Nathan spent the next week quietly wrestling with the secret he'd discovered. Each morning started the same: rigorous lessons in runes with Professor Varis, stern lectures on magical discipline from Professor Brannock, and curious glances from Professor Caelinn as she supervised the careful documentation of his emerging affinity. But none of the professors saw what Nathan felt each day—the subtle harmony that hummed beneath his skin, growing stronger with each sunrise.

  He was careful not to speak of it, not even to Lissandre. The words always lingered on the edge of his tongue but remained there, unspoken, heavy as stone.

  It wasn't that he didn't trust his friends; it was simply that the music felt too fragile, too precious to share yet. As if the act of speaking it aloud might break whatever delicate understanding he had begun to forge within himself.

  One afternoon, sitting beneath a wide oak tree in the university’s secluded gardens, Nathan let his fingers trail absently through the grass, sunlight dancing softly across his open palm. He closed his eyes, allowing himself, just briefly, to slip into the faint melody within.

  The music responded instantly, rippling gently outward like rings in a still pond. It was barely audible, a faint echo of golden threads weaving harmoniously through the air around him. The sunlight seemed to ripple too, becoming richer, warmer, as though responding to his quiet intent.

  "Nathan?" came Krit's quiet voice, startling Nathan from his trance. He opened his eyes abruptly, heart pounding. The music ceased instantly, the light returning to normal.

  Krit stood a few steps away, eyes carefully unreadable. "Did I interrupt something?"

  "No," Nathan lied quickly, looking down at his hands. "I was just resting."

  Krit stepped closer, sitting gracefully on the grass nearby. They gazed calmly at Nathan for a long moment before speaking softly. "Your magic is changing."

  Nathan shifted uneasily, defensive. "Everyone's magic changes as they learn."

  Krit nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "But yours... yours is different. I can feel it, even when you aren't casting."

  Nathan’s pulse quickened. Krit's voice held no accusation, only careful curiosity. He considered carefully how much to say, and then spoke quietly, guardedly.

  "What do you feel?"

  Krit hesitated a long moment before answering, their words careful. "Warmth. Resonance. Something alive. Your magic feels less like a tool and more like… an extension of you. It’s as if your power isn't something you draw upon, but something woven into you."

  Nathan felt something loosen slightly in his chest—a flicker of relief. "Do you think that’s... dangerous?"

  Krit's expression softened just a little. "Power itself isn't dangerous, Nathan. But the unknown always carries risk."

  Nathan looked away, voice quiet. "Sometimes it feels like there's something inside me, waiting to speak. Like a melody only I can hear. But I don't understand it yet."

  Krit regarded him thoughtfully. "You may not understand yet, but you already know it. Trust what you feel. Magic speaks differently to each of us, but we only understand if we listen."

  Nathan's throat tightened slightly. "Thanks, Krit."

  Krit nodded once, rising smoothly to their feet. "I'm always here, Nathan. Even when you aren’t ready to share everything."

  Nathan watched Krit leave, their words lingering long after they had gone.

  That evening, Nathan returned to the dorm feeling lighter than he had in days. He stepped quietly into the room and found Lissandre seated cross-legged on her bed, flicking embers at the ceiling to entertain her salamander.

  “Hey,” she said brightly, glancing over with a playful smirk. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

  Nathan sighed softly, sinking onto his bed. “Just… thinking.”

  “About?”

  He hesitated again, guilt weighing heavily. He’d always shared openly with Lissandre. But this—this was different.

  “Everything,” he said finally. “Magic. My affinity. The professors. Krit said something today that stuck with me—about magic being personal, something we feel.”

  Lissandre tilted her head thoughtfully. “That sounds very Krit-like.”

  Nathan managed a small smile. “Do you ever feel like magic is speaking directly to you?”

  She frowned, considering carefully. “Well, yeah. But it’s mostly yelling at me for burning things I shouldn’t.”

  Nathan chuckled softly despite himself. “I mean deeper. Like it knows something you don’t, and it's waiting for you to listen.”

  Lissandre paused, studying him more carefully now. “I don’t know. Magic feels like fire to me—wild, powerful, eager to burn bright. But personal? Maybe not yet. Maybe my magic isn’t there yet.” She eyed him curiously. “But yours clearly is. Is it speaking to you?”

  Nathan felt warmth rush to his face. “Maybe. I don't know yet.”

  She gave him a knowing look but didn't press further. “Well, when you figure it out, I’ll be here. I always am.”

  Nathan nodded gratefully. “I know. And that means everything.”

  That night, after everyone else had fallen asleep, Nathan lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, gentle and cool. He raised his hand slowly into the silver beams, feeling the soft, familiar hum in his fingertips.

  Carefully, hesitantly, he hummed a quiet note.

  The moonlight flickered slightly, wavering like gentle ripples on a pond, but the resonance felt weaker, thinner than the sunlight had. Different—but still beautiful.

  Nathan sighed softly, lowering his hand again. He closed his eyes, turning inward, listening intently to the melody he knew now lived within.

  It rose gently, softly—familiar strings woven of sunlight, harmony lingering just beyond his reach. But this time, within the music, something else emerged.

  A voice, quiet and distant, whispered softly beneath the chords, barely audible:

  “I hear you. Do you hear me?”

  Nathan jolted upright, heart racing.

  He stared around the darkened room. Nothing had changed. Lissandre slept soundly across the room, her salamander curled comfortably at her side. No one else was there.

  But the voice had felt real.

  Nathan swallowed hard, a chill slipping down his spine despite the room’s warmth.

  “I hear you,” he whispered, voice trembling slightly in the darkness. “But who are you?”

  Silence answered—yet beneath it, the melody continued quietly, persistently, weaving gently around him until he finally surrendered to sleep.

  Days turned into weeks, and Nathan’s life became a careful routine of study, practice, and subtle avoidance. The professors watched him closely, their expressions a blend of curiosity, caution, and expectation. Classmates whispered as he passed, eyes flicking towards him, filled with admiration, suspicion, or envy.

  Nathan learned quickly to ignore it, or at least pretend to. He threw himself into training, determined to prove that he wasn’t a threat—that he could handle the strange, potent affinity that had chosen him.

  Each day in the casting chamber, Professor Varis pushed him harder, demanding precision and discipline.

  "Focus, Nathan," Varis would say sternly. "Your affinity is powerful but unpredictable. Power without control leads only to chaos."

  Nathan struggled through the drills again and again, tracing intricate runes that shimmered and flickered in the air, sometimes fading softly, other times flaring dangerously bright. Each lesson drained him, yet he felt he was beginning to understand something deeper—that perhaps the key wasn’t in raw power, but in something more delicate.

  "Stop," Varis instructed sharply one afternoon as Nathan’s glyphs wavered erratically, threatening to burst out of control again. "You're holding back."

  Nathan shook his head, exhausted and frustrated. "I'm trying to be careful."

  "Careful," Varis echoed skeptically. "You misunderstand caution. You're not meant to restrain your magic; you're meant to guide it."

  Nathan stared at him helplessly. "I don't understand how."

  Varis paused, expression softening just a fraction. "Sun affinity demands balance and clarity. It reacts strongly to emotional turbulence. If you’re afraid of yourself—afraid of what you might do—you’ll never find that balance."

  Nathan swallowed hard. "How do I let go of that fear?"

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  Varis regarded him thoughtfully. "Trust yourself. The strength is already there, Nathan. You must simply allow it to flow naturally."

  Nathan nodded slowly, though the words felt vague and distant, like echoes without substance.

  That evening, after dinner, Nathan found himself wandering through the gardens, searching for solitude beneath the setting sun. Golden beams spilled softly between the branches, bathing the grounds in gentle warmth. He paused by a low stone bench, breathing deeply, trying to calm his restless thoughts.

  A soft rustling made him glance up sharply.

  Roremand stood quietly across the garden path, feeding petals gently to a small bird perched on his fingertips. It was an oddly gentle scene, one Nathan would never have expected from the reserved, serious student.

  Roremand turned his head slightly, expression immediately guarded. "Quinn," he said evenly.

  Nathan hesitated, uncertain. "I didn't mean to intrude."

  Roremand shrugged slightly, turning back to the bird. "You're not."

  An awkward silence lingered between them. Nathan shifted nervously. "I never thought you'd be good with animals."

  Roremand's eyes flicked toward him briefly, then back to the bird. "They're simpler than people. They don't pretend to be anything they're not."

  Nathan nodded quietly. "I suppose that makes sense."

  Roremand gently coaxed the bird onto a nearby branch, then turned fully toward Nathan, expression unreadable but strangely curious. "Are the rumors true?"

  Nathan frowned softly. "What rumors?"

  "That you're receiving special training. That the professors consider your affinity dangerous."

  Nathan tensed, instantly defensive. "My affinity isn't dangerous. I'm learning to control it."

  Roremand raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Is that why Professor Varis watches you so closely?"

  Nathan bristled slightly. "He’s teaching me. There's nothing unusual about mentorship."

  Roremand took a cautious step forward, eyes narrowing. "Yet your casting sessions are private. No one else in our year receives that kind of attention."

  Nathan exhaled slowly, forcing himself to remain calm. "Maybe because no one else nearly melted the testing chamber."

  Roremand studied him carefully, expression shifting subtly towards annoyed. "They're afraid of you, Nathan."

  Nathan’s throat tightened. "I don't want anyone to be afraid."

  Roremand's voice hardened slightly, quieter now, “Poor little boy, you have an affinity not seen in over a thousand years, yet here you are complaining. Do something about it. "

  Nathan met Roremand’s gaze, heart racing. "Why do you even care?"

  Roremand hesitated a moment, expression guarded again. "I don't. I'm just giving you fair warning."

  He turned and walked away, leaving Nathan alone in the garden, more unsettled than before.

  Late that night, Nathan sat quietly in his dorm room, moonlight washing gently over the polished floor. He stared at his hands, tracing faint lines of sunlight in his palm—tiny echoes of power that shimmered softly beneath his fingertips.

  He closed his eyes slowly, letting himself relax for the first time all day. His breathing steadied, heartbeat slowing gently as he sank deeper into quiet calmness.

  But just as he started to drift toward sleep, a soft rustling sound jolted him awake. Nathan opened his eyes sharply, pulse quickening.

  "Lissandre?" he whispered softly. "Krit?"

  No one answered. The room was silent again, still and empty.

  Yet Nathan felt suddenly, inexplicably, certain that he wasn't alone.

  He stood quickly, scanning the shadowed corners carefully. "Hello?"

  Silence answered—but the air felt heavy, thick with anticipation.

  Then, softly—so softly he could barely trust his ears—a whisper broke the quiet, clear yet distant:

  "Nathan."

  He spun around, heart hammering. "Who’s there?"

  Again silence, heavy and waiting.

  Nathan swallowed hard, forcing himself to remain calm. "Show yourself."

  For a long moment, nothing happened. Then slowly, at the edge of his vision, something flickered gently in the mirror beside his bed.

  He approached cautiously, breath held tight.

  The reflection shifted subtly, blurring slightly—then, with sudden clarity, his own image looked back at him, eyes gleaming strangely silver, pupils pale and reflective like mirrors.

  Nathan stumbled back, breath catching sharply. "What—?"

  The reflection regarded him calmly, face perfectly matching Nathan’s, yet the eyes were utterly foreign, cold and curious. It tilted its head slightly, speaking again softly, the voice eerily familiar yet distinctly different.

  "You’re not ready. But you will be."

  Nathan shook his head sharply, fear flooding through him. "Who—what are you?"

  The reflection smiled faintly, a quiet, distant sadness flickering briefly across its silver eyes.

  "You already know. You’ve always known."

  Nathan blinked, and abruptly, the reflection returned to normal—his own terrified expression staring back, eyes wide and brown again.

  He reached out tentatively, touching the cold glass. Nothing happened. Just a mirror—empty, ordinary, reflecting only himself.

  He stepped back shakily, heart pounding, mind spinning with confusion. Had he imagined it? Was his power affecting his perception?

  He sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, gripping his knees tightly.

  He’d wanted answers. Instead, he’d found only more questions—questions that frightened him, whispers that warned of something deeper, darker, something he wasn’t yet ready to face.

  But what worried Nathan most was the strange certainty in his reflection’s words:

  He already knew something he couldn’t yet remember.

  He wasn’t ready.

  Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that readiness might soon become irrelevant—that whatever was waiting in the shadows had no intention of waiting much longer.

  After the strange encounter with his reflection, Nathan couldn’t sleep. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, heart still beating unevenly as he replayed the chilling moment over and over.

  He kept glancing nervously toward the mirror, half expecting to see those silver eyes staring back. But the reflection remained normal, inert, ordinary—yet Nathan felt the subtle tension that lingered, the soft pressure of something just beyond perception, waiting patiently.

  When dawn finally broke, spilling warm sunlight gently through the curtains, Nathan rose tiredly and prepared himself for another day of careful masks and cautious conversations.

  He dressed quietly, moving slowly so as not to disturb Lissandre. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake, and Nathan was grateful. He wasn’t ready to explain his anxiety—not when he barely understood it himself.

  Stepping out into the corridor, Nathan was greeted by quiet murmurs and sidelong glances as he passed groups of students heading toward the breakfast hall. He felt their eyes lingering, heard whispers trailing in his wake, some admiring, others uneasy.

  He was growing used to it—though he wished he didn’t have to.

  When he reached the hall, Krit was already seated alone at their usual table, quietly sipping tea, watching Nathan with those thoughtful, inscrutable eyes. Nathan hesitated, then approached carefully, sinking into the seat opposite.

  “You look tired,” Krit said softly, observing him carefully.

  Nathan sighed, forcing a weak smile. “Long night.”

  Krit paused, studying him intently before speaking again, voice gentle but probing. “You’re troubled.”

  Nathan shook his head quickly. “I’m fine, Krit. Just… didn’t sleep well.”

  Krit didn’t press further, but their expression told Nathan they didn’t entirely believe him. Instead, they reached for a basket of fruit and passed it silently across the table.

  Nathan took an apple gratefully, feeling its reassuring weight in his palm. “Thanks.”

  A moment later, Lissandre appeared, sliding smoothly into the seat beside Nathan with her usual effortless energy. “Morning, Sunborn,” she teased softly, nudging him playfully. “You look like you spent all night wrestling shadows.”

  Nathan laughed weakly, grateful for her levity. “Something like that.”

  Lissandre glanced between Nathan and Krit, sensing the quiet tension. Her expression softened, turning quietly concerned. “Seriously, Nate. Are you alright?”

  Nathan hesitated, feeling guilty about keeping secrets. “Just tired, honestly.”

  She studied him closely, not entirely convinced, but nodded slowly. “Alright. But you know I’m here if you want to talk.”

  Nathan smiled softly, genuinely. “I know. Thanks.”

  As they ate, Nathan felt eyes watching him from across the hall. He glanced up and caught sight of Roremand, seated alone, expression unreadable but intense. Their gazes met briefly, and Nathan felt the subtle challenge, the careful curiosity, in Roremand’s eyes.

  Nathan quickly looked away, pulse racing gently.

  Later, in the casting chamber, Professor Varis waited patiently, arms folded, eyes sharp. Nathan approached carefully, feeling unsettled, distracted by last night’s encounter.

  “Are you ready?” Varis asked quietly, sensing his unease.

  Nathan nodded, forcing himself to focus. “I think so.”

  Varis stepped closer, observing him closely. “Today we test your limits. Not to break you, Nathan—but to understand clearly where your control ends.”

  Nathan swallowed nervously but nodded again. “Alright.”

  Varis gestured toward the air between them. “Begin with the Sun glyph, then slowly test the flare rune, and try to produce a mid-sized sun flare.”

  Nathan took a careful breath, lifting his stylus. He drew the familiar spell circle first and thought of what the sun meant to him, the sun glyph shimmered into existence. Then he drew the flare rune it formed smoothly, glowing softly with golden warmth. Nathan felt the subtle pressure increase dramatically.

  The rune began vibrating gently, resonating powerfully, threatening to collapse. Nathan fought to keep it stable, heart racing, breath short.

  “Balance,” Varis reminded firmly. “Not force.”

  Nathan took another breath, struggling to steady himself. But the pressure built quickly, slipping dangerously from his grasp.

  Suddenly, his reflection flashed through his mind—silver eyes calm and knowing—and Nathan flinched instinctively. The rune reacted immediately, collapsing violently into a burst of brilliant golden light.

  Varis waved his hand instantly, dissipating the flare, his expression carefully controlled. “Stop. Enough.”

  Nathan lowered his shaking hand, breathing heavily. “I’m sorry. I—I lost it.”

  Varis regarded him cautiously, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Something distracted you.”

  Nathan hesitated. “Just a bad night. It won’t happen again.”

  Varis stepped closer, expression quietly serious. “Nathan, whatever troubles you, you cannot carry it into casting. Your affinity amplifies your emotional state. Fear, hesitation, doubt—any imbalance—will destabilize your magic.”

  Nathan nodded silently, not trusting himself to speak.

  Varis sighed softly. “Rest. Clear your mind. Tomorrow we’ll try again.”

  Nathan turned away quietly, guilt and frustration twisting together inside him.

  After leaving the chamber, Nathan found himself wandering aimlessly, seeking solitude. His steps led him instinctively toward the quiet gardens near the library—far from the busy paths students usually traveled.

  He sank onto an empty bench beneath a large tree, breathing slowly, trying to calm the turmoil inside him.

  Footsteps softly approached, and Nathan tensed instinctively. He looked up to find Roremand standing a careful distance away, watching him quietly.

  “Yet another bad session?” Roremand asked evenly.

  Nathan exhaled slowly, tiredly. “You could say that.”

  Roremand hesitated briefly, then stepped closer, eyes oddly sympathetic. “They push you hard.”

  Nathan shrugged weakly. “They have to. I’m unstable, apparently.”

  Roremand studied him carefully. “You’re powerful. Untrained, maybe. But power always comes with instability. It’s not unique to you.”

  Nathan glanced up sharply. “Why are you here, Roremand?”

  Roremand didn’t answer immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, surprisingly gentle. “Because you’re isolating yourself. You can’t control magic alone, Nathan. No one can.”

  Nathan sighed, voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe I’m not meant to control it.”

  Roremand shook his head slightly, stepping even closer. “Then learn to guide it. Magic is yours, but it’s not only yours. Let others help you.”

  Nathan hesitated, uncertain. “Like who? The professors don’t trust me. Everyone else either fears or envies me.”

  Roremand’s expression softened slightly, eyes briefly vulnerable. “Not everyone fears you.”

  Nathan met his gaze quietly, pulse quickening softly. “You?”

  Roremand looked away briefly, voice tight. “I don’t know what you are yet, Nathan Quinn. But I’m not afraid of finding out. I’ve just been working all my life to be the best and then you come along, no training, no control but pure untapped power. I don’t fear you Quinn, I envy you.”

  Nathan felt his chest tighten.

  Roremand nodded once, stepping back carefully. “Just… don’t destroy yourself trying to prove anything.”

  He turned abruptly, leaving Nathan alone once more beneath the quiet shadows of the tree.

  That night, in his room, Nathan sat alone, thoughts spinning restlessly. The reflection hadn’t returned—yet its quiet presence lingered beneath his thoughts.

  He stared into the mirror again, studying his reflection carefully, but saw only himself—eyes brown and uncertain, tiredness clear on his face.

  He took a deep breath, speaking softly, almost without thinking:

  “Who are you?”

  Silence answered. The mirror remained still.

  But in his chest, Nathan felt a quiet, gentle pressure—like someone had heard, even if they hadn’t replied.

  He lay down, finally letting exhaustion claim him. Sleep came uneasily, but as darkness overtook him, Nathan felt that subtle awareness linger gently, patiently, softly watching.

  He wasn’t alone.

  And though he still had no answers, he knew instinctively:

  Whatever waited quietly beneath his reflection, it was connected to him.

  And sooner or later, he would have to face it.