Three months of freedom stretched before them like an open road. They could have traveled. They could have trained. They could have slept until noon and wasted entire days doing nothing.
Kalderon planned to train with private tutors.
Eliora planned to chase maps and theories.
Iremiel planned to survive next semester.
He had never intended to join the army. That path was for boys with lineage, land, or ambition for rank.
He wanted something simpler. Education.
A stable position. Maybe management in a trade house or shipping guild. That's enough to live quietly. But the tuition fee was not quiet.
The city was divided by districts, and districts meant status. High towers and marble streets belonged to 12A, 18C, 21F.
Mid-level trade zones filled 34A where their academy stood. The only place in the entire city where status blurred. Inside the school walls, everyone was equal.
Outside?
Never.
Iremiel lived in 57B.
Crowded buildings. Narrow streets. Thieves, small merchants, dock workers. People who survived by wit and speed. And the restaurant that hired him was even lower than 57E. Almost underground. But because merchants and thieves visit it. So the tips he got were very high.
A district so neglected that the upper sectors pretended it did not exist.
When he was younger, he had studied in a school inside 57E. That had been a mistake. Fights were daily. Bruises were normal. He learned early that being quiet did not protect you.
And because the tuition fee was the same everywhere so he chose to transfer to the academy in 34A changed everything. Only to realise that even though the fee was same everywhere but the extra circular activities cost a lot.
It was there he met Eliora. And Kalderon but the boys from 57E never truly stopped watching him.
They remembered.
And they did not forgive his escape.
The Golden Hearth sat at the edge of a narrow alley, lantern light flickering weakly against cracked brick walls.
Iremiel worked every afternoon until late night.
At first, the boys only came to stare.
Three of them.
Same uniforms from his old district school.
They would sit at the farthest booth.
Laughing too loud.
Watching too long.
They never touched him.
Not while the restaurant was full.
57E had rules.
Violence inside working hours brought attention.
Attention brought patrols.
And patrols brought questions.
So they waited.
---
One night, the waiting ended.
The restaurant owner had stepped out for a "business arrangement."
The dinner rush thinned.
Lanterns burned lower.
Iremiel was wiping a table when the door opened.
The three boys walked in.
No smirks this time.
No pretending.
The first chair flew across the room before Iremiel could speak.
It smashed against the wall.
Plates shattered.
A table overturned.
"What are you doing?" Iremiel shouted, heart hammering.
They ignored him.
One of them kicked over a shelf of stored dishes.
Porcelain exploded across the floor.
"Thought you were better than us," the tallest muttered.
Iremiel stepped back instinctively.
They didn't touch him.
They didn't need to.
Destroying his livelihood was worse.
People began gathering outside, drawn by the noise.
Murmurs rose.
The boys glanced toward the door.
Cowards.
They shoved another table over and left before the crowd could close in.
Iremiel stood in the wreckage, breathing too fast.
Everything felt fragile.
Too fragile.
Across the city, in a bright dining hall of polished stone, Kalderon's fork paused midair.
The ring on his finger burned faintly.
Not hot.
But urgent.
A pulse.
His head snapped up.
Without a word, he stood.
His father's voice called after him, but he was already moving.
He reached the balcony and focused. 57E was far. Too far to run in time. The ring pulsed again.
And the air around him twisted. A familiar distortion. He didn't ask. He stepped forward.
The world folded.
He reappeared in the alley outside the Golden Hearth.
Eliora stood beside him, hand still faintly glowing.
"Don't thank me," she muttered. "This will require a lot of paperwork."
Kalderon didn't respond.
He was already inside.
The sight stopped him cold.
Shattered wood.
Broken glass.
Iremiel standing in the middle of it, pale.
"Are you okay?" Kalderon asked immediately, grabbing his shoulders.
Iremiel's eyes were wide. Fear still clung to him.
He nodded quickly. "I'm fine."
He wasn't. His hands trembled.
Kalderon guided him into a chair that wasn't broken. Moments later, Eliora rushed inside. She didn't hesitate. She wrapped her arms around Iremiel tightly.
"Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," he repeated, softer now.
She pulled back and surveyed the destruction.
Her jaw tightened.
"This will take a lot of paperwork ," she said quietly.
And magic was never simple.
In Elidora, every use of magic was recorded. Even minor spells triggered surveillance signals.
And for an S-Rank magician like Eliora?
Every flicker was documented. Reports required.
Justifications written. Investigations sometimes opened. She hated it.
"Men can break furniture whenever they want," she muttered bitterly. "But if I fix it, I need permission."
Kalderon and Iremiel went to the district station to file a formal complaint. The officers barely looked up.
57E reports were common.
Rarely pursued.
"Any witnesses?" one officer asked lazily.
"Half the street," Kalderon replied coldly.
The officer shrugged.
"They didn't touch you, right?"
No.
They hadn't.
That was the point.
When they returned, Eliora stood in the center of the ruined restaurant. Light threaded from her fingers — controlled, precise. Broken wood lifted and reassembled. Porcelain fused seamlessly.
Lanterns repaired themselves.
The glow faded.
The room looked untouched. But her shoulders were tight.
"That's three forms," she muttered. "Minimum."