The air in the Aetherveil Academy's transfer hall tasted of old parchment and nervous anticipation.
Sunlight, fractured by stained-glass windows depicting stern-faced deities wielding glowing swords, painted the stone floor in shifting hues.
Amidst the bustling students, their robes a vibrant tapestry of house colors, stood a figure that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it.
Caelum Rivenhart. Eighteen years of age, though the weight in his silence hinted at something far older. He clutched a worn satchel, its leather softened with time, and stood with an unnerving stillness. His head was tilted slightly, as if listening to a melody only he could perceive. A simple, charm-woven bandage, the color of faded moonlight, was wrapped around his eyes, concealing them from a world he nonetheless seemed acutely aware of.
Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through tall grass.
"That's him… the 'low-level transfer'?"
"Blind? How did he even get in?"
"They say Headmaster Theron himself approved it."
Caelum remained oblivious, or perhaps indifferent, to the scrutiny.
The subtle shift in the air as someone moved too close, the almost imperceptible vibration of a foot tapping impatiently, the faint scratching of a quill on a distant ledger – he registered it all. His other senses, honed by a millennium of silent contemplation, painted a vivid, if unconventional, picture of his surroundings.
A gruff voice boomed, cutting through the murmurs. "Rivenhart? Caelum Rivenhart?"
Aetherveil's Enrollment Officer, a stout man with ink-stained fingers and a perpetually harried expression, scanned the hall over the rims of his spectacles.
"Here," Caelum replied, his voice soft, almost a whisper, yet carrying a surprising clarity that made heads turn.
The officer grunted, peering at the parchment in his hands. "Low-level transfer… from… ah, a 'self-study' background. Interesting."
He eyed Caelum's bandaged eyes with unconcealed skepticism. "Follow me. And try not to bump into anything. Wouldn't want you causing a divine incident on your first day."
Caelum nodded once, a barely perceptible movement. He moved with a quiet grace that belied his blindness, navigating the crowded hall with an almost preternatural awareness of the space around him. The other students parted slightly as he passed, a mixture of curiosity and unease in their gazes.
His first few hours at Aetherveil were a blur of echoing corridors and unfamiliar scents – the sharp tang of ozone from the magic labs, the musty aroma of ancient tomes in the library, the faint sweetness of incense wafting from the central temple.
In each classroom, the reactions were the same: initial disbelief followed by a hesitant curiosity.
The written entrance exams, however, were a different matter. While the other students scratched furiously with their quills, Caelum sat still, his fingers lightly tracing the surface of the parchment. The proctors exchanged bewildered glances. How could a blind boy possibly answer questions on arcane theory and Eliovan history?
The answer came with the results. Caelum Rivenhart achieved perfect scores in every subject. When questioned, he simply stated, "The ink… it speaks." He couldn't explain it further, and the bewildered instructors could only attribute it to some unknown, perhaps even divinely granted, talent.
His first practical lesson was in the Academy's sprawling training yards, where the clang of steel on steel echoed under the open sky.
He was assigned to the "Fundamentals of Combat" class, a mix of nervous first-years and condescending upperclassmen.
The instructor, a stern woman named Lysandra with a blade strapped to her hip and a no-nonsense demeanor, surveyed Caelum with a frown.
"Rivenhart. You expect to learn swordsmanship… like that?" She gestured dismissively at his eyes.
"I can listen to the steel, Instructor Lysandra," Caelum replied calmly. "And feel the air it displaces."
Laughter rippled through the assembled students. Lysandra's frown deepened.
"Very well. We'll see how well you 'listen' when steel is aimed at your throat. Recruit Valerius, demonstrate a basic thrust."
A hulking senior with a polished steel practice sword stepped forward, a smirk playing on his lips. He moved with practiced ease, the blade a silver blur aimed directly at Caelum's chest.
There was a collective intake of breath. Caelum stood motionless, his head tilted slightly. Just as the tip of the steel sword was inches from his chest, he took a single, almost imperceptible step to the side. The blade whistled past, missing him by a hair's breadth.
Valerius, surprised by his failure to connect, scoffed and prepared for another attack. This time, he feinted high before aiming low, a textbook maneuver designed to confuse a novice.
Again, Caelum moved with an uncanny precision. He didn't block, didn't parry. He simply wasn't where the blade was intended to be. Frustration flickered across Valerius's face. He lunged again, a powerful overhead strike.
This time, as the steel descended, Caelum finally moved his hand. He held a simple wooden practice sword, provided by the Academy. With a movement so swift it was almost invisible, the wood connected with the steel.
The sound that followed was not the dull thud of wood on metal. It was a sharp, cracking sound, like bone splintering. Valerius's steel practice sword, a well-maintained weapon, snapped clean in two at the point of contact. The upper half clattered to the ground.
Silence descended upon the training yard. Valerius stared at the broken hilt in his hand, his face a mask of disbelief.
Instructor Lysandra's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. The other students exchanged stunned glances.
Caelum lowered his wooden sword. "My apologies," he said softly, his voice devoid of any triumph.
"Perhaps the wood… was stronger than it appeared."
No one believed him. They had seen what they saw – a blind boy, wielding a simple wooden sword, effortlessly cleaving through steel. Yet, the explanation was so understated, so devoid of bravado, that it sowed a seed of doubt even in their astonished minds.
Later that day, during a practical magic demonstration, a wild construct – a swirling vortex of elemental energy that had broken free from its containment runes – rampaged through the training hall. Students screamed and scattered as bolts of crackling energy flew erratically.
Instructors struggled to regain control, chanting containment spells that seemed to have little effect. The construct roared, a sound like tearing fabric, and surged towards a group of terrified first-years.
Without a word, Caelum moved. He didn't cast a spell, didn't draw a weapon. He simply walked towards the chaotic energy, his movements calm and deliberate amidst the pandemonium.
As he drew closer to the raging vortex, something strange happened. The swirling energy began to falter, its violent movements becoming sluggish.
The roaring subsided into a low hum. By the time Caelum stood directly before it, the wild construct had stilled completely, its energy dissipating like smoke in a gentle breeze. It simply… ceased to be.
The stunned silence in the hall was broken only by the ragged breaths of the frightened students. Instructors stared, their mouths agape.
"What… what did you do?" Instructor Lysandra finally managed, her voice barely above a whisper.
Caelum tilted his head slightly, as if listening to the echoes of the vanished energy. "I… breathed too close, perhaps?" he offered, his tone as soft and unassuming as always.
Again, no one believed the simplicity of his explanation.
They had witnessed something impossible, something that defied the very principles of magic they were learning. A blind boy, a low-level transfer, who seemed to possess abilities that were both terrifyingly potent and utterly inexplicable.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the Academy grounds, Caelum found a quiet corner in the courtyard. He sat on a stone bench, the cool evening air brushing against his face. He was alone, as he often was. The other students, a mixture of awe and apprehension in their eyes, kept their distance.
He reached into his satchel and pulled out a small, smooth stone. He turned it over in his fingers, his touch gentle. It was a keepsake, a remnant of a life that felt both impossibly distant and achingly present. A life filled with laughter under a starlit sky, the warmth of a loving hand in his, and the echo of a final, desperate whisper.
"Please… try to love once more…"
He simply sat in the gathering dusk, the smooth stone a silent testament to a promise made in the face of oblivion.
(Caelum Rivenhart, a blind boy with a sturdy build, height 187 cm, age 17, black hair, a black blindfold, wearing a black cloak)