The moment Professor Lysandra gave the instruction, the room shifted—not in sound, but in stillness.
"Write what comes to your mind about this classroom," she had said. "Let the ink carry your unfiltered thoughts. Don't think—feel."
Dozens of quills dipped into inkwells and then pressed onto parchment. The room became a symphony of scratchings and soft sighs, broken only by the occasional shuffle or furrowed brow.
Ethan Verne sat near the third row, his feet barely reaching the marble floor, fingers curled tightly around his quill. At first, he hesitated.
What do I write?
Then, something opened.
Not just a thought—but a flood.
He looked up—at the tall arched windows spilling sunlight like golden rivers, at the ancient oak beams that smelled of old parchment and wood smoke, at the thick velvet drapes and the shelves crammed with books, their spines gleaming like treasure.
But more than that, he felt something.
The classroom wasn't just a room. It was a cathedral of ideas. A sanctum of silent voices, of unread dreams.
His hand moved.
"The classroom breathes like a creature. It holds its breath when we enter, exhales when we sit. Every scratch of quill is a heartbeat, every flickering candle a whisper of the stories yearning to be born. The desk beneath my fingers feels older than time. I wonder what words it remembers…"
The words flowed.
And flowed.
Others scribbled for a few minutes, then leaned back in their chairs with satisfied smiles. A few whispered, wondering if they'd written enough.
Some were proud. Others, unsure.
One by one, they walked to the front of the class and placed their pages on Professor Lysandra's desk.
All except Ethan.
He didn't look up. Didn't stop.
His page filled, then another.
Then another.
He didn't hear the chatter, didn't notice Lady Anvery glance at him from her seat or the puzzled look from Fenric Elowen, who whispered, "What's the brat doing now?"
Ethan was elsewhere.
In his mind, the classroom had transformed. It had become a living, breathing story.
He imagined the wooden beams as trees of knowledge, their roots sunk deep into history.
He saw the windows as gates between imagination and truth.
He felt the weight of time, of voices never heard, stories never told.
"This classroom is a ship, sailing through pages. Its anchor is tradition, but its sail is curiosity. The professor is not its captain, but its compass, guiding us toward lands made of metaphor…"
His hand ached. His back burned.
Still, he wrote.
Until—
"Ethan Verne."
A soft voice. Gentle, but commanding.
He didn't respond at first. His hand kept moving, ink flowing like blood.
A hand touched his shoulder.
"That's enough," Professor Lysandra said, kneeling beside him. "You can stop now."
Ethan's eyes blinked, confused. His fingers trembled as they released the quill. Ink had splattered across his cuff and cheek. He looked down. A full nine pages sat in front of him—each line etched with feverish care.
The room was watching.
"Did I write too much?" he asked, voice quiet, uncertain.
The professor smiled—not mockingly, but like someone who had just discovered something rare.
"No," she said. "You wrote exactly what needed to be written."
She picked up the top few pages, skimming them. Her brows lifted slightly. Her lips parted as if to speak, then closed again. A moment of silence passed.
And then, she looked at him—not as a teacher looking at a student, but as a writer looking at another writer.
"You forgot about the assignment, didn't you?" she asked.
He nodded slowly. "I… I didn't mean to. I just—once I started, it was like… the room started speaking to me. And I couldn't stop."
Professor Lysandra straightened, turning to the class.
"Take note, all of you," she said, her voice carrying across the room. "This is not merely writing. This is immersion. When words come from the soul, the world listens."
A hush fell over the class.
Lady Anvery looked both amused and intrigued. Fenric scowled but said nothing. A few students even clapped quietly.
But Ethan wasn't basking in praise.
He stared at the ink drying on his fingertips.
He had forgotten to stop.
And it felt… wonderful.
The bell rang with a melodic chime, signaling the end of their short midday break.
The students filed back into the classroom—some chatting about lunch, others nervously murmuring about the results of their earlier writing exercise. The sunlight had shifted in the sky, now casting long shadows across the polished floors of Class IV's grand chamber.
Ethan walked in quietly, a bundle of nerves tucked beneath his calm expression. Despite the praise he'd received earlier, he wasn't sure what to expect now. His seat felt colder, heavier. The moment felt too still, like the air itself was waiting.
Professor Lysandra entered moments later, her robes trailing like a page unwritten. Her presence silenced the murmurs at once.
She walked to the front, placed a small stack of parchment on the lectern, and looked up.
"I've read all your pieces," she said, her voice crisp, yet fair. "Some of you impressed me. Others… disappointed. But even in failure, there is value. Mistakes are teachers too."
She began calling names.
Each student received feedback—detailed, pointed, and sometimes surprisingly blunt.
"Lady Sienna, vivid description but a lack of emotional depth. Words should not only show the world, they must let us feel it."
"Fenric Elowen, your structure was solid, but your metaphor usage was… excessive. This is not a poetry duel."
Chuckles rippled quietly. Fenric didn't laugh.
One by one, the students received critique, praise, or correction.
Until finally—
"Ethan Verne."
The room fell still.
Professor Lysandra stepped out from behind her desk, holding Ethan's pages.
"When I asked you to write freely, I expected creativity. I did not expect a meditation on the nature of space, memory, and the soul of a room."
Ethan shifted in his seat, suddenly aware of every eye on him.
"Ethan did not simply write about the classroom. He listened to it. He turned stillness into story, observation into metaphor, and curiosity into narrative."
She looked directly at him.
"You didn't just complete the assignment. You transcended it."
Gasps murmured across the room. Some students looked impressed. Others wore pinched, unhappy expressions.
And then, with little fanfare but weight in every word, she said:
"As of this moment, Ethan Verne is the Class IV Representative."
Silence.
Then—
"What?!" Fenric barked, rising from his seat.
"He's eight! This is absurd. There are students here who've studied literature for over a decade!"
The professor raised a single hand. Her eyes were calm, but steel.
"And none of them wrote with half the insight this child did. Talent does not measure age, Master Elowen."
Fenric sat down, face red and lips pressed thin.
Lady Anvery, seated two rows over, offered Ethan a soft smile—genuine, proud. A few other nobles nodded slightly in approval. But several looked away, their expressions unreadable.
Ethan himself was frozen.
"I… I don't know if I can—"
"You don't have to know," the professor said. "You only need to keep writing. That will be your guide."
She returned to her lectern and rolled up the scroll of names.
"Class is dismissed for today."
The students began filing out again. Whispers followed Ethan like shadows:
"Did you hear? The commoner boy—Class Rep?"
"Insane…"
"Still, that writing…"
He didn't care. Not much. Not now.
He glanced at his ink-stained fingertips.
He was the youngest student in academy history. Now, the youngest class representative.
The first day at the Royal Literature Academy had ended.
And already, Ethan's story was being written in bold, invisible ink—one line at a time.