C6 Chapter 6: West Dorm

The West Dormitory hunched at the far end of campus like something the academy was ashamed of. Stone walls slick with mildew. Windows dark, half of them cracked. The front door hung off its hinges, propped open with a chunk of broken masonry that had been there long enough to grow moss.

Kael stood in the doorway, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and didn't move.

He'd spent the last hour checking every corner of the campus, mapping escape routes out of habit. The main hall had three exits. The library had four, plus a basement that connected to the old tunnels. The West Dorm had one—a narrow staircase that would funnel him straight into anyone waiting at the bottom.

His father's voice surfaced: Always know your exits. A room with one door is a coffin.

"Coming through, coming through—"

Someone shoved past him. A girl. Short, sharp movements, a scar running down her left cheek, a duffel bag patched with three different colors of thread. She didn't apologize. Didn't even look at him. Just walked straight into the dorm like she owned it.

Kael followed, his hand brushing the knife in his boot.

Room 17 was at the end of a hallway that smelled of old straw and damp stone. The door was unlocked—not broken, just never built with a lock in the first place. Inside, four narrow bunks lined the walls. Three of them already had occupants.

The girl who'd shoved past him was perched on the top left bunk, sharpening a knife that looked considerably nicer than anything a West Dorm student should own. The blade gleamed under the dim mage-light. She didn't look up when Kael entered.

A boy sat cross-legged on the bottom right bunk, broad-shouldered and heavy, with hands that looked like they'd spent years gripping a plow. His knuckles were scraped raw. His left eye was swollen half-shut, the bruise fresh. He was staring at his own palms like he wasn't sure what to do with them.

The fourth bunk, top right, held a girl with long black hair that curtained her face. She had a book open in her lap—ancient, leather-bound, the pages yellowed—and was reading like Kael didn't exist. She didn't even blink when he walked in.

Kael dropped his bag on the last empty bunk. Bottom left. Closest to the door. He sat down, back against the wall, and scanned the room. The window was small but unbarred. Drop to the ground was maybe fifteen feet. Survivable, if he had to.

"You the one who beat Voss?"

The boy with the black eye was looking at him now. His voice was slow and heavy, like he didn't use it much.

"Yeah."

"Good." The boy's bruised face split into a grin that was missing a tooth on the left side. "Bastard took my Aether crystal this morning. Said bottom feeders don't need resources." He held out a hand the size of a dinner plate. "Milo. I can lift a plow horse. Not much else."

Kael shook it. The grip was gentle—carefully controlled, like Milo was afraid he'd break something. "Kael."

"Jen." The girl on the top bunk still didn't look up from her knife. "I steal things. If you touch my stuff, I'll stab you. Nothing personal."

"The bookworm's Cora," Milo added, nodding toward the top bunk. "She doesn't talk. Like, at all. I've been here three hours and she hasn't said a word."

Cora turned a page.

Kael pulled his knife from his boot and set it on the bed beside him. He'd learned the hard way that hiding weapons made people suspicious. Showing them made people think you were dangerous. Right now, dangerous was safer than weak.

"You always sleep with a knife?" Jen's eyes flicked to the blade, then back to his face.

"You don't?"

A pause. Then Jen snorted—something almost like a laugh. "Fair."

That night, Kael lay on his bunk with his eyes open. The mattress was thin enough to feel the wooden slats underneath. Milo snored like a bear, loud and steady. Cora's mage-light flickered under her blanket, still reading at two in the morning. Jen slept with her knife in her hand, same as him.

The crystal in his chest hummed, patient and constant. The bear's rage stirred in his blood, quieter now but never fully asleep. Kael pressed his palm to his sternum and felt the second heartbeat—heavy, slow, waiting.

He'd survived the entrance exam. He'd survived the hunters at the gate. But he was sharing a room with three strangers who could turn him in for twenty gold at any moment.

Trust no one. His father's voice again. Not until they've bled for you.

Something creaked in the hallway.

Kael's hand closed around his knife. His enhanced hearing sharpened, tracking the sound. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Stopping outside their door.

The door swung open.

A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim torchlight from the hall. Tall. Thin. The same black robes the hunters had worn, the same cold stillness.

Kael was on his feet before he could think, knife raised, the bear's speed flooding his limbs—

"Easy." The figure stepped forward, and the torchlight caught her face. Silver hair in a tight braid. A scar cutting across her left cheek. Instructor Elara. "I'm not here to hurt you."

Kael didn't lower the knife. "Why are you in our room?"

Elara's gray eyes swept the room—Milo sitting up in bed, blinking; Jen crouched on her bunk, knife already in hand; Cora watching from behind her book. Then back to Kael.

"I wanted to see how the bottom-ranked students were settling in." Her gaze lingered on his knife. On his stance. On the way he'd been fully alert before she even opened the door. "You have good instincts, Miller. Where'd you learn them?"

"My father."

"And where is he now?"

"Dead."

Elara nodded slowly. "There's a lot of that going around." She stepped back toward the door. "Get some sleep. Classes start at dawn. And Miller?" She paused in the doorway. "Try not to stab anyone before breakfast."

She closed the door behind her. Her footsteps faded down the hall.

Kael stood frozen, knife still raised, his heart hammering against his ribs. She'd been testing him. Probing. And his reaction had given away more than he wanted.

"Friend of yours?" Jen asked from her bunk.

"No."

"Enemy?"

"I don't know yet."

Jen nodded like that made perfect sense. She lay back down, knife still in hand. "Wake me if she comes back."

Kael sat on the edge of his bunk, his knife across his knees, and watched the door until the first gray light of dawn seeped through the cracked window.

Three days. That was how long he'd lasted before someone started asking questions.

He'd have to be more careful. More invisible. More forgettable.

Because the next person who came through that door might not leave.