As spring touched the edges of the city, something began to shift within Alcarion’s classroom — not just in the students, but in the very air. It was as though the room itself had begun to breathe.

And so, he proposed an idea:

“We will not end this term with a test,” he said.

“We will end it with a constellation — made not of stars, but of stories.”

Each student was to create something that expressed their inner world — a piece of who they were when they weren’t trying to fit in. There were no rules. No grades. Just an open sky and their imaginations.

Some wrote poems.

Some choreographed silent dances.

One boy built a sculpture out of spoons and string.

One girl painted her emotions as colors inside a heart-shaped labyrinth.

Another wrote a comic where each panel was a mask — and only the last one showed a tear.

They called it The Constellation Within — and they turned their classroom into a gallery.

On the day of the showing, parents and teachers wandered in, expecting crafts and simple projects. But instead, they found truth. Messy, radiant, fragile truths — displayed without apology. People wept, quietly. Smiled, silently. Some stayed longer than they meant to.

At the center of the room, Alcarion stood not as a teacher, but as a witness.

This wasn’t his light.

It was theirs.

He had only helped them uncover it.

In the corner, Dama Virell watched too — her notebook now filled with poems.

And in her eyes, something like stardust shimmered.

After the guests left, the students gathered in a circle. They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to. One by one, they placed their projects in the center like celestial offerings.

And Alcarion, with his hand over his heart, said:

“This is what learning is.

Not memorizing answers —

but remembering who you are.”

The room went quiet.

But it wasn’t silence anymore.

It was space —

for everything they had become.

PART X: The Treasury of Fire