Chapter 1 Breath Before The Storm

    The final bell rang abruptly, putting an end to three hours of a dense, grueling lecture. Instantly, the lecture hall erupted into a chaotic symphony of rustling papers, scraping chairs, and the sudden burst of student chatter as everyone eagerly packed up their supplies.

Tap-tap-tap! The sharp, rhythmic snapping of chalk against the blackboard cut through the noise, instantly demanding silence. A sharp, grueling bass voice boomed across the room, demanding absolute sheer freezing fear, “Sever your distractions and give me the full, undivided attention.” As the grueling bass of the professor’s voice echoed through the hall, a breathless hush fell over every student. Breaking the sudden stillness, I slammed my textbook shut, letting out a sharp, weary sigh only to myself—whuff. Finally, Some peace and quiet. They were yapping so much. As the silence got quieter and students one by one sat down the professor took the floor.

He was a man covered gloomy-tone shade and having an unrelenting discipline of his personality. His presence had absolute atmospheric pressure in the room felt altered, as though the monolithic frame occupied more physical space than any single person should. Around us, the muffled hushed voices of my fellow students died out instantly, and colleagues.

His face was an austere map of hard-won, bitter wisdom, etched with deep, permanent creases around the brow and mouth that spoke of sleepless decades and heavy

burdens. Underneath those sterns, deeply lined brows, his eyes were a sharp, analytic chestnut brown. They held a dark, piercing intensity that caused the air to catch like glass in my throat— a gaze that felt entirely unblinking, as if he were constantly dissecting my very thoughts. Framing his weathered face; (not so weathered,) slightly covered by his dark–sleek hair, parted cleanly down the middle. 

It hung in long, straight strands that tucked neatly behind his ears, through a few sharp, loose pieces fell forward to the frame his temples. The rest of his hair was drawn back tightly, a low-slung ponytail, and keeping it out the way. Most striking, however, was the dark oval-shaped gem embedded into the center of his forehead, resting perfectly between his parted hair.

He wore a high-collared, midnight-black tunic tailored with agonizing military precision; the heavy fabric looked less like cloth and more impenetrable, light-absorbing armor. Over his broad shoulders draped a voluminous, heavy cloak of the same abyssal hue, fastened at the base of his throat by a thick, intricately knotted cord that looked taut enough to choke a lesser man. 

The cloak fell in the deep, sweeping folds that seemed to swallow the ambient light, pooling around his boots as he stood behind the heavy desk. His hands were encased in dark, supple leather gloves; their material so fine that the sharp contours of his knuckles were visible, crossed arms; firmly over his chest.

Around his waist, a broad, dual-layered leather belt was cinched tight; its massive, rectangular buckle glinting with the dull, tarnished sheen of oxidized iron. Even his heavy sleeves were bound tight, finished with a series of silver-buckled straps at wrists.

“Silence...” he began, his voice a low rumble that resonated through the now room hall. (The classroom to be accurate), His presence is a scent of a stern as a frosty winter. His name… Aethelred.

He was the instructor for this class. And one of the best; even though he’s respected as a well-known educator, his “personality” is; some people would say, a work-in-progress. The classroom remained so still that the faint hum of low light of sundown felt deafening. Professor Aethelred stood behind his heavy desk, his gloved hands flat against the polished wood as his analytic, chestnut-brown eyes swept over the sea of silent students.

“...” a strong silent stayed in the air for a good minute. 

“As you know, this class is in its final semester, and you need to finish a final written project. And for this project this class must be able to explain (PUP). Parallel Universe Paradoxes. And for its deadline will be by summer sun Celebration. The number of pages will be around thirty,” his tone, strict, but also sharp.

A quiet gasp was choked back somewhere in the back row. But as I stared down at my desk, I did the math in my head. Thirty pages. That’s a massive workload, but completely manageable if I play this smart. I could easily have it done in two weeks if I partitioned my time perfectly.

My mind immediately began organizing the layout. The first week will be entirely dedicated to research—gathering the heavy reference texts, charting the temporal anomalies, and building the structural framework I need to actually start writing. The second week? That's for execution. I'll hammer out the prose and lock down the proper details, so everything aligns seamlessly before the deadline.

Then, a cold realization hit me. I leaned back slightly, a frown tugging at my brow. Right... the corrections. If I didn't cross-reference those specific structural corrections first, my entire framework would collapse before I even penned page one. I would need to secure the updated codices from the library before the other students. Putting my open-bent palm as I was in thought.

The sound of my quill scribbling down the details stopped; as I hear the voice of a student’s plea.

Near the middle row, a brave—or perhaps entirely foolish—student cleared his throat. The sound scraped against the frigid silence like sandpaper. 

"Um, Professor Aethelred?" The student stammered, raising a trembling hand a half inch above his desk. "Regarding the final project... for the thirty pages on this prompt you're giving us..., I was wondering if you could clarify which updated references we should be using?”

He had this messy, voluminous hair—a wild, humanized blend of sunset-orange and peach tones that was tapered down at his neck, though a chunk of it swept back across his forehead. Even under the rigid dress code, he looked a bit unruly. He was wearing the standard male uniform: a structured, light-cream asymmetrical vest that extended past his hips, layered over a deep chocolate-brown shirt with a high, stiff collar. A cream ascot was tucked neatly at his throat, pinned down by a bright green gemstone, and his forest-green cap sleeves contrasted sharply against his dark sleeves. He’d cinched the whole look together with a heavily patterned, colorful waist sash over his slim beige trousers. His gem; almost, Agate colored.

There, etched distinctly onto his skin just enough to expose the top of his hand, a special crest, was a cutie mark—an intricate, brilliant ice-blue snowflake. Its sharp, crystalline geometric arms fractured into stunning shades of cerulean and turquoise, gleaming faintly under the low room of light.

“Creek!” 

Aethelred leaned forward slightly. The golden light of the fading sundown hit the oval gem on his forehead, casting a sharp shadow across his face. It was long and angular, carrying a severe, joyless expression defined by hard, sharp contours. Creases were etched heavily between his stern brows and traveled down from the sides of his nose past the corners of his thin, firmly set mouth, emphasizing an air of bitter, sleepless years.

He began to take steps, tromping heavily. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of Professor Aethelred’s boots echoed through the room like a countdown. The deep, sweeping folds of his abyssal cloak shifted around him, completely swallowing the dim light. He stopped right at the edge of the dais, looking down at the trembling student with an expression so freezing it made the five-degree drop in the room feel like an absolute understatement.

The student’s voice withered into nothing, his clear, sky-blue eyes darting nervously as his hand hovered weakly in the air. A line of sweat ran down the student’s left side cheek.

Aethelred just glowered at him, then asked him to repeat his question. “Can you reiterate that question Mr. Haze.” As he said the student's name in a menacing equally fearsome presentation.

Huff, Onyx you could just stay quiet and only listen. Now everyone (including me). We are now stuck in the classroom for this five-minute silence, thanks to you! I said with an aggravated mindset. not ganna lie, even I was going to ask the same question, but I knew it would end up like this.

“It... it's fine, sir,” Onyx mumbled, looking around and realizing none of his classmates were about to back him up. Slouching with discomfort, he quickly sat back down.

Professor Aethelred began to traverse dowered at the center aisle; arms tucked behind his back as he was holding his right wrist with his left gloved hand. And while doing so, he started to explain a bit more as he walked. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a sleek, gray colored pamphlet, tapping it against his palm. That if we paid an ear to listen to, this project he was handing it in with a very strict on do's and whatnots. 

The Dos: We had to utilize the Revised Chronomantic Codices from the library for all structural calculations. If we relied on pre-collapse frameworks, the paper would be an automatic failure. We also had to map out the localized entropy of each paradox, ensuring the mathematical formulas balanced out the temporal degradation.

The Don'ts: Absolute zero tolerance for speculative sentimentalism. He made it clear he didn't care about the emotional toll of a fractured timeline, so our prose needed to stay strictly objective. More importantly, we couldn't cross-contaminate our examples—mixing a grandfather's anomaly with a Bootstrap loop showed a fundamental lack of academic discipline.

“And finally," Aethelred added, stopping at the center aisle and letting his eyes lock onto the class, "the hard deadline. The dawn of the Summer Sun Celebration. A single minute past the first light, and your thirty pages will be reduced to ash. No extensions. No exception.”

He turned on his heel, his cloak billowing out behind him in a wide, sweeping arc as he marched back toward the blackboard, leaving the room in a state of absolute, terrified stillness.

“.... You may leave now,” he stated, with only the sound of paper being picked up and tapped on his table.

...

The moment the professor’s brief, icy dismissal cut through the air, the spell broke. The lecture hall erupted back to life as panicked students scrambled to pack up, the air instantly filling with the frantic zip of bags and anxious murmuring.

I looked down at my copy of the pamphlet, my fingers tightening against the crisp edge of the paper. The guidelines were brutal, a total academic minefield, but my eyes immediately darted back to the bold lettering near the top: The Revised Chronomantic Codices.

My initial instinct was completely right. The key to surviving this assignment wasn't just working hard—it was working fast. I needed to get to the library the exact second I cleared these doors. If I didn't grab those updated texts, my perfect two-week timeline was toast.

After the last student finally drifted out of the classroom, the hall felt unnaturally large. The frantic noise of shuffling papers and chair legs scraping against stone had faded into the distance, by the corridor beyond the doors. What remained was a strange, heavy quiet– one that pressed upon my ears until even the smallest sound felt intrusive. 

I stayed seated for a moment, letting the silence settle around me. A slow, steady exhale wrapped beside me felt like a cold; refreshing river water. Then, I began to check my supplies: my quills were there. Ink vial –sealed. Notes from today’s lecture– messy, but salvageable. The pamphlet the professor had provided us rested on top of my stack like a threat in paper form. I slid it aside and checked a second time again; patting down each item with careful precision.

And then, I froze.

One of my tomes was missing. I blinked and looked down again, as if staring harder would somehow make it appear between my notes. It wasn't there. The irritation rose immediately, hot and sharp. I knew I had brought it. I always bring it. The dark green volume with the brass-cornered spine was too important to forget—no way I would have walked into class without it.

My gaze swept across my bench. Then the one beside it. Nothing. I stood slowly, the legs of my chair dragging against the floor with a low scrape that echoed farther than it should have. I turned in a slow circle, my eyes narrowing over.

That was when I saw it. A single tome rested on a random bench three rows down and near the far aisle, placed almost too nearly against the wood as if someone had set it there with deliberate care. I had a scowl on my face filled with confusion.

How did it get over there? For a second, I just stood still, staring at it. 

I had been in the same seat for the entire lecture. I hadn’t gotten up at once. No one had approached me, either– or at least, no one that I noticed. And with Aethelred’s presence flattening out the room for most of the final announcement, I doubted anyone would’ve been stupid enough to wander around without reason.

Unless it had been moved before class ended. Or—

No. Don’t be ridiculous.

I gathered the of my things first, slippin’ my quills into their case and tucking my papers into my satchel with force if necessary. I kept glancing toward the bench. It was definably mine.

“Levitas!” I thought of a small spell to fetch the book. A small glow in one of my fingers to drag it directly towards was enough. As it got closer, I snatched it quickly. Swoosh~ I looked at it with a firm confirmation: 

As the faint shine faded, that included the radiance of my gem worn off, the worn spine, the faint silver embossing, the tiny crack near the lower corner where I’d dropped it on the dormitory steps two months ago– I recognized all of it instantly. But from where i stood, something about it looked... off. Not exactly. Just out of place that made my neck tighten. A faint draft stirred through the lecture hall, enough to brush past the hem of my uniform and slip under my collar like cold fingers. My grip tightened the strap of my satchel.

Each step going down the aisle sounded louder than it should have. Tap. Tap. Tap. A wry smirk played on my curved lips. As I stepped down to the last bench in the in the far right near the door to exit, I stopped and stared down at it once more. Yes. It is mine. Hmm...? What’s... it was mine. As I looked closely at it, I saw something tucked beneath the cover– a thin silver parchment that was folded in half and easy to see. It was protruding from the pages. My confusion sharpened into suspicion. 

It was folded once down the middle, crisp and clean, with no seal pressed into it. No name on the outside. No insignia from ant department archive, either. (But there was something was recognizable,) “My faithful student.”

A pulse of unease worked its way into my chest. I unfolded it carefully. There were only two lines written inside, in dark precise iron gall ink. “Please come to headmasters' quarters post haste.” It was from the princess.

... A request from the Princess wasn't something you put on a waiting list. I stared at it and that was it. I turned the sheet over. Blank. 

No watermark. No hidden script I could see in the low light. I angled it toward the window, anyway, watching the sunset glow through the paper, but nothing else revealed itself. Just those two sentences, sitting there maddening calm, as if being cryptic. I stood there in silence– lifting my head with a tenacious smug I heave forth-ahead.

...After minutes walking the school passageway I got Infront the headmasters' entry. I began to wheeze; inhaling and exhaling slowly to calm down. I raised my hand a smitch as I made a fist; knocked at the door I heard an angelic voice telling me to come in. As the door opened, the craze of an afore fictitious goddess was gleaming in my proximity.

“How may I, a member of your subjects, be able to facilitate your grace...?” I stated, as I genuflected in one knee.

[Genuflect: bending one knee or both to show respect to once superior.] 

“Rise, my student,” the Princess spoke. Her voice carrying a resonant, melodic warmth that instantly dissolved the rigid panic lingering in my chest. “Delighted that you were able to attend,” she added, seated gracefully behind her magnificent, dark mahogany desk— a sprawling masterpiece trimmed in ornate gold filigree that gleamed under the soft lighting of the headmaster's quarters.

I stood up, smoothing down the front of my uniform as I tried to regain my composure. Here, the scent of fresh parchment; well-kept magic hung comfortably in the air. Behind her, heavy bookshelves stretched toward the ceiling, but my attention remained fixed on the solar deity before me. The Princess offered a gentle, knowing smile, her multicolored hair shifting like a slow-moving aurora even in the stillness of the room. She gave a diminutive pause. Puff! She closed the heavy leather-bound ledger she had been reading, folding her elegant hands atop the polished wood. I looked at her, as she looked at me.

“Presume your final semester with Professor Aethelred proved... enlightening” she observed, a restrained, knowing amusement glimmering in her light-grayish- magenta eyes. It was apparent that she was aware of Aethelred's grueling final academic project.

Enlightening... Is certainly one word for it, I told myself as I tried to keep my sangfroid in check. “Your grace,” I replied, keeping my tone respectful, but apparently, my exhaustion slipped through and she noticed. “Well, how do I put it? He has set the bar quite high for this final project.”

“Really? How come?” 

“He made a condition. That this capstone project should be thirty pages long and due precisely at the dawn of the Summer Sun Celebration.” I blurted. 

The Princess tilted her head; asking me to take a seat on the couch that was by the far-right wall. “Hmm, Mr. Shine, please take a sit.” I let my eyes follow her glance toward the far-left wall and– Oh. The couch was the kind of furniture that doesn't so much exist in a room as it does occupy it. It's arrangement, a long, sweeping chaise set on cabriole legs carved in deep Ash Brown, the wood was as dark as cherry-stained ink and polished to a shine that could be caught by candlelight and be leaping off the princess's desk and threw it back twice as bright. The frame was asymmetric, with black rising on the left side in a tall, ornately scrolled headrest and sloping down on the right into a low, gentle arm – built, I realized after a beat, for exactly one per-son.

A single round pillow– pale cream, gathered like the center of a sunflower– sat propped against the headrest, soft enough that I caught myself wondering, briefly, whether it smelled like the rest of the room did. A sent of cedar or burnt lavender. As someone was purifying the surface.

Is the lavender sent coming from somewhere? It's not coming from the cabinet. It's not from the desk the princess is sitting at.

I let my gaze track along the wall, past the bookshelves, past the second window, until it landed on a small round burl- walnut table tucked into the corner between the couch and the side wall. with ebonwood pedestal and gilded lion's-paw feet. A tall, glossy pair of broad S-scroll curving down on either side.

— I counted them; I was going to count something, because the princess was watching, and I am not going who blinks first– those four small lion paws like feet, gilded in a bright, almost theatrical gold. That gets re- applied every spring by someone proficient...

That is where the lavender is coming from. On the center of the round top, a shallow copper dish sat in a ring of its own residue of the scent.

A single coil of dried lavender rested in the middle, half-spent, still breathing out the smallest whisper of scent into the room.

The princess nodded slowly, her expression turning slightly more serious, though the warmth never left her face. “Aethelred... he expects nothing short of perfection from his students in the temporal arts. Harshly, so, at times. But he never demands such things without reason.” I sat back against the chaise, taking care not to sink into it too quickly. 

“Ah, but where are my manners? I nearly forgot,” the Princess added, pausing mid-stride. She turned her gaze to her left, gesturing toward a woman standing quietly in the shadows near the bookshelf. This assistant was a picture of rigid composure. A testament to her disciplined nature. Her sleek, dark hair was meticulously pulled back into a high bun, so immaculate it seemed sculpted, and a pair of thick, black framed glasses sat precisely on the bridge against her nose. Just above them, nestled in the center of her forehead, was a flawless, milk-white gemstone, catching the subdued light with faint, pearlescent shimmer.

Dressed impeccably in a crisp, light blue button-down shirt, dark slate skirt, and a neatly knotted red tie; she cradled a large, open leather-bound ledger in one arm. Her sharp brown eyes darted across the page, poised to absorb every word spoken in the room. “Ms. Inkwell if you please.” the headmaster spoke with gentle tone. “With grace, please hand a cup of star tea blend to Mr. Shine,” she said. A broad, enthusiastic grind spreading across her face.

“Yes, Headmistress.” Her assistant, lady Inkwell, bow and walked to the Princess personal kitchen.

“Oh, I truly appreciate the offer, but it's not really necessary, your majesty.” I spoke with Jittery tone.

The princess chuckled, a sound like silver bells muffled by a sweet melodic tenderness. “Don’t be silly, Mr. Shine. This star Tea Blend is special— grown in the ‘Lunar gardens’, harvested under the midnight moon. Its effects help clear the mind, which I imagine you'll need for those thirty pages.” I shifted on the chaise, the leather groaning softly beneath me.

The assistant of the princess returned, moving with a quiet, almost invisible grace, carrying a silver tray. It was an antique piece; its surface polished to a mirror's sheen, reflecting the soft light of the room like a sill pond. Edges were scalloped and intricately pierced with a delicate, almost lace-like pattern, and it rested on small, clawed feet.

On it sat two porcelain cups, one of the two, its handle adorned with a tiny, sculpted floral accent, the liquid inside a deep, pale yellowish-greenish hue. She set the tray on the blur- walnut table beside me with a soft, precise click. As she did, her sharp brown eyes, so composed behind her thick glasses, flickered to mine. 

It wasn’t a hostile look, (well, it was a bit,) almost wary one, as if she were assessing a threat. Why is she looking at me like that? What did I do? I was confused by a smidge. Looking at lady Inkwell with perplexity.

Still, I said thank you to her, “Most grateful for the tea, I accept the cup.” I mumbled, reaching for the cup. Steam floating as a specter of white that yielded inside my noise. The scent of a citrus aroma that hit with a distinct minty- spearmint finish. “Sniff!” The fragrance was beautiful.

Inkwell passed the other cup filled with the tea to the headmaster as well. “Your tea your majesty.” 

“Thank you, Raven.” She called her by her first name.

She took a sip and the sensation of the drink gave her a look of delight. Her eyes closed to absorb it with ardor. She proceeds by putting her cup lightly in the saucer that was on top of her desk in the center of her eye view. A small clink of the cup hitting the plate wasn't too hard, but instead, firm and soothing. She gave a glance at me and said, “Oh my, is the drink not your liking?”

As she said it, I felt an icy baleful- ish stare that was poking me as if some were throwing knives as if they were made off pieces of shards of a glacier. I realized, a beat too late, that I was still only holding the cup.

“No, your majesty,” I said quickly, straightening my posture as I was sited. “It smells delightful. My mind was... umm... distracted.” And trying not to freeze under your Assistant’s stare. At last, I lifted the teacup and took a careful sip. The warmth spread— followed by the clean brightness of citrus, and the cool sweetness of the mint, and something delicate that caught the tongue; swirling sensation of the soft floral dink that was like silk. 

The tension I had carried from the late lecture was eased from my shoulders. The princess noticed my tranquil body language, and she gave me a gracious smirk. “There,” she said, pleased. “A clear mind is better suited for this conversation.” The princess leaned forward, the setting sun catching the gold filigree. Her expression remained delicate, but there was an underlying gravity to her words that made the tea in my stomach feel a sudden heft.

“As you know,” she began, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum, “I gave you two weeks away from your “special training” for a reason, Mr. Shine. I scheduled this plan for you to use this valuable time to ground yourself for the finality of the semester. “The teacup rattled against the saucer as I lowered it. Special training? My mind stalled, the gears grinding against a sudden, inexplicable blockage.

I set the porcelain cup down back down onto its saucer with a delicate, deliberate click, though my hand had begun to tremble just enough to rattle the fine china. The soothing warmth of the mint and citrus suddenly felt like a lead in my stomach. “Training …?” I repeated the word tasting ash-like on my tongue. “Your Grace, I… I assumed my schedule for the remainder of the term was strictly dedicated to completing my studies for end of this term?”  

“And it is,” she said smoothly, her tone bearing that terrifyingly tranquil grace that only centuries of absolute authority could cultivate.

“You… you can’t mean…” My voice faltered. I caught myself immediately, clamping my jaw shut. Smoothed the crease of my trousers, forcing my posture to remain rigid against the deep cushions of the chaise. “Forgive me, Headmistress. But…” My hands and face began to perspire.

Suddenly, footsteps outside at the door made me jump with trepidation. She turned her gaze toward the door in her frontal view. My mind began to race, tumbling into a dark spiral of realization. Wait... Please. No. Anyone else. The air in the room, previously scented with a soothing lavender and the bright citrus of the tea, suddenly turned frigid.

I stared at the door. A twist in my stomach breached inside me. Raven Inkwell didn’t even flinch. She simply adjusted her thick, black-framed glasses, her sharp brown eyes sliding over to me with a look that felt suspiciously like grim pity.

“Is… is he coming…” Then, it came. Those terrifying three knocks.

“Rap-tap-tap-tap!”

“Your majesty, am I permitted to enter?” The voice was a low-pitch of a man who spoke, a sound that didn’t just travel through the air but seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and settle deep within my chest. It was a voice I had heard countless times. I managed to whisper, the air catching like glass in my throat as the brass door handle slowly began to turn.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. Please, no. Not here. Not now. The Princess didn’t look at me. Her expression remained serene, almost expectant, as she smoothed a stray strand of her multicolored hair. “You may enter,” she replied, her voice carrying a resonant, melodic warmth that felt like a shield—or perhaps a bridge.

The heavy brass latch clicked, and the door swung open with a slow, deliberate creek.

The figure who stepped through was a stark, jarring contrast to the refined elegance of the Headmistress’s office. He wasn’t draped in the light-absorbing silks of Aethelred or the ornate filigree of the Princess. Instead, he looked like he had just walked off a blood-soaked battlefield and hadn’t bothered to wash the dust from his soul. He was a man built of hard angles and weary experience. His dark hair was a messy, unkempt thicket; strands falling haphazardly across a brow etched with the lines of someone who had seen too many suns set on lost causes. A rough, dark stubble clung to his jawline.

(You could say he was a man that drip of good looks.) His attire was purely functional, a testament to a life that lived in the margins of safety. He wore a dark, heavy tunic crisscrossed by thick leather straps and a broad bandolier that buckled across his chest. Most striking was the massive, layered leather pauldron that sat atop his left shoulder, scarred and darkened by years of use. A heavy sword hilt, simple and utilitarian, peeked from his waist, its presence a silent threat in the quiet room.

I instantly dropped into a low, formal bow, my chest tightening with a familiar, instinctive prickle of fear.

He broke into a wide, toothy grin that seemed almost too large for his weary features. His eyes crinkled at the corners, “Hey,” he rumbled, his voice losing its grinding edge and taking on a tone of rough, boisterous affection. His appearance looked less like a threat and more like a man seeing a long-lost friend—or perhaps a particularly amusing pet.

Seolc Sullivan. The ex-commander of the Royal Knights—though those close enough to survive his temper usually just called him “Silky.” I have known him since I was a kid. And he was my brother's instructor at the Royal Guard Academy. The name of the Academy is known as Pennyroyal Guard Academy. It was created by the person of the same name, Ivory Pennyroyal.

“If it isn't my favorite,” I knew what he was going to say. I wanted him to stay quiet or say something else, but, in the end, he said it. “Little Glow Worm”. I felt time itself froze, and only silence remained.

“...””

I felt the silence in the room stretch to a suffocating length, while he just stood there with that same boisterous, unfiltered grin plastered across his face. Not a single soul moved.

Headmistress Celestia simply took a delicate, unbothered sip of tea, the steam rising between us like a barrier against the awkwardness' radiating off my shoulders. Princess, I can see that little smirk threatening the corner of your mouth.

Besides her, Ms. Inkwell was somehow even worse. She turned toward the bookshelf with such abrupt precision that it might have passed for subtlety– if I had been blind. While you! Are not even attempting to be discreet! Heat crept viciously up my neck and settled beneath my collar. I could feel it in my face now. Excellent. Splendid. I was being slowly– roasting alive in front of royalty.

“Seolic...!” I choked out, and absolute horror. The word pitched up and came an octave higher than it should have. I stared at him flatly. He stared back, entirely unbothered, and with a face filled with befuddlement. Seolc had his arms cross at his chest; head crock to the side.

“You always get this dramatic when I say it?”

“I am not being dramatic,” I said. My voice is coming out flatter than a plank of wood nailed to a coffin lid– (which, considering the atmosphere, felt oddly appropriate.) “Harrumphs!” The words left my mouth like a bird that had forgotten how to soar. Seolc tilted his head the other way like a dog who'd just registered a sound it couldn't quite place. His grin didn't so much fade as it grew root– stubborn branches of amusement crackin' across his weathered face. “Sure, you're not,” he said, holding his hands up in a mock to surrender.

I gave him an annoyed look– the kind that, if looks could be bottled, would have been labeled something along the lines of Caution: Contents Under Pressure and Vexed Beyond the Bounds of mortal patience. My face puffed, the heat of which I could feel blooming in my cheeks like a small, very personal hearth that had been struck. I didn't puff up outward, mind you–

I didn't have the chest for theatrics, much less for air– but rather inward, the way a balloon was inflated. The pout, it turned out, was contagious. The sensation changes before I saw it – the way you feel a sneeze was building inside a room before it actually detonates.

My cheeks filled with something that wasn't air and wasn't fury but was, somehow, related to both. (And my eyes– goodness my eyes. They hadn't helped. They had decided, on their own private council, to go sharp. Sharp and bright, the was a freshly-honed knife that catches the light for one fleeting, dangerous second before cutting. They were fixed on Seolc with all the fire, and they did not blink once.

Ms. Inkwell saw it first. Of course she did. That woman misses nothing She was enjoying this isn't she!? That woman is going to make me mad.

“By the name of our goddess, kid.” He took a step back; half-step, mind you, a half-step in a man of his size is roughly equivalent to a retreat or pass back in anyone else. “I– did you–” he gestured at my face. A small smirk and his hand a small fist twisted to the side and blocked his lips from bombastic laughter. “Are you pouting?”

I had a perturbed frown that made me stammer my respond. “I'm...not pouting!” My cheeks puffed even further. Seolic's grin finally broke. Into laughter– hard to breathe from struggling to catch his own breath. His broad shoulders gave one traitorous shake. Then another.

Headmistress Celestia lowered her teacup with exquisite care. “Commander Sullivan,” she said gently. Still, she had a modest sting in speech. Though the warmth in her voice now carried the faintest glimmer of warning. “Spare him. I think he's suffering enough already. Don't you agree, Ms. Inkwell?” Seolic failed first, a rough laugh slipping out before he could stop it. Beside the shelves, Raven let out a small, helpless giggle of her own– brief, but enough. The moment she realized the Headmistress was looking at her, she straightened at once, the sound dying in her throat.

Composure returned to her face with a practiced speed, though the faint guilt in her eyes suggested she already knew she had overstepped. Oh, now she remembers how to behave. How convenient. How very noble of her to recover her professionalism only after assisting in the horse-laughter. I thought as if I were wearing a resting, annoying face.

I took a long, steady breath through my nose. Then discharge it outdoors. I straightened my spine, adjusting the cuffs of my uniform with meticulous, exaggerated care to regain whatever slightest discarded of self-respect I had left. “If we are quite finished evaluating my facial expressions,” I began. My voice deliberately pitched flat and unembellished, “Perhaps someone might enlighten me as to why Commander Sullivan is standing in the headmaster's quarters... and what, precisely, this has to do with me?”

Gulp!

Princess Celestia took a sip of her tea; as she was preparing to leave, I grabbed my study supplies and walked to the door, but first I gave everyone a bow and my adieus. Suddenly, I heard the sound of porcelain throw-in with a sturdy clink. The gentle, amused warmth in her light-magenta eyes shifted, settling into a look of profound, solemn sobriety. “Always so eager to skip to the end of the chapter, Dusk,” she said softly. “Very well.” What'd she meant by me skipping to the end? Am I missing something? As I pondered, my thoughts were shaken with full on befuddlement.

She gestured toward the wide space in front of her desk. Seolic took the hint, stepping forward. The heavy soles of his combat boots thudded against the polished floor. It was a stark, grounded sound that instantly banished the lighthearted air from the room. That casual, boisterous grin had vanished from his face— replaced by the sharp, calculating gaze. He began by saying, “your will is my command, your Majesty.” as he arches down in a bow.

He stood up and turned his head as he looked at me. “I hope you're ready.” As he said it with fire in his eye. “...Rea-ready for what?” I asked, my voice paused with a quiver. As I lifted my head to be able to lock my eyes with his. My grip tightened the strap of my satchel until my knuckles turned pale alongside the leather.

“For reality...” Ex-commander Sullivan spoke with a hash tone. “In this moment ahead you’ll be halted from being in concealment ink and parchments, he said, voice dropping down into a low, gravelly rumble. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, the thick leather of his binding in which it was groaning against his tunic. “Your little academic break is over, kid.” It's over? No. It can’t be true. Why is this happening? What about my current schedule? I can't let this be suspended; I need more time. Princess, please! I pivot my head to the side and gave over a look full of sorrowfulness. “The princess didn’t drag; I mean, reluctantly convinced me back into service just to watch you flip through library books.”

I darted my eyes toward the desk, practically begging the universe for a heroic intervention— or at least a sudden, convenient distraction— from the Headmistress. But Celestia’s face completely sheds its gentle, teasing warmth. 

She just sat there, sipping her tea with horrifying calmness, leaving me to realize with a sinking chest that my royal reprieve wasn’t coming. She gave rejuvenate breathe and gape at me with her light-magenta eyes with a quiet focus. “Look around this place, Dusk,” she said softly. Her melodic voice dropping into a tone so quiet and sober it made my stomach do a slow, sickly drop. Look at your fellow classmates and the rest of the students that walk in these corridors. Ninety percent of them genuinely believe that a shiny gem and a flashy incantation will solve every disaster they ever run into. They lean on their mana like a crutch, convinced that as they can throw up a pretty shield, nothing in this world can touch them.” she set her teacup down with a faint, deliberate clink.

“Out of that vast majority, the intuitional records speak for themselves. According to the last five decades of gradate tracking, roughly forty-five percent drift directly into pure academic research or archival studies– spen-ding their careers behind heavy stone walls where a physical threat is Virtually non-existent.

While thirty-five percent enlisted in the Royal Guard's military hierarchy. They enter at the absolute bottom as Squire-Cadets, shield-Bearers, and Ward-Probationers. As they try to grind their way to the top as Aether-Ensigns and Ward-Lieutenants, Spell- Captains, Vangard Tribune- Commanders, and ultimately High Arch-Marshals within our tactical strike divisions. A bead of sweat trickled down my brow when I heard her words. It felt a time froze. “And every single tier of that structure is littered with officers who arrogantly assume high-output offensive magic replaces the need for actual combat conditioning.”

She gestured lightly to her side as she turned her head. Sitting on her chair she glanced towards the broad, scar-ridden man standing beside her desk, a small, teasing smile playing at the corners of her lips. “They completely overlook a glaring historical truth: raw physical survival,” Celestia said, her voice smooth as polished marble.

“Wielding a gemstone isn't a strict requirement for martial dominance. Just look at our dear former commander here– Seolc doesn't have a glowing crystal embedded in his forehead like a beacon, nor can he channel a single drop of ambient mana. And let's not forget; he doesn't have wings either.

Soaring effortlessly over a blood-soaked battlefield is entirely off the table for him.” Easy for her to say, I thought; my chest tightened as I looked at the giant built like a fortress. Let's not omit the facts: yes, the usage of magic would be Outmoded for this troglodyte, (still, why is he so good-looking?) The notion just teed me off.

The bulk of his arms probably would manage to crackle and pop up a tree trunk in half with the application of his bare hands.

...

Meanwhile, the headmistress offered Seolic a warm, affectionate little smirk.

Beside her, the old soldier let out a low, rough chuckle– a dry harrumph that sounded like two grindstones scraping together in a dark quarry. He casually shifted his weight, his heavy leather armor creaking under the movement like an old wooden ship taking on a sudden wave.

“Yet that structural limitation never stopped our sweet ex-commander from starting as a green, mud-covered line-recruit and climbing all the way to the position of ‘Grand Marshall’ of the Iron Vanguard, did it?”

“No, ma'am...” he answered with a straight posture and gave her a royal salute. Having his left hand in a fist striking his chest to the right peck. Even with retirement, a soldier will remember old habits. The headmistress, Celestia, turned her light-magenta eyes back onto me, their warmth suddenly cooling into sharp focus. “In fact, our own Historical casualty records reveal a stark contrast between brute magic and disciplined steel. His completely un-augmented cohorts consistently boasted a sixty percent higher survival rate during front-line vanguard operations than our elite spell-blade units.”

“While the mages burned through their reserves and collapsed like hollow reeds, Seolc's squad stood firm and rooted as mountains.

Across the room, Ms. Inkwell' quill began to move with a brisk motion against the ply of the parchment of her logbook–Scritch, Scritch, Scritch–the rhythmic sound slicing cleanly through heavy air. What is she writing on that paper?... Who cares? Those were the wrong words to think about at that moment.

Then the last remaining information that was given shook stiffly. “And as for that remaining ten percent of our graduates?” Headmistress Celestia informed, her stunning light-magenta eyes were tracking me with intensity. “They slip right back into quiet, ordinary civilian life.”

“Well, umm, that's fine...” Right? I managed to interject my voice, cutting weakly through the heavy air of the office. “Ten percent slipping into civilian life doesn't sound that terrible. Wouldn't that mean their jobs are just... mundane at best?”

She let out a heavy, slow breath through her pursed lips. Having her pointer and thumb holding the top of the bridge of the nose, eyes close for three seconds as she massaged her temples. Was I wrong!? The astonishment hit me; the notion put me in a conflict. All that warm, motherly charm completely drained from her face.

“Mundane?” She asked softly. Her tone wasn't loud, but it hit like an iron slab. “The ten percent,” Celestia continued with a stern gaze that kept me dead in my tracks, “do not slip, Mr. Shine. They are distributed.” This word felt like a gavel that was deliberate to straighten someone with reason. (That person in question was me.)

...

She rose from her chair in a single, fluid motion. I had to lift my head up for a bit because her height was about one hundred ninety centimeters tall. In which it was six feet and three inches tall. As she moved, the silence in the room solidified into a cold suffocating weight. Her majesty stood frame-still before the towering arched window, framed by the dying light of the sunset. Her wings–usually vast enough to sweep across half the room–were now shrunk down to a miniature size, magically minimized and folded neatly against her back. Wait...!? I’d finally grasp what was going on. Has she been using ‘Gelytelod’ this whole time? I was thinkin’ at that moment. And makes so much sense–yet, unorthodox for someone in her standing.

For anyone naturally born with wings, managing their feathers is a completely organic process. It's something taught at a very young age, passed down by parents until muscle memory takes over. I pondered deeply; it's the same way with anyone with parents that have magic; teaching their kids the fundamentals as they prepared for magic schools'. I say this to myself. And her majesty? She’s had centuries to master it organically. But instead, she channels raw magic through her gem to cast the spell. As I realized at that moment, my life of mine was in its pre-marinated stage.

[Gelytelod—an archanic spatial magic type that dynamically compresses physical matter into a localized pocket of folded space. There are five types: Teleportation, Portals, Pocket Dimensions, Combat Attacks, and Defense.]

But I felt warmth that enveloped me completely. An overpowering dominance that was pulsed through me. Then it hit me; I scanned it was those niveous pinions of hers. Looking at those wings, even tiny and bound tight by such an eccentric spell, a sudden surge of emotions washed over me–a wave of pure relief in which it felt like a cleanse. The creeping dread that mount in my chest dissolved any soul-shattering terror or emotional devastation trying to root itself in my mind. Simply, faded in full pristine light of quiet, overwhelming euphoria.

She shifted her straightforward towards my direction. The imagery of her face could cut glass of how serious the “problem” was. I kept thinking about the feathers. “Dusk.” She called my name. And by reflex I retorted back, “yes, your excellence.” I stood straight as I answered.

“Pff.” she let out some air out and with a calmer and sweet state told me, “besides this project from Professor Aethelred and this special training you're being assigned, I think I'll give you something else.” She spoke. Huh?... I looked puzzled. She's giving me something else, what could it be? I look at her with doubtfulness' in my eyes, “what is this task you wish to bestow upon me, your majesty?”

“You'll be trying to find what mundane truly means to others. That’s my assignment to you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” That was all I could say at that moment.

“Dusk. Remember. Mundane doesn't mean useless,” the princess explained softly. “So, as for this academy it may refine magic-gifted individuals as the likes of yourself but in truth, I'll not dictate the path they eventually will cross in future. Magic is merely a tool. An instrument that has to be trained. That includes your body as well, am I being clear?” Again, I only could answer with, “yes, ma'am.”

Although I gave my dutiful assent, a cold, heavy lump of dread settled right in the pit of my stomach. Following these direct orders are compulsory when it came from the headmistress this was in truth; affecting my program. I had many courses that had to accomplish by the end of the semester in which not just Professor Aethelred's final paper, but I'd had other classes midterms. They include: Thaumaturgical Mechanics by Professor Starling, and hours of lab work that included Advanced Brews & Botanical Transmutations, by Professor Mossveil.

...

Magikiness control is also part of my studies; this subject is taught as if it was in combative drills. Magikiness control—known as magic manipulation or even mystical energy control is the ability to “manipulate,” shape, and generate pure magical force.

This was more of an outside subject– physical education if you may. The instructor was Vaelen. Surprisingly, he was a fair teacher around the academy. He was kind at heart but strictly kept us on our toes by pushing us into harsh, high-pressure sparring scenarios, so we'd learn how to stay cool under resilient training.

Honestly, I didn't mind his class at all. It didn't bother me. I distinctly recall having a magical combat manual, but I cannot remember where I left it. Could it still be back at the Ivory Tower (my home) with Spike? My psyche wondered in thought. I actually found the physical flow of magic to combat was a strange relaxation. let's there be no mistakes, I relish a good book every so often. Beyond leasing a moment of peace, picking up a quill to put thoughts on paper brings its own kind of satisfaction.

Now, let me go back and explain a bit more of the other materials, Thaumaturgical Mechanics would be perfect to start with: a thaumaturge did not just create miracles from nothing. It would redirect what was already there. That was the first principle–and the one Professor Starling repeated until it became impossible to forget: Law Equivalent Conservation. Magic could alter a local state, but it could not generate work or mass out of absolute nothingness. Heat, motion, pressure, and spatial potential all had to come from somewhere. If I generated a flame in the palm of my hand, the air around it cooled to compensate. If I released a kinetic burst, the surrounding air or ground surrendered an equal measure of stability. There was no free power. Only power that had been moved, converted, or concentrated. That was why the little spell I had used on my tome had felt so harmless.

Levitas had not summoned the book to me. It had borrowed a slight amount of kinetic stability from the air between us, aligned it with the book’s position, and pulled the tome along that invisible vector. The motion had been small, so the exchange had been small. Still, the law had been obeyed. Even a simple retrieval charm left a faint chill in its wake. The second principle was the Law of Vectorial Focus and Sympathy.

Remember the psyche has difficulty; by itself to use ambient mana. Thoughts alone were too shapeless. The intent had to pass through a conduit— a runic array, a geometric circle, a staff or a focus gem– before it could become a usable spatial vector.