Whispers, Accidents, Rumours and Severed Trust

The first week was filled with orientation, lectures on Academy rules, and introductions to professors. On the surface, everything was normal. We attended magical theory classes, sparring lessons, and even shared meals in the vast dining hall that felt more like a royal banquet than a school cafeteria.

But by the second week, small things began to happen.

It started with Amara’s quill. She always carried the same silver-feathered quill her father had gifted her. One morning, just before our lecture on runic structures, it was gone. She searched frantically through her satchel, panic rising in her eyes.

And then someone whispered:
“Check Alex’s desk.”

I froze as Amara’s gaze darted to me. My satchel lay open beside me. When she reached in, her quill was there.

“I… I didn’t—” My throat closed up.

The professor silenced me with a frown. “Miss Candor, I suggest keeping your possessions more carefully. Mr. Redcliffe, stay behind after class.”

The lecture continued, but I barely heard a word. The royals exchanged confused glances—no one accused me outright, but the doubt had been planted.

After class, the professor’s words cut deeper than any blade. “Stealing is unbecoming of a noble student, even one of… reduced background.”

“I didn’t steal it,” I said quietly.

“See that it doesn’t happen again.”

That night, Amara apologized, saying she knew I wouldn’t do something like that. The others agreed. I wanted to believe her, to believe them all. But doubt is like poison—once it enters, it spreads.

And someone had deliberately put it there.

-----X-----X-----X-----

The next incident came during practical magic training. We were tasked with simple elemental spells, directing fire, water, and wind at wooden dummies.

Cedric was demonstrating a water sphere when his spell exploded violently, drenching the entire class. He turned to glare at me instantly, as though his body reacted before his mind did.

“You tampered with my casting focus, didn’t you?” he snapped.

“What? No!”

The instructor examined Cedric’s wand and found faint residue of tampering. My name came up again, quietly, like a hissed rumor passed from mouth to mouth.

“I swear I didn’t touch it!” I tried, but Cedric’s jaw was tight. He didn’t argue, but his silence cut worse than his words.

Later, he muttered to Amara when he thought I wasn’t listening: “Strange how it’s always him at the center.”

I clenched my fists. I wanted to scream that it wasn’t me, that I had no reason to sabotage my friends. But how could I defend myself when the evidence always seemed to point my way?

-----X-----X-----X-----

By the end of the month, the Academy halls buzzed with whispers.

“Redcliffe is cursed.”
“He’s jealous of the royals.”
“Maybe he’s using forbidden magic.”

I tried to ignore it, tried to focus on my studies. But when I walked into a room, conversations quieted. When I left, they resumed.

Even Serenya, the most kind-hearted of us all, seemed hesitant now. She still smiled at me, but her eyes held questions.

Then came the library incident.

We were researching historical treaties when several priceless scrolls caught fire. Students screamed, scrambling to put out the flames. And who was standing closest? Me.

“It was Alex!” someone shouted.

The librarian’s fury was like a storm. Even though I swore I hadn’t cast a single spell, even though my hands shook with panic, the damage was done.

The scrolls were ruined. My reputation, too.

That evening, I overheard two students whispering in the dormitory corridor.
“Funny how he’s always around.”
“Funny how the student council never seems surprised.”

I froze. The council—those older students who acted like rulers of the Academy, cloaked in authority and mystery. They were always there, weren’t they? Watching from the edges whenever something happened. Offering polite condolences but never outrage.

And sometimes… smirking.

-----X-----X-----X-----

The worst came during combat drills.

We were paired in groups for mock battles, spells carefully restrained by the instructors’ wards. I was teamed with Selindra, the stoic princess of the Erelith Empire. She rarely showed emotion, but she had always treated me with quiet fairness.

Our match began against two senior students. We coordinated well—until suddenly, the ward protecting us failed.

Selindra’s opponent’s spell hit her directly, knocking her across the arena. Gasps erupted. Instructors rushed to her side. She was badly burned but conscious.

And the blame fell squarely on me.

“You were responsible for maintaining your team’s defensive ward,” the instructor snapped. “Why did you drop it?”

“I didn’t! I swear I maintained the casting!” My voice cracked with desperation.

Selindra, pale and in pain, looked at me with eyes that held both confusion and doubt. For the first time, she didn’t immediately defend me.

That night, Cedric confronted me outright. “If you’re hiding something—some trick, some forbidden magic—tell us now. We’ve defended you again and again, but how long can we keep making excuses?”

The words lodged in my chest like daggers. I wanted to tell them about compound magic, to show them I wasn’t weak or malicious, that I had something worth protecting. But the promise to my father echoed in my mind. Revealing it now would draw more suspicion, not less.

So I stayed silent.