The hall was silent except for the faint scratching of quills against parchment. The other apprentices had long since retired, leaving only the dim glow of candlelight flickering against the high stone walls. The assignment they had been given was no ordinary transcription, this was advanced spell work, layered with shifting structures that warped the moment a mistake was made. Even the most diligent students had thrown down their quills in frustration, abandoning the task until morning.

  Elya, now twelve, remained.

  Her body had begun to change, in ways that were both unfamiliar and frustrating. Her limbs felt stretched, her chest had begun to ache, and there was a new heaviness to her frame that left her feeling unbalanced. The long hours of training weighed on her differently now, what had once been simple endurance had turned into a battle against her own body. She bruised easier, her skin felt raw from repeated strain, and she no longer knew how to move with the same certainty she had before. Where she had once been able to ignore hunger or exhaustion, they clung to her more insistently now, slowing her in ways she resented.

  These changes had not gone unnoticed. The punishments seemed harsher, the expectations unyielding. She could feel the instructors watching her more closely, waiting for signs of weakness, for an excuse to decide she would not make it. Her endurance, once barely enough to keep her afloat, now felt insufficient entirely. Yet, despite it all, she remained hunched over her parchment, fingers stained with ink, refusing to quit.

  She had to work harder. She had to push further. She could not afford to fall behind.

  Her fingers ached, stiff from the hours she had already spent bent over the parchment, her ink-stained hands trembling as she tried again to etch the sequence correctly. The fine muscles in her wrists throbbed from gripping the quill for so long, the weight of fatigue settling into her bones like an ever-present ache. Her body was betraying her in ways she hadn’t anticipated, her hands, once steady, were growing clumsier, the strain of too many hours spent writing making her movements sluggish. Her chest felt tight, her breath shallow from the way she hunched over her work, and the dull, growing weight of exhaustion blurred the symbols before her. Every time she thought she had it, the intricate spell structures shifted beneath her quill, twisting apart like shattered glass, forcing her to start over. The frustration burned in her throat, but she swallowed it down, pushing through the haze of exhaustion. She clenched her jaw, blinking rapidly, willing herself to focus, to finish. She would not fail this time. She refused to.

  She hadn’t noticed Lina was still there until she caught the movement of a quill from the corner of her eye.

  Lina sat a few seats away, hunched slightly over her own work, her ink-dark hair falling over her shoulder in a smooth, silken curtain that caught the candlelight. Even in the dim glow, there was an effortless grace to her, a quiet poise that set her apart. Unlike Elya’s parchment, covered in scratches and mistakes, Lina’s was pristine, every line and curve of the spell structure precise, unwavering. There was no frustration in her movements, no hesitation. Just quiet, methodical certainty, as if she belonged to the magic in a way no one else did.

  Elya swallowed. Lina had changed in the past year, too, but not in the awkward, unbalanced way Elya had. Her body had filled out, her posture was steady, and there was an air of quiet confidence that made her seem untouchable. Others had noticed, Elya had seen the way some of the boys glanced at her in passing, how even the senior apprentices respected her skill. There was an elegance to her, a refinement that Elya knew she lacked. And yet, it wasn’t envy she felt when she looked at her. It was something else, something unspoken and unfamiliar, curling warm in her chest.

  She didn’t know if she wanted to be like Lina, or if she just wanted to be close to her.

  For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable; if anything, it was grounding, a rare moment of stillness in a world that never seemed to stop demanding more from them. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows across Lina’s face, highlighting the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the quiet intensity in her dark eyes as they traced over her parchment. She had always been like this, focused, composed, as if nothing in the world could shake her.

  Lina did not question why Elya was still there, struggling long past the point of reason. She did not sigh in exasperation or shake her head at the countless mistakes littering Elya’s parchment. Nor did she offer soft reassurances or encouragements like Jalen might have. Instead, she simply worked, her presence steady, unwavering. It was as if she understood, without needing to say it, that words would not help Elya right now. That the best thing she could do was let her be. And somehow, that understanding felt more comforting than anything else.

  Elya stole another glance at her, at the way the light gleamed against the ink staining her fingertips, at the effortless way she moved. There was a quiet beauty to Lina, a grace that made her seem untouchable, like she belonged in another world altogether. And yet, she was here, sitting in an empty hall, long after the others had gone.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Elya dipped her quill again, carefully tracing the sequence. Her fingers cramped, her vision swam, and just as she was about to slip, a hand moved in her peripheral vision. Before she could react, Lina’s quill flicked across her parchment, correcting the angle of a misplaced symbol with a single, effortless stroke. She didn’t pause, didn’t say anything, simply returned to her own work as if it had never happened.

  Elya stared at the correction, the exactness of the line, the ease with which it had been fixed. She should have felt humiliated, reminded once again of how far she was from perfection. But she didn’t. Instead, warmth flickered beneath her exhaustion, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between them.

  The night dragged on, and eventually, Elya’s body betrayed her. Her head grew heavy, the words on the parchment swimming into meaningless lines, her vision blurring with exhaustion. She fought it, forcing her fingers to grip the quill, but her hand slipped, the ink smudging across the page. Her limbs ached, her breath slow and deep, and before she could stop herself, she leaned against Lina’s shoulder. The warmth of her presence, the steady rise and fall of her breath, was grounding. Lina smelled faintly of parchment and ink, of something cool and familiar. The tension in Elya’s body unraveled, and the world blurred into a haze of candlelight and soft shadows, wrapping her in an embrace of quiet comfort. Her last thought before sleep took her was not of failure or fear, but of Lina, and how safe she felt beside her.

  Lina tensed beneath her. For a moment, she did not move, her quill pausing mid-stroke, the candlelight catching the faint sheen of ink on her fingers. Elya expected her to shift away, to push her off or tell her to sit up. But she didn’t. She remained still, only the slight tightening of her jaw betraying her awareness of the moment.

  The pause stretched, charged with something unspoken. Then, slowly, Lina let out a slow, measured breath, the tension easing just slightly from her shoulders. She did not lean into Elya, but she did not move away either. Instead, she resumed writing, her quill gliding smoothly across the parchment as if nothing had changed, though her strokes were more deliberate, her hand steadier.

  Her expression remained unreadable, but her actions spoke louder than words. She did not wake Elya. She did not push her away. And that, somehow, felt more significant than anything she could have said.

  When Elya woke the next morning, the hall was empty, save for the cloak draped over her shoulders. The candle had burned low, the wax pooled against the metal holder, the only sign that time had passed at all. The silence was heavy, wrapping around her like the lingering warmth of sleep. She sat up slowly, the fabric slipping through her fingers as she pulled it closer, her mind sluggish with the remnants of dreams she couldn’t quite remember.

  The scent of parchment and ink clung to the cloak, faint but familiar, and she knew without question that it belonged to Lina. The realization sent a strange flutter through her chest, something warm and weightless all at once. Lina had left without a word, without waking her, but she had left this behind. It was nothing more than a small gesture, practical in nature, but to Elya, it felt like something more, something she didn’t yet have the words for.

  She swallowed, pushing herself to her feet, the fatigue still lingering in her limbs. The hall felt different now, emptier, colder in Lina’s absence. But as she draped the cloak tighter around her shoulders, she let herself believe, just for a moment, that she hadn’t been entirely alone in the night.

  Elya found her later that day, catching up to her between lessons. The weight of the cloak in her hands felt heavier than it should, as if it carried something more than just fabric, something unspoken. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice quieter than she intended. She wasn’t sure why it felt so difficult to say, why her throat tightened around the words. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was something else, something she didn’t yet have the courage to examine. She shifted her grip on the cloak, running her fingers over the worn edge, as if grounding herself in the tangible could steady the unease stirring inside her.

  Lina merely shrugged, her gaze flicking to Elya, then away. "You need to pace yourself," she said, voice quiet but firm, yet not unkind. "If you collapse again, you’ll be of no use to anyone."

  For a moment, it seemed as though she might say more, but instead, she hesitated, her fingers twitching slightly before curling into a loose fist at her side. Her expression remained composed, unreadable as always, but there was something fleeting in her eyes, something Elya couldn't quite catch before it was gone. It wasn’t pity, nor was it mere pragmatism. It was something softer, something almost reluctant, like a concern Lina didn’t want to acknowledge, much less voice.

  Elya opened her mouth to respond, but the words stuck in her throat. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t sound foolish or too revealing, so instead, she just nodded, the cloak still clutched tightly in her hands. Lina had already begun walking away, her movements smooth and precise, like everything she did, but Elya stood frozen for just a moment longer, feeling the weight of something unspoken settle between them.

  The words were blunt, almost indifferent, yet layered with something unspoken, something quiet and careful. It wasn’t warmth exactly, nor was it kindness in the way most people offered it. But there was an intent in Lina’s voice, a restraint, as if she had chosen those words deliberately to hide what lay beneath. Something softer. Something Elya couldn’t quite name but felt settle in her chest like a lingering note in the air, just out of reach.

  She didn’t fully understand what she felt, but she knew that somehow, Lina’s presence softened the relentless weight of apprenticeship, made the long nights feel less isolating, the exhaustion less suffocating. It wasn’t just that Lina was there; it was the way she existed in Elya’s orbit, steady and unwavering, without expectation or demand. It was in the small things, her quiet patience, the way she corrected a mistake without drawing attention to it, the way she simply let Elya be. And that, more than anything, made the endless struggle just a little easier to endure.