{Elira}
~**^**~
I paused outside Zenon’s study door, my heart hamring so loudly I thought it might echo down the hall.
With a soft breath to steady myself, I lifted my hand and knocked, my knuckles barely tapping the polished wood.
A beat of silence followed before his cold voice cut through:
"Enter."
I turned the handle, stepping in quietly. The room slled of leather, old books, and that distinct scent I’d co to notice around him—oud and black pepper.
It wrapped around , unsettling and oddly familiar, reminding that this was the sa man who’d caught at the clearing before I hit the ground.
It was a reminder that there was much I didn’t know about this man.
Zenon sat behind his broad desk, a stack of neatly arranged docunts at his elbow, his gaze fixed on with that sa unreadable look.
"Sit," he ordered, voice low but commanding.
I obeyed, lowering myself into the chair opposite him. My heart felt like it was trying to crawl up my throat.
Then he extended a hand. "The letter from ESA."
I fumbled with the envelope, offering it to him with both hands, the seal already broken. His long fingers brushed mine briefly as he took it—an unremarkable touch, but it sent a small shock through my chest.
Zenon unfolded the letter, his gaze scanning the words swiftly, then folded it back, placing it carefully to one side of his desk.
He took out the attached Enrollnt Confirmation Form and then reached for a stack of sorted papers on his desk, neat and intimidating, and pushed them toward .
"Read each one carefully," he instructed, his tone clipped, "then only write your na and sign where required."
My fingers trembled slightly as I pulled the first sheet closer.
The papers weren’t just the Enrollnt Confirmation Form I was required to fill and return to the school; there were other docunts too, each demanding sothing: my personal details, my parents’ nas and occupations, guardian information, sponsor details... and lines for a signature.
As my eyes caught the section asking for my parents’ details, my chest tightened painfully.
The mory of them—my father’s laugh, my mother’s gentle hands flickered through my mind, raw and sharp.
Tears blurred the page, and I had to blink them away.
Then his cold voice snapped through the air, sharp as a slap.
"Why are you wasting ti? You only need to write your na and sign. Or is that too much?"
"I-I’m sorry," I whispered, eting his gaze briefly before lowering mine again. My voice ca out thin. "I thought I needed to fill everything."
His eyes narrowed, dark and impatient, sending a fresh wave of nerves through .
He rolled a black pen across the desk. It stopped in front of .
"Start," he ordered.
My hands felt heavy as I picked up the pen. I wrote my na carefully, each letter deliberate and round. Then I froze.
Signature.
I didn’t have one. Not really.
I hesitated, the pen hovering above the page. I scribbled lightly in the air, trying to imagine what my signature might look like, but nothing ca.
My chest tightened painfully as I realized how unprepared I truly was.
"Are you here to waste my ti?" His tone sliced through my panic once again, cold and sharp.
I lifted my gaze to his, my voice small. "I... I don’t have a signature."
He scoffed, leaning back slightly. "How can soone your age, admitted into ESA, not have a signature?"
His words stung, hot and humiliating. I dropped my gaze, ashad.
"You’re really not ready," he muttered, his voice low, as if to himself. "If you understood what you signed up for, you wouldn’t be so laidback."
The weight of those words pressed on , making my throat burn.
Then, to my surprise, he gathered the stack of forms from under my hand. I thought for a terrible mont that he was about to take my admission away. And I was very well ready to get on my knees and beg.
Instead, he placed two plain sheets of paper in front of .
"Create one," he ordered curtly. "And practice until you don’t forget it."
My pulse thudded in my ears. I glanced at the blank sheet. Where did I even start?
I tried to rember my father’s signature, but the mory was faded and soft around the edges. Nothing was clear.
Still, I lowered my pen, drawing a shaky curve, then another. What I produced looked more like a wandering insect than anything official.
When I glanced up, Zenon’s gaze was fixed on the page, sharp and unimpressed.
"Are you drawing an ant?" His voice was cold, but sothing about the bluntness almost made want to laugh—except I was too nervous. And he might bite my head off.
"I... I don’t know how to create one," I admitted, my voice almost breaking.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly frustrated. "You were just sent to raise my blood pressure," he muttered under his breath.
Then, in a single smooth motion, he picked up his calligraphy pen, uncapped it, and signed his own na on the other plain sheet.
The signature flowed in elegant, practiced strokes—sharp curves and unique angles, powerful yet refined. It was... beautiful.
I caught myself staring.
"Look," he said, his voice low and instructive now. "Use the initials of your na, add unique strokes only you can repeat perfectly. If it’s too simple, anyone can forge it."
I nodded, still srized by his neat handwriting.
"Rember," he continued, "if soone forges your signature, you could get into serious trouble. And be careful who you sign in front of. So people can copy a signature just by watching once."
His words sank deep, sobering . No one had ever taught this much about protection, about risk.
"Thank you," I whispered, voice small but sincere.
He didn’t answer.
Slowly, I lowered my pen again, and this ti, guided by what he’d shown , I began to shape sothing new—
My first real signature.
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