The cycle hummed beneath me.
Smooth. Steady. Familiar now.
My bag hung from my shoulder.
The village passed by in its usual afternoon quiet.
The sun was high and warm. It was that kind of warmth that made everything slow down, it sent farmers to sit under the broad branches of old trees instead of working the fields.
The river appeared ahead. I slowed as I crossed, as I always did, listening to the water burble beneath the ancient stone. The sound had become a kind of marker for me—a threshold between home and everywhere else.
Focus. Submit. Then—nothing. Just another day in a life that was slowly, quietly, becoming mine.
°°°
I reached the school gate and stopped.
Students everywhere. The courtyard was a living tide of uniforms and voices and the particular energy of submission day—that strange mix of relief and anxiety that came from finally letting go of something you'd worked on for weeks.
Groups clustered near the fountain, comparing answers with the kind of desperate hope that came from realizing you might have misunderstood the assignment entirely.
I locked my cycle to the rack near the east entrance. The same rack where my old cycle had disappeared weeks ago, stolen by someone I'd never identified.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, squinting at the screen in the afternoon glare.
Where r u?? Assignment submission in Room 21!! Hurry!! — Vjaret.
The message had three exclamation points, which meant Vjaret was either genuinely panicked or mildly inconvenienced. With him, it was hard to tell.
I typed back two words—"Coming"—and started toward the main building.
Room 21. Second floor. Easy.
°°°
The hallway was crowded. Students lined up outside rooms like supplicants at temple doors. Some looked relieved. Others looked like they hadn't slept in days.
I climbed the stairs to the second floor, weaving through groups of students coming down.
The stairwell echoed with overlapping conversations—fragments of complaints about word counts, debates about thesis statements, someone's dramatic declaration that they were "never writing another essay again" despite having three more due next month.
Room 21 was at the end of the corridor. I could see the line from here.
And then I stopped.
Because there—further down the corridor, near the stairwell I'd just passed—
Vjaret.
Surrounded.
Three of them. I recognized them immediately. Augustus and his friends. The "premium" kids I'd noticed on my first day, with their expensive phones and casual confidence.
I'd never spoken to them. Never needed to.
They had Vjaret cornered against the wall. His bag was half-open, papers spilling out.
His face was pale and his hands were shaking.
"—just give it to us and no one gets hurt." Augustus's voice. Smooth.
Vjaret's voice, quieter but firm: "It's mine. I wrote it. You can't—"
"Can't what?" Augustus smiled. "We're not asking, dumb kid."
Dumb kid. They didn't even know his name.
I moved closer. My footsteps were quiet on the tile floor. No one noticed me. No one ever noticed me unless I wanted them to.
The tall one—Marcel—stepped forward.
The nervous one—Finnian—hung back, glancing around the corridor. Checking if anyone was watching.
The quiet one—Aldric—just stared. Unblinking. His eyes were pale and unsettlingly steady.
Vjaret's hands shook. But his voice didn't. "No."
Augustus's smirk faltered. Just for a fraction of a second. "No?"
"I said no. I worked on this. For weeks. You don't get to take it just because you didn't do your own."
Marcel grabbed Vjaret's bag. Tugged. Papers started slipping out—notes, drafts, the careful accumulation of weeks of work, scattering across the tile floor like fallen leaves.
"Hey."
My voice. Quiet. But they heard.
They turned. Four heads swiveling toward me in the crowded corridor.
"You." Augustus adjusted his perfectly fitted jacket . "The new kid from before. The one who transferred mid-term."
He stepped forward, placing himself between me and the others with the practiced ease of someone who was used to being the center of attention.
"What do you want?"
I looked at Vjaret.
Then at Augustus.
"I want you to leave him alone."
Augustus laughed. "Or what?"
Or what. Good question.
I couldn't fight them. Not really. Not without—without what? Without showing them what I was?
But I didn't need to fight. I just needed to talk.
"You don't have your assignments."
The words landed quietly. Augustus's smile flickered. Just for a second. Just enough to tell me I'd hit something. "What?"
"Your assignments. You don't have them. That's why you're here. Cornering people. Stealing from people who actually did the work. Because you didn't do yours. You probably haven't even started."
Augustus's jaw tightened. "And if we don't? If we keep standing here?"
"Then you keep standing here. Wasting time. While the line gets shorter." I pointed at Room 21. "While the teacher gets closer to leaving. By the time you find someone else to steal from, submission will be closed. The teacher will be gone. You'll have nothing. No assignment. No grade. No explanation that will save you."
Augustus's eyes flicked toward the room. Calculated. He was smart enough to recognize a losing position when he saw one.
I pressed on.
"But if you walk away now—leave him alone, leave everyone alone—I won't mention this to anyone. Not to the teachers. Not to the administration. You go home. You figure something else out. Maybe the teacher accepts late submissions or maybe not."
I paused. Let the silence do the work.
"But at least you won't have detention for bullying."
Marcel looked at Augustus. Uncertain. His size meant nothing when the threat was institutional rather than physical.
Finnian was already stepping back. His hands had come out of his pockets. He looked like he wanted to run.
Aldric—Aldric was still staring at me. Something in his eyes. Something that felt almost like...
Recognition?
Of what? He'd never seen me before the first day of school. We'd never spoken.
Augustus held my gaze for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
"Interesting."
He stepped back. One step. Then another.
"Let's go."
Marcel blinked. His grip on Vjaret's bag released completely. "But—"
"I said let's go."
The words were quiet. Final. The voice of someone who was used to being obeyed.
He turned. Walked away. His posture was perfect, his stride unhurried. He didn't look back.
His friends followed.
Just like that. They were gone.
The corridor was suddenly ordinary again. Just students and papers and the quiet hum of submission day.
Vjaret slumped against the wall. His whole body seemed to deflate, the tension leaving him in a rush that left him looking smaller.
He breathed. One long, shuddering exhale.
"You... you just..."
"I talked."
"That's not talking." He shook his head. His voice was somewhere between laughter and disbelief.
"That's—that's—that's like some kind of mind control. Did you take a class? Was there a seminar I missed? 'How To Defeat Bullies With Words Alone: A Practical Guide'?"
"I just told them the truth. They didn't have their assignments. Stealing yours wouldn't help them if the deadline passed while they were standing here."
Vjaret stared at me. His expression cycled through confusion, wonder, and something that looked almost like suspicion.
"You're weird, Nams."
"I know."
"Like, really weird. Suspiciously weird. The kind of weird that makes people wonder if you're secretly a spy or a superhero or—"
"I submitted my paper. That's dramatic enough."
He laughed. Shaky at first. Then louder. Genuine.
A passing student shushed him. He didn't care. He was still laughing, still shaking his head, still looking at me like I'd done something miraculous instead of just opening my mouth.
"You're welcome," I said.
"THAT'S IT?! 'You're welcome'?! No dramatic speech? No heroic declaration? No 'if you ever touch my friend again I'll—'" He stopped. Blinked. "Friend. I said friend. Is that—are we—"
"We've eaten lunch on a roof together. Multiple times."
"That's a yes?"
"That's a yes."
He beamed. The smile transformed his whole face—made him look less tired.
"Come on." He grabbed my arm and started pulling me toward Room 21.
"Submission. Before something else happens. Before the ceiling collapses or the floor opens up or a dragon appears—do they have dragons here? I don't think they have dragons here. But I'm not taking chances."
We walked toward the end of the corridor. The line had shortened further. Only a few students remained between us and the door.
Vjaret clutched his assignment to his chest like it was made of gold. His hands had stopped shaking.
"I can't believe that happened," he said quietly. "I can't believe you just... talked to them. Like it was nothing."
I didn't answer.
What was there to say? I'd faced Dumans. I'd watched my team get erased from existence. I'd stood in infront of a woman who is surprisingly idiot and terrifying.
Compared to them, a few bullies in a school corridor were nothing.
But you didn't need to know that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
°°°
The line moved fast. Students handed over papers. The teacher checked names against her list. The quiet rustle of pages being stacked in neat piles. The ordinary machinery of education, grinding forward one submission at a time.
The teacher was a woman I didn't recognize—maybe in her forties, glasses perched on her nose, tired eyes that suggested she'd been grading papers for decades and would be grading papers for decades more.
Her desk was organized chaos: stacks of assignments, a coffee mug that had probably gone cold hours ago, a small plant that looked like it was barely surviving.
Vjaret went first. He stepped up to the desk with his paper held out like an offering.
"Name?"
"Vjaret. Vjaret... Flenx."
She checked her list. Ran her finger down the names. Found his. Nodded.
"Submitted."
One word. That was all. But Vjaret breathed out like he'd been holding his breath for hours. He stepped aside, clutching the edge of the desk like he needed it to stay upright.
My turn. I stepped forward. Handed over my paper.
She looked at it. At the name on top. At me.
"Nams Namaska?"
"Yes."
A pause. Longer than it should have been. Her eyes moved across the first page, reading not just the name but the words beneath it.
"Your analysis of the tree poem."
"Yes."
She read the first paragraph. I watched her eyes track across the lines.
Then she looked up. Her tired eyes met mine.
"This is... well written."
Well written. The words hung in the air. From Shenhe, that would be high praise. From a stranger it meant something else entirely. It meant the words were good on their own. Without context. Without explanation.
"Thank you."
She nodded. Marked something on her list. The scratch of pen against paper.
"Submitted."
I stepped aside. Vjaret was waiting for me, practically vibrating.
"Did you hear that?! She said it was well written! WELL WRITTEN! That's teacher code for 'this is actually good'! That's like getting a gold star but in ADULT WORDS!"
"It's two words, Vjaret."
"TWO VERY IMPORTANT WORDS!"
°°°
We stood in the corridor after.
Vjaret leaned against the wall. Grinned.
"Today was insane."
"Today was normal."
"For YOU maybe. For me? I got cornered by bullies, saved by my weird friend, and submitted an assignment I actually worked on. That's a lot for a Tuesday. That's a lot for any day. I'm going to need a nap. A long nap. Possibly several naps."
I leaned against the wall beside him. The stone was cool through my uniform.
"You're welcome."
"That's it? Just 'you're welcome'? No dramatic speech? No heroic declaration? No standing on a desk and proclaiming justice?"
"I submitted my paper. That's dramatic enough for one day and why are you even repeating your words."
He laughed again. Loud and bright and completely unashamed. A student passing by glared at him. He didn't notice. Or didn't care.
"You know," he said, his voice dropping slightly, "most people wouldn't have stopped. Most people would've seen that and just... kept walking. Pretended they didn't notice. It's easier and safer."
"I'm not most people."
"Yeah." He looked at me. His eyes were serious now, the humor fading into something quieter. Something real. "I'm starting to figure that out."
The corridor hummed around us. Students and papers and the quiet rhythm of ordinary life.
And somewhere in the back of my mind—the tree, waiting. The white woman, watching. Arcueid is also waiting.
But here, now, in the golden afternoon light of a school hallway—
I was just Nams.
And that was enough.
---