Chapter 6 6- Never Underestimate The Power Of Small Talk

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I push through the crowd outside the dorms without slowing down. People part around me instinctively, some step aside, others outright retreat. It’s one of the practical perks of being what I am. Nobody bumps into me. Nobody brushes against me by accident. Nobody talks to me unless they absolutely must. In fact, I don’t think a single person has spoken to me yet today at all. It’s a quiet life, if nothing else. My room is at the very end of the first-year hallway, of course it is. As far away from the others as possible. A nice little exile. Fitting. There are plenty of doors on the way, one on each side of the corridor, evenly spaced. But not a single one of the ones next to my door has a name plate. I suppose nobody wanted to room next to a dragon shifter. Can’t blame them. If I weren’t me, I’d probably avoid me too. If only because talking to me is social suicide. I unlock my door and step inside. It’s standard-sized, no bigger or nicer than any of the others I passed. So much for the ‘end of the hall means the special room’ theory. Figures. Not that it matters. I’m not keeping anything valuable here. Academy security may be impressive, but it is nowhere near good enough for a dragon’s hoard. My real collection, the valuable pieces, are safe in my vault back home, buried in wards so dense even the most skilled witch  or magic user wouldn't get through. I set my bag down beside the bed. It takes all of two minutes to settle in, mostly because I have nothing with me except a couple of my less valuable items from my hoard, ones that I like to carry around and fidget with when I’m stressed. I find them calming. They’re basically my emergency gemstones. Class isn’t due to start for a while, so I lie back and let my mind drift. Half an hour passes in silence, merciful silence, before I finally drag myself up and head out.

I don’t know the way to the classroom, but that isn’t a problem. First-year shifters are painfully easy to identify. Anxiety has a scent, sharp, metallic, unpleasant, and these people are practically oozing it as they wander around trying to look confident. The wolves are the easiest to track. They move in clusters, practically vibrating with pack dynamics, stepping around one another, bumping shoulders, whining, yipping, laughing. Loud. Messy. Predictable. I follow them from a distance and arrive at the classroom long before the teacher does. Back row. Always the back row. I don’t like having people staring at me from behind. It’s safer this way. I take the same kind of seat I always gravitate towards, the one with the best vantage point and the least foot traffic. It also guarantees the maximum number of empty seats around me, which suits everyone just fine. I’m early, but I don’t mind early. It gives me time to evaluate the room. Watch the others trickle in. Figure out which ones are threats, which are useless, and which ones will try too hard to impress everyone. People avoid me on instinct, their gazes sliding over me like I’m a shadow instead of a person. Good. Let them. It’s better this way. Cleaner. Simpler. No expectations. No disappointments. Still… It is rather boring. I force the thought away. I glance at the chalkboard. Shifter Basics. Ugh. A waste of time. I AM a shifter. I don’t need a class to tell me what I already know. I bet that  I could teach this class with one hand tied behind my back. Why did I bother coming here? Tradition, I suppose. My parents attended decades ago. Their parents before them. A long line of Nyvas dragons stalking these halls, leaving reputations behind. Someone has to keep the tradition going. And it’s not like I had anything better to do. Still… A sour feeling settles low in my stomach. This place feels wrong already. Bland. Predictable. I run a hand through my hair and let out a slow breath. Maybe I’ll mix things up and make a new reputation for my family and just leave before the semester ends. Maybe even sooner. Nothing interesting ever happens. Except… Maybe something is happening. Because the room has suddenly gone nearly silent, conversation dropping off in an unnatural, rippling wave. Even the wolves stop fidgeting. That alone is suspicious. I glance up to see what has everyone’s attention. And there she is. Someone is walking towards the back row. Toward me.

For a moment, I genuinely think I’m misinterpreting her direction. No one ever willingly walks up to me unless they want something. And the ones who do are always the same. Thrill seekers wanting a story about surviving the dragon, arrogant idiots trying to prove something, or people who’ve already decided I’m the villain in some personal tragedy they’ve invented. Those ones yell from a distance, of course, just far enough away to make it not worth the effort to chase after them. But this girl? She’s none of those. She looks… Nervous. Yes. But not of me. Her nerves feel general, unfocused, like she’s scared of the room, of the attention, of life in general. Not of sitting next to me. It’s strange. Stranger than strange. Up close, she looks nothing like the type who approaches danger. She’s small, delicate-looking, all soft curves and shimmering golden hair that catches the light like glimmering metal, something my dragon side DEFINITELY appreciates. There’s no sharpness in her. No malice. Just… Softness. Innocence. So definitely not someone who knows who I am. I look away quickly, because staring will only make things worse. I fully expect someone to intervene, to grab her arm, tug her aside, whisper something like ‘not him, you idiot.’ Or maybe she’ll get close enough to feel the tension in the air and turn around. But she doesn’t. She walks straight up to my desk. Right beside me. She clears her throat, softly, politely. A gentle little sound that absolutely does not belong this close to me.

“Is this seat taken?” She asks. Her voice is friendly. Nervous. But not afraid. Not of me at least. That difference hits harder than it should. I blink, probably too slowly, then shake my head.

“Great!” She says brightly, and pulls out the chair before I can second-guess anything. For a moment I can only stare down at my desk, forcing my gaze to stay there. Because if I look at her, I know my expression will give too much away. But I can’t help it, I glance sideways. She’s doing the same thing, trying to sneak looks without being obvious. The effect would almost be comical if it weren’t so… Disarming. Up close, she really is every bit the perfect princess she looked like when she walked in. Soft golden hair falling nearly to her waist, bright blue eyes, a careful, hopeful smile she keeps trying to hold steady. Everything about her looks fragile, and yet she chose the most socially suicidal seat in the room. In here, that means something. Around us, the whispers start immediately.

“She doesn’t know.” One person says.

“Someone should tell her.” Another answers.

“What is she thinking?” A girl hisses.

“She’s insane.” A guy mutters.

“She’s dead. She’s absolutely dead.” One of the more nervous students says anxiously. I tune them out. It’s not like I haven’t heard worse. If she had any hopes of making friends here, sitting next to me was a catastrophic mistake. But… She’s not stupid. She must sense something weird in the room. She must notice how people are staring, how the air changed when she sat down. Any second now, she’ll put it together. Any second, someone will swoop in and ‘save’ her from the big, scary dragon. Any second, she’ll apologise awkwardly, move seats, pretend it was an accident. This won’t last long. It never does. Except… She hasn’t moved yet. And for the first time all morning… I feel a flicker of interest… Curiosity.

There’s a quiet moment between us, just long enough for me to think she’s given up on talking. But then she clears her throat again. Her hands are twisted together under the desk, fingers gripping each other so tightly her knuckles are pale. She’s nervous. Obviously. But it still isn’t the kind of tension I’m used to from people around me. There’s no sharpness, no fear-scent, no flinching. Just… Everyday nerves. Like she’s worried she won’t make friends or find the right classroom. She turns slightly toward me.

“Hi, my name is Alexis.” She says, and there’s a tiny tremor in the word. Alexis. A soft, delicate name. It fits her well.

“I’m super nervous about being here.” She continues, rushing the words out like she’s afraid she’ll lose her courage if she stops.

“I only found out I’m a shifter a couple of weeks ago, and I don’t even know what kind.” She adds. That makes me look up fully. She doesn’t know what she is? That’s… Rare. Very rare. Almost unheard of. Most shifters show some indication early, instinct, magic, something. And the ones who don’t? Their families usually still know. Bloodlines keep records. To have nothing? That’s just… So improbable. Alexis watches me closely, too closely, with those bright blue eyes, waiting for a reaction I have no idea how to give. I say nothing. I don’t know what to say. She hesitates for a moment… Then tilts her head and gives me a tiny, earnest smile.

“Your turn.” She prompts. Your turn. As if conversation with me is normal. As if she thinks I’m capable of small talk. As if she expects me to introduce myself the same way she just did, simple and honest. I stare at her. Longer than I should. Longer than is polite. Who is she? And what kind of shifter has eyes like that, scent like that, presence like that… Yet no idea what she is? My mouth goes dry, and for the first time in years, I can’t find automatic words to throw at someone. No rehearsed line. No defensive comment. Nothing. Because there is nothing to defend from. Just one overwhelming thought. She is not normal. Not even close. And not just because she doesn’t know what she is, although that is curious too.  But whatever she is… I’ve never seen anything like her.