Three days came and went.
Toji said nothing to anyone. Not to Kaela, not to Aldwin, not even to the jackal that now followed him like a breath behind his steps. He trained. He studied. He listened to lectures. When asked questions, he answered briefly. When left alone, he stayed that way.
But the moment he walked into the instructor's wing and signed the parchment sealed with the crest of the Convergence Council, his fate shifted.
He was no longer of Class F.
⸻
The transition happened overnight.
A courier delivered his new uniform just before dawn—blue-trimmed sleeves now edged with a single silver ring, a signal of rank just high enough to matter. His dorm assignment changed. His meal allotments increased. His access to the restricted wing of the academy library was approved.
Benefits.
That was the word echoing in his mind as he packed his few belongings. Class C students received stronger spell matrices in practice halls, dedicated dueling instructors, and arcane resource budgets that Class F students weren't even told existed.
The difference wasn't just privilege.
It was preparation.
Class C was where real mages were shaped.
And Toji had no intention of being average.
⸻
He arrived at the Class C orientation chamber wearing his new uniform, a simple bag slung over his shoulder. The hall was larger than the one he'd left behind—domed ceiling, etched murals of past alumni in the upper cornices, and a lingering presence of enchantments that made the space feel taller than it was.
The students were already seated in groups. Conversations drifted—elegant, clipped, aware.
Toji walked in silence toward an empty chair in the back.
The room hushed slightly as he passed.
He knew what they saw.
An underclassman. A nobody from Class F. Wearing colors he hadn't earned the way they had.
He sat.
Folded his hands.
Waited.
⸻
Their homeroom instructor entered shortly after—a tall man with angular features, long grey hair tied back in a single cord, and a presence that made the chandeliers dim as he passed beneath them.
He set down a book on the podium.
"I am Instructor Varn."
His voice was clear and cool, like wind across a blade.
"You are not children. You are mages of Valemont. That means you're closer to death than any commoner will ever be. Magic is not a gift. It is a threat you choose to hold. Every lesson I teach assumes you are strong. If you are not, you will fall behind. And no one will stop to pity you."
He looked around the room once. His gaze landed on Toji last.
"I see we have a reassignment."
No other words.
No welcome.
He began the lesson immediately.
⸻
The syllabus was brutal.
Three new instructors.
Seven weekly practicals.
One rotating duel per week—unannounced, and graded live.
Magical philosophy essays were due biweekly.
Wandless aether flow was mandatory by the third month.
Toji absorbed it all without reaction.
Only one thought repeated in his mind.
⸻
Good. Finally.
⸻
The first practical was held that afternoon in the crystalline combat atrium, a circular arena enclosed by walls of shifting glass, enchanted to reflect combat energies without fracturing. Class C students stood in pairs at equidistant intervals, practicing mana flow redirection through rune anchors.
Toji was paired with a girl named Levia—long brown hair in a braid, sharp voice, sharper posture. Her focus stone gleamed with wind affinity, her robes crisp, boots steel-toed.
"You're the transfer," she said without looking at him.
Toji nodded.
"I heard you soloed an Aether Shade without an incantation."
"I didn't say anything about that."
"You didn't have to," she replied.
They began their practice silently.
Levia's spells were clean, efficient, fast.
Toji's were slower—but layered with precision.
He did not outpace her. But she didn't dominate him either.
By the end of the session, she offered a single word before walking away.
"Capable."
It wasn't an insult.
And he appreciated that.
⸻
At lunch, he sat alone again. Not out of exclusion—he could have chosen to join any of the vacant corners—but solitude helped him focus.
The cafeteria changed depending on your class. Class C ate in a higher tier, where the tables were narrower but spaced wider. Food was marginally better. The bread didn't crack teeth. The broth was flavored.
He finished his meal quickly.
The jackal-shadow moved near his feet, shifting only when others passed too close.
More students watched him now. Some covert. Some blatant.
Toji didn't mind being underestimated.
But he knew that wasn't what this was.
This was assessment.
Evaluation.
He was being measured.
By potential rivals.
And future enemies.
⸻
After classes, he received his first Class C instructor evaluation. A parchment delivered by courier. It read:
"Student: Fushiguro, Toji.
Evaluation: Reserved. Observant. High responsiveness to non-verbal magical stimuli.
Shadow affinity shows signs of latent sentience—likely tethered, not channeled.
Recommended for Echo Mechanics specialization."
He read it twice.
Echo Mechanics.
No one had mentioned that in Class F. No one had even said it existed.
He folded the paper and slipped it into his coat pocket.
The shadows beneath his feet curled tighter.
⸻
That evening, Instructor Varn summoned him privately.
Toji followed the summons into the instructor's hall, down a curved hallway etched with golden runes, each one pulsing faintly with warding glyphs.
Varn's office was sparse.
Stone walls. A single desk. No portraits. Only a rack of books sorted by colorless spines.
He didn't offer Toji a seat.
"You've adjusted quickly."
Toji said nothing.
"Do you know why you were permitted entry?"
"Because I was useful."
"Because you were dangerous."
Varn stepped around the desk.
"Class F is for the uncertain. Class D is for the underdeveloped. Class C… is for the controlled."
Toji met his eyes. "So what happens when someone loses control?"
"They drop," Varn said simply. "Or worse—they break something expensive."
He studied Toji a moment longer.
"Your shadow is not a normal affinity. It's something else. It listens. It mimics. It chooses."
Toji waited.
"You'll attend supplementary lessons on sentient magic theory. Quietly. Don't speak of them to your classmates."
"Why?"
"Because not every mage who communes with their magic survives it."
A pause.
Toji didn't blink.
Varn nodded.
"You understand risk."
"I live it."
The instructor stepped back behind the desk.
"That's why you're still here."
He waved a hand.
Toji left.
⸻
That night, as the tower bells rang out midnight, Toji stood at the edge of the academy's inner training courtyard, empty now, the torches low.
He summoned the jackal again.
It emerged like fog pulled from bone—fluid, loyal, patient.
It stood beside him, waiting.
Toji knelt.
"I need to know what you are."
The jackal tilted its head.
"I need to know what I'm becoming."
The air around them stilled.
From his shadow, something shifted.
Another shape.
Not quite full.
Not a beast.
Something human in silhouette.
A blur of memory.
A mirror.
It faded before it finished forming.
But Toji saw enough to feel it in his spine.
A reflection.
Of what?
Of who?
⸻
He stood and faced the courtyard.
Training dummies waited across the far end.
He didn't chant.
He didn't gesture.
He simply stepped forward.
And the shadows followed.
——
The room was behind a bookcase.
Of course it was.
Instructor Varn waited until the halls were empty and the moons had fully risen. Then he led Toji through the Academy's western wing, past locked lecture halls and dust-scented shelves, to a nondescript study alcove lined with tomes no one ever touched.
One knock. A sigil drawn in air. A faint click.
The bookcase slid inward.
The staircase behind it spiraled down.
⸻
Toji descended without speaking. His boots touched stone polished by age and secrecy. The chamber below was circular, shallow, lit by violet flame that cast no shadows.
No torches. No windows.
Just the silence of something old.
A woman stood at the center, her robe midnight-black, embroidered with starbursts. Her eyes were the same color as Toji's shadow—matte, depthless.
"You brought him," she said.
Varn nodded. "He's tethered."
"Fully?"
"Not yet."
The woman stepped forward. She moved like wind might walk.
"Toji Fushiguro."
He bowed his head slightly. "Yes."
"I am Lysara. Echo Specialist. Tethercraft Scholar. Warden of the Bound Vault."
Toji didn't react.
She smiled faintly. "Good. No awe. Awe gets you killed."
She gestured to the floor. "Sit."
Toji lowered himself to the smooth stone. His jackal-shadow followed, curling beside him without prompting.
Lysara knelt across from him.
"The thing you call a tether is not simply magic," she said. "It is memory. Echo. The condensed psychic echo of something your soul once touched—or might have touched."
Toji watched the jackal.
"It's not a summon," he said quietly.
"No. It's a mirror. Not of who you are—but of who you might become."
She traced a line in the air. It glowed, then vanished.
"Tethercraft is not spellwork. It's self-reckoning. Control it, and it obeys. Deny it, and it will mutate."
"Mutate?"
She looked at him.
"It will become the parts of you you try to bury."
⸻
For the next hour, she taught him meditation patterns that had no chants, no circles, no diagrams. Only thought. Emotion. Breath.
Toji followed the instructions. His heartbeat slowed. His shadow grew heavier, denser.
He began to feel… pressure.
As if something inside him were watching back.
Then it moved.
Not the jackal—another shape.
A flicker.
Not canine.
Not human.
Just watching.
He snapped out of it with a gasp.
Lysara nodded. "You touched its boundary."
Toji wiped his forehead.
Sweat. Cold.
"What is it?"
She tilted her head.
"Either your worst fear… or your truest potential."
⸻
He didn't sleep that night.
The jackal remained curled at the edge of his bed, silent as stone.
⸻
The next day, he walked into Magical Combat Fundamentals like nothing had changed.
The classroom buzzed with quiet energy. Practicals were expected, but the tension was higher than usual. Even Levia, who usually read until the instructor arrived, kept glancing at the door.
Then Varn entered.
"Outside," he said simply.
No explanation. No instruction.
They followed.
The entire class marched to the dueling coliseum—a circular courtyard bordered by rising stone seats and runic walls. The wards were already active, humming with containment magic.
Two instructors stood inside.
One held a scroll.
"Today is Trial Day," Varn said. "Unscheduled. Unpredictable. Welcome to your first Class C Combat Evaluation."
The scroll unfurled.
"Toji Fushiguro."
Of course.
He stepped into the circle.
Varn's voice was calm. "Opponent: Ivar Dren."
A boy stepped forward—broad-shouldered, shaven head, staff across his back.
Toji recognized the name. Upper-tier duelist. Ranked second in Class C sparring trials.
Great.
Ivar smiled with too many teeth.
"Don't take it personal," he said as he entered. "I just like winning."
Toji didn't respond.
He stepped into the ring and let his breath fall into rhythm.
⸻
"Begin," Varn said.
Ivar moved first. Predictable.
Staff to the ground. Chant already halfway done.
Toji didn't wait.
He dashed left, pivoted under the forming sigil, and closed the distance.
His blade—wooden, training-legal—met the base of the staff.
Ivar blocked cleanly, then released a pulse of force. Toji staggered back.
Water magic surged in a circle around Ivar's feet. Slippery. Defensive. Fluid.
Toji narrowed his eyes.
He focused.
His shadow lengthened.
The jackal formed behind him.
Gasps.
Even Levia leaned forward.
Ivar hesitated—but only for a breath.
Then he summoned a spray of ice.
Toji ducked. Rolled forward. The jackal leapt—met the spell midair—and burst it apart in a flash of smoke and steam.
Toji rose behind it.
One clean strike to Ivar's side.
Crack.
Wood against ribs.
The boy stumbled.
Toji didn't press the advantage.
He stepped back.
Ivar recovered, grimacing. But something in his stance had shifted.
Respect.
Or caution.
They circled again.
⸻
Ten more exchanges.
Toji never used chants.
Never needed to.
He moved like a blade unsheathed—lean, calculated, reactive.
Ivar was strong. His staffwork clean. Spells fast. But he wasn't adaptive.
Toji was.
By the time Varn called the match, Toji was standing straight while Ivar's robes were torn and damp.
Draw.
Not victory.
But enough.
Toji left the ring without a word.
Ivar glanced after him once, then nodded faintly.
⸻
After class, Toji lingered at the training arena.
Varn approached.
"Why didn't you finish it?"
"He wasn't trying to hurt me," Toji said. "He was trying to test me."
"That's a dangerous habit."
Toji looked down at his shadow.
"I've learned worse ones."
Varn nodded.
"You didn't lose."
"I didn't win."
"That's not always the point."
He handed Toji a sealed envelope.
"Summons. Evening session. Lysara."
Toji took it.
⸻
That night, in the secret chamber, Lysara didn't speak at first.
She simply gestured for him to sit.
He did.
The jackal appeared without prompt.
She studied it, then waved her hand.
A second circle lit up beside Toji.
"Today," she said, "we attempt contact."
He didn't ask with what.
She already knew he knew.
He sat cross-legged. Focused. Let his breath slow.
His heartbeat settled.
The room grew cold.
His shadow rippled.
A form began to rise again.
Not the jackal.
Not the bird.
Something else.
Angular. Armored. Eyes like fractured mirrors.
It didn't speak.
It simply stared at him.
Then it bent down, almost bowing.
Toji flinched.
The connection snapped.
He gasped.
Lysara's eyes narrowed.
"It recognizes you."
"What is it?"
She didn't answer.
But her tone turned reverent.
"Whatever it is… it remembers who you're going to become."