By the seventh day, the fatigue stopped hiding.
Noel sat in his usual spot near the back of the lecture hall, elbows resting on the desk, shoulders just a bit too low. The air in the room was stale with early morning heat, mana residue, and the muffled rustle of pages turning.
His eyes stayed open, but only just.
The lecture—spell layering in dual-element constructs—should've been familiar by now. Easy, even. But the moment he tried to copy the sigil diagram on his parchment, his fingers faltered. The line veered slightly. His hand paused mid-stroke.
He blinked.
His focus returned a second too late.
On the board, Professor Daemar raised an eyebrow and glanced in his direction—but didn't say anything. Noel adjusted his posture, rewrote the line cleanly, and pretended nothing had happened.
A few seats away, someone coughed.
From across the hall, a pair of cool gray eyes never left him.
