Chapter 18: Elves

I stopped dead.

My eyes locked onto the professor with an intensity I couldn’t hide.

He wasn’t the same person. That much was obvious within seconds. The man who had slit my throat had been pale with features sharp enough to cut glass. This one was different. His skin was a deep olive-brown, and his hair was raven-black. He still had those long ears, but they were not the same.

Earrings. One in each ear. Small silver hoops.

His build was leaner than a human’s would be at his height.

Not the same person. Not even close.

But the ears. The proportions. The way the bones of his face were arranged. It didn’t look human.

I didn’t need to ask what he was. The crowd around me was already doing the work.

“Elf?” someone whispered, the word barely a breath.

The man beside her hissed sharply. “Shut your damn mouth. That’s Academy robes. Can’t be an elf.”

A third voice, lower and meaner, muttered a single word.

“Half-blood.”

The professor, if he heard any of it, gave no sign. He strode through the forge quarter with the easy of a man accustomed to rooms going quiet when he entered them.

Behind him, a cluster of students followed in tight formation. They wore Academy uniforms I hadn’t seen before, cut differently from mine. Their faces were hard in a way that first-year students’ faces weren’t.

The professor reached the nearest active forge and stopped.

Every smith within earshot turned toward him. The hammers stopped mid-stroke. Even the fire mages paused their channeling, letting the coals dim by a fraction as their attention shifted.

I had watched people try to get service at these forges for the past hour. Begging, shouting over each other, waving silver in the air. The smiths had barely acknowledged them.

For this man, they stopped everything.

Whether it was the Academy robes, the pointed ears, or simply his presence, I couldn’t tell.

Maybe all three.

“A staff,” the professor said. His voice was measured and calm, carrying easily over the residual noise of the quarter. “Cast Acceleration runic framework. Fifth Circle capacity.”

Fifth Circle.

The words sent a visible ripple through the smiths. One of them, a heavyset man with a long beard, stepped forward and wiped his hands on his apron.

“Professor Molino,” the smith said, and there was a deference in his voice I hadn’t heard him use with anyone else all day. “Good to see you again.”

“And you.” Molino inclined his head. A minimal gesture, precisely calibrated. “I need this completed today. I understand it’s hard, but the circumstances require it.”

The smith’s brow furrowed. “Today is tight for that level of work. What’s the rush?”

Molino’s expression didn’t change, but something in the air around him shifted.

“We’ve received intelligence,” he said. “Elven forces are massing along the southern front. Preparing for a push. The Academy is dispatching reinforcements ahead of schedule.”

The word elven landed in the crowd, making it restless. Heads turned. Whispers surged.

The smith’s eyes flicked toward the students standing behind Molino. His face tightened.

“Students?” he asked. “You’re sending students to the front?”

“Fourth-years,” Molino said. “All of them. They’re capable.”

“They need battlefield experience. Real experience. Not the sanitized version the capital feeds them alongside their morning pastries. If they keep believing life is the fairy tale the politicians sell, they’ll die the first time something real looks at them.”

The smith’s discomfort was visible, etched in the deep lines of his face and the way his hands gripped the edge of his apron.

But he nodded.

“Late afternoon,” he said. “Best I can do.”

“That will suffice,” Molino said. “Thank you.”

The smith turned back toward his forge, shoulders set with the grim resolve.

My mind was still stuck three sentences behind.

Elves.

We’re fighting elves?

The thought bounced around inside my skull, colliding with every fantasy story, every half-remembered book and film from my old life. Elves were supposed to be the wise ones.

They weren’t supposed to be the enemy.

They weren’t supposed to be at war with humanity.

The question was supposed to stay in my head.

It didn’t.

“Aren’t elves supposed to be the good guys?”

The words left my mouth before my brain could slam the gate shut.

The forge quarter went silent.

Every head within ten meters turned toward me. Hammers hung frozen. Conversations severed mid-word.

Someone snorted.

“This kid is fucking insane,” a smith near the back muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

A man closer to me spat sideways onto the packed dirt. “These capital nobles don’t even know about the war? That’s crazy. Can’t be.”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Disbelieving laughter. The kind directed at someone who has revealed themselves to be too stupid or too sheltered to deserve the air they breathe.

The worst part wasn’t the crowd.

It was the professor.

Molino’s gaze found me.

His dark eyes moved over my face, my white hair, my Academy insignia, and I watched recognition dawn behind them.

“Kaspar,” he said. “I expected more from you. But it seems that being from a powerful family has led you to lose your way entirely.”

The students behind him shifted. I could feel their gazes landing on me, one by one, like darts thudding into a board. Contempt gathered in their expressions.

I didn’t know this man. I had no memory of Professor Molino. No shared history, no previous conversations to draw upon.

But he knew me.

He knew my name and my house and whatever reputation had preceded me.

I had no defense.

Anything I said would sound like an excuse.

So I held his gaze.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t look away.

Molino studied me for a moment longer. Whatever he was looking for, he either found it or gave up.

He turned away.

The tension didn’t break. It lingered as the crowd’s attention remained fixed on me, their expressions ranging from pity to amusement to disdain.

As they kept their attention on me, a new voice cut through from the entrance.

“The carriages are ready.”

A young woman stepped through the forge quarter’s archway.

She was perhaps my age, give or take a year. Her hair was mix of orange and red, short and practical. Her frame was compact but walked with confidence. She wore the Academy uniform, same cut as the fourth-years, but something about her bearing separated her from the group.

Her eyes found Molino immediately.

“Professor, you can go ahead with the main group,” she said. “Once the equipment’s finished, I’ll bring it along.”

“Thank you, Drez,” Molino said. A nod, brief and approving. “I’ll leave it in your hands.”

He departed without another glance in my direction. The cluster of fourth-year students followed him.

The girl remained.

She stood near the entrance with her arms folded, watching the smiths return to their work. She hadn’t looked at me. Hadn’t acknowledged my existence at all.

But I was looking at her.

Specifically, at the insignia pinned to her collar.

It was the same design as mine. The same Academy crest.

Except mine was black.