The spell practice room smells like chalk dust and singed air. One careless arc of a classmate's wand, and the cut opens across your forearm - shallow, nothing. Except it seals in under two seconds. No blood left. No mark. The room doesn't go quiet so much as it holds its breath. Three pairs of eyes lock onto your arm: Thessaly's wide with hunger, not fear. Peregrin's narrowed, like a puzzle piece finally clicking into place. And Aldric, standing at the back wall, who has not moved, has not spoken, and is no longer looking at you like a student. You have survived kingdoms collapsing. You have outlasted gods. You forged papers, memorized slang, practiced slouching. And a first-year's misfired hex just unraveled centuries of careful hiding.