Brynn collapses face first onto his mattress. He's just arrived back in his dorm room at the end of the day.
"What the hell is happening?" His voice, muffled by the comforter. "Why did I agree to this?"
Thinking back to everything that's happened, he's shocked at how hectic this day has been.
Word travels fast in the academy. Within moments there have already been dozens of hateful glares directed at him, far more than usual. And usual was not much, since the discrimination had been slowly shifting into avoidance and pretending he didn't exist over the years. It wasn't great, really, but he'd take that over the targeted attacks now.
Of which one of them was an attempt at his life! Or, at least, felt like one. 'I mean, someone tried to pour alkahest on my hair! I could've got burns from that!'
Sitting up, Brynn inspects his head for any damage. Thankfully, his scalp seems to be intact, along with his hair. Mostly. Leaving aside a few singed strands, he got away pretty luckily there. Breathing a sigh, he leans back on his arms, wincing.
Unfortunately, he didn't come out completely unacathed. The other nobles have been doing small things, but they added up. Each time he was tripped, shoulder checked, shoved into walls, he just bit his tongue and walked away. Better than insulting a noble household and giving them reason to escalate.
Brynn then shifts his eyes over to his wrist where a metal band is placed, lost in thought. His pupils gaze at the runes inscribed on the band, ever-changing. What seems to be carvings of glyphs and symbols impossibly shifting along its surface. 'At least they can't do too much without their spells.' He thought. 'But neither can I, really.'
It was a spell cancellation device, after all. More commonly called a Muddler. Didn't allow spells past a certain point of complexity to work, limiting the things you can do to making a bit of light, heightening your voice, or other menial things like that. Every student had to wear one before being taught magic at a practical level. Helped avoid accidents, they said. 'More like avoid grievous wounds when the nobles pick fights with each other.' Brynn thought. 'Or with me.'
But the time they were taught magic at a practical level was on their third year. That meant this year for him and his batch. All throughout their first year they've been taught when and where it was acceptable to use their magics. The etiquette and responsibility involved in wielding their powers. He lets out a weak chuckle. 'As if they'd actually use magic for anyone but themselves.' Thinking back, they were never taught much about anything regarding responsibility. The lectures seemed to be made specifically for students with noble backgrounds, or those with connections to the magic towers.
Things like that weren't really designed for someone like Brynn in mind. He just spent the better half of the year just exploring the campus and trying to understand how to traverse it. So far, he's mapped a large portion of the institute, but he swears that the place just keeps going and going in loops and mazes if he didn't know how to reach somewhere. He'd guessed that the layers upon layers of illusion magic hid away a significant portion of the school, with places only accessible through specific routes. Once or twice he had stumbled upon some strange rooms with seemingly no purpose. Like a circular room with a small chandelier hanging upside down on the floor. Or another room that was just mirrors all around.
At the least he was able to reliably find the library on his own. Albeit he did just stumble upon it while exploring one day. It was located in a room with a large painting of a library. He was just meaning to touch it when his hand passed through air, leading him to climb into the painting as if it was simply a window. He'd come to be a regular after that.
Then on their second year they were taught the theories of magic. How to feel magic, how it worked. Its application to society, culture, limits, the basics of mana, the different schools of magic and how to counter them. Smiling to himself, Brynn remembers the many sleepless nights he'd have, positing questions to test those theories, practicing whatever he'd learned. He'd simulate magic formulae after magic formulae, spend days agonizing over the composition of spells, and cram as much of every grimoire he was allowed to use into his memory. He could remember it all like it was just moments before, the memories fresh in his mind.
He'd get lost in one of those books by Y. Alwin, a scholar of magic theory. He'd read and read until the candles burnt out, and the oil lamps empty, then he'd cast a light with his magic with the meager amount of mana he had to read just a few pages more. Once, he lost himself to his own fervor, staying in the libraries from dusk 'til dawn, and back to dusk, missing all his classes for that day. It took the archivist picking up small hill of books he's read through and placing them back in the shelf for him to snap out of it. He came back the next day and, when asked about the things he'd missed, answered perfectly and left Miss Heleanor speechless. The look on her face more than making up for most things.
For a moment he loses himself in nostalgia, before a cramp forming in his arms from leaning too much snaps him out of it.
"Right." Brynn muttered, his gaze falling on a gray spot on his skin. He wasn't at that time anymore. He couldn't just lock himself in the library satiating his curiosity anymore. Realization dawning on him that, with how long he's been here, the amount of people disagreeing with his staying, and the fact that the muddlers'll be more lenient meant there's bound to be some that'd want to practice their newly learned spells on him. The faces of a particular Gil Lowenhart and his posse flashing in his mind. He shivers at the thought.
Finally, he decides to lay down on the bed. The energy he had a while ago long gone now, both physical and mental. He shimmies off his robe and throws it onto his bedside table. 'I'll clean it with magic tomorrow.' Deciding that rest was more important, he tries to lie on his side, the one that isn't sore, and get in as comfortable a position as possible.
He can still feel the soreness of his shoulders, though. The bruises on his knees. Minor scratches, but stinging like fire ants on his skin. He can feel their gazes, indifferent and spiteful ones. The looks overflowing with disgust. The cold of the corridors. How unwelcome he feels in a place he's yearned to belong in ever since his childhood. All because he didn't have a noble lineage or a famed mentor. Because he was a low-born.
He doesn't even know if he'll be safe tomorrow. If they'll tone it down or go further. If he'll come out of this without too many injuries or if he'll even survive. And if not tomorrow, then what of the next? Gods, and the next after that? Will they ever stop? Can he even do anything if they don't?
He bites his lip. He crosses his arms. He clenches his fists. They're shaking.
He's never feared for his life more than right this moment. But --
'No.' He thought, closing his eyes tightly. His chest felt heavier than it had ever been. 'Not now Brynn. Not when everyone's counting on you.'
One by one, he remembers each person he'd promised to come back to. The people at the abbey, Mary, Margareth, Vince, Allison, Father Tyrn, a half-dozen kids with no names. The ones that taught him about living, Old Man Fergusson and Grandma Hillie. Everyone that came the day he left the town. He remembers all of their faces, their waving hands, the sun just about to set, the sound of horse hooves on pavement before dirt, and the somber breeze as the children cried out his name.
He'd burned that memory into his mind.
He slowly unclenches his fists. His eyelids not as shut tight as they just were. He breathes a heavy breath.
Opening his eyes, he stares at the wall across his bed. "It's alright, Brynn. You've got this." Murmuring to himself, not even sure if he believed what he spoke. "I've got this."
His eyes heavy, he utters -- "For the village, Brynn. For them." -- before succumbing to drowsiness.
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