THE VOID BEAST

CHAPTER 10: THE FRIEND

I walked gently into the dorm, careful not to disturb the two figures already asleep in their beds. Their breathing was steady, their forms still beneath thin blankets. I found an empty cot in the corner and set down my bag.

The rabbit hopped onto my lap and curled up, her cloudy eyes blinking slowly. She looked as exhausted as I felt.

My stomach growled—loud and hollow.

I pressed a hand against it, wincing. I hadn't eaten properly in days. Half a piece of bread shared with a rabbit wasn't a meal. But I didn't even know where to find food in this place.

Instead of dwelling on my hunger, I reached for the book.

How to Train a Rabbit.

The cover was worn, the pages yellowed with age. I opened it carefully, the spine cracking softly.

The first few chapters were basic—what to feed a rabbit, what foods to avoid, how to tell if she was sick. I skimmed through them, taking in the information but not fully absorbing it.

Then I reached a chapter that made me pause.

To train any beast, you must first open your heart to it. Acceptance is the foundation of growth. Your beast will only become what you believe it can be. If you see weakness, it will remain weak. If you see potential, it will rise to meet that expectation.

I looked down at the rabbit. She was still curled in my lap, her chest rising and falling with each breath. Her fur was patchy. Her ribs were visible. Her ear still flopped forward.

She looked broken.

But I remembered the bread. The way she'd pushed it toward me when she was starving. The way she'd stayed with me in the dungeon when everyone else had left. The way the shadow in the library had retreated from her.

If you see weakness, it will remain weak.

"Maybe I've been seeing you wrong," I whispered.

She didn't stir.

I turned the page.

Then I heard footsteps in the corridor. The door creaked open. The old man's head appeared, his eyes scanning the room. When they landed on me, his gaze flickered with something—recognition, maybe. Or just curiosity.

He turned to someone behind him. "Oh, there's a bed left here. You could make use of this place till we arrange a better one."

He pushed the door open fully, and Jace stepped inside.

My face brightened. I set the book down and stood, the rabbit cradled in my arms.

Jace spotted me and waved.

"Will you manage this for a few days?" the old man asked Jace.

Jace shook his head. "You don't actually have to prepare another place. I like it here already." He grinned at me. "My friend is here."

The old man shrugged. "That settles it then. Feel free to come to me if you ever feel uncomfortable."

"Okay sir, thank you."

The old man turned to me. His expression was neutral, but his eyes held something I couldn't read. He didn't smile.

"Rest," he said. Then he left, closing the door softly behind him.

Jace moved toward me, his copper-furred fox padding beside him. The fox's fur seemed to glow faintly in the dim light—happy to see its master, happy to be somewhere new.

Jace looked at the rabbit in my arms. "Her ears are cute."

I blinked. "Thanks. I think."

He dropped his bag on the bed beside mine and sat down. "So, what's the deal? Why are you in the D-rank dorm?"

I sat back down, the rabbit settling back in my lap. "My beast is D-ranked. This is where they put me."

"Ah." Jace nodded slowly. "And me? My dorm bed wasn't ready, and the C-rank rooms are full. The old man said I could stay here for now."

"I see."

"And I'm liking it here already." He grinned. "Having a friend in this place is better than having a fancy dorm anyway."

"Friend?" The word felt strange in my mouth.

"Yes, friend." He tilted his head, studying me. "That's okay, right? I know we just met, but I don't see why we can't be friends."

I paused. Something in my chest tightened. No one had ever called themselves my friend before. In my old life, I'd had acquaintances. People who tolerated me. But friends? Real friends?

"And anyway," Jace continued, "it's better to have a friend in a place like this."

"I don't know," I said carefully. "Won't being my friend affect you? The other C-rank students might pick on you."

Jace laughed. "Let them. My father always told me: your beast doesn't determine your worth. Your efforts do."

I stared at him. "Your father sounds like a wise man."

"He is." Jace's smile softened. "He's a groundskeeper. He tends to the gardens and the grounds here. He's not a noble. He's not wealthy. But he taught me that worth comes from inside, not from bloodlines."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I just nodded.

Jace settled back on his bed, stretching his arms above his head. "So, what else happened today? You said someone fooled you?"

I sighed. "A girl. She said she'd take me to the eatery. She locked me in the library instead."

Jace winced. "Tough first day."

"Tell me about it."

We laughed—a genuine, easy laugh that felt foreign and good.

Then my stomach growled again—loud enough that Jace heard it clearly.

He raised an eyebrow. "Have you eaten at all today?"

I hesitated. "Not really. I haven't eaten properly in days."

"Days?" Jace sat up. "What happened?"

I told him—about the dungeon, the bread, the carriage ride, the long journey. He listened without interrupting, his expression shifting from surprise to sympathy.

"That's rough," he said when I finished. "I have some bread and dried meat in my bag. Emergency rations from home. You can have some."

"Jace, I can't—"

"Consider it a friend's gift." He reached into his bag and pulled out a small cloth bundle. "Eat. You need strength for tomorrow."

I took the bundle, my hands trembling slightly. "Thank you."

He waved it off. "Now, get some rest. I'm exhausted."

He lay back, the fox curling up beside him. Within minutes, his breathing steadied into sleep.

I sat in the darkness, the bread in my hands, the rabbit warm in my lap.

I thought about what Jace had said. Your beast doesn't determine your worth. Your efforts do.

What efforts had I really made? I'd survived. I'd endured. But had I truly tried to make my beast better? Had I put in the work?

I looked at the rabbit. She was staring up at me with those cloudy eyes.

"Maybe I haven't been doing enough," I whispered.

I reached for the book and opened it again.

For the next hour, I read. The words blurred together at first, but slowly, I found myself absorbed.

Then—just as I was about to close the book, my frustration mounting—a word caught my eye.

Evolution.

I paused, my heart skipping.

I read the passage slowly, carefully, as if the words might disappear if I blinked too fast.

Some beasts are capable of evolution. The process varies according to species, bloodline, affinity, and innate potential. For ordinary rabbit beasts, evolution is considered nearly impossible.

I stopped.

For ordinary rabbit beasts, evolution is considered nearly impossible.

I looked down at the rabbit. She was staring at the page with those cloudy eyes—but something was different. Her ears, which had been drooping, were suddenly lifted. Alert. Listening.

"You know what that word means?" I whispered.

She didn't move. But her cloudy eyes seemed to catch the candlelight. For the briefest second, I thought I saw silver flicker inside them. Then it was gone.

I stared at her, my heart pounding.

For ordinary rabbit beasts, evolution is considered nearly impossible.

Maybe she had never been ordinary at all.

I read further, scanning for more information.

For those rare beasts capable of evolution, certain rare plants can trigger the process. The Emberbloom is one such plant—a flower that blooms only once every several years in the high mountain caves. It thrives in damp, dark spaces, and its petals hold concentrated mana.

I looked up from the book.

The mountains. The Emberbloom. A flower that bloomed once every several years.

It was impossible. Dangerous. Probably suicidal.

But it was the only lead I had.

I closed the book, my mind racing.

The mountains are home to wild beasts, the text had warned earlier. Beasts without lords, without masters. They survive through predation, and they see humans as prey. Travelers who enter the mountains alone rarely return.

I looked at the rabbit.

"We don't have a choice," I whispered. "Do we?"

She stared at me. Her cloudy eyes were still—waiting.

Then, suddenly, she lifted her head. Her ears swiveled toward the window.

I followed her gaze.

Nothing. Just the dark grounds of Aurelian Spire. The moon hung low, casting silver light across the empty courtyard.

Then, somewhere beyond the walls, something roared.

A deep, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate through the stone itself. It came from the direction of the mountains.

The rabbit didn't flinch.

She only stared into the darkness.

As if she already knew what was waiting for us.