Toil Vash's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Toil woke before dawn and forced himself to walk the paths between buildings. He needed to learn where things were. He needed to look like he belonged. Students passed him in clusters, already talking about assignments and partners. He kept his head down and his steps quick. By midday he found the meal tent — a large structure with silver and blue curtains that opened onto rows of food tables. He waited until the crowd thinned before stepping inside. A scroll hung near the entrance, names written in careful script. Student Registry. His eyes found his own name before he could stop himself. Toil Vash, son of Corren Vash. The full name. The one that mattered. He turned away and filled a plate with bread and cheese, then carried it outside to a stone table and bench set away from the tent. He sat with his back to the crowd and ate quickly. But a voice carried from the tent behind him. "Vash — I knew I recognized that name." A woman's voice, bright with certainty. "Corren Vash. The sorcerer who burned the eastern villages. My uncle lived there before the fires." Toil's hands went still. He didn't turn around. "Gods, they let his son enroll here?" Another voice joined in, lower, uncertain. "Are you sure?" "It's right there on the registry. Toil Vash. Has to be him — how many Vashes are there?" Toil set down his bread. His chest felt tight. He should leave. He should stand up and walk away before anyone looked. But his legs wouldn't move. The first voice rose again. "Someone should tell the instructors. What if his magic is like his father's? What if he's dangerous?" Footsteps approached the table. Toil pulled his hood forward and forced himself to stand. He walked quickly toward the nearest building, leaving his plate behind. He made it to an empty hallway before his hands started shaking. He pressed them against the stone wall and focused on breathing. They knew. They would tell others. By tomorrow everyone would know his father's name and what it meant. He had wanted to prove himself first — to show them he was different before they learned who he was. But now the choice was gone. He couldn't undo what had been said. He couldn't make them forget. He stood in the hallway until his breathing slowed, then walked back outside. If they were going to talk, he couldn't hide from it. He would have to show them he was here to stay. He would have to prove them wrong with action, not words. The decision settled in his chest like a stone — heavy, but solid. Tomorrow he would sign up for his first assignment. Tomorrow he would start.