Chapter 73: _ It Can’t Come Off

A prickly sensation swept across my skin, leaving behind a throb that vibrated all the way up to my shoulder joint. The bracelet coiled around my wrist didn’t even shift a millimeter. It sat there like a metal leech that had comfortably made itself at home on my bone.

Miriel’s theatrical snickering instantly evaporated. Her jaw dropped so low I thought her eyeballs were going to slide off their sockets and fall straight into her lap. "Oh, gods. Oh, sweet mother of dragon-fire, it’s cursed! It’s a parasitic blood-binding cuff! I read about this in The Dark Countess of Netherwood! Your wrist is going to turn purple, fall off, and start walking around on its own!"

"Miriel, stop!" Bren barked, grabbing a chunk of flatbread from the table and shoving it into Miriel’s hand to shut her up. "You’re not helping! Elira, don’t touch it again. Just leave it alone."

"Bren, it literally just shocked her like a defensive storm-spill! What if it’s eating her soul right now?! What if Prince Ajax is absorbing her life force to power a blood ritual?!" Miriel muffled around the bread, waving her arms dramatically.

"If it was eating her soul, she’d be screaming, not sitting here rubbing her forearm," Bren reasoned, though her eyes were narrowed as she inspected the bracelet. She reached out gently, tapping the metal with the wooden tip of her spoon.

Nothing happened.

"See? It’s locked. Probably a blood-keyed signature ward. Remus said he saw an emotional signature, which means trying to force it off with anger or panic triggers a defensive backlash."

"Great," I muttered, shaking out my lingering numb fingers. "So I’m wearing a moody royal padlock."

"Exactly," Bren said, patting my shoulder. "So stop pulling on it. We need to eat, get our minds clear, and figure out how to get through the morning without getting thrown into the salt mines by Warden Silas. Take a breath."

I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to force my heart rate back down to a normal rhythm. Bren was right. Panicking in the middle of the Great Hall while three hundred upperclassmen watched us like hawks was a terrible survival strategy.

I turned my attention to the floating parchment menu bobbing gently above the center of our table.

"Alright," I said, eyeing the glowing gold glyphs. "How do we actually order food from this floating ghost paper?"

"You tap the quartz counters embedded on the margin," Miriel explained, her panicked demeanor instantly vanishing as her inner academic took over. She pointed a finger at the tiny, purple crystal studs pressed into the thick parchment border. "The Dragon Academy uses a localized spatial-transposition array connected directly to the kitchens. Every student gets a daily allocation of nutrient points depending on their rank. Since we’re First-Year Initiates, our menu is... well, modest."

"Modest is a generous word," Bren grumbled, pressing her thumb against a quartz stud labeled Oat Porridge & Dried Mountain Berries. The crystal flashed a pale blue light, emitting a soft chime. "In Redmere, we called this ’pigeon feed.’"

I leaned forward and tapped the crystal next to a bowl of hot porridge and a mug of spiced tea. The quartz beeped happily, turning from dull grey to bright azure.

POP! FLASH!

A small ring of blue light flared over the wooden table, and three steaming ceramic bowls materialized out of thin air, accompanied by three iron spoons and stone mugs.

The smell of cinnamon, roasted oats, and honey immediately filled the air, making my stomach rumble loud enough to draw a glare from a sophomore two tables over.

"Okay, spatial-transposition food is officially the coolest thing in this terrible place," Bren admitted, immediately digging her spoon into her bowl and shoving an enormous bite into her mouth. She chewed quickly, her eyes widening. "Wait. This is actually incredible. Is that real butter?!"

"Of course it’s real butter; it’s the Dragon Quadrant," Miriel scoffed, neatly lifting her spoon with her pinky finger extended. "The High House Drakaryn doesn’t feed its students pig swill, even if some of us dress like we just crawled out of an iron mine." She gave my tunic a pointed look.

"Hey, my tunic survived getting thrown grain at Stonewick and dragon-fire roar from an angry Prince just moments ago. It has character." I grumbled, taking a sip of the warm, spiced tea. It was sweet and burnt slightly at the back of my throat, warming my chilled limbs instantly.

"It has mud," Miriel corrected dryly. "And a rip along the shoulder. But we’ll worry about your tragic wardrobe later. Eat. We have seven minutes before the morning horn blows, and if we’re late to our first foundational lecture, I’m sure the professor will turn our bones into chalk."

We ate in silence, shoveling the hot porridge into our mouths while keeping our eyes glued to the stone arches of the hall. The surrounding students kept their distance, whispering behind their hands and casting nervous glances toward Warden Silas, who was still standing near the entrance like an armored statue of menace.

The moment we finished our tea, the horn atop the central watchtower blared through the academy grounds.

"Move! Move! Move!" Bren yelled, leaping off the bench and grabbing her canvas satchel.

We bolted out of the Great Hall, joining a frantic stream of first-years sprinting down the vaulted stone corridors of the Dragon Quadrant’s academic wing.

Heavy leather boots clattered against the polished marble floor as students jostled for space, ducking beneath towering archways carved with the likenesses of ancient drakes.

We rounded a corner, panting heavily, only to skid to a dead halt in front of the huge double doors of Lecture Hall 3B.

The doors were already firmly shut.

Through the tall, frosted transom window above the latch, we could see the instructor already standing at the front of the stepped amphitheater.

"We’re dead," Miriel whispered, clutching her chest. "We are officially dead. First day of lectures and we’re going to be executed for tardiness."

"We are dead along with five other idiots behind us, apparently," Bren said, grabbing the iron door handle.

Five other first-years skidded to a halt behind us, panting for air.

"Is she inside?" one of the boys squeaked, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Tell me Professor Vespera hasn’t started!"