CHAPTER 110: THICK AS THIEVES

Noah made his way through the academy’s sprawling courtyards, a soft, satisfied smile on his face.

Students’ eyes followed him, their whispers following after him, but he ignored them. All he focused on was heading to his destination, the cafeteria.

He crossed through the main entrance and moved towards the section reserved for Gold-tier students. A guard rune shimmered faintly in the air as he passed through the barrier, pinging his new nameplate and acknowledging his new status.

The atmosphere inside was instantly different. The noise was subdued, refined, nothing like the loud clamor of the rest of the building.

The tables were polished wood, chandeliers hung overhead, and the air was fragrant with spices from the food stations.

The food itself was a world apart. Rows of dishes, steaming and perfectly arranged, lined the counters.

Roast meats, glazed vegetables, baskets of soft bread, and trays of sweet cakes gleamed invitingly under soft enchantment lights.

The aromas hit Noah all at once, smelling rich, making his stomach growl despite himself.

Gold-tier privilege was written into every detail. The plates, the cups, and even the silverware.

He moved slowly through the selections, taking what he liked. A portion of roasted lamb, steaming potatoes, a ladle of thick soup, and a slice of honey-drizzled bread. He stacked his tray higher with fruits, then turned to find a seat.

Unlike in Stone-tier, here no one controlled how much food he carried. It didn’t matter. In Gold-tier, one could eat as many times as they wanted, and no one would dare complain.

He sat at an empty table near the window, setting his tray down. As he ate, the taste of real seasoning and richness exploded across his tongue, but he hardly cared for the pleasure of it.

Food was fuel. Still, he didn’t miss the irony of being offered a feast by the same academy that had left him to rot in chains just weeks ago.

His eyes drifted up, and froze. Across the room, sitting at a table with a group of laughing Gold-tier students, was Arlo.

The familiar white hair, the blindfold that hid his eyes. Even from here, Noah could feel Arlo’s attention on him, as if that blindfold did nothing to blunt his gaze.

Noah stared back for a few seconds, expression blank, his shadows whispering at the edges of his mind. Then he turned back to his food, biting into the bread with all the calm he could muster.

His racial trait hid his entire status now, so Arlo would see nothing, not even a glimmer of what Noah had become. Whatever Arlo thought he knew about him, it didn’t matter.

Still, the sight stirred something inside him. Memories of betrayal, chains, and isolation licked like fire in his veins. He crushed it quickly, forcing it down into the cold pit where he kept his hate stored. Not yet.

As he chewed, his eyes flicked around the room. That was when he saw them. Leo Hargreaves and Galahad Lawless.

The two sat together at another table, their laughter carrying lightly across the space.

Galahad’s posture was easy, confident, while Leo leaned in, speaking animatedly. They were close now, friends, it seemed.

Noah’s grip on his fork tightened until his knuckles whitened. Hate flared within him, but he strangled it, crushing it back into silence.

Before, they had despised each other, snapping like dogs at every chance. But now? After Cal and Bronn had died? After they had abandoned them in that cursed monolith? They had the audacity to sit together and laugh, covering their treachery with camaraderie.

Judging by their expressions, they had hidden it well. To the world, it was as if nothing had happened. As if Cal and Bronn had never lived, never fought, never died screaming in the dark.

Noah lowered his gaze back to his tray, chewing slowly. His shadows rippled, hissing promises in his mind. Retribution. He didn’t need to announce it. He would show it all to the world when the time came.

He finished his food without hurry, cleaning the tray with the efficiency of someone who had once counted every coin and every scrap.

When he was done, he pushed back his chair and rose, his satchel slung over his shoulder. The cafeteria’s refined atmosphere faded behind him as he stepped out into the morning air.

His destination lay in the western wing of the academy. The Enchantment Department.

The walk took him across stone bridges and courtyards where other Gold-tier students trained or lounged before classes.

He ignored their glances, moving confidently until the white towers of the department came into view. He entered the building and found his way to the classroom.

He took a seat towards the back, pulling his quill, ink, and parchment from his satchel. As he settled in, he glanced around.

Gold-tier was different. The seats filled one by one until nearly every place was occupied, yet the number was shockingly small compared to what he had known in Stone-tier. Less than thirty. Thirty of the best, handpicked by potential and privilege.

Everyone was here, except for Ben Stanley.

Noah smirked faintly at the thought. The boy who once strutted about with arrogance had likely lost his nerve.

He waited in silence, the scratch of quills and the shuffle of robes filling the air. Then, with the punctuality of a hammer striking iron, the door opened.

Professor Halric entered. The old man’s expression was as sour as Noah remembered, his eyes unimpressed.

He wasted no time on greetings. With his hands clasped behind his back, he strode to the board and began the lesson at once, chalk scraping harshly as runes and diagrams filled the surface.

Noah bent over his parchment, trying to keep up, but within minutes he knew he was lost.

His quill slowed, his notes growing fragmented. He had missed too much. Three months of foundation, of groundwork that Halric was building on now.

Every rune on the board blurred into confusion.

He exhaled, his expression calm even as frustration stirred within him.

If he had any hope of understanding enchantments, he would need more than classes. He would need long nights, private study, and patience.

For now, he wrote what he could, shadows whispering faintly at the edges of his mind.