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Morning slid through the dorm window in pale strips. John woke to the soft clack of pipes in the wall and a bed already empty across from his — Ray's blanket thrown back, pillow dented, no note. Typical.

Fizz stretched on the sill like a sun-drunk cat, then popped upright with a tiny salute. "Operation: Do Not Get In Trouble begins," he announced. "Step one, we look handsome. Step two, we pretend to understand the schedule."

John washed, combed the remains of his uneven hair into something that did not frighten mirrors, and tied his plain coat. The line inside his chest hummed the way it did when a day had weight. "Let's go to class," he said.

They crossed the quad under banners that had learned to love the wind. The morning bell tolled. Classes happened in a clean sequence —Basic Magic Theory, Basic Combat Technique, Mana Control— teachers wrote, students scribbled, and chalk dust made the air taste faintly like old shells. John listened, answered when asked, and kept his head low. Fizz whispered jokes at a responsible volume (which for him meant other people could only hear half of them).

The first two classes ended in the blink of an eye.

By midday, they joined the slow river of hungry bodies toward the dining hall. The room carried the smells John always thought of as courage: stew, bread, something sweet pretending to be fruit.

"Behold," Fizz said reverently, hovering over the dessert counter. "Puddings. Cakes. A slice that may be pie or a very honest mistake. I will adopt them all."

"Actual food first," John said, but his voice had no teeth. He let Fizz pile bright, sugary squares onto their tray anyway. He added stew and bread and sliced root for himself, and they drifted toward an empty space.

The hall buzzed the way beehives buzz in poems. People compared teachers and rumors. Older boys pretended not to eavesdrop on younger girls who knew they were being overheard. A group at the far table was replaying Fizz's class with wild gestures; someone tried to light a candle with water magic and produced only steam and pride.

Fizz nudged John's shoulder with a shoulder he did not have. "There," he said softly. "Do you smell that."

"Bread?"

"No." Fizz's whiskers quivered. "Fate. My worshipping minions."

Suddenly the double doors at the back opened. Conversations tripped and then ran again with different legs. Sera stepped into the light.

She wore the temple whites altered for students —a fall of clean linen under a dark academy mantle— and a thin chain at her throat with a small sigil that caught the sun and made it behave. Heads turned because heads always did. A few boys straightened. A few girls did too. She did not look left or right. She looked straight at John like she had been given a compass with only one direction.

Fizz leaned closer and whispered like a scandalous aunt, "Ah. The favorite girl enters the room."

Sera crossed the hall. The buzz changed shape behind her. People whispered names like they were spells that might do something if pronounced correctly. The priestess. The Duke's daughter. The one from the Black.

One guy stopped chewing and stared like he had forgotten how jaws work. "Why is the priestess walking straight at him?"

Another one said, "That is Sera Black. She never crosses a hall for anyone."

A spoon clinked against a bowl as his hand shook. "Tell me I am dreaming. The temple star just said his name."

She stopped at their table. "John," she said, and she did not make it a question.

"Hi," he said, and the word felt smaller than he meant it to be.

Another said, "He is a first year student. How does a first year know her."

A chair leg scraped as he tried to stand and then thought better of it. "Do not look. No, look. Actually do not look."

Onlookers, "That commoner again. Who is he really."

He elbowed his friend, eyes wide. "If she smiles, I am writing a ballad."

"Careful. She is a Black. That family can end semesters."

Bread fell from his fingers and hit the plate without a sound.

"She is talking to him like they planned it."

"Maybe he fed her cat. Maybe he used all his luck. Maybe I am cursed."

He tugged his collar. "I suddenly feel underdressed."

"If he breathes wrong, a hundred cousins will duel him." One whispered, almost hopeful, "Do you think they are just cousins."

"Shut up and listen. This is history."

"Will you walk with me," she asked. She did not lower her voice much. That somehow made it kinder.

John glanced at Fizz. "Eat," he said quietly. "I'll be back."

Fizz had already stuffed a square of cake in his mouth. He lifted a paw, muffled. "I will not come, even if you weep blood and shout my heroic name. I am busy binding pastries to my will. Also, I approve of romance from a safe seated position. I am a modern man."

John stood. Fizz added, "Do not hold hands where the people can see. People gossip. Don't kiss like the village day."

They left the hall under a hail of glances. Someone dropped a spoon. Someone breathed, "Lucky," with the tone of an injury. Someone else said, "He is the one with the strange magic," like they were telling a friend about a weather pattern.

Outside, the day had the clean blue look the academy loved to wear when inspections happened. They stepped out into the quiet strip between the dining hall and a line of plane trees, leaves glossy, shade cool.

They walked to the edge of the path where the shade turned to sun and back again. Sera's voice went softer. "About the night," she said.

John swallowed once. "Yes."

"I enjoyed your company," she said, a simple line, brave because it was simple. "I missed you after."

"I missed you," John said. "I read your note and kept it near my heart so the paper would not be lonely."

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