The first thing Solace noticed when he woke up was the sound.
Not the sharp, sterile beeping of machines this time. That had faded days ago. This was softer. Domestic.
A kettle clicking off. Footsteps on wood. Someone humming off-key.
Home.
He lay still for a moment, letting that settle. Letting the quiet press against him instead of alarms and antiseptic and pain.
Darkness greeted him when he opened his eyes.
Not the drifting haze he remembered from the mountain, not the half-light of fading consciousness. This was complete. Whole. Like the world had simply decided not to exist past his skin.
He exhaled slowly.
"So that's how it's going to be," he muttered.
No panic. No spike of fear. That had already burned itself out in the hospital weeks ago.
Solace pushed himself upright, fingers finding the edge of the bed by memory. His body protested, stiffness lingering in his chest where the wound had closed into a tight, ugly scar. He rolled his shoulders once, twice, testing the limits.
Still his body. Still listening.
That was enough.
"Morning," Noah's voice came from somewhere to the left.
"You've been awake for, what, three minutes?" Luna added from the doorway. "New record."
Solace smiled faintly. "You two take turns standing guard now?"
"Obviously," Noah said. "You're very high maintenance."
Solace swung his legs over the side of the bed, toes brushing the rug. He reached for the cane leaning against the nightstand. Smooth black wood. Weighted just right. He'd chosen it himself.
He stood, straightened, and felt the room orient around him through sound and space instead of sight.
"Bathroom?" he asked.
"Three steps forward," Luna said gently. "Then left. I moved the chair."
"Traitor," Solace replied, but there was no heat in it.
The shower was hot. Almost painfully so.
He let the water run over his shoulders, head tilted back, white hair darkening as it soaked through. His fingers traced the familiar planes of his face out of habit: sharp cheekbones, narrow jaw, the slight points of his canines when his lips parted.
Solace snorted softly at the thought and reached for the soap. He moved slowly, carefully, memorizing the space. Every edge. Every sound. Blindness demanded precision, and he was already adapting without meaning to.
When he finished, Luna handed him a towel without a word. Noah hovered nearby, pretending not to.
"Clothes?" Solace asked.
Noah cleared his throat. "You're going formal today?"
"Define formal."
"Black shirt. High collar. The long coat."
Solace considered it. Then nodded. "That one."
The fabric was cool beneath his fingers as Noah helped him shrug into it. A fitted black shirt, buttoned to the throat. Dark trousers. Boots with solid soles. The coat settled over his shoulders like it belonged there, long and tailored, its weight familiar.
Someone adjusted his collar. Probably Luna.
"You look… unfair," she said quietly.
Solace smiled. "I can't even see it."
"Trust us," Noah said. "If intimidation worked on blindness alone, you'd be set for life."
Solace reached for the cane again, fingers closing around it with practiced ease.
The dining room smelled like toast and tea.
Chairs scraped as everyone shifted when he entered. The room went briefly quiet, like the house itself was holding its breath.
His mother crossed the distance first. He felt her hands on his shoulders, light but firm, like she was reminding herself he was solid.
"You don't have to go back," she said immediately. "You can stay. We can make arrangements. The Academy can wait."
His father didn't speak, but Solace could feel his presence. Standing. Watching. Worry wrapped tight beneath that familiar, immovable posture.
"You've done enough," his mother continued. "More than enough."
Solace tilted his head slightly, listening to the tremor she was trying to hide.
"I know," he said gently.
Solace turned his head toward where he thought they were standing. "Besides," he went on, voice easy, "if I don't get stronger, who's going to protect my terrifyingly powerful little siblings?"
Noah snorted. "Please. You're the one who needs protecting now."
"Yeah," Luna added softly, stepping closer. "We've got you."
Solace paused.
Then he smiled again. Real this time. "Good. Then I'll count on you."
He tapped the cane lightly against the floor and straightened.
"I'll be late," he said. "Principal Richards wants a word."
His father finally spoke.
"Be careful."
Solace nodded.
He turned toward the door, counting steps, feeling the familiar weight of the cane, the house, the people behind him.
***
The city outside had a sound to it that Solace was still learning.
Not noise. Texture.
Cobblestone had a different echo than academy marble. Glass corridors hummed faintly when sunlight heated them. People moved in patterns, footsteps overlapping in familiar rhythms. He could tell when someone was nervous by the irregularity of their pace. He could tell when someone was staring by the way their breathing paused.
Blindness had not taken the world from him. It seemed unnatural at the pace I was learning.
The Academy gates announced themselves long before he reached them. The faint vibration of wards brushing against his skin. The hollow, cathedral-like acoustics beyond the archway. He counted his steps automatically, the black cane tapping lightly ahead of him, mapping the ground in precise arcs.
Tap.Two steps.Tap.Turn.
Students noticed him. He felt it in the silence that followed his passing, the way conversations dipped and then resumed in hushed tones. Some pity. Some awe. Some discomfort. A few whispers.
Solace ignored all of it.
He adjusted the grip on his cane and continued forward, posture straight, expression calm. The coat he wore swayed slightly with each step, its hem brushing his calves. He knew what he looked like without needing to see it. White hair tied loosely back. Pale skin. Sharp features that hadn't softened with age or injury. Bluish-white eyes that no longer reflected light.
A handsome corpse, someone once would've joked.
The only betrayal was his height. The world insisted on reminding him of that.
He stopped at the base of the administrative tower. The sound changed again. Taller ceilings. Fewer students. More stone. More weight.
The receptionist spoke first. "Principal Richards is expecting you."
"I figured," Solace replied, turning toward the sound of her voice.
An assistant guided him the rest of the way, but he didn't need much help. He memorized the spacing of doors, the subtle draft near stairwells, the way the air cooled as they ascended.
Nicole Richards' office had a presence.
Not oppressive. Not loud.
Dense.
The moment he crossed the threshold, Solace felt it. Time folded slightly inward here, like a held breath. The room smelled faintly of ink, old paper, and something metallic that never quite resolved.
"You can sit," Nicole said.
Her voice was smooth. Controlled. Warm in the way polished steel could be warm.
Solace found the chair without asking for help and lowered himself into it. He placed the cane carefully against the armrest, aligned it parallel to his leg. Small habits. Anchors.
There was a pause.
Not awkward.
Measured.
"I'll be direct," Nicole said. "If you wish to resume your classes, you may."
Solace tilted his head. "That's… kinder than expected."
"I am not in the habit of wasting my time," she replied. "Nor yours."
She continued before he could respond.
"Your injuries are documented. Your blindness is Temporary by conventional standards. The Academy will provide accommodations. Assistance. Adaptive training."
A beat.
"But there will be no extensions."
Solace's lips curved slightly. "I wouldn't have trusted you if you did."
Nicole exhaled softly. Almost a laugh.
"Midterms are in three weeks," she went on. "Theory and practical. Ranking revelation will follow shortly after. A tournament format. Ranks will be re-evaluated."
"A month," Solace said. "Roughly."
"Yes." Her tone sharpened. "If you wish to remain enrolled, you will participate."
Silence stretched between them.
Solace leaned back slightly, fingers resting loosely on the chair's arm. "And if I fail?"
"You won't," Nicole said.
There was no arrogance in it. No challenge.
Just certainty.
Something in her voice shifted then. It softened, not into pity, but into familiarity. As if she were speaking to someone she had corrected a hundred times before.
"You are allowed to struggle," she said quietly. "You are not allowed to disappear."
Solace's throat tightened, just a fraction.
"I wasn't planning to," he replied.
Another pause.
He heard her stand. Felt the subtle distortion in the air as she moved closer. Something small was placed gently into his open palm.
Metal. Cool. Smooth.
"A gift," Nicole said. "And a precaution."
He turned it between his fingers. A pair of earrings. Delicate, almost unassuming. The metal felt old. Not worn. Settled.
"Artifacts," she continued. "They will obscure your Threads completely. No sight-based, perception-based, or conceptual observation will read them."
She hesitated for the briefest moment.
"And they distort recognition. Faces, identifiers, memory anchors. Anyone who looks too closely will… struggle to remember you clearly."
Solace smiled faintly. "That seems counterproductive for a student."
"It is essential for you," Nicole replied. "The Church is watching. I would prefer they remain uncertain."
He closed his fingers around the earrings.
"Thank you," he said. And meant more than just the objects.
Nicole stepped back.
"You may go," she said. Then, after a pause, added, "Welcome back, Solace."
He stood, retrieving his cane, orienting himself toward the door.
As he left, he could have sworn he heard her whisper something under her breath.
Not a command.
Not a warning.
Something like relief.
The corridor greeted him again, bright and loud and alive.
Solace adjusted his grip on the cane and stepped forward, blind eyes steady, expression composed.
Midterms. Rankings. A month.
Plenty of time.
He had survived the end of the world once.
He could manage school.