The Race to The Deadline: Lace And Iron Part 1

               As the heavy door of the Ivory Tower—my father’s private study and my own sanctuary for the three years I had spent in advanced studies—clicked shut behind me. The adrenaline that had fueled my frantic packing began to settle into a heavy, rhythmic thrum. Forty-eight hours, I thought, my mind playing back the blur of ink and equations. Forty-eight hours of my life are inside this bag; please, let the stabilization hold. The world outside was dressed in shadows and silence, a stark contrast to the room where my father, Golau Nos—or Night Light, as most called him in the common tongue—spent his nights charting the heavens beneath a single-star cutie mark. While my mother, Twilight Velvet, likely remained asleep within the main house as the quiet heart of our family, I—clutching the straps of my worn, brown leather messenger bag with its sturdy brass buckles and dual front pockets—began the long descent toward the heart of Canterlot.

    I was heading toward Celestia’s Academy of Arcane Arts, often simply referred to as the School of Magic, an institution that structured its education through rigorous primary, secondary, and pre-university grades. My journey there had been anything but typical; my aptitude for advanced studies was recognized early, and by the age of seven, I was already attending secondary-level classes. Now, at seventeen, I was in my third year of the final tier, navigating the high-stakes pressure of my last semester before graduation. I’m still chasing the curve, I reflected with a grimace, and I have to stay ahead of it.

    Moving with purpose, I advanced toward the city center, the most active thoroughfare in the district, where the silence of the residential spires was replaced by a restless, metropolitan energy. The grand boulevard was a hive of motion even at this hour; I wove through a labyrinth of luxury, navigating a sea of late-night commuters, weary night-shift laborers, and frantic couriers who moved with a purposeful, sharp-elbowed pace. The street felt electric, far more lively than one would expect for the pre-dawn hours; several 24-hour diners glowed with neon-tinted magic, their windows fogged with the steam of coffee and conversation, while early-bird grocers were already unrolling their awnings and stacking crates of fresh produce along the sidewalk.

    As I reached Brez-brycqtow Avenue, the heart of the bustling traffic, I found myself face-to-face with a familiar sanctuary: the 24-hour bakery known as Doughnut Joe's. The establishment was owned by Joe Beignet, though he was known simply as Donut Joe by his loyal customers. I pushed open the shop’s glass doors and was greeted with a charming, melodic chime that cut through the city's roar.

    “Welcome to—”

    “Ah, Dusk! Long time no see, kid” Joe greeted me with a flour-covered grin of delight.

    “To you as well, Joe. Good Mornin’,” I exchanged the greeting back, my exhaustion momentarily lifting.

    "Ha-ha-ha!" Joe laughed, his warm energy filling the small space. "Polite as always." His tiger-eye gemstone flashed above his brow, and his cutie mark—a perfectly glazed donut—was visible on his right hand as he wiped the counter. My voice softened as I leaned against the polished wood and ordered my usual, the scent of fried dough and dark roast coffee.

    my stomach betrayed me with a loud, hollow “Urrrgh!” Traitor, I thought, pressing a hand to my midsection. 

    Joe insisted on a breakfast sandwich—on the house. “Oh no, I—I'm fine,” I stammered, my mind racing through the morning rush I needed to beat. Hard to resist, and I gave in and took the free meal. He presented me with a fruit sandwich: that was a work of art. It was a thick slice of fluffy brioche bread, filled with a cloud-like whipped cream and studded with vibrant, seasonal berries and slices of sweet starfruit. It was the perfect, refreshing compliment to my coffee—a brew so dark and robust it tasted like liquefied midnight; its bitter notes balancing the sweetness of the fruit.

                                                                            ¤¤¤¤¤¤  

     I looked down at the masterpiece of a sandwich, then back at the bustling crowd outside the glass. The heat from the dark coffee seeped through my gloves, a tempting contrast to the biting mountain air waiting for me. I shifted the weight of my messenger bag, preparing to step back into the flow of the city, but Joe raised a floury hand to stop me.

    “Stay a while, Dusk,” he offered, gesturing to a small corner booth by the window. "Finish your food here. Stay until the sun starts crowning over the spires. You look like you're about to tip over."

    “I don't want to intrude, Joe,” I said, glancing at the early-morning patrons beginning to trickle in. “You have customers to serve, and I really should get to the Academy before the halls become a bottleneck.”

    Joe let out a soft snort, leaning his elbows on the counter as he looked at me with a gaze that felt far too perceptive. “It’s no problem at all. Stay and finish your food. I think that assistant of yours—what’s his name, Spike? —would say, ‘You might not slack on your education, but you do on the small stuff, like your food consumption.’”

    I felt a ghost of a smile tug at my lips. He’s right, I thought, the image of Spike’s exasperated face flashing in my mind. Spike would probably have me grounded for even thinking about skipping a meal after a forty-eight-hour research binge. “He probably would,” I admitted softly. I gave in, sliding into the booth. The seat was warm, and from here, I could watch the “Brez-brycqtow Boulevard” come to life without having to fight my way through it just yet. I took a bite of the fruit sandwich; the sweetness of the starfruit and the light cream felt like a gentle spark of life returning to my tired limbs. Outside, the purple sky was just beginning to bleed into a soft, hazy gold on the horizon. I was safe here for a few minutes, tucked away in the scent of sugar and yeast, gathering the strength I needed to face the final, grueling climb to the Academy gates.

    I reached into my pocket, the metal clinking softly as I pulled out my coin pouch. “At least allow me to pay for the coffee...” I insisted, not wanting my exhaustion to turn into a debt of charity.

    Joe rubbed his chin, looking at me with those perceptive eyes before finally giving me a small nod. “...Hmm, that's fine. That’ll be two Bits.” I handed over the coins, the dull gold-colored metal catching the light of the bakery and made my way to the table Joe had indicated. 

    I hadn't intended to stay long, but the warmth of the booth and the rhythm of the shop acted like a tether. Six hours passed in a productive, caffeine-fueled haze. Between bites of the refreshing fruit sandwich and sips of that midnight-dark coffee, I lost myself in my notes, my quill scratching across the parchment as I double-checked the final stabilization proofs for my thesis. Around me, the bakery transformed. What had been a quiet pre-dawn sanctuary became a roaring engine of commerce.

    Buyer after buyer flowed through the glass doors—tired office workers, energetic students in Academy uniforms, and early-rising socialites—all coming and going, some lingering at the small tables while others rushed back into the stream of the city. I realized then that Doughnut Joe wasn't a solo operation; he moved with the precision of a conductor among a staff of seven. Including Joe himself, the team worked like a well-oiled machine, flipping donuts, steaming milk, and wrapping sandwiches with a speed that matched the frantic pace of the streets outside.

   Six hours, I realized, checking my pocket watch with a start. The sun was now fully up, casting long, brilliant rays across the floorboards. The “small stuff” Joe mentioned—the food and the rest—had cleared the fog from my brain. I gathered my notes, sliding the eighty-page manuscript carefully back into my messenger bag. It was time. I couldn't hide the scent of sugar forever.     

      I stood up from the booth, the weight of the eighty-page manuscript feeling significantly lighter now that my body was fueled, and my mind was sharp. I caught Joe’s eye across the busy counter and gave him a grateful, tired nod. “Thanks again, Joe. I needed that more than I realized.” 

     “Anytime, kid! Go get ‘em,” Joe called back over the hiss of a milk steamer, his tiger-eye gemstone catching the morning light as he handed a box of glazed delights to a waiting customer.

    ​I turned toward the exit, ready to dive back into the metropolitan rush of Brez-brycqtow Avenue, but I stopped short just as I reached the glass doors. Near the entrance, a young woman—a post-carrier with light blonde hair and golden-yellow eyes—was struggling severely. Her Pegasus wings were discreetly pushed back beneath her uniform to save space, but they twitched with the effort of stabilizing a teetering stack of heavy boxes that reached well past her chin. As she shifted her footing to navigate toward the door, the top three parcels began to slide precariously. I caught a glimpse of her cutie mark—seven bubbles of varying sizes—just as the entire stack let out an ominous creak.

​    I discreetly raised my left hand, keeping my gaze fixed on the swaying cardboard tower. With a tiny ember of effort, I initiated a minor levitation spell, whispering: “Levitas.” A faint almost imperceptible oval purple sapphire shimmer—manifesting from my fingertips, and the rattling of the boxes went suddenly silent: swoosh.

    The subtle magical effort was to stabilize the precarious load, allowing the blonde carrier to adjust her grip and secure the boxes with a massive sigh of relief. Minimal energy cost, I noted clinically. Problem’ solved. She remained entirely oblivious to the magical assistance she’d just received as she hurried out into the street.

    Just as I reached for the brass handle of the exit, Joe’s voice boomed over the grinding of espresso beans. “Nice job, Kid!”

    I froze for a second. I thought I had been subtle—ghost-like, even. My ears warmed slightly, but I didn’t let the embarrassment take hold. After all, when you’re the son of a man who spends his life staring stars. And a mother who can organize a library in her sleep, you learn that someone has always watched them doing their jobs since as a child.

    “Just keeping the laws of physics in line, Joe,” I called back over my shoulder, offering a small, half-smirk.

    “Tell that to your stomach next time it decides to stage a protest!” Joe barked with a hearty laugh, waving a flour-covered rag at me.

    I pushed through the glass doors the charming chime ringing out one last time as I stepped into the crisp morning air. 

                                                                                          ¤¤¤¤¤¤ 

    The humor of the moment lingered for a second before the reality of the North Plaza hit me.

​

    I moved quickly, shifting my messenger bag to a more secure position against my hip as I dove back into the chaotic current of the morning rush. The serene warmth of the bakery was instantly replaced by the sharp, cacophonous energy of Brez-brycqtow Avenue. All around me, the atmosphere was thick with desperation; people were shouting and waving down transportation, their voices rising in a frantic chorus of “Coachman!” and “Make way!”

    ​The frustration in the air was palpable—a heavy, static charge born from the collective anxiety of hundreds of people realizing they were late for work, meetings, or urgent assignments. I saw a businessman checking his pocket watch every three seconds with a look of pure dread, while a courier tried to weave his bicycle through a wall of pedestrians, ringing his bell until it sounded like a frantic heartbeat.

    ​I lowered my shoulder and began to weave through the press of bodies with a frantic, rhythmic pace. “Sorry! Excuse me! Pardon me!” I called out, my voice barely rising above the din of the street. I narrowly avoided a collision with a woman in a wide-brimmed hat, my messenger bag brushing against her silks.

   ​“How rude! Watch where you’re going, young man!”

    She huffed, adjusting her pearls with a scowl.

    ​“Be careful!” another man barked as I ducked under his extended arm to reach a gap in the sidewalk. “The youth today have no sense of decorum!”

    ​Correlate, I thought, ignoring the glares. The city is just a series of overlapping deadlines. Everyone here is a variable in an equation of time and consequence. For me, however, the stakes were far more singular. I wasn’t just running a clock; I was running for a career. The eighty-page report tucked in my bag felt like it weighed fifty pounds, a physical manifestation of my entire semester’s worth of research. My objective was simple: reach the Academy gates, navigate the security, and place that manuscript onto Professor Aethelred’s desk before the deadline chime rang out across the district.

    ​My boots clicked on a rapid rhythm against the cobblestones as the screeching of iron-rimmed wheels faded into a dull roar. I locked my sights on the distant, soaring archway of the school. I had survived the forty-eight-hour gauntlet, Joe’s lecture, and now the morning commute; I wasn’t about to let a few angry pedestrians be the thing that tripped me up now.

    As I rounded the final bend of the avenue, the Academy didn't just appear; it loomed over me like a celestial titan. Even after years of study, the sight stole the breath from my lungs. The architecture was a blinding, brilliant white—a forest of slender marble spires that seemed to pierce the very fabric of the blue sky. These towers were connected by a dizzying web of crystalline sky-bridges. They were translucent walkways that shimmered like frozen light, where I could see the tiny silhouettes of students moving between classes like specks on a glass web.

    ​Everything about the place felt vertical and alive. Spiraling stone staircases wound around the exterior of the spires, rising higher until they disappeared into the morning mist. Integrated into the stone were the ‘Hanging Gardens’, a series of tiered stone basins that overflowed with life. Instead of just vines, these were miniature ecosystems. Thick, waxy-leaved shrubs in deep emerald and silver-blue lined up the walkways; their branches manicured into sharp, geometric shapes that mirrored the Academy’s precision.

    ​Between the shrubs, clusters of luminous lilies and exotic ferns spilled over the edges, their fronds swaying even though there was no breeze. Some sections featured dense mosses that dampened the sound of footsteps, while others held hardy mountain flowers that thrived in the high-altitude chill. These pockets of green provided the only softness against the sharp, white marble, smelling of damp earth and plant-growth.

    In the central mezzanine, the air was thick with the desperate hopes of a hundred families. “Stand up straight, Sterling,” a mother hissed nearby, smoothing her son’s collar. “If the proctors see you slouching, they’ll think your mind is as weak as your posture.” Further down, a provincial wizard gripped his daughter’s shoulders. “This is it, Calla. Don’t let the city students intimidate you. Your spark is just as bright as theirs.”

    ​I pulled my gaze away, the weight of their expectations pressing against me like a physical force. Suddenly, a sharp yelp punctured the hum of the crowd.

    ​On the “Golden Path”—the high-speed thoroughfare reserved for senior mages—a young boy had tripped. He was sliding toward a section of the mezzanine where the railing was under repair, a sheer drop into the lower gardens. A senior High Alchemist, eyes fixed on a glowing vial, didn’t even break stride. He stepped right over the child’s flailing hand. “Out of the way, gutter-trash,” the senior sneered.

    ​I didn’t think. I dropped my bag—the heavy thud of my eighty-page report echoing the marble—and lunged. I caught the boy by the back of his robes just as his boots left the stone. We tumbled back into the safety of a nearby alcove.

    ​“I’m so sorry! I’m so, so sorry!” the boy gasped, his face pale. He scrambled up, his hands shaking as he reached for my spilled messenger bag. “I didn’t mean to… here, let me help. Please.” 

    Together, we knelt as the crowd swirled around us. He gathered the loose parchment with frantic care, handing the sheets to me as if they were made of glass. We counted them together. Ten, fifty… I flipped through the final technical diagrams. My heart hammered until I reached the final page.

    ​“Celestia’s great knowledge… everything is here,” I breathed. We both let out a massive, shared sigh of relief.

    ​“I’m Rune Amberlight,” the boy said, offering a small, formal bow after helping me check the last of the supplies. “I’m from the outer provinces. I… I think I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

    ​“It’s a lot to take in, Rune,” I said, dusting off my robes. “I’m Dusk. Third year. Keep that ticket in your inner pocket and follow the Equestrian Blue veins in the floor.”

    ​“So… playing the hero I see, huh?”

    ​The voice was bubbly and dripping with dry sarcasm. I looked up to see a girl stepping out from behind a pillar. Her vibrant mint-cyan hair and sharp white streak caught the light. As she leaned against the stone, the golden lyre etched onto the top of her left hand shimmered with a rhythmic pulse.

    ​Rune blinked, looking up at her in awe. “Oh! Hello. I’m Rune,” he repeated, offering another polite bow.

    ​“And I’m Lyra,” she chirped, her eyes wide and sparkling with friendly energy. She didn’t have the cold, distant look of the other seniors. Instead, she leaned down slightly to his level, her smile bright. “Welcome to the Spire, Rune. Don’t mind the Alchemists; they’ve forgotten that their feet actually touch the ground like the rest of us. I didn’t do much besides watching Dusk dive across the floor like a madman, but I’m really glad you’re okay. We need more people here who actually say, ‘thank you’ when they’re saved.”

    ​Rune beamed, his nervousness finally melting away. “Thank you both. Really. I don’t know what I would have done without the help.” He looked at me, then at Lyra, a newfound sense of courage in his eyes. “I’ll remember the blue veins. I promise!”

    ​With a final, grateful wave, Rune scurried off toward the orientation hall. Lyra watched him go; her expression softened. “He’s a sweet kid. Pity the Academy will probably try to turn him into a stone statue by next semester.”

    I dusted off my robes and looked at Lyra. “Speaking of things going well… I heard you finally got that gig at the Celestial Opera House?”

     Lyra’s face lit up. “I did! It’s just a residency but playing the harp for an actual audience… it’s all I’ve wanted since my mark showed up. I know the teachers here think I’m wasting my time because I’m part of the Fey clan. But that doesn’t mean I want to sit in a basement and move rocks with my mind. It just feels right when I play. The Opera House is the one place where people care about how the music feels, not just how much ‘magic’ I’m using.”

    Lyra and I began walking together. My mind drifted away; sinking into the heavy history as Lyra mentioned our clan.

    It’s funny how they teach it in the lower grades, I thought. They call it the “Unification,” as if we all just sat down and decided to be friends. But history is never that clean.

    Starting with the Unicorn Clan, my own people… we were the keepers of the Arcane. In those days, we didn’t just study magic; we owned it. It was the Unicorns who moved the sun and pulled the moon across the sky, a task that required a staggering amount of collective will. We were the scholars and the priests, but that power made us fragile and terribly arrogant—we could light the world, but we couldn’t feed ourselves. We were kings of a world we couldn’t actually sustain.

    The way the lower grades teach it is almost comical. They call it the “Unification,” as if we all simply sat down one afternoon and decided to be friends. But history is never that clean. It’s written in the frost of a thousand-year winter and the hunger of a dying world.

     ​It began with the Unicorn Clan—my own people, the Fay. We were the keepers of the Arcane back when we didn’t just study magic; we commanded it. It was the Unicorns who moved the sun and pulled the moon across the sky, a task requiring a staggering, soul-crushing amount of collective will. We were the scholars and the priests, but that power made us fragile and terribly arrogant. We were kings of a world we were incapable of sustaining; we could illuminate the stars, yet we couldn’t even feed ourselves. Today, we are Fay because we deconstruct the spark we were born with—those internal gems of mana—calculating the flow of the Old Language while others simply “use” it.

    ​Then, there was the leverage of the Earth Tribe, the ancestors of the Humans who walk the world today. They lacked our internal gems, but they understood the heartbeat of the land. It is a common mistake to think they were non-magical; they simply mastered a grounding, symbiotic magic. They had a connection to the soil and a legendary physical stamina that allowed them to coax life from frozen earth where a Fay would have starved. If they had decided to stop planting, the world would have stopped eating. They were the silent power that held the other two tribes by the throat.

​     And the Pegasi—the Harpies. The Storm-Lords. They lived in floating citadels of solid clouds, dictating the weather rather than predicting it. Light-boned and fierce, they walked on clouds as if they were solid marble. Back then, if a village failed to pay its tribute, the Harpies would shroud their valley in an eternal winter.

​    But the real story isn’t about the tribes; it is about the Fall. After the loss of the first two rulers, we were ready to tear the world apart just to see who would die last. At the brink of total extinction, two figures appeared—young ladies who seemed to emerge from the very fabric of the cosmos.

    ​In the eyes of the starving and the hopeless, they were not merely royalty; they were goddesses. They descended from the heavens, their radiance so piercing it illuminated the ash-choked sky. To look upon them was to see beauty and power intertwined so tightly it was terrifying. They were the lost princesses, Celestia and Luna. They didn’t just stop the fighting; they salvaged our very souls. They were the bridge that turned three warring tribes into a nation, showing us that the “Cutie Mark”—like the golden lyre on the back of Lyra’s left hand—was a sacred promise that every citizen had a role to play. Then, we changed as high civilization

    ​“Oh! I almost forgot,” she whispered, her voice dropping into that low, conspiratorial tone I had learned to associate with imminent disaster. “Dusk, do you remember that talk we had? You know… the Real Talk? The one from like, six months ago?”

    ​I paused on the first step, a cold sense of dread washing over me. “Lyra, we have a lot of talks. Last week you tried to convince me that the library books whisper gossip to each other at night. The week before that, you said the moon was just a giant glow-lamp operated by a very tired goblin.”

    ​“No, no, those were just warm-ups!” she chirped, waving her hand as if dismissing the laws of physics. “I’m talking about the big one. The parallel universe thing? The one where we’re actually all sentient, magical ponies in another dimension? Just picture it—the Pegasus would have actual feathers and wings, and we’d have giant, glowing horns sticking right out of our foreheads!”

​

     I froze. My hand went to my face, my fingers digging into my temples as a localized migraine began to form. Not this again. Please, anything but the pony theory.

     But as she kept rambling about “mouth-pencils,” a traitorous, academic voice in the back of my mind began to stir.

​    Wait, I thought, my inner monologue taking over despite my best efforts. The hoof-to-hand ratio is completely skewed if she’s using a standard base-ten calculation. If we were four-legged, the weight distribution would require a much thicker skeletal structure in the metacarpals. And the mouth-pencil thing? That’s just inefficient. If the magic is as innate as she says, we’d likely use a telekinetic field to hold the writing utensils, which would save the jaw muscles from unnecessary strain and— 

     I stopped. My eyes went wide as I realized what I was doing.

    ​Why am I trying to fix her theory? Why am I applying biomechanical physics to the idea of being a farm animal? Oh, sweet Celestia, it’s contagious. Her madness is airborne! Aaaahhh!

    It's in my lungs...    

     In my head, I was letting out a high-pitched, glass-shattering scream of pure academic despair. On the outside, I just looked like I was having a minor stroke.

    ​“Lyra,” I interrupted, my voice flat, dry, and echoing with the sound of a man who was losing a war with his own brain. “I have eighty pages of unstable, soul-crushing magical theory in this bag. I Am currently ten minutes late to meet a man who can turn people into footstools with a sideways glance. I cannot… I physically do not have the remaining brain cells required to discuss the logistics of galloping right now. Please. Stop.”

    She pouted, giving my arm a playful shove that nearly sent me tumbling back down the stairs. “Fine, be a boring biped. She walked away after she gave me a quick, chaotic wink. She started to skip backwards toward the music wing, humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like a trot. “Oh, almost forgot!” She yelled as she vocalized.

    “You’re looking for the Professor, aren’t you? He’s at the West Balcony. And Dusk? Try not to die! He’s in a foul mood today—I think someone told him a joke and he hated the font.”

    As she left, her image became a blur. “Huff. Thanks, Lyra.”  

    After finishing my conversation with Lyra—and surviving her usual brand of playful, chaotic jesting—I didn’t head straight for the stairs. My mind was still buzzing, a restless mix of caffeine and nerves that made the thought of a direct climb feel impossible. I needed to move, to let the exhaustion settle into something more manageable before I faced the scrutiny of the faculty.

    ​I spent the next few hours drifting through the Academy’s inner veins. The school felt different today; there was a sharp, biting edge to the air that always arrived with the final semester. The silence of the halls was frequently broken by the sounds of academic desperation.

    As I walked past the ‘Research Annex’, I saw the “project vaults” were all illuminated. Through the heavy glass, I watched fellow seniors' hunch over their workstations. One student was staring at a cracked crystal lattice with a look of utter defeat, while another frantically scrubbing a chalkboard covered in failed proofs, her hair disheveled and her eyes bloodshot.

    For us graduation wasn't just a ceremony; it was a survival check. Those who couldn’t stabilize their final projects were simply left behind. ​I eventually found myself on the Observation Mezzanine, a high, arched gallery that overlooked the Grand entrance hall.

    ​Leaning my weight against the cool, unyielding marble of the railing, I looked down. A fresh intake of applicants had arrived for their first orientation. They were painfully easy to spot—their robes were crisp and un-creased; their expressions radiated a naïve, bright-eyed wonder. They clutched their admission scrolls as if they were holy relics, completely oblivious to the crushing weight of the stone and the history hanging over their heads.

​

    In the center of that vast, white-tiled floor stood Professor Aethelred. Anchored to the spot, my fingers tracing the cold, smooth marble of the railing. Below, the Great Hall felt less like an entrance and more like a stage for a ritualistic dismantling of hope.

    ​Professor Aethelred was still moving through the ranks of the “new faces,” his stride measured and heavy. He stopped abruptly in front of a boy whose admission scroll was shaking in his grip. The Professor didn’t offer any words of welcome; instead, he stood in silence so thick it seemed to swallow the noise from the room. He stared down at the boy’s boots, which were stained with salt and dust from a long journey.

    ​“If you cannot take care of your own things, boy,” Aethelred’s voice drifted up to the mezzanine, a low, dangerous silk that carried perfectly through the hall, “how do you expect to handle the delicate balance of a manna-core? Being careful is not a choice in these halls. It is the only way to survive. Step back. You are in the way.”

​    The boy scrambled backward, his face turning a deep, embarrassed red as he nearly tripped over his own robes. A heavy, uncomfortable silence washed over the group. The parents stood frozen, looking like they had just realized they’d brought their children to a place that viewed feelings as a weakness. Aethelred didn’t care about their discomfort. He turned on his heel, his midnight-blue robes snapping against the polished stone as he began to pace the center of the hall. He looked less like a teacher and more like a man who was simply tired of seeing people fail.

    ​As he began to walk toward the far exit, the silence of the hall broke into a frantic, hushed wave of whispers from the parents and students below.

    ​“Is he always like that?” a mother hissed, pulling her daughter closer.

    “I heard he failed an entire class last year just because their ink was the wrong shade,” a student whispered back, his voice trembling.

    “He looks like he hasn’t slept in a decade,” another added. “They say he’s more shadow than man.” 

    Watching him walk away amidst the gossip, I felt that familiar, icy knot tighten in my stomach. He was frightened—there was no other word for it. But as I watched him dismiss the crowd with a weary wave of his hand, my mind dragged up a memory from months ago that refused to fit the man standing below.

   ​It had been a miserable, rain-soaked afternoon last autumn. I was taking a shortcut through the damp service courtyards, trying to escape the biting wind, when I saw a tall, dark figure standing near a stack of old crates. I froze instantly, pressing my back against a stone archway. I didn’t want him to catch me “spying”; the sheer awkwardness of being found in his private space would have been a disaster.

    ​It was Aethelred. He was alone, and for the first time, his usual cold mask was gone. He was holding a heavy umbrella, but he wasn’t using it to protect himself from the damp. Instead, he was leaning over at an awkward angle, tilting the umbrella carefully over a soggy, collapsing cardboard box tucked between the crates.

    ​I moved just a fraction of an inch closer, holding my breath, and saw them: a litter of stray kittens, huddling together for warmth. And then, I saw it—the sight that felt like the world had shifted.

    ​For the first and only time, I saw the Professor smile.

    ​It wasn’t a mean smile. It was a genuine, soft expression that smoothed away the harsh lines of his face. He reached out a long, pale finger—the same finger he used to point out failing grades—and gently nudged a tiny ginger kitten back into the center of the box. He murmured something low, a soft sound I couldn’t hear over the rain, but the tone was unmistakable. In that moment, the “executioner” was gone. He looked like a man who carried a deep, quiet kindness—something he felt he had to hide under layers of sarcasm and midnight-blue silk to keep it from being crushed.

    ​I snapped back to the present as the last of the whispers faded below. Aethelred had finished his lecture and disappeared through the archway. I realized then that when he was being mean—when he was tearing us apart for a scuffed boot or a misplaced decimal—it was his own way of being compassionate. He was terrified because he wanted us to be perfect. He wanted us to be so afraid of failing that we would never make a mistake that could actually hurt us. He had a good heart, but he used it like a forge—meant to make us stronger, not to keep us warm.

    ​The eighty-page manuscript in my bag feels even heavier now. Knowing he was capable of kindness didn’t make him less dangerous; it made the stakes feel higher. If I failed him, it wouldn’t be because he was a villain; it would be because he knew I could do better, and he wouldn’t let me settle for anything less.

​    I stayed hidden behind the pillar until the hall was completely empty; my mind was still stuck on the image of that kitten in the rain. I had a long walk ahead of me, and many more stairs to climb before I could face the man who was kind to strays but merciless to his students.

    I waited for fifteen minutes for the hall to be completely empty. I stayed rooted; allowing professor Aethelred's introduction– delivered with his signature, caustic flair– to fully dissipate from the Great Hall.

    He breathes air, yet he speaks in winter, I thought, leaning from the occiput bone (back of my head) against the cold stone of the pillar. My mind drifted back to my home, a place that felt like a different world compared to this place Aethelred perceive was a sturdy, timber-framed house tucked away in a quiet corner of the residential area. Houses weren’t as extravagant as most of the buildings on Blue Meadows Street.

     The windows always glowed with the lights of the amber lamppost on the streets. And the air smelled of the lavender flowers of my mother kept by the door. Inside, our family dynamic was a chaotic, beautiful symphony of intellect and heart. My mother– Twilight Velvet, was the steady anchor, her hums of encouragement organizing the house as much as her hands did. My father, a dreamer, kept us grounded. 

                                                                                 ¤¤¤¤¤¤ 

    And then there was my brother, Shining Armor. He became the Captain of the Vanguard four years ago, his mastery lying in the art of barrier magic. While I was often buried in the "why" of magic, his armor was always clicking in rhythm with his training; he had been with the Guard since he was only twelve years old.

    He would often ruffle my hair when he had the time, teasing me about how I was becoming just like Dad. To me, it was a compliment—praise, even. If I ever stumbled, he would be the first one there to catch me. As a family, we shared unshakeable support for one another.

    Watching Aethelred now, I felt the absence of that warmth like a physical chill. He lacked the fundamental gentleness that once filled our small hallway. Why hide it? I knew there was a certain "light" within him, a potential to be more open, yet it remained locked away, drowned by the constant, heavy thought of how to survive. His presence was tome-like—dense, ancient, and stubbornly closed to the world. Maybe…?

    ….

    ​I stood there for a moment, the silence of the room pressing against me like physical weight. I traced the faint outline of the mark on my hand: a seven-pointed star surrounded by five smaller ones. Aethelred began to walk away and breathe a slow heavy sigh as if he was finishing up with a meaningless lecture.

    ​Stomp, stomp, stomp.

    ​The rhythm of his boots echoed against the stone. Panic flared in my chest. "Oh no," I whispered, my voice trembling. If he walks away, I might miss the only chance to hand in my final assignment. Without this, everything I’ve worked for is gone. I raced to catch up to him, my feet heavy with desperation. He’d turned around to the left side of the next corner and as I made my turn, he was gone.

    ​“wha... where’d he...”

    ​I felt a sudden plop of a hand on my shoulder. Then, a firm grip on top of it.

    ​“Mr. Shine,” a familiar voice called me.

    ​I sprung and saw. “Professor!?” My heart was hammering against my ribs, only to meet a gaze that was piercing but forgiving.

    ​“Oh, I-i'm sorry, I was,” I couldn't finish my train of thought, clutching the thick stack of papers—my entire future—to my chest.

    ​“Let me guess, were you trying to get to Corvus?” The man asked. He paused, a small, knowing smile, tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Excuse me, I mean Professor Aethelred,” he corrected himself.

​

​    This was Professor Spell Nexus. He was a tall, striking figure, looking more like a summer breeze compared to Aethelred’s winter chill. He wore a long, deep slate-blue robe that reached his ankles, cinched at the waist with a dark belt. Over his shoulders sat a short, midnight-black mantle, fastened at the collar by two silver-rimmed buttons. His long, silver hair fell like silk, framing his face and the dark leather eyepatch that covered his right eye. As a high-level advisor to the Princess, he carried himself with a grace that usually commanded the room, but now he seemed focused only on my distress.

    Huh...? The... soldier in the hallway?

    “...”

    I froze momentarily, the shock hit me. “A soldier? you mean to say, that Cor... I mean Professor Aethelred is a soldier!?

    Professor Nexus tilted his head, a small, knowing grin appearing on his face. “Actually, he was a commander.” ​He took a step closer, the scent of cedar and old parchment trailing behind him. He raised a single, slender finger to his lips, signaling silence as he leaned in.

    “Do not let the cravat and the stern lectures fool you, Mr. Shine,” Nexus whispered, his voice a low, resonant baritone. “I knew him long before he paced these sterile halls. Do you remember your history? You likely read about the ‘Crystal War’ in your sanitized textbooks.”

    I remember the name, I thought bitterly, a few dry chapters about border disputes and shiny rocks. It sounded like a fable.​” The scholars gave it a shimmering name to hide the blood,” Nexus continued. “To those of us who were there, it was The Obsidian Slaughter. It was a brutal, soul-aching conflict against the dictator, Sombra, the Void-Sorcerer. Sombra wasn’t a king seeking a throne; he was a tyrant who sought to unmake reality itself.”

Sombra… mysterious faie

​

    I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft hallway. “Wait… Professor, you were… you were there too?”

  ​“Yes. I was.”

    ​“But that means you’re the same age as…”

​    Nexus burst into a sudden, bright peel of laughter. “Ha-ha-ha! Oh no! I mean, yes. But I was merely a normal sorcerer—a civilian, if you could say. I wouldn’t dream of calling myself a soldier. I worked as a teacher’s assistant at the time.”

    ​He leaned in closer, his expression turning grave. “Aethelred was the architect of the Siege at the Iron Peaks. That engagement lasted for three hundred and forty-two days. (11 months and 2 days to be exact.)

    Now it’s been 35years since the war began. But was I right?

    I felt my mind spinning as I tried to process the sheer scale of what Nexus was describing. My internal gears began to turn, grinding through the numbers. I’ve always been better with the logic of equations than the chaos of conversation, and suddenly, the "Crystal War" wasn't just a name in a book—it was a mathematical nightmare.

    ​Let's see, I thought, my eyes darting as I visualized the variables in the air.

    ​If the war lasted fifteen years in total, that’s 15 \times 365.25 days (about 1 year), which equals 5,478 days of active conflict. But that’s just the baseline. Nexus said the Siege at the Iron Peaks specifically was the tipping point.

    ​I started crunching the numbers for the Siege:

    •Duration: 342 days (about 11 months).

    •Environment: Freezing winds (assuming sub-zero temperatures) and shadow-wraiths.

​Casualties: Aethelred’s entire division. If a standard Vanguard division is roughly 5,000 men, that’s a loss rate of approximately 14.6 deaths per day for that single engagement alone.

    ​Then there was the "Time Since" variable.

    If the war ended 20 years ago, and it lasted 15 years, then the conflict began 35 years ago. If Aethelred is, say, fifty or sixty now, he would have been in his early twenties—my age—when the ‘Obsidian Slaughter’ began. He didn't have a youth; he had a calculation of survival.

     ​The math was staggering. Every second I stood here vibrating with nerves, Aethelred had spent thousands of seconds watching a horizon for monsters. The ratio of my "distress" over a paper compared to his "distress" over Siege was statistically insignificant. It was a 0.0001\% blip on his radar.

    “Thirty-five years,” I whispered, the number feeling heavy. "He’s been living in the 'after' for longer than the war itself, but he still carries himself like he's under fire."

    “Precisely,” Nexus said, his voice snapping me out of my mental arithmetic.

    “Huh? Hold on, was I talking to myself again? I felt embarrassed. I felt my face heat up; prickling at my skin like sandpaper against smooth silk.

    I’d done it again retreated into the safety of integers and variables while a high-level advisor to the Princess watched me like I was a specimen under a glass slide. My mind always tries to turn the world into a blueprint when things get too heavy to carry, as if a well-drawn line could contain chaos.

​Nexus didn’t scold me, though. He just watched the way my eyes must have been darting, tracking the invisible equations I’d been carving into the air.

    ​"You were," Nexus replied, his voice smoothly a polished stone but with a sharpness that reminded me of a well-honed blade. "And while your math is... impressive, it lacks the weight of the actual carnage. Numbers are a clean way of looking at things, Mr. Shine, but they have a habit of sanitizing the screams. They are the bandages we wrap around a wound that never stopped bleeding."

     ​He began to pace, the hem of his slate-blue robes sweeping across the stone floor with a rhythmic hiss, sounding like a snake moving through dry grass. I felt small. My "statistical insignificance" calculation suddenly felt very cold and very real.

     ​"You calculated the loss rate," he continued, stopping to look at me with that single, piercing eye. It felt like a spotlight pinning me to the wall. "But you forgot the 'Aftermath' variable. You see, Aethelred doesn’t just carry the numbers of the fallen. He carries the silence of those three hundred and forty-two days. That silence is a desert; Mr. Shine—vast, shifting, and impossible to cross alone. He was the only thing standing between his men and a darkness that literally eats the soul." 

    The air in the hallway seemed to thicken, smelling of cedar and old parchment as Nexus straightened his mantle.

    ​“He isn't a 'Professor,' Aethelred because he wanted a quiet life in a library. He’s here because the Princess knows that the only person fit to teach you how to survive the dark is the man who stared into the Void and refused to blink. He is the lighthouse, even if his light feels more like a freezing gale than a warm sun.”

    ​He leaned in one last time, his voice dropping to a low whisper that made my stomach do a slow, nervous roll.

    “Mr. Shine. I know it’s your day off, but perhaps a bit of extra research will help you see the man behind the ‘winter chill.’” What—? Extra…Research? The realization didn't just strike me; it bloomed, like a luminous moss spreading across a dark cavern's wall. He wasn't suggesting I go hunt for a missing textbook. He’d want me to actually have a conversation with the man himself. But would that be an advantage? I didn’t know. How could I do?

    Stomp, Thud… 

      Nexus turned on his heel, his robes billowing like a slow-motion spill of midnight ink. He clasped his hands behind his back, reclaiming a regal poise that made the hallway feel less like a school corridor and more like a chamber between worlds. As he moved away, he began to whistle a melody that seemed to spool out from him like a thread of spun glass. It was a haunting sound, lonely as a single bell tolling in a fog, yet it carried a soothing pulse that hummed against my skin like the purr of a sleeping familiar. It was a song that felt like it belonged to the earth itself; a lullaby meant quieting the restless ghosts of the Obsidian Slaughter.

    ​With one final, casual wave of his hand—a gesture as effortless as a breeze scattering the ashes of a spell—his voice drifted back to me, low and shimmering.

    ​“See you soon, young sorcerer.” 

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