I wake before dawn.
Before the golden ones rise from their soft beds, before the halls fill with voices and laughter. The academy sleeps, but I do not. I cannot.
I am not like them.
They were born with magic. They breathe it. They command it. It bends to their will, eager to serve, eager to obey. Their spells are art, their combat is effortless. They flick their wrists, and fire dances. They whisper a word, and the wind howls. They do not know struggle. They do not know fear.
But I do.
So I train.
The courtyard is empty when I arrive. The air is cold, sharp against my skin. My body aches from yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. But pain is a teacher. Pain is proof that I am still here.
I begin with movement. Footwork. Dodging. The nobles love their spells, their grand displays of power, but magic is only as good as the one who wields it. If I can move faster than their thoughts, if I can slip through the cracks in their confidence, then I have a chance.
A small one. But a chance.
The sun rises, and with it, the academy stirs. Students spill into the halls, dressed in robes of gold and silver. Their eyes shine with magic, their hands hum with power. I move among them like a shadow, unnoticed, unimportant. They whisper when I pass. They always whisper.
"Why is he still here?"
"He should have left by now."
"He's just a commoner."
I let the words wash over me. They are not new. They are not wounds. They are the wind against stone, and I will not break.
The first lesson is Spell Theory. A noble's game. The instructor does not look at me when he speaks, does not call on me when he asks questions. He does not need to. I am not supposed to be here. I am a mistake in a room of perfection.
But I listen. I learn.
Magic is more than power. More than blood. It has rules. Limitations. Patterns. If I cannot match their strength, then I must understand its shape. The way it moves. The way it can be broken.
The second lesson is Combat. The nobles love this one. They duel with laughter in their voices, amusement in their eyes. To them, battle is sport. To me, it is survival.
My opponent today is Lenhardt, a son of the great House Verian. His magic is fire. A noble's magic. Dangerous. Destructive. He smirks as he steps forward. He already believes he has won.
The instructor gives the signal.
Flames roar to life, hungry and bright. Lenhardt does not hesitate. He throws the fire at me, expecting me to fall, to burn, to break.
But I do not.
I move.
Fire is fast, but not instant. His stance is wide. His arm moves before the flames do. I watch his body, not his magic. I see the moment before he attacks, and I am already gone before the fire reaches me.
The nobles do not know how to fight without their magic. They do not know how to fight someone like me.
Lenhardt grows frustrated. He throws more fire. Bigger. Hotter. Reckless. He is wasting energy. I am waiting.
Then, I see it.
An opening.
I close the distance in an instant. I drive my fist into his ribs. He gasps, stumbles. His magic flickers, unsteady. I strike again. And again. Until he falls.
The courtyard is silent.
The instructor steps forward. He does not praise me. He does not scold me. He simply nods and moves on.
The nobles do not laugh now. They do not whisper.
But they watch.
The rest of the day is the same. Lessons. Training. Whispers. Watching. I am not one of them. I will never be. But I am here. And they are beginning to understand what that means.
Night falls, and the academy grows quiet. I return to my room, but sleep does not come. It never does.
Instead, I stare at my hands. The bruises on my knuckles. The scars on my skin. Proof that I am still here. Proof that I am fighting.
I do not belong in Kadven.
I do not belong in this academy.
But I will stay.
And I will survive.
It's a daily routine for me so let's start from day 1 when I first attended the class here in magical academy.