Toil Vash stood at the edge of the university grounds, watching students stream toward the great hall. He had traveled for weeks to get here. He had pictured this moment a thousand times — walking through those doors, becoming the kind of person who could undo what his father had done. But now his feet wouldn't move. The great hall rose before him like a castle from a storybook. White limestone walls climbed toward battlemented towers. Silver and blue banners snapped in the wind. Through the enormous windows he could see chandeliers already lit, waiting. This was where heroes were made. This was where he was supposed to start becoming one. The sword at his hip — silver with purple gems in the hilt — felt heavier with each breath. He'd bought it with the last of his savings to prove he belonged here. Now it just reminded him how badly he wanted to run. He turned away from the crowd and found a courtyard behind the hall. A willow tree hung over pale stone planters filled with white roses and blue irises. The parterre was empty. No one to watch him. No one to see his hands shaking. He sat on the low stone border and pressed his palms against his knees. The ceremony would start soon. Voices echoed from the hall — bright, confident, unafraid. He could slip inside once everyone was seated. He could stand in the back where the shadows were thickest. But even thinking about it made his chest tight. A bell rang from somewhere inside the hall. Three long chimes. The voices grew louder, then faded as the doors closed. Toil stayed under the willow tree, watching the petals on the roses tremble in the breeze. He had made it to the university. That was something. That was more than his father ever thought he could do. Tomorrow he would try the doors. Tomorrow he would be ready. He pulled his robe tighter and told himself that starting tomorrow still counted as starting.

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.

Toil walked toward the assignment board the next morning with his shoulders pulled in tight. The board stood in an alcove between two buildings, a wide panel covered in parchment notices. Students crowded around it, calling out names and forming groups. He stopped at the edge of the crowd and waited. A parchment poster hung beside the board — a family of bards, brightly illustrated, announcing performances in the grand auditorium that evening. More students pushed into the alcove to read it, their voices rising with excitement. Toil tried to step back but the crowd pressed closer. Someone's elbow caught his shoulder. He flinched and pulled his arms in. The voices grew louder — someone laughed, someone else shouted a name across the crowd. His chest tightened. He needed to sign his name on one of the assignment notices. He needed to prove he belonged here. But the crowd kept pushing, and he couldn't move forward without touching someone, couldn't reach the board without being seen. Then a voice cut through the noise behind him. "That's him — the one from the registry." Toil's breath stopped. He didn't turn around. "Are you sure?" another voice asked. "Look at the robe. Look at the way he stands. That's Vash." The crowd shifted. Students turned to stare. Toil's hands started shaking. He pressed them against his sides but the shaking spread up his arms. His magic stirred beneath his skin — a cold, twisting pressure that always came when people watched. He tried to breathe slowly, tried to keep it inside, but the stares kept coming. Someone whispered his father's name. The pressure built until it cracked. Shadow poured from his hands in a dark spiral, twisting upward like smoke. It moved the way his father's magic moved — fluid and deliberate, hungry. Students stumbled back with shouts of alarm. The shadow spread across the alcove wall, curling into shapes that looked almost alive. Toil clenched his fists and the magic pulled back into him, leaving only a faint stain on the stone. The crowd had gone silent. Everyone stared. No one spoke. Toil turned and walked away quickly, his heart pounding so hard it hurt. He had wanted to prove himself with an assignment. Instead he had proven exactly what they feared. The corridor behind him stayed quiet, but he knew what they were thinking. He had seen it in their faces — the same look his father must have seen a hundred times before he stopped caring what anyone thought.