The rhythmic clang of hammer on metal echoed softly through the cramped forge, a steady pulse against the quiet hum of the magical district outside. Chrysander “Chrys” Netherwick worked with deliberate care, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they guided the worn artifact beneath the sharp edge of his tools. His messy red hair clung damply to his forehead, and his gold eyes, warm and thoughtful, glimmered faintly behind round glasses designed not to correct his sight but to shield him from harsh blue light and overstimulation. Bandages wrapped around his fingers bore silent witness to his habit of picking at his skin when nerves tangled in his mind.

Being born in the Nether came with its own burdens—burdens that didn’t fade even here, inside the walls of the Academy of Mystics. Though Chrys was one of the few Netherborn allowed to study among the magically gifted, the old prejudices clung like smoke. Whispers trailed behind him, some subtle, others sharp enough to sting. Tonight, as he bent over his workbench, that discomfort found a voice.

He was so focused on tracing delicate runes into the cracked metal that he barely noticed the growing crowd nearby, the shifting of feet and low murmur of voices turning into something cruel.

“Seriously? He’s still doing it all wrong. How does he even get accepted here?”

A rough chuckle came from the back. “Probably just the Netherborn luck. No real talent, just dumb stubbornness.”

Chrys’s hands stilled for a moment, the usual rhythm broken. He didn’t immediately understand that the words were meant for him. When they did sink in, his fingers twitched beneath the bandages, a familiar nervous habit taking hold. His heart sank, weighed down not just by the sting of their words but by the isolation he had carried since childhood.

He looked up just as someone stepped forward, their presence quiet but firm enough to part the crowd.

The laughter stopped.

Chrys’s eyes met the newcomer’s, wide and uncertain, searching for meaning in the unexpected defense.

For a moment, nothing was said, but the warmth of that look, the shield against the cold judgment, spoke volumes.

His voice came out soft, almost hesitant. “Thank you.”

The forge’s heat seemed to ease just a little, the tension loosening like the first breath after a storm. What came next—whether this fragile connection would grow or wither—was still unknown.