The Dining Hall's Empty Seat
In the Royal Knight Academy dining hall, before the long table with only one empty seat left, a hand rose to shove Ronan aside. The palm was large and thick. It belonged to Mark, the one who had lost his wooden sword to Ronan that morning on the training grounds.
"That's not yours."
Ronan halted, tray in hand. On the wooden tray sat two slices of black bread, a bowl of thin stew, and a cup of water. His wrists still ached from gripping the weighted wooden sword for so long. But he didn't let it show. In the Royal Knight Academy, showing pain meant someone would turn it from a weakness into a toy. Especially now, with the entire dining hall perking up its ears.
He'd thought the first practical class had ended on the training grounds. He was wrong. The stigma of being in the dropout class followed him even to the dinner table.
The long table was for all the first-year cadets. Officially, first come, first served. In reality, it was different. A family crest meant a noble's spot. A single water cup meant a friend's territory. And when a name like Ronan's approached, even empty seats suddenly sprouted owners.
Mark stretched his hand farther. "Didn't you hear? This side's full."
Ronan eyed the empty chair. Nothing was there. "Looks empty to me."
"Someone's coming soon."
"Who?"
Mark smirked. "Not you."
A few cadets chuckled. The laughter was muted—they'd heard about the morning—but it hadn't vanished entirely. Word of Ronan's win over Mark had spread. But rumors shifted shape easily. The weighted wooden sword was faulty. Mark had let his guard down. The instructor had favored Ronan. Mark needed excuses too. He'd lost face on the training grounds; now he'd reclaim it in the dining hall. Not with a sword, but with a seat.
Ronan read the intent. "I don't want to fight over a chair, but shoving's not cool."
Mark's eyebrow twitched. "Who's shoving?"
"Your hand's closer to my stew than mine is." Ronan lifted his tray slightly. "Stew's innocent, you know."
Someone nearby stifled a laugh. Mark's face hardened.
Just then, Lia entered from the back of the hall. She wore the gray apron of the healing department, her tray holding tea infused with herbs and a piece of bread. Mark didn't miss the glance.
"Perfect timing," he said loudly on purpose. "Lia. This side's filling up soon. Don't sit next to the dropout and get rumors attached—go somewhere else."
The back of the dining hall fell quiet. This jab wasn't aimed at Ronan alone. It dragged Lia in too.
Lia's tray trembled ever so slightly. Her voice stayed steady, but her fingertips betrayed her. Ronan noticed.
He set his own tray on the table. "Rumors fill seats faster anyway. Might as well leave room for people, right?"
Mark snorted. "What, suddenly the etiquette teacher?"
"Nah." Ronan watched a wooden cup rolling toward the table's edge, nudged by Mark's elbow. "Just warning you before the cup falls."
Before the words finished, the cup tumbled over the edge.
Lia reached out on reflex. At that instant, one of Mark's friends yanked a chair back.
Screech.
Lia's knee nearly caught on the chair back. Her tray tilted. The tea sloshed, and the bread lifted off the plate. A fall would make her a joke: the healing cadet who tripped trying to sit by the dropout. The story would reach the dorms by nightfall.
Ronan drew a sharp breath. Pure mana from the air flowed into his inner wrist. Thinner than that morning. He had to be more careful this time. It couldn't look like a sword. Couldn't strike like a blade. Couldn't hurt anyone.
His fingers curled faintly. A thin silver line flickered in the air—the shadow of a single broken sword. It slid under the chair leg.
The chair stopped first. Exactly an inch from Lia's knee.
Then the silver line sprang upward. No longer a blade, but flattened like a broad sword flat, it caught the falling cup.
Thud.
The cup never hit the floor. No water spilled. It hovered a beat in midair, then gently returned to the table. Finally, the bread settled.
Ronan guided the sword tip to the plate's edge. The bread stayed on the tray.
All in the blink of an eye.
The dining hall was silent. No grand battle. No one flew through the air. But everyone saw. The chair halted. The cup didn't fall. Lia didn't trip. And Ronan hadn't moved a step from his spot.
Lia stared at her tray, breath held. Barely any tea had spilled. Just one hot droplet on the back of her hand.
Ronan glanced at it but didn't make a fuss in front of everyone. "Lucky," he said lightly. "Bread survived, and the tea barely betrayed you."
Tension eased from Lia's shoulders. A small smile flitted across her face.
Ronan slid his water cup forward. "Cool your hand under cold water. Might sting later even if it's not hot now."
Lia looked at him for a moment. He didn't mention her trembling. Or how close she'd come to falling. Just the single drop on her hand. She understood the kindness.
"Thank you."
Mark snapped to his senses late. "What the hell was that? Drawing a sword in the dining hall?"
Ronan turned. "No one swung a sword here."
"That thing just now!"
"Stopped a falling chair."
"How'd you do it?!"
"Want me to let it fall next time?"
Mark fell speechless.
Ronan tapped the wooden cup on the table with a finger. "And this one? Your elbow knocked it."
Gazes shifted to Mark's elbow. He yanked his arm back in a hurry—knocking his own water cup again.
This time, Ronan didn't move. The cup toppled straight over.
Splash.
Water soaked the front of Mark's training uniform. A chunk of black bread got drenched too.
Laughter erupted from spots around the hall.
Ronan eyed the wet bread. "That one's kinda on me, sorry."
"Why the hell are you sorry?" Mark growled.
"Didn't catch it for you."
The laughter swelled.
One of Mark's friends shot to his feet. "You mocking a noble cadet?"
Ronan met his eyes. "A noble cadet knocking over his own cup? That's off-limits to mock?"
"Watch your mouth."
"If I watch my mouth, will you watch your hands?"
The friend's ears reddened. He'd been the one who'd pulled Lia's chair. Cadets' eyes turned his way.
Ronan lowered his voice deliberately. "If you're gonna trip someone, do it on the training grounds." His gaze dropped to the chair leg. "Dining hall chairs are furniture, not weapons."
The words weren't sharp. But they cut deep enough.
Then Instructor Hagen approached from the entrance. "Ronan."
"Yes."
"Drew your sword in the dining hall?"
"No, sir."
"Used mana?"
Ronan didn't lie. "Yes, sir."
The hall buzzed.
Hagen's eyes narrowed. "Personal mana use is forbidden in the Royal Knight Academy dining hall."
"I heard that's for attacks," Ronan said. "But preventing accidents inside is an exception, right?"
Hagen's mouth tightened. The academy rules had such a clause. Even outside training, cadets must immediately assist in falls, fires, or blade mishaps. Usually a decorative rule. Not today.
Lia stepped forward. "He's right. If not for Ronan, I'd have fallen. The tea could have splashed other cadets."
A healing department cadet nodded. "The chair pulled out suddenly."
Hagen glanced at Mark. Mark clamped his mouth shut.
The instructor said curtly, "No disturbances in the dining hall."
Ronan bowed his head. "Understood, sir."
As the instructor left, the hall exhaled. Mark and his friends retreated. The empty seat remained.
As Ronan reached for the chair, Lia moved first. Not opposite him, but the one right beside. She dragged it out.
Screech.
The chair's sound rang clear through the hall. "This one's empty, right?"
Ronan blinked. "Was some debate a second ago."
"Seems settled now."
Lia sat. Before setting her tray down, she checked Ronan's bandaged wrist once more. No words. Instead, she nudged the handkerchief farther across the table.
Their first side-by-side seats.
Ronan watched her a moment, then grinned. "Guess I should sit too. Before you claim my spot."
"Too late, and I might take your bread too."
"That'd be war."
Lia pulled a small handkerchief from her pocket. She placed it quietly near his right wrist. "You've been favoring your left hand since morning."
Ronan paused. "You noticed?"
"Healing department." Her voice was soft. "And side-by-side now."
The hall's laughter no longer targeted Ronan. The empty seat was filled. And it was one Lia had chosen herself.
Then a quiet shadow paused at the empty seat opposite. Seris. Holding no tray, she alternated glances between Ronan's fingertips and the cup returned to the table.
"Morning: wooden sword's center."
Ronan paused mid-spoon, chuckling. "Analysis during meals is bad for digestion."
"Then after."
Lia's fingers pressed the handkerchief's edge. Seris saw but didn't back off. "I want to see how you shift the balance without cutting."
The hall's noise dipped another beat.
Ronan eyed his stew. He'd thought the first practical class ended on the training grounds. Apparently, today it wouldn't end in the dining hall either.
Lia folded her handkerchief, glancing at Seris. No words to block her. Just another subtle shift of the cloth nearer Ronan's wrist. That small gesture said enough: who was guarding his side right now.
Clearly.