Chapter Text
Chaghan
Sinegard was exactly what Chaghan expected when he had learned that the school had been previously occupied from monks and turned into a military academy. It was graceful but cold, harsh but somewhat comforting, and as of now, as he and his sister stood at the very back of the main hall that held every single student and master, he wondered why they had not been sent here earlier.
They had not changed their clothes since they had left the Hinterlands, but he knew it would not matter, they had already received their uniforms and armbands: a green one for him, and a purple for Qara. He thought it was standard sex segregation, but when he saw the masters standing in front of them, with their backs against both, he realized that they accounted for the courses that the students belonged too. Chaghan was Strategy, Qara, his sister, was Weaponry.
Every other student was sitting on the floor, with the first year being front and center, anxiously moving like baby kittens, though obviously trying not to shake their heads off in nervousness. Chaghan was glad he was standing, that way he could fake his curiosity by already examining the students. The bad luck for him was that they were examining him too. Though they were standing at the very end of the hall, with half of the masters covering them, they were still visible, and the furs and skins they wore made them no less noticeable. He felt his sister’s nervousness, she had been terrified at the prospect of being part of a Nikaran institution, instead of simply jumping straight to being part of the Cike when they turned twenty, but the elders in their tribes had insisted, and the Empress was so delighted in the possibility of having “Shaman detectors” (as Qara had called it) in her most prized institution.
The older students, the ones that sat near the walls of the main hall, had their eyes fixed on them both. Chaghan had no intention of paying attention to the headmaster and her instructions, he had already met her, and so he did what he did best: spook the people around him with his gaze. He knew there was a Speerly here, he could feel it and he had been told about it, but in the immensity of the body of students he could not discern where they were. Qara had sworn that one of his eagles had seen the Speerly already, but mascots were not permitted in the institution, and thus the information had been lost, for now. After some time, his eyes fixated on the first-year students, and there he sensed it: the speerly, a girl no older than sixteen, with her dark skin and dark hair, and a string that connected all shamans, and possible shamans, in the world. Chaghan could sense a certain nervousness to her, but from what he could see, she was unamused, her eyes focused on something else, a master on the far end of the line whose clothes were trashed, and who Chaghan had not met.
“Is that her?” Qara had noticed it too, her voice a whisper.
“I am not sure,” he answered, confused about the state of her eyes.
But then, just as the headmaster dismissed the students, another something tugged at his soul, another shaman, another first-year. He was a boy with pearly white skin, not as pale as Chaghan, but close. His hair was long, beautiful, and black, his nose sharp and his eyes angry, with one of his eyes near closed, red, but not the pupil. He was fuming, he was strong and Chaghan could tell, in that moment, that he was full of regret. Two shamans?
“There’s another one,” he said to his sister, who followed his sight of line and met who Chaghan was talking about.
“Are you sure?”
“I believe so,” the boy’s clothes were expensive, blue and white, from an important house, “but I don’t feel a connection either, he resents it.”
Qara was about to say something when the students standing up in unison pulled them both out of their conversation. The poor excuse for a welcome ceremony had ended, and now it meant they would have to mingle with the students, the act was up. Previously, on their small meeting with the headmaster, they had been assigned to become students on their third year, an awkward beginning for them, but they both had passed the exams, and their knowledge regarding the courses was good, stable, it would be a waste to hold them back and have them start from scratch.
One of the teachers turned around, master Irjah, and he signaled for both Chaghan and Qara to follow the third line of students that waited anxiously to get out of the main hall: third years, Chaghan wondered.
“I guess it begins,” said his sister.
“I guess it does.”
And thus, they picked their bags up and moved towards their classmates.
Altan
He had noticed them, of course he had, everyone had. He could hear the whispers coming from his classmates while they walked towards their dormitories, they had been assigned to the second floor, and a part of Altan wished that he could dive onto the gossip, but he talked to no one, and so near no one talked to him. He could do nothing but listen, faking indifference to the new students that had suddenly appeared at the end of the main hall.
“Do you think they’re Nikaran?” said one of his classmates, Yun, Altan thought was his name. And the answer to that question Altan also hoped to know.
From what he had observed, the dark-haired girl was thin, her heavy clothes not lending much information, and her eyes were large, dark just like her hair, which was picked up in two braids, and her mouth had always stayed on a thin line, contemplating the students. The boy on her side, however, formed an image so striking it made Altan wonder if Jiang, his Lore master, had brought his son to the school. He was a little bit taller than the girl, but the similarities stopped there, his hair was an impossible white color, the same as his skin which appeared almost translucent, and the most intriguing part about him was the fact that Altan did not know if he had pupils, or if his eyes were truly, fully white. He was a ghost.
“Maybe they’re new masters?” asked another student, his question causing a few laughs as they descended through the stone pathway towards the first tier of Sinegard.
“We don’t have more classes,” answered their only female classmate, Lien.
Who were they, anyway? As they reached the dormitories, Altan wondered if they were a special occasion, maybe two government officials who looked extremely young, maybe something else. Shamans, the Phoenix whispered, and Altan near tried to cover his ears, but he was in public, and he was not a kid anymore. He had not meditated for a week now, and though the Phoenix was relatively always under control, he would sometimes feel it call to him, urging him to break free of his Nikaran normalcy. You’re more than this, it would say sometimes, and Altan was afraid of believing it.
Either by sheer luck, or just because he was distracted, he entered the new dormitory first, or so he thought, because in the last row of beds, in the one that sat far right, was the pale boy he had seen earlier. He almost froze, almost, but one of his classmates accidentally pushed him, and so he kept moving towards the bed next to the unknown boy. He had his back against everyone, but Altan could tell that he had already heard them arrive, and carefully, while he pulled some Sinegard uniforms out of worn leather bag, the boy turned around. Everyone froze.
He was magnetic. His pale skin seemed even paler up close, and his white hair was longer than any boy present, it touched his shoulders, outlining his face and making it appear sharper than it probably was. His factions were slender and long, his lips were thin and set in a straight line, but the most astounding thing about him were his eyes: they were completely white, and uncomfortable. Altan had been staring for a long time, longer than he was accustomed to, and he could bet every other boy in the room was too. The expression on the new boy’s face made it clear.
“Chaghan Suren,” he said instead, his eyes now fixated on Altan. Was he supposed to answer?
But before he could, as if a spell had been broken, everyone around Altan surrounded the boy, Chaghan.
“How old are you?”
“Are you a new student?”
“How did you get in?
“Where are you from?”
The more they asked, the closer they got, as if they were fighting for the best place in a festival, the more Chaghan’s face broke into a concoction of confusion. He appeared scared at first, but then it turned into curiosity, and now it was the closest thing to fear. Should he say something?
“I’m from the Hinterlands,” he answered instead, causing the group to erupt in a chorus of “Ooh’s” that made them looked like kids, instead of soldiers. Altan was unmoved, he kept his place on the bed near the boy, but he was surprised too. What was a Hinterlander doing on Sinegard? And more than that, why was he not a first-year student? Altan had never heard of a transfer from the Hinterlands, or from anywhere for that matter, Sinegard was selective like that.
“And you pledged Strategy?” a student asked, for a moment Altan freaked out by the assumption, but then he looked at the green armband that laid near Chaghan’s uniforms, and he wondered if that was even possible.
“How did you do it?” asked another student.
“I… took an exam,” answered Chaghan, but more than an answer, it came out like a question. He was lost, Altan realized, maybe it was his first day in Sinegard, maybe even in all of Nikan. The boy looked at Altan, his sharp eyes made him somewhat squeamish, and it appeared as if he was examining him, realizing something about Altan that Altan himself did not know. He was not sure if he liked it.
“A genius, then,” said a classmate.
“Altan Trengsin,” said Altan out of the blue. The room fell quiet, and the pale boy in front of him curved his lips in a sly smile.
At his untimely introduction, everyone backed away, suddenly conscious of his presence. He was accustomed to it, no one had really tried to be his friend since his first day at Sinegard, and his reserved personality did not help his case either, so his answer to Chaghan was, as expected, an uncomfortable surprise to his classmates that reminded them that they should be choosing a new bed.
Soon enough, they were left alone, and the look on Chaghan’s face let Altan know that he was thankful for it. Were they similar, by any chance?, he dared wonder, and once Chaghan’s smile died down, Altan hoped they were.
“Thank you, Altan” he had not noticed it, but Chaghan barely had any accent. If not for his factions, he could pass for a native Nikaran.
A silence reigned between them, and Altan remembered that he was supposed to answer back, “They can be like that,” he almost killed himself for such an answer. Was that all he could do? Had he been that mentally struck?
Thankfully for him, Chaghan only nodded, and his eyes focused back on the clothes he was supposed to wear from now on, leaving Altan curious about why the loss of their eye contact had affected him so. He could ask Jiang for more information regarding the new student later, that is if he was not evasive enough to give him a straight answer.
Altan pulled out his remaining uniforms from his white cloth bag, and as he looked at the extra white armband that he had taken with him, he wondered why Irjah had told him nothing about taking another student under his apprenticeship. Why did he not know about Chaghan? Because he owes you nothing, said the Phoenix, it’s voice dripping with venom, you’re not his kin. Altan had almost answered it, but he was already unapproachable enough to give himself more trouble. And even if Altan was not Irjah’s kin, the old man had taken care of him as if he were, he owed him something, some gossip, at least.
But it was late, and he was not sure if they had Strategy classes tomorrow, so all he could do, all he had left, was to try and fake his sleep, as if he could get more than five hours of sleep without the Phoenix going insane in his head. He could try meditating, bringing back his supposed habit that Jiang had ingrained in his mind since he had pledged Lore. “It will help you,” he had told him, and it truly had, but Altan was mortal, and once in a while, his mind would wander. What if he gave in? What if he stopped being so worried?
Chaghan
Altan was a Speerly, he was sure. More than that, he was certain, and he felt so stupid for not noticing it since the main hall. His dark skin, black hair, and his red eyes all screamed of Speer, he was the Speerly he had been made aware of, so what was the deal with the first-year girl he had seen yesterday? His connection to the Pantheon made him more deity than human, and he was so keen to other shaman’s that he knew he was right about the girl, but if she was a Speerly, then why did no one had told him so? Was it a test made up by the Empress to make sure his senses worked? Is that why he was on Sinegard? He still had not mentioned it to Qara, who walked next to him, so upright he wondered if her neck didn’t hurt.
They were nearing their first class of the day, a Combat course taught by master Jun, a man who looked angry and already disappointed in every single student that stepped into his class. The classroom was spacious, enough to fit more than fifty students, and the way it was constructed let Chaghan know that fights were expected as a part of the curriculum.
Near him was Altan, his build stronger than most and with an aura so troubled Chaghan wondered if he had been old enough to remember the Speer genocide. He probably was. They had exchanged no more than twenty words on their dormitory, and that had been enough for Chaghan to understand the heaviness that the Speerly carried with him. His eyes were fire itself, but he had an expression so desolate it was heartbreaking, maybe the students around him interpreted him for a solitary man, but Chaghan knew there was something else going on around him. Had he accepted the fire already?
“I wager you have not forgotten about the last form we had seen,” said master Jun, and it took only that for Chaghan to know he was screwed.
There had been no introductions regarding him or his sister to the class. Jun certainly did not need to know who they were for now, and the other students were expected to continue with their lives as if two new students had not been stuck to their class without notice, so now Chaghan was sparring, as best as he could, with a boy he knew by the name of Xian. He was taller than Chaghan only by a little, but he had at least 10 pounds of muscle on him, and he had made it clear.
Chaghan could stick to the ground well enough so he would not falter at the first hit, but he had been taught to fight with weapons and with his mind, not with his fists and legs, and though he was a stable enough fighter, it was not enough for Sinegard. Out of the three times he and Xian had already fought, with Chaghan learning Jun’s curriculum in record time, only one of those times he had managed to beat his classmate, and only because he had learned his repetitive patterns of movement. That was the thing about Jun’s curriculum, it was repetitive and diluted, easy to grasp and even easier to dismantle, but Chaghan was not one for martial arts, and as much as he recognized where Xian would hit next, he still had trouble coming up with a defensive strategy.
In contrast to his inexperience, Altan shined. Most of his classmates did, but from what Chaghan could see, Altan was a beast. His moves were strong, certain, and they were anything but what Jun had taught them. Was it because he had learnt them somewhere else? He was fast on his feet, and he never wavered, he never doubted, it was mesmerizing, and thanks to that, Xian knocked him down again, his foot heavy on Chaghan’s chest, but his face somewhat worried about the damage caused.
“Sorry,” Xian whispered as he helped him up.
“It’s nothing,” Chaghan answered. He could feel Jun’s eyes on him, disapproving, he had clearly not enjoyed the idea of letting two Hinterlanders into Sinegard. At least Qara was doing better than him.
“A soldier needs good muscle in order to first begin his training,” Jun said, his voice a little too focused on Chaghan’s direction, “you need to be sturdy, to be strong, in order to block and counter your opponent’s attack,” the classroom had not stopped their training, but Chaghan knew they all had taken the hint. It did not bother him.
“Is he always like that?” he asked instead, trying to make small talk with Xian as he stretched, making sure to form a plan for their next encounter.
Xian shrugged, “He’s just rough,” the armband on his arm was orange: Medicine.
He got on a defensive stance, but just before he could start anything, Altan, who was one place in front of him, at his right, turned around. The boy he was fighting laid on the ground, his chest heaving up and down while his eyes remained closed and his mouth was contorted into an expression of pain, he had really fucked him up. Chaghan thought that Altan was about to call for a small rest, but instead he focused on Chaghan’s eyes, and with a low tone, he spoke.
“Make sure to focus on the vitals,” he said, his voice was melodious, less strained than yesterday, “the eyes are always easy to reach, but if you can’t, make sure to hit the neck or the bottom,” and with that, he turned back towards his opponent.
Chaghan stayed still for just a moment, confused of what exactly that interaction had entailed, and he had not been the only one. Every single person in the class had stopped fighting, even master Jun was looking at Altan with a perplexed look on his face, but soon after realizing that no student was working, he clapped his hands once, “Don’t stop now”, he said, and just like that, the order on the Combat classroom began to work once again.
Altan had helped him, and according to everyone’s reaction, he never did that.
Chaghan looked at the back Altan’s neck, a single sliver of sweat travelled down it, and he wondered if it was too late to thank him.
“He has never done that before,” said Xian, still amazed at the exchange.
He pulled himself out of his thoughts, taking again a defensive stance, “There’s always a first time for everything.”
This time, Chaghan beat Xian in less than four strikes.
Their last two classes, before the students focused on their apprenticeships, were Linguistics and Medicine. Back on the Hinterlands they had never focused too much on languages, giving them only the basics structures of Nikaran and Hesperian, but thanks to his mother, and the people Chaghan and Qara had grown surrounded by, both of those languages they were able to develop until they were almost experts. Hesperian was still tricky, and the accents in the Nikaran tongue used to confuse Chaghan, but Qara had an ear for them and would spend their nights going over whatever needed to be confirmed.
The Linguistics master, Jima, had taken an interest on Qara and her fluency in Hesperian, but ultimately, she had pledged Weaponry, and it was in this class that Chaghan realized that their headmaster would take, more than a liking, a foreign interest in his sister, which confirmed itself when not even twenty minutes into the class she had already asked for Qara to answer multiple questions in whatever language of her choosing. His sister had shot him a look once, pledging for his help, but he had merely shrugged as he used to when they were kids, enjoying the panic in her answers.
Something else he had learned was that Altan, apparently, was also a star student in Linguistics. When Qara was not being Jima’s main target, the question would bounce to Altan, who would answer it with such composure that left Chaghan wondering if he had been born already knowing the Old Nikara language, or if he had just studied the dialect until his eyes burned. He would too answer with ease at whatever question in Mugenese Jima asked, and Chaghan wondered if he could talk to Altan in his mother tongue and he would understand him.
Altan had only met his eyes once after the Combat class, and it had been when Chaghan sat down next to him, his eyes were not as red as before, but he could still see hints of flame in them, and more than that, Chaghan could sense a struggle. The Phoenix, he knew, was a vengeful god, one hard to contain and even harder to ignore, and so Chaghan intrigued: was Altan okay? He knew enough information regarding Speer and its massacre, but he knew near nothing to how Altan himself had survived it, and more than that, he still did not know who the Speerly girl was, did Altan know? Could he sense shamans the same way Chaghan and his sister could? When their eyes met again, this time while leaving the classroom towards their Medicine course, Chaghan felt a trickle of sweat go down his spine.
To end his morning classes, before his Strategy master seized his autonomy, he had to finish the introduction course their Medicine master had made them do. Enro was the only female teacher in the institution besides the headmaster, and there was a clear authority in her tone, expecting everyone to follow her rules and obey the commands. It was not hard to question her authority when every student was too fearful of a master who knew perfectly where to severe the body so it would stop moving. Chaghan liked her and he could tell Qara did too.
“I should’ve made you pledge Medicine,” Enro had told Chaghan at the near end of their class after watching him finish the arm stitching procedure she had made them do. Chaghan had smiled, a part of him embarrassed because of the compliment, another one because half of his classmates had their eyes focused on how his hands worked.
“I fear master Irjah would not take well the loss,” he answered, his voice clear.
“Oh, he wouldn’t,” she smiled at him the smile of a health professional who had practiced a hundred and one ways of calming a mutilated person down. His classmates began to disperse around the classroom, trying to do their best to copy Chaghan’s process, a part of him knowing that only the ones pledged to Medicine would do a good work.
Altan was the only one that was still looking at him. His stitches already finished, a perfect work.
Chaghan was not sure if he should smile at him or thank him for his long-gone advice, maybe some small talk would do. But just then, before he could walk towards the Speerly, one of his classmates called for him, and as Altan turned around, the bitter taste of not knowing left Chaghan feeling discouraged.
Altan
Six days had passed since the beginning of the new school year at Sinegard, and only now he had finally seen Jiang. As usual, Altan had waited for him at the last tier of the academy, up high on the spiraling pagoda that decorated that lone place. The air grew colder the more he waited, but he stayed there, mediating, revising whatever homework he felt he had missing, and thinking. He had been thinking when Jiang had shown up, his hair disheveled and his uniform dirty: “Altan Trengsin,” he had been called, and instead of an explanation, Altan got assigned more work.
“I know you’ve not been meditating as you used to,” said Jiang.
“I have been,” Altan cut him off.
Jiang smiled, daring, “So, for your much important homework, I assign you to meditate for… what would be appropriate?” he was teasing him, like a disappointed father that did not hold much reason for his disappointment, “All night,” Altan looked at him, he could’ve done worse, he had done worse, “Tonight you won’t sleep! And instead, you’ll meditate, concentrate not on what you want, but on what you need. Don’t think, Altan, the Gods know you need it.”
“You’ve been talking with them?” answered Altan, wanting to see if he could pull him out of his caring teacher immersion.
“Oh, no, but I know, I know,” he had begun to walk around Altan, observing him, his voice tranquil, serene.
And now Altan was making his way down from the pagoda, still trying to decipher what had Jiang seen on him to give him the same tasks he used to be assigned on his past year of his course. He was stressed, that was a constant, the Phoenix would never let him rest, but he felt no anger, maybe not as strong as the one he had felt when Irjah had found him, or was it?
On the second lowest tier of the academy, the one that possessed their library, he saw Chaghan. Or at least he thought it was Chaghan. His small figure, Altan had realized, was strapped fiercely to the school uniform. The clothes he had been wearing on his first day of Sinegard were made for colder weathers, but here in Sinegard it never got as cold as it got in the Hinterlands. He was not sure if the food from the academy would be enough to put Chaghan on the pounds he needed for the Combat course, but if it had sustained Altan, then maybe it would sustain him too.
He got closer to the boy, who by now was looking for something on his bag, either a manuscript he had taken out or homework from one of their classes. Chaghan intrigued him, he had to have been an amazing student for the headmaster to accept him into Sinegard, his sister included, and he was doing well on their classes (as far as he could tell), so why hadn’t he become part of Sinegard since his first year? Jiang had given him a lengthy sermon about friendships once, going on and on about how he could only get answers if he asked, if he put himself out there, and now Altan decided to give those words a try. As he stood beside Chaghan, who now met his eyes, he took a deep breath.
“Hello.”
Chaghan’s mouth curved up, not in a smile, but in some kind of contemplation, “Hello, Altan.”
“Were you… studying?” he tried to signal the library that was behind them, but his hands refused to move, and he was not sure if whatever he was doing, he was doing right.
“Revising a Strategy assignment,” he answered. The bag he carried was not too big, this one was not made from leather but of some kind of dark fabric Altan was not able to make sense of. “I know I should’ve expected Sinegard to be demanding, but…”
“They hide it well,” said Altan, “so you’ll fight your way in.”
“And claw your way out, I suppose.”
Altan could’ve laughed at that, he knew it was a joke, but instead he took to walking. Humiliated, he hoped Chaghan would follow him, and once he did, he cursed at himself.
“Thanks for the help,” Chaghan said suddenly, neither of them knew what to say.
“Help?”
“On Combat, with Jun,” he looked at Chaghan, and he realized that he was looking at him back. Had he not been walking, Altan would’ve felt himself burn. He usually felt like that.
“It was nothing,” the air between them was not awkward, for now, though it carried a certain expectancy he did not know how to complete. What was it about the feeling of knowing that the other soul by your side was to reflect yours? How could he break into the intimacy of a friend?
They walked in silence, with Altan eating at his head as he looked at Chaghan. His neck, he realized, was scarred, there were several pale pink scars surrounding him, as if grasping at his body, and though Altan thought they must have hurt, they appeared to be long healed. Altan had scars himself, ones he preferred not to think about, and as his gaze drifted from Chaghan’s neck to his hair, he imagined if maybe they shared the same past. Could he trust one to know?
Chaghan’s hair was the longest he had ever seen it on a boy on Sinegard. Most of them tended to keep it short for combat purposes, and it truly was more practical, but it didn’t look like it bothered Chaghan, on the contrary, it appeared to be well cared for and a small braid decorated the left side of his face. His profile, on comparison to himself, was thin. Altan didn’t know a man could look as slender as Chaghan, but there he was.
“Is it always like this?” Chaghan asked, and Altan realized that he had gotten into his head for too long. They were nearing the first tier of the school, now closer to the dormitories.
“The coursework?”
“Everything,” Chaghan looked at him again, and Altan was not sure a man could be beautiful, but maybe they could, “it’s so… eerie.”
Altan, who had chosen to live his life on Sinegard as a recluse, did not feel like his answers would be unbiased enough, “It depends on what kind of environment you were accustomed to,” a vague answer. Chaghan’s lips curved up again, not good enough. “I enjoy the silence.”
“Too quiet, are you?” he was teasing, or at least Altan thought that’s what it was.
“Most people just don’t know how to engage,” he was worried his answer had come off as too arrogant, too authoritative, but Chaghan laughed. Less than that, it was a giggle, and Altan stopped in his tracks.
“I bet they’re afraid.”
He could not fake humility, Altan knew people were scared of him, “Were you?”
“No,” the moon’s light reflected down on Chaghan’s face, casting him an ethereal look that made him appear almost transparent. He was beautiful, his pale eyes were fixed on Altan, neither of them moving, still too far away from the dormitories, “it’s hard to fear something after you’ve been a kid on the Hinterlands.”
A game began, “If we’re talking childhood, I believe I one up you,” Altan had never spoke of his childhood as freely as in this moment, but he was getting better, and more than that, he wanted to make Chaghan laugh again.
This time, Chaghan smiled, “Ah, I believe you do,” he turned around, and Altan began to follow him. “But were you disinherited if you did not know how to shoot and ride by the age of five?”
Altan felt the need to smile, “You would need to learn how to call the fire earlier,” he caught up to him, and he realized that the smile on Chaghan’s face had not wavered.
“Such tough work, I bet that’s why Sinegard is such a breeze for you.”
“And from where do you get that information?” the moon was not shining on them this time.
Chaghan looked at him, serious this time, “You’ve not made one sole mistake since I’ve got here.”
“A lot of people are with me in that.”
“I can tell the masters adore you,” a poor attempt at a counterattack.
There was gravel under their feet now, “I’m just disciplined.”
Chaghan raised a finger towards Altan, as if wanting to shut him up, but he stopped himself before he could make contact with his skin, “I won’t tolerate humbleness.”
“Then should I brag?” Altan smiled, and he was not sure of how it looked.
“It would fit you better.”
They entered the dormitories, and still, they found themselves alone, “And why’s that?”
“Because, maybe, you deserve it.”
And just like that, Chaghan had disarmed him.
Less than a week had Chaghan spent on Sinegard, and it had taken only that to make Altan feel, truly, utterly lost. Why did the boy in front of him speak with such certainty? How much did he know? And more than that, why did it appear as if he already knew of Altan’s struggles? Most of the people that he interacted with at the academy never tried to joke with him, they never truly tried to speak with him, treating him instead as if he was a ticking time bomb, and maybe he had been just that, but he did not feel like that anymore, did he?
They walked up the stairs towards the second floor of the dormitory in silence, and without meaning too, Altan’s gaze focused again on Chaghan’s silhouette. Just who was this guy? And either because Jiang was annoying, or because he was too good of a teacher, Altan would spend his night thinking about that.