

  “You’re going to regret that, Ombrevu.”

  He took a step forward, ready to lunge at Kael—when a voice thundered behind him:

  “Enough!”

  The shout cracked through the hall like a bolt of lightning.

  Kael flinched—along with half the students.

  Damian froze, then slowly turned around.

  Damian’s complexion shifted from red to a sickly white.

  “D–Dean Ford!” he stammered. “This Ombrevu—”

  “Enough of your childish nonsense. Get out,” the voice thundered before he could finish.

  Damian stiffened, swallowed hard, then bowed in a frantic, jerky motion.

  “Yes, Dean! Forgive me, Dean!”

  Without sparing a single glance for his fallen companions, he retreated quickly, head lowered.

  Kael, still standing, slowly turned toward the source of the voice.

  A man was walking down the central aisle.

  His white tunic fell to his ankles, impeccably tailored.

  His frame was imposing—still straight despite his age. Sixties, perhaps more, yet he radiated a calm vitality.

  His face was stern, carved like stone, marked by thin scars that ran from his temple down to his jaw.

  Each mark looked like a story no one dared to ask about.

  What could have done that to him? Kael wondered, frozen.

  The old man stopped a few steps away and studied him silently.

  The entire hall had gone still, suspended by his presence.

  Kael lifted a hand awkwardly, then exhaled with a tone halfway between serious and ironic:

  “ Would someone care to explain what’s happening?”

  His tone was polite, but the caution in his eyes was sincere.

  Dean Ford inclined his head ever so slightly.

  “We will discuss it. But not here.”

  He gestured toward a servant.

  “You. Wake those two incompetents and clean up this disaster.”

  Then, turning back to Kael:

  “Follow me, Bearer.”

  Kael followed Dean Ford through the Bearers’ Hall, now utterly silent.

  No one dared move.

  Everyone watched him pass with a mixture of fear and disdain, as though he were carrying something contagious.

  The dean walked ahead with his hands clasped behind his back, each step measured.

  Kael, just behind, couldn’t help thinking:

  What an impressive man…

  The cluster of students from earlier had dispersed, melting back into the sea of curious eyes tracing their every movement.

  They crossed the hall without a word, then entered a side wing of the Acropolis, stopping at a pale wooden door.

  Behind it, a stone staircase spiraled upward—endlessly.

  Kael climbed in silence, breath tightening.

  At every landing, the light shifted: first warm, then golden, then dusky.

  When they reached the top, a wide chamber opened before them.

  It had to be the Dean’s office.

  The place was surprisingly modest for a man of his station.

  A large desk of dark wood stood at the far end, paired with a gracefully designed chair made from pale-grained timber.

  Bookshelves overflowed with tomes, scrolls, and strange objects—spheres, compasses, engraved stone fragments.

  Behind the desk, an open terrace stretched outward, supported by three finely molded columns, without wall or glass.

  Simple curtains of translucent silk swayed in the breeze, letting the twilight pass through.

  “Let’s step onto the terrace,” the dean said in a calm voice.

  Kael nodded. They crossed the room.

  The view outside was magnificent.

  The river wound through the valley, slipping into the grove whose foliage glowed a deep, vivid green.

  The cool wind brushed Kael’s face, lifting his hair ever so slightly.

  Below, the orchard gardens rustled with life. Small animals could be seen nibbling on fallen fruit.

  A low table and two polished wooden chairs sat facing the horizon.

  The dean took his place with a quiet, controlled motion.

  “Sit, Bearer Kael.”

  Kael sat across from him, his fingers brushing the smooth grain of the wood.

  “I have to say, sir… you have excellent taste in furniture.”

  The dean raised an eyebrow and replied in a firm voice—not without a hint of appreciation:

  “Thank you. But here, it’s Dean Ford.”

  Kael offered a faint smile.

  “Right. Dean Ford.”

  Ford leaned back, arms crossed, thoughtful.

  “I see you’re integrating well among us, Kael.”

  Kael lifted his gaze, a spark of humor in his eyes.

  “Yes, perfectly. I’ve already met three classmates… and knocked out two. I think I’m setting a new record for integration.”