Novel Full Chapter 875: Dorms
Chapter 875: Dorms
The dormitory courtyard came into full view.
It was… ordinary.
Disarmingly so.
Flagstones arranged in a perfect hexagonal pattern, low lanterns humming with stable rune-light, and four grand dormitory spires marking the corners of the sector. Neatly trimmed hedges framed each walkway, and small mana fountains burbled politely in garden squares. The sky above shimmered faintly with the containment dome’s protective magic, casting a warm dusk hue across the scene—synthetic, but soft.
And there—students.
They came in twos and threes, trickling in from carriages that lined the courtyard’s outer ring. Polished wood, etched family crests, silken trim fluttering with each departing figure. Some laughed, still drunk on the lingering sweetness of the banquet wine. Others adjusted their robes, brushing off crumbs or glitter or the weight of whatever political maneuverings had chased them through the ballroom hours before.
Toren’s voice came low as his gaze scanned the crowd. “That’s Lady Veyra from House Elvann.”
“The one you flirted?”
“What are you trying to make me look like? I am no such a man.”
“…..”
Mireilla’s eyes had already caught three others—nobles whose names she’d learned out of necessity, whose eyes had skimmed over hers just long enough to register her as something below their tier but inconveniently present. “Looks like we’re not quite as segregated as they made it sound.”
Elayne’s tone was thoughtful. “No. They’re not keeping the commoners away. Just… grouping us.”
Lucavion didn’t comment. His gaze moved slowly over the arrivals, measuring, remembering. He didn’t need to name them—he already knew which ones had smiled at him too widely. Which had stiffened when he passed.
The nobles took up the southern wing, as expected.
Ornate staircases, vine-grown balconies, even a few floating lanterns that trailed after students with personalized glows. Subtle magics, status symbols disguised as charm.
And the rest—their group included—were directed toward the northeast spire.
Simpler.
Not cold, not neglected. Just… practical. The stonework was clean but unadorned. The doors opened with a whisper of runes rather than a song of heraldry.
A single steward stood near the base of the entryway, her robes plain, her mana signature carefully muted. She gave them a nod and a flick of her fingers. The sigils on the doors responded, glowing briefly to confirm access.
“Room assignments will have been keyed to your names,” she said without ceremony. “Enchanted parchment inside will provide a brief of tomorrow’s schedule. Orientation begins third bell.”
Then she stepped aside.
That was all.
Toven huffed. “Wow. Really rolling out the carpet for us.”
Mireilla grinned faintly. “You expected trumpet fanfare?”
“I expected breakfast.”
“I expect you to snore.”
They crossed the threshold one by one.
Inside, the dormitory hall was quiet. The walls were lined with dim floating lights shaped like half-moons, and the air smelled faintly of sage and sunroot—cleansing spells embedded in the ventilation, no doubt. Their footsteps echoed lightly across polished black stone, and ahead, the hall branched into five routes, each leading deeper into individual quarters.
Their names shimmered briefly above doorways as they passed.
Lucavion stopped at his. It didn’t announce itself—it didn’t need to.
The door recognized him before he touched it.
He lingered for a moment, eyes trailing back down the corridor as the others moved to their rooms.
Behind them, outside, the courtyard continued on. The nobles chatted, their laughter just a little too forced now. The containment dome above flickered once, catching the light of some high-altitude spell that no one seemed to notice.
The Academy settled around them again.
Lucavion stepped into his quarters and shut the door behind him with a soft click. The sound seemed too gentle for the weight it carried—like the last sigh of ceremony before everything returned to silence.
The room was modest, but not unpleasant. Smooth blackstone floors extended beneath faintly glowing lightstrips embedded into the walls. Aether-infused glass allowed a view of the dome-sky outside, catching the soft shimmer of containment spells as the artificial dusk deepened.
His eyes swept the space. A shelf beside the wall—not stocked, but expectant. A desk with a rune-quilled note waiting, probably his schedule. A wardrobe that hummed lightly with preservation charms. And at the center, a plush dark-blue couch far too luxurious for something meant to be ’practical.’
He didn’t hesitate.
Lucavion threw himself onto it sideways, not bothering to undress. The banquet suit—silken, crisp, expensive—folded and creased beneath him as if it had already outlived its purpose.
’And it has. Theatrics are over.’
He lay still, one arm thrown across his forehead, the other trailing off the side as he stared at the ceiling.
The ceiling didn’t stare back. Polished obsidian tile. Reflective enough to catch his outline. Dim enough to keep it blurry.
’This place… it’s not bad. A little too polished to be disdainful. A little too humble to be flattering. Almost like they tried to thread the line between noble disdain and common expectation.’
He shifted slightly, exhaling into the silence.
[You’re going to wrinkle that suit beyond salvage, you know,] Vitaliara’s voice drifted into his mind—dry, unimpressed, and uninvited.
Lucavion didn’t even flinch.
’Let it wrinkle. Let it die.’
He stared at the ceiling a moment longer, fingers twitching faintly against the edge of the couch. ’It served its purpose. One night of idle flattery and staged smiles. No one’s going to hang it in a gallery.’
[It’s silk.] Her tone curled, half scandalized, half chiding. [Mana-threaded, if I’m not mistaken. You let them tailor you into something presentable, then immediately collapse on it like a drunken lordling. I thought you were above such things.]
“I am above it,” he muttered aloud, not bothering to keep the thought silent. “That’s why I’m lying down.”
[Hmph.] She sounded like she might flick her tail in exasperation—if she had one in this disembodied form. [You’re going to sweat into it. Or worse—sleep in it.]
“I’m not sleeping,” Lucavion replied with a sigh. “I’m observing the ceiling.”
[How profound.]
He smirked faintly. ’At least it doesn’t talk back.’
[It might, if it were as concerned as I am about your lack of self-preservation.]
Now that earned a real snort from him.
“I survived a blood cult, three assassination attempts, and Aldric’s spear. I think I’ll live through a poorly chosen nap.”
[You’re overplaying the “blood cult” part, you know,] Vitaliara drawled in his mind, the word blood dragged out like she was mimicking a cheap stage play. [They were a bunch of random bandits with delusions and matching robes.]
Lucavion let his head roll slightly to the side, cheek pressing into the couch cushion. “And here I was, thinking the stabbing felt very organized.”
[Well, I didn’t say they weren’t dangerous,] she admitted with that usual blend of reluctant honesty and pointed sass. [But you made it seem like they were something… grander. Some ancient threat. Rituals, prophecy, dark altars and fate. Instead, it was just a half-starved priest with a blood fixation and a basement full of rats.]
He closed his eyes, smile faint and unapologetic.
“I never said any of that. I described the knife. You’re the one who embroidered the prophecy.”
[Embroidered—?!] She sounded appalled. [You called them cultists of the fallen moon.]
“Which was what they called themselves,” Lucavion countered, voice light. “I didn’t add the dramatic echo.”
[You had lightning behind you when you said it.]
“That was atmospheric coincidence.”
[It was raining indoors.]
He chuckled, a low sound that rumbled softly from his chest. “Oh no. I used weather to enhance my credibility. What a scandal.”
[Don’t be smug.]
“I am smug.”
[Yes, and I keep hoping one day you’ll evolve into something more… emotionally honest.]
Lucavion opened one eye and looked at the ceiling again.
“I’ll add it to the list. Right after stopping being insufferable.”