After class, Soren left the class with his usual quiet grace—unhurried, nearly silent.
The corridor buzzed with student voices, but one voice closer—and sharper—cut through the noise.
"The 'Blind Instructor' finishes another lesson in mystic wisdom," drawled a man's voice, tinged with mockery. "How many did he convince to close their eyes today, I wonder?"
Soren didn't respond. He simply turned his head slightly—recognizing the voice.
Instructor Vellian. A seasoned battle magic professor. Nobleborn. Arrogant. Proud of his pedigree and always ready to look down on those without it.
Soren walked on.
But Vellian wasn't done.
"I happened to read your archived profile," he continued, tone light—almost conversational. "Touching, really. A sickly little sister who depends entirely on you. Perhaps that's why you were hired here in the first place? Out of pity?"
A few other instructors turned their heads now. Something unspoken tightened in the air.
Soren stopped.
His expression didn't change—calm, neutral. But his shoulders stiffened ever so slightly. His breath, normally rhythmic, slowed and deepened.
Vellian caught that shift—and smirked.
"Tragic, really. A frail family like yours shouldn't carry such lofty expectations. This world isn't kind, Noctis. Learn to accept it."
And then—Soren moved.
A single, deliberate step—bringing him face to face with Vellian, barely an inch between them.
Though blind, his closed eyes locked forward with unnerving precision.
"You can spit your venom at me," he said, voice low and calm, "but speak of her again—and I won't be so silent."
A thin ripple of mana pulsed from Soren's body.
Not visible.
But felt.
Like the air had thickened. Pressed inward.
Vellian blinked—caught off guard—but quickly masked it with another sneer.
"Sensitive, aren't we?"
A few instructors hurried over, sensing the escalation.
"That's enough," one of them interjected firmly. "This is an academy, not a dueling ground."
Soren remained still, staring forward with those empty eyes that somehow saw deeper than most.
Two colleagues placed firm hands on his shoulders—just in case.
Vellian chuckled as he turned away.
"No wonder he has no friends," he muttered under his breath—just loud enough to be heard.
Soren said nothing.
He didn't need to.
Because for himself, he could endure every insult, every sneer.
But not when they mentioned her.
Never her.
---
Despite the weight of the day, Soren's steps lightened the moment he left the academy gates.
He could have stayed within the faculty quarters—he had the rank, the right. But he chose not to.
Not because of pride.
But because of her.
The house he called home sat nestled near the forest's edge, just far enough from the academy to breathe clean air, yet close enough for his daily walk. He built it himself—stone and wood, humble but sturdy. A fireplace. A garden. A bed warmed with sunlight during the day, and laughter during the night.
As he neared the front path, he heard the telltale sound of unsteady steps.
Soft breaths.
And a familiar heartbeat.
She was trying to stand again.
He quickened his pace.
By the time he reached the doorway, there she was—thin arms bracing against the doorframe, hair tousled, a big triumphant grin on her face.
"Welcome home, big brother!" she beamed.
A rush of warmth spread through Soren's chest.
"Lyra. You stubborn little sprite," he murmured, stepping forward and gently steadying her. "How many times have I told you—you don't have to greet me like this?"
Lyra pouted. "And let you come home to an empty door? What kind of little sister would I be?"
"One with working legs in the future, hopefully," Soren teased softly, guiding her back inside.
She giggled, coughing once between laughs. "You're such a worrier."
"And you're terribly reckless," he retorted, though his voice held only affection.
The inside of the house was warm. Cozy. It smelled faintly of herbs, tea, and something sweet she must have tried baking again.
As she sat back on the cushioned bench by the window, she looked up at him with bright eyes. "So? How many students today did you impress with your all-knowing blind teacher powers?"
Soren chuckled. "Only terrified one into silence."
"Ooooh. Progress."
They laughed together—light, real, healing.
These were the moments Soren lived for. Moments where the world's cruelty faded into the background. Where her smile could mend every wound the day had left on him.
But as he rose from her side, she tilted her head. "You're going out again?"
"Just for a little while," he replied, retrieving his cloak. "Thought I'd get you some of those mushrooms you like. The fragrant ones."
Her eyes lit up. "The ones that smell like roasted chestnuts?"
"Mhm."
She clasped her hands. "You spoil me."
"You're easy to spoil," he said with a smirk, stepping toward the door.
Outside, twilight had begun to settle, painting the sky in shades of orange and deepening blue. The forest whispered in its usual rhythm.
He took a breath, letting the air guide him.
The mushrooms had a distinct scent—earthy with a warm, nutty twist. His ears followed the trail of wind, his nose picking up the faintest hints between the damp moss and old leaves.
Step by step, deeper into the forest.
And then—
He paused.
There.
A sound.
Not wind. Not animal.
A voice—barely audible. Like a breath on the edge of life.
Broken. Strained.
A whisper wrapped in pain.
Soren turned his head slightly, his body tensing. The air shifted. The ground was warm—too warm.
He took a cautious step forward, then another.
There was something… else in the woods.
Something waiting.
Something dying.
And something far from human.