Page 25 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
“Case in point,” she says.
“That was effective,” I reply.
“That wasweird,” she counters.
By the time we reach her last class of the day, I’ve been instructed on everything from how long to hold a door (apparently not until the other person is “uncomfortably indebted”) to the correct volume for “indoor voice” (a human standard far quieter than any war room I’ve been in).
I learn some of her world’s habits. She learns that my patience is not infinite.
But I also learn where the choke points on this campus are. Which buildings have multiple exits. Where someone could watch her without being seen.
And if my way of moving through this place draws attention? Then at least I know who’s paying it.
The dining hall is a cavern of noise and smells.
Voices bounce off the high ceiling, overlapping into a single dull roar. Somewhere to my left, a machine hisses steam. To the right, something metallic clatters, followed by a human cursing under their breath.
Skylar leads me through the press of bodies with the kind of precision you’d expect from someone threading through a battlefield. We stop at a counter where a sweating man in a white hat slides round, steaming discs onto wooden boards.
“This,” Skylar says, as she grabs two paper plates, “is pizza. A cultural experience you can’t leave Earth without trying.”
The word sounds ridiculous in my mouth. “Peetz-ah.”
She smirks. “Close enough.”
The slice she hands me is hot enough to sting my fingers. The smell is… strange. Dough, cooked tomatoes, melted fat, and a sharp herbal bite I can’t place. I take a bite anyway.
It’s… not bad. The crust has a pleasant chew, the topping salty and rich. But the way Skylar’s watching me — expecting some grand revelation — makes me swallow and say, “Acceptable. But unworthy of its hype.”
Her jaw drops. “Unworthy of its hype? That’s blasphemy.”
“I was told this food was legendary,” I say, tearing off another bite. “Songs should not be written about it.”
“No one’s writing songs about it!” she laughs, but her voice carries just enough to draw attention from the table behind us. Three of her friends — I can tell by the way they wave at her — are watching.
She pulls me toward them. “Come on, you’ve got to meet people if you’re going to survive here.”
I’ve survived plenty without meeting people. But I follow.
“This is Jenna, Dave, and Mal,” Skylar says once we’re at the table. “Guys, this is Rovax. He’s, uh?—”
“A foreign exchange student,” I finish for her, letting the words roll off my tongue like they taste of iron.
“Where from?” Dave asks, shoving a heap of something yellow into his mouth.
“Far,” I answer.
Jenna blinks. “Like… Europe far?”
“Farther.” I take another bite of pizza, letting the silence do the rest.
Skylar elbows me under the table. “He’s still adjusting,” she says with a smile that looks a little too tight.
Her friends nod, but their eyes linger on me longer than I like. Jenna studies my face as though trying to memorize it. Mal’s gaze keeps darting to my hands, where the glamour covers the runes but not the shape of a swordsman’s grip.
I decide to test them. “Why,” I ask Jenna, “do humans eat in groups?”
She blinks again. “Uh… it’s social? Like… bonding?”
