Chapter 117: Weaponized Confusion

The knocking entered his awareness like a pebble against glass. Soft, persistent, and somehow already irritating.

Noah blinked awake to the dim stripe of dawn on his ceiling and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

’Why is every day like this? Why can’t I sleep without been woken up by a fucking knock? Is this dorm cursed or what?’

He swung his legs off the bed, padded across cool stone, and pulled the door open.

A second year student in a neat uniform stood ramrod straight in the hall, eyes flicking once to the new gold trim at Noah’s collar before dropping.

“Professor Cecilia requests to see you before classes,” the boy said. “Right away.”

“Got it,” Noah replied, voice dry.

He shut the door, stared at it for a moment, then turned to the bathroom.

Steam ghosted off the basin as he scrubbed sleep from his face.

He took his time under the shower until the water cooled, then dressed in his neat uniform, pinned on the fresh nameplate, and slid his parchment, quill, and ink into his satchel.

When he lifted the strap to his shoulder, his shadows stirred, looking like anchors of black in the corners, and smudges of ink that tracked with him across the floor.

’Behave,’ he told them without moving his lips.

The red eyed one smirked and melted into the wardrobe’s darkness. The blue eyed one said nothing.

The morning air outside had a thin bite. Cecilia’s office sat away from the faculty building, tucked beneath the slope of an upper terrace where old walls met newer arches.

It wasn’t exile, exactly, but the architectural equivalent of putting a sharp knife where children couldn’t reach.

He followed the terraces up, past fountains that muttered to themselves and banners barely stirring on their poles, past clusters of other first years craning to watch him and then pretending they hadn’t.

After taking the lift up, he knocked once on her door.

“Come in,” came Cecilia’s voice.

The office was exactly as he remembered it. Neat, with filled bookshelves, and the map of Camelot beside the window.

Light fell through lattice windows in coin shaped spots across the rug. Cecilia stood behind her desk, golden eyes bright with doubt.

“Noah,” she said, relief softening her face for a beat before the professor settled back in. “Thank you for coming.”

He took the chair opposite. “You sent for me?”

She nodded and folded her arms, not unkindly. “What do you have to do with Ben Stanley?”

Noah blinked, just long enough to register the question as if it surprised him. “Ben?”

“His personal instructor reported he skipped yesterday’s afternoon session. When the instructor asked questions, your name surfaced.” Cecilia watched his face for cracks.

He let confusion settle over his face like he’d been born with it as his perpetual expression.

“I’m not sure why my name would come up. Maybe Ben assumed I’d… do something if he showed up near me?” He shrugged. “People talk.”

Cecilia’s mouth pressed into a thoughtful line. “Did you speak with him? See him? Any contact at all?”

“No.” Noah scratched the side of his jaw, as if trying to place a half remembered detail. “The last time I spoke to Ben was… the arena.” He let the word hang between them. “I’m no longer an ordinary student. I have other things worth my time than Ben.”

A few more questions on where he’d been the previous day, library, cafeteria, and dorm, whether he had any reason to think Ben intended to skip, he had none, and Cecilia’s shoulders loosened a fraction.

“All right,” she said at last. “I’m glad you weren’t involved. Ben Stanley will resume attending classes today. If anything changes, you’ll tell me.”

“Of course.”

He stood. Cecilia gave a small nod that was almost a smile. “Good luck in Spellcasting. I’m sure you’ll enjoy Professor Bruno more than Geldrin.”

He nodded, before clicking the door clicked shut behind him. His expression changed to one of indifference.

Taking the lift down and exiting the building, his shadows hissed and coiled along the path, following him.

’We leave Ben alone,’ Noah thought. ’For now. If anything happens to him, they look at me first.’

“Yesssss.” The red eyed shadow bared teeth at that.

The blue eyed one dipped its head in quiet agreement. “That would be wise.”

Noah adjusted his satchel and started down towards the Spellcasting halls.

The second day of the week meant two things. Spellcasting in the morning, Pedigree & Etiquette in the afternoon. The former mattered. The latter was theater.

The main Spellcasting amphitheater claimed a wedge of the western wing, half an atrium of pale stone and half a nest of chalk dust ghosts.

As usual, the Gold-tier classes were smaller than his memory of the Stone-tier classes.

There were no packs of bodies, and no hungry hum of students. Just the steady trickle of peers, each with their own orbit of entitlement or anxious heat.

He took the steps two at a time until the wide doorway opened on ranks of tiered benches and a slate board already scrubbed clean.

Ben Stanley was already there.

Noah saw him before Ben saw Noah. A flash of pale face, the quick gnawing of a lower lip, hands worrying the edge of a book.

When Ben’s head lifted and his gaze landed on Noah, he startled to his feet like he’d been caught with a knife in his hand. Fear glazed his eyes.

The few classmates scattered along the benches turned as one, their whispers sealing themselves behind pressed mouths.

Noah kept walking. He deliberately took slow steps, as if the entire world had been peeled of its urgency and left in orderly strips.

He stopped five paces from Ben and took in the twitch of the boy’s fingers, the way his throat worked, the faint bruise-like purple crescents beneath his eyes.

He let the silence stretch. Then he smiled pleasantly. Politely. As if they were strangers at a luncheon.

“Morning,” he said, and moved past him to an empty seat in the third row.

The whispers detonated the moment his back was turned, everybody talking about what just happened. It seemed the rumor had spread to them too.

He set his satchel down on the wooden arm, laid out his parchment and quill, and uncorked the ink with the careful motions of someone who had all day.

The shadows crowded near, invisible to everyone else. He felt them lace themselves along the underside of the desk, drape over the bench support, peer through the gaps in the stonework like children in a theater.

’Let them talk,’ Noah told them, dipping the quill. ’Let him sweat.’

Ben remained standing for a foolish heartbeat longer, then sat down hard, the bench creaking beneath him.

Two Gold-tier girls across the aisle pretended to study their nails while sneaking looks at Noah, and a pair of boys behind him could not help glancing at him.

Noah rolled his shoulders, testing the slowly healing ache that still lived in the tendons and at the base of his spine.

The infirmary taste had been scrubbed out of him, but another flavor had been left behind. Purpose.

He drew a line across the top of the parchment and wrote the date. His handwriting hadn’t changed. The person holding the quill had.

“This is fine,” the blue eyed shadow murmured from under the desk. “In the light. Surrounded by witnesses. Let the rumors become our shield.”

The red eyed shadow laughed, rumpus and obscene. “Or a knife. Either way, blood in the mouth.”

Noah’s lips didn’t flicker.

The room slowly filled out.

Arlo entered, watching Noah as if he could see through all his hidden layers.

And Noah smirked to himself, knowing that Arlo wouldn’t be able to see the truth that truly mattered, until it was too late.

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