The dorm room was smaller than he expected—narrow stone walls, a crooked window barely sealed against the wind, and a bed that creaked when he dropped his pack onto it. A thin layer of dust still coated the shelves. Nagara waved it off with a flicker of frost, watching the specks settle like old memories.
He began unpacking slowly, methodically. Each item he pulled out—a folded tunic marked with the Veldorys crest, a steel brush carved with mother-of-pearl, a bound leather journal given by Redris—felt like a relic from another life. A life not so long ago… yet already impossibly distant.
His fingers stilled over a small wooden figure: Luthien's carving of a falcon, painted in silver and blue.
His throat tightened.
Asiah…
He had been a prince. Not in name only, but in command, in comfort, in certainty. His every day in the Kingdom of Asiah was dictated by order and admiration. Servants bowed. Nobles listened. Lanara would sneak him books of forbidden myths and smirk when he read them aloud like gospel.
Luthien, with his cold wit and fierce devotion, stood always at his side in court, in counsel, in dreams.
Here? He was nothing. Less than nothing.
The frost-crowned boy in the lowest house. Surrounded by peeling walls, watchful eyes, and a world that did not care who he once was.
I left to gain power… yet I begin lower than I ever imagined.
His hands clenched.
The silence of the room pressed against him like stone. Even the wind had stopped hissing.
For one breath, he almost stayed. Let the others eat. Let them whisper. Let the cold swallow the night.
But then—quietly—he stood.
He placed the falcon gently on the shelf, smoothed his cloak, and stepped out of the room.
It wasn't a throne. But it was a beginning.
...
The common room of House Mennefer was dim but alive—softly lit by floating lanterns that buzzed with old enchantments and spells barely holding together. The couches sagged, and the windows rattled in their frames, but the air was filled with voices, clinks of cutlery, and the smell of spiced stew.
Nagara stood for a moment at the edge of it, observing. It was chaos in a kind of rhythm.
There were gloomy types—students hunched in corners, eyes barely lifting from books or mugs of tea, who glanced at him with either disdain or quiet judgment. One tall boy with half his face hidden behind a scarf muttered something under his breath, clearly unimpressed.
Others were far more welcoming.
"Wow," a voice chirped. "You're really pretty. Like—actual prince pretty."
Nagara turned to see a girl with ginger hair and wide hazel eyes blinking up at him. Her cheeks turned rose-red when he met her gaze.
"I'm—um—Annel," she said quickly, nearly dropping her bowl. "Hi."
A few of her friends giggled, whispering not-so-quietly behind her. One of them nudged the other and said, "Told you we'd get a drama prince eventually."
Nagara said nothing, unsure how to respond. No bowing. No titles. Just laughter and glances.
A few students muttered among themselves, clearly skeptical of his presence. One said, "Another elite thrown down to Mennefer. Let's see how long he lasts." Others just minded their own business, heads down in their food, books, or magical devices. They didn't care who he was.
Rania, lounging gracefully with her legs crossed on a battered armchair, a golden tea set floating beside her. She flipped through a heavy novel with such complete disinterest that it was almost an art. She did not speak to anyone, not even acknowledging Annel's sudden excitement. The only student she gave any attention to was—
Azlin.
The shoulder-length green-haired boy moved through the room with ease, speaking to several students, refilling empty pitchers. Every time someone had a question, they turned to him. He smiled softly, answered kindly, and kept the room together without needing to raise his voice.
"Ah, Nagara," Azlin said, catching sight of him. "Come on, there's space here."
He guided him toward the table near the hearth. It wasn't royalty, but the warmth was real.
"You'll get used to them," Azlin said as he handed over a bowl. "They're strange. But they're ours."
Nagara hesitated, then took the food.
His gaze flicked once toward the laughing table, then the judging corner, then to Rania—who still hadn't looked up.
And then, with quiet resolve, he sat.
For the first time in his life, no one bowed, no one addressed him as 'Highness.' But someone saved him a seat. Someone welcomed him.
And somewhere in that crooked, fading hall of oddities and castaways, the Fallen Prince took his first breath of something dangerously close to belonging.