The Race to The Deadline: Lace And Iron Part 2

     The heavy silence of the corridor returned the moment Nexus turned the corner, leaving only the fading echo of that haunting whistle.

    My gut felt like a lead. I looked down at my hands, almost expecting to see the grime of the Iron Peaks on them. Instead, I saw only the faint, familiar glow of my own magical resonance—clean, untested, and, as Nexus pointed out, sanitized. I stood there; frozen, into the air, dissolving like mist.

    My thoughts were a chaotic centrifuge as I walked, spinning around the image of Professor Aethelred. What was he, really?

    He was an individual hard to read—a man whose very presence felt like a barricade. I wondered how an ex-commander, a man who had orchestrated a year-long siege against a tyrant, could ever be satisfied pacing these quiet halls. Was he here to retire, or was he still on duty?

    Should I ask him about the war? A bead of sweat ran down the right side of my temple. I hadn’t decided yet.

    Stomp- Stomp. My boots struck the stone floor as I moved through the winding corridors. The echo following me was like a reminder that I was behind, that I hadn’t yet found him. My pace quickened, dreaded, and desperate curiosity knotting in my chest.

    Then my stomach betrayed me. Groooong! The grumble shook violently.

    Man, I’m starving. And it’s getting late.

I checked my pocket watch, the brass casing cool against my thumb, the ticking steady and unrelenting. Twelve minutes pass the hour. I’ll need to eat something before I faint, I muttered to myself, the words thin in the biting mountain air. The cafeteria first, then the professor.

    Bing—Bong!

    The academy bell rang, rolling through the halls with deep resonance. Immediately, the choreography of the building came alive. Doors opened in unison. Footsteps are multiplied. Conversations merged into a living tide of students streaming toward the mess hall, guided by design as much as routine. The academy had been built not merely to house us but to direct us. Each corridor, archway, and hall choreographed to guide movement almost without thought.

    I passed beneath the great archway just as sunlight spilled across the stone floor, warming my face for a fleeting moment. Inside, the mess hall surged with life—laughter, debate, and the scrape of benches against stone. Long tables filled quickly, stretching from wall to wall beneath the vaulted ceiling. This was the academy’s heart, where we broke bread together and were reminded daily of the civilization the Princess had rebuilt. They called it the sacred promise of our future.

    I joined the line at the serving tables. The smell of food thickened with each step—bread, boiled grains, and stewed vegetables, simple fare, but potent when hunger sharpened your senses. I reached into my coat and counted my coins. Six bits. Enough for sustenance, not for indulgence.

    When my turn came, I stepped up to the polished stone counter. “Cheapest option,” I said.

    The server nodded, moving efficiently. Two dense loaves of dark bread landed on my tray, crust rough and warm from the oven. Then the pottage. The ladle dipped into the iron pot, heavy with thick, dark stew, pouring slowly into the bowl. Steam rose immediately, carrying the aroma of thyme, bay leaf, and softened root vegetables.

    “That’ll be six bits.”

    I slid the coins across the stone, feeling the sting as the last one left my hand. There goes my margin for the week, I thought.

    Tray in hand, I found an open space at one of the long tables and sat. For a moment, I simply observed. The bread was coarse but satisfying, meant to sustain rather than impress. The pottage was better than I’d expected—carrots, turnips, and onions cooked down until they nearly dissolved; grains swollen and glossy from hours of slow simmering. Flecks of herbs floated near the surface, lending warmth and earthiness with every bite.

    This actually smells incredible. I gave the food a whiff, and the sent was staggering — the scent hit me all at once. The carrots were sweet and soft, cooked until they practically melted in your mouth, and the onions had a gentle tang that made the whole stew feel alive. The grains were thick and plump, glossy from hours of simmering, and the herbs—little flecks of thyme and bay leaf—added warmth and depth I could almost taste just from the smell. The bread, dense and hearty, smelled of flour and smoke, its crust promising a satisfying crunch with every bite. Even the steam curling off the pottage felt comforting, carrying the smell straight into my chest and twisting my stomach with hunger. Simple as it was, every part of it—from color to texture to aroma—made it feel like a proper meal, one I couldn’t wait to dig into.

    I picked up my spoon and took a careful bite. The warmth hit my chest first, spreading like a steady weight that eased the tight coil of anxiety I’d been carrying all morning. The flavors were simple, but perfect—the sweetness of the carrots, the soft tang of the onions, and the earthy, hearty grains all blended with the faint, fragrant touch of thyme and bay leaf. It wasn’t fancy, but it felt… real. Solid. Something I could rely on, something that reminded me I was still here, still capable, still standing.

    I tore a piece of bread and dipped it into the stew, letting it soak up some of the thick liquid before taking a bite. The crust cracked nicely under my teeth, and the inside was soft and warm, almost comforting in its texture. Each mouthful made me feel steadier, like the world had slowed just enough to let me breathe.

    Spike would love this, I thought with a small smile. I’ll have to tell him to make something like this at home.

    I allowed myself to relax a little. The hall’s chaos—students laughing, arguing, chairs scraping—faded to a manageable hum. The academy had done what it was designed to do without me noticing: draw me into rhythm, into light, into order. The bell, the sun, the noise, even the smell of the food—they all worked together, guiding me into a moment of calm in the middle of a tense day.

    I ate slowly, savoring each bite, letting the warmth settle into my chest. Hunger receded, tension eased, and for a few minutes. It felt like nothing else mattered except the simple, grounding act of being here and eating.

    By the time I set the spoon down, I felt ready. Ready to face the halls again.

​    After a few hours eating, I heard someone speak, “Relishing a spread, I see, young man,” a familiar woman’s voice said.

    ​“—Your…” The face was familiar, but I couldn’t place it at first. Then it clicked. Oh right—she’s the granddaughter of Professor Inkwell. She resembled her, though younger, sharper, and more refined. She stood with the posture of someone used to being observed, her clothing a perfect blend of Academy tradition and high-society elegance. She wore a slim-fitting, expertly tailored coat of heavy grey herringbone wool. The fabric woven into a complex zig-zag pattern that looked both soft to the touch and durable enough for our biting mountain climate.

    ​She always did dress as if she were expecting a formal audience with the heavens themselves, I thought, my mind briefly drifting from the simple pottage on my tray.

    ​The garment was framed by striking black velvet trimmings. A deep, oversized velvet collar drew the eye to her face, while matching velvet piping lined up the pockets and the sharp hem of the jacket. A single, disciplined line of polished ebony buttons ran down the center, fastened tightly to maintain a silhouette as sharp as a glass shard.

    ​Her hands were encased in supple black leather gloves. She kept them on even in the warmth of the hall, which only added to her untouchable, mysterious aura. It’s that barrier again, I mused, the one that says she is here, but she is not accessible. Just like her grandmother.

    ​“It’s a delight to see you, Madame Inkwell,” I said, pushing my chair back slightly as I stood to offer a formal greeting. “What a glorious meeting on this new day.”

    ​Madame Inkwell’s gaze held mine without flinching. Her expression was stern, yet not cruel. Her dark brown hair was styled into a large, rounded bun perched atop her head—a perfect circle of discipline. Straight-cut bangs framed her forehead, while two longer, pointed strands fell on either side of her face like deliberate strokes of ink.

    ​A small red gemstone sat in the center of her forehead, catching the afternoon light from the high windows and glowing with a subtle, internal fire. It’s a familiar sight—the steady pulse of a manna-gem, so much like my own, yet hers always seems to hum with a quiet, practiced discipline. It gave her an air of ancient authority, making her seem less like a mere administrator.

    Her eyes—large and brown—looked through me with the kind of attention reserved for someone measuring not just my posture, but my intentions. Thick, black-rimmed glasses sat firmly on her nose, giving her an air of cold precision, like a judge who had already decided on the verdict. On the palm of her right hand, visible as she adjusted her sleeve, was her cutie mark: a quill and an ink bottle.

    ​Raven Inkwell, I thought, my pulse was quickening. ‘The Princess’s aide. ‘I had seen her countless times during my private sessions at the palace, yet her presence here, in the common mess hall, felt like a shift in the Academy’s gravity. Is she here for the Princess, or is she here for me? With Raven, it’s usually both.

    “Am I, facing disciplinary actions?” I queried.

    “No...” She pauses for a moment to continue to respond. “You may be seated,” she commanded, a sparse gesture of two gloved fingers punctuating the air. I obeyed and sat back in my chair. The mess hall was a vocal chatter cacophony coming from other students. The rhythmic thrum of idle chatting became more of gossip—yet the noise seemed to warp around her, a tide breaking against a silent shore.

    I gave her a simper stare. And asked her another question. “Does the princess need me?” The words were delivered calmly, “the Princess,” Raven said at last, “always needs you.” but landed quietly and weighed. “But” she continued, adjusting her glasses with one finger, “that does not mean she requires your presence today.”

    I exhaled, only then realizing I had been holding my breath. So... I'm not being summoned.

    …So, why is she even here?

    The moment stretched—just a beat—but the hall had already noticed.

    A ripple moved through the tables, a wave of whispers spreading like spilled ink across the parchment.

    “Isn’t that—”

    “Madame Inkwell?”

    “She’s here… in the mess hall?”

    The murmurs were quiet at first, but they grew quickly, feeding off each other until the sound became a low, constant hum. Not loud enough to disrupt the entire hall, but loud enough to make itself known.

    They know.

    I glanced around, attempting to remain composed. But the students were staring, their eyes darting from her to one another as if they were debating whether to be discreet or bold. Their attention was drawn to her the way iron is drawn to a magnet.

    A group of boys nearby leaned closer, their heads nearly touching, speaking in hushed tones.

    “Man… she’s beautiful,” one murmured, voice barely louder than the scrape of a spoon against a bowl.

    “If she were a student, I’d ask her out in a heartbeat,” another whispered, eyes wide with admiration.

    “Same,” a third said, like he was confessing a prayer. “She’s—she’s unreal. Like a goddess or something.”

    “Bruh, she’s got that ‘don’t even look at me’ vibe. I’m still lookin’,” another added, voice low and rough. His hands clenched into fists on the table, nails scraping the wood, a silent warning he couldn’t control himself.

    A low huff of exasperation bellowed from my breath, tsk. Idiots. The boys weren’t the only ones watching.

    ​I felt it spread before I even turned my head—the sudden spike of energy that crawled through the mess hall when people realized something important had just walked into their day. Conversations didn’t stop so much as they collapsed; voices tumbling over each other into whispers that were way too loud to be subtle.

    ​A few girls glanced up like they were annoyed at the noise—then they just sort of froze mid-bite. One of them actually squeaked, a tiny, high-pitched sound she tried to swallow and failed.

    Yeah. This is the kind of exactment that happens every time Miss. Inkwell is around.

    ​Near the windows, two second years had completely given up on pretending to be cool. They looked like they were about to vibrate right off their bench.

    ​“No—wait—stop,” one of them whispered, grabbing her friend’s sleeve with a white-knuckled grip.

    “That’s Raven Inkwell,” the other hissed back, her eyes wide. “That’s actually her. Right there. Is my hair okay?”

​    They leaned in close, their heads nearly knocking together as the words rushed out in a messy, breathless blur.

    ​“She’s way prettier in person. Like, how is that even fair?” “Why is she so calm? I feel like I’m not even allowed to breathe the same air as her.”

“I’m obsessed. I’m obsessed.”

    ​They laughed under their breath, a sound that was half-nervous and half-thrilled. They aren’t even trying to be quiet anymore.

    Further down the hall, a first-year was staring with her mouth hanging open, her eyes shining like she’d just spotted a celebrity. Her friend elbowed her hard in the ribs.

    ​“Stop staring! You’re being so weird!”

    “I can’t help it,” she whispered back, sounding like she was in physical pain. “She’s right there. She’s literally right there.”

    Another girl suddenly went into a panic and started fixing her uniform—smoothing out wrinkles, tugging at her sleeves, fixing a stray hair—before freezing mid-motion, her cheeks turning a bright, dusty pink.

    (As if Raven might actually look over and judge a wrinkled sleeve.)

                                                                           ¤¤¤¤¤

    I didn’t notice the atmosphere shifting at first; I was too busy navigating the heavy silence sitting between Raven and me.

    ​It started as a subtle ripple—a quiet displacement of air that radiated through the hall like a single pebble disturbing a frozen lake. But then the weight of it hit me. I felt the collective focus of the room pivot, splitting and snapping back and forth between groups of students like a frantic, hushed game of ping-pong.

    ​“Wait… who is that?” A girl whispered from a few tables over, her eyes narrowing as she tried to bridge the distance.

    ​“The one sitting with Raven?”

    Another girl replied, tilting her head to find a better angle through the crowd. “…Is that a girl?”

    ​Nearby, a boy huffed, leaning back in his chair with a hand gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles went white. “Why is he sitting with her?” He muttered, his voice thick with a territorial edge. “That’s my spot if she’s actually—”

    ​“Wait… he’s kinda pretty,” one girl interjected, her brow furrowing in a mix of confusion and sudden interest. “…Or maybe she’s a girl?”

    ​“Pretty?!” The boy snapped, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the ambient noise. “Pretty doesn’t matter! She—he—whatever—doesn’t get to sit there!”

    ​I’ve been seated here from the very beginning, my tray in front of me and my meal untouched, I fumed silently, and now these fools act as if the space itself belongs to them. I felt the weight of my hair—long– and gathered into a high ponytail—shift against my neck as I adjusted my posture. It was secured by a thin, shimmering adhesive tape the palace attendants insisted on using, designed to keep every strand disciplined and out of my face. Even that small detail, catching the high-altitude light from the windows, seemed to be fueling the fire.

    ​“I think it’s a girl,” another girl said, her whisper laced with genuine bafflement. “But something’s… off.”

    ​The boy bristled, glaring over at our table as if he could intimidate me to disappear. “Off? What do you mean by doing it? He’s obviously a guy—look at him!”

    Obviously, a guy? I rolled my eyes internally. The fact that my features don’t fit their narrow definition of masculinity is apparently a public crisis. Classic.

    ​Across the hall, the girls leaned in closer, their whispers picking up a frantic speed.

    ​“Look at his hair… and his face. It’s so soft!”

    “Yeah, but… wait, look at the ponytail. Is that a boy or a girl?”

    “I don’t know, but I can’t stop looking. He’s… striking.”

    ​Nearby, the boys continued to grumble, their irritation curdling into a sharp, petty jealousy that hung in the air like smoke.

    ​“Ugh, this is ridiculous. Why is he so calm? Why does she even let him sit there?”

    “I mean… he’s good-looking. It’s not fair.”

  “Exactly! It’s not fair!”

    ​Not fair? I snorted inwardly. As if sitting in the path of Raven’s scrutiny is some kind of relaxing prize.

    ​The girls’ whispers took on a new quality—sliding from confusion into a heated, breathless admiration that made my skin crawl.

    ​“Seriously… who is he?”

    “Wait… I’ve seen them before, at the palace…”

    “No way… could that actually be—?” ​Then, one of them gasped softly, pointing with a hand she tried to hide beneath the table. ​“Is that… Dusk Shine?”

     ​The name hit the boys like a bucket of ice water. They froze mid-sentence, the air leaving their lungs in a collective wheeze of realization.

    ​“What?!” one of them hissed, leaning forward. “That’s him? That’s the protégé?” ​The girls were practically vibrating in their seats now, the excitement reaching a fever pitch.

    ​“The Princess’s protégé?!”

    “Yes! That’s him! I recognize the hair now!”

    “Wait… he’s actually real! He looks like a doll!”

    ​A doll? I winced, the term grating against my nerves. I’m standing—well, sitting—right here.

    Look at him! So delicate! So… perfect!”

    “But he’s a guy! A guy!”

    “Yeah, but—he’s so pretty!”

    ​I could feel the tension bouncing back and forth, the energy in the hall rising like a localized storm. Boys glaring with envy, girls whispering with an obsessive intensity—all of them reacting to the two of us.

    I shifted uncomfortably, the weight of their staring becoming a physical heat against the back of my neck.

​It wasn’t the first time someone had mistaken me for a girl—honestly, it happened so often I’d almost stopped correcting people—but having it debated like a public trial in the middle of the mess hall was a new level of humiliating.

    ​“He’s definitely a guy,” the boy from before insisted, though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than his friends. “No girl has shoulders like that. I think.”

    ​“But look at the eyelashes!” A girl whispered back, her voice practically skipping with excitement. “And the way his hair catches the light. No way is that just a normal guy. He’s too… elegant.”

    ​Elegant? I felt a muscle in my jaw twitch. I’m literally just eating pottage.

    ​“I’m telling you, it’s a girl,” another girl chimed in, leaning so far over her table she was practically in her neighbor’s lap. “Maybe she’s a secret knight? Or a high-ranking lady-in-waiting? Look at the way Raven is treating her. It’s totally formal.”

    ​Formal because she’s terrifying, not because I’m a lady-in-waiting, I grumbled internally. And besides I'm a student third- year student. half of you have seen me around.

​      The whispers were reaching a fever pitch now, a chaotic blend of “he” and “she” that made me want to face-plant into my tray.

    Across from me, Raven finally moved. It wasn’t much—just a slow, deliberate adjustment of her glasses with one gloved finger—but the effect was instantaneous. The whispers didn’t just stop; they died.

    ​She didn’t look at them. She didn’t have to. She just looked. ​“The attention of the masses is a fickle thing, Dusk Shine,” she said, her voice cutting through the remaining silence like a blade. “Though I suppose your… unique presentation does lend itself to their confusion.”

    ​Great. Even Raven is in this aggravating situation. “Urgh!” The sound of my voice in irritation and my hand clapping on my head. “It’s the hair,” I muttered, finally breaking my silence.

    ​My voice came out low—an unmistakable baritone that settled the debate instantly—yet it carried a lingering softness; a refined edge cultivated by years of speaking with the higher class. It wasn’t a growl or a shout; it was a kind of steady, composed tone.

    A collective, audible gasp rippled through the nearest tables, followed by a frantic wave of new whispers.

    ​“it spoke…” what do you mean It spoke? I'm not an object.

    “It’s a guy! He’s definitely a guy!”

    “But his voice… It’s so smooth.”

    ​I pushed my tray away, the half-eaten pottage looking even less appetizing than it had ten minutes ago. My stomach was in knots, and honestly, trying to eat while a hundred people debated my gender was a losing battle.

      ​“If you’ll excuse me, Madame Inkwell,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady and polite despite the way my heart was thumping against my ribs. “I really should get going. I’ve got things I need to take care of.”

    ​I just need to get out of this room, I thought as I stood up. I’d take a failing grade over another minute in this spotlight.

    ​I started to walk away, trying to look like I was in a hurry but mostly just feeling incredibly self-conscious. I could feel my ponytail—fastened tight with that annoying, glinting palace tape—bouncing against my back with every step. I felt like I had a literal target painted on me.

    ​I hadn’t even made it past the next table when her voice stopped me from crying. It wasn’t loud, but it had that sharp, crisp edge that somehow cut through all the background noise.

    ​“Mister Shine.”

    ​I stopped mid-step, my shoulders bunching up. Please, tell don’t me to pick up my food right now? I’m not in the mood to do so.

    ​I turned back slowly, and there was Raven, looking as unruffled as ever.

      ​“Just a moment,” she said. It sounded like a request, but we both knew it was an order. “Could we find somewhere a bit more… private? There are a few things we need to discuss that aren’t meant for a crowded mess hall.”

      The room basically exploded—not with noise, but with tension. ​I heard a low, collective groan from the guys’ side of the room. It was the sound of pure, petty frustration.

    (Great. Now they think I’m getting special treatment from the most important woman in the building right.)

    ​“No way,” I heard one guy mutter, his fork clattering onto his plate. “First, he’s sitting with her, now he’s getting a private meeting? Who does this kid think he is?”

    ​On the other hand, the girls were having a completely different crisis. I heard a wave of “oohs” and “aahs,” what they are imagining. I don’t want to know.

    ​“A private talk?” I heard one girl whisper, her voice sounding way too excited. “It’s like something out of a book. Look at his face, he looks so flustered.”

    “It’s actually kind of sweet,” another one whispered back. “He looks like he’s about to bolt.”

    ​Sweet? Bolt? I was fuming. My face felt like it was on fire. I’m being summoned for a professional talk by the Princess’s right hand, and these people are treating it like a scene from a romance novel.

    The air in the room felt thick, heavy with the guys’ jealousy and the girls’ weird intense fascination. ​I looked at Raven. She was already standing, smoothing out her black gloves without caring about the world. She didn't seem to notice the chaos she’d just stirred up—or if she did, she just didn't think it was worth her time.

​     This is a disaster, I thought, giving her a small, defeated nod. “Lead the way, Madame Inkwell,” I said, trying to regain the shred of my dignity.

    I grabbed my carrying bag, slinging it over my shoulder. As I walked, I tried to keep my composure, despite the scrolls and small pieces of paper peeking out from the bag's opening.

    The heavy oak doors of the mess hall groaned as they closed behind us, finally severing the tether to the students' suffocating gaze. Moving from the humid, food-scented air of the hall into the drafty, sterile stone corridors was like stepping into a different world. The only sounds now were the sharp clack-clack-clack of Raven’s heels and the softer thud of my own boots against the cold floor.

    Raven didn't slow down. She walked with a terrifying kind of grace, her grey coat swaying just enough to show how precise her stride was. I followed half a step behind, my mind racing. I felt a scroll shift in my bag, the parchment scratching against the leather—just a small reminder of the mountain of work I was already buried under.

    As we navigated the winding hallway, the silence between us stretched out. Raven didn't look back; she kept her eyes fixed ahead, her posture as straight as a pillar.

    “Tell me, Dusk," she said, her voice cool and level, echoing slightly off the high ceilings. "Have you had the opportunity to obtain the letter from Professor Nexus yet?”

    A letter...?    I blinked, completely caught off guard. I had to speed up a little just to stay next to her. "The... letter? No, Madame. He hasn't mentioned a letter to me. The last time we spoke, it was strictly about Professor Aethelred.

    Raven stopped in her tracks, turning on her heel to face me. She let out a long, weary sigh—the kind of sound someone makes when events have unfolded exactly as predicted, and none of those predictions were optimistic.

    For a brief, unguarded second, the mask slipped.

    Then it was gone.

    “So,” she said, folding her gloved hands neatly at her waist, “Professor Nexus has not yet delivered the letter.”

    Her eyes searched my face, not suspiciously, but analytically—like she was confirming a variable rather than questioning my honesty.

    “That is… unfortunate,” she said.

    That’s never a good word when Raven Inkwell uses it.

    She turned and resumed walking without another word; her heels striking the stone with renewed purpose. I followed quickly, my boots echoing just a fraction too loudly in the narrow corridor.

    We descended a short flight of stairs, and I felt the temperature change almost immediately. The warmth of the upper halls faded with each step, replaced by a colder, sharper air that settled into my lungs. The walls down here were older—bare stone, rough beneath the torchlight, stripped of the decorative flourishes that marked the main corridors. It felt less like a school wing and more like the mountain itself pressing in around us, as if the Academy hadn’t been built here so much as carved out of necessity.

    “Professor Nexus,” Raven continued, her voice easing back into its habitual calm, smooth and level as polished stone, “has a habit of delaying matters he finds… philosophically inconvenient.”

     The pause before the last two words was not hesitation but calibration—precise, deliberate. It felt like watching a chess player hover over the board, weighing which piece to sacrifice and which to protect. She was choosing language the way one chooses a blade: sharp enough to cut, dull enough not to provoke.

    I frowned before I could stop myself, the expression pulling tight across my face. “I didn’t realize my involvement qualified as inconvenient.”

    “It doesn’t,” she replied immediately—flat, exacting, the words snapping into place like a lock engaging. “That is precisely the problem.”

    The sentence landed with quiet force.

    My step faltered—not enough to halt me outright, but enough that my stride slipped out of rhythm, like a gear grinding before catching again. My boot scraped against the stone floor, the sound flaring sharp and intrusive in the hush of the corridor, far louder than it should have been.

  Raven noticed.

Of course she did.

    She decelerated almost imperceptibly, her pace adjusting to mine without so much as a glance over her shoulder. The motion was subtle, surgical—something only someone accustomed to reading rooms and people would bother with. It felt less like courtesy and more like allowance, as if she were letting the weight of her words settle fully before pressing on.

    She slowed again—this time deliberately—until we were moving at the same pace, our steps falling into a reluctant synchrony. The corridor stretched ahead like a held breath, the stone walls swallowing sound. Even the echo of our footsteps seemed to be dull, as though the Academy itself had decided to listen. Then she spoke.

    “What were you and Professor Nexus discussing?” Raven asked.

    The words hit me like ice against bare skin. My chest tightened, my stomach dropped, and for a moment I thought I might stumble. Wait… how does she know about that?

    She couldn’t possibly… could she? No, she couldn’t have. My thoughts collided in rapid succession, frantic, and unbidden.

    But then another thought crept in, sharp and insidious: Knowing her… her fixation… maybe she’s been watching. Maybe she already knew everything I was going to say before I even said it. Then, I told her, and her response was who I’d expected; quick. “The Iron Peaks,” I managed, my voice brittle. “The… siege.”

    “The Obsidian Slaughter,” Raven said. Precise. Unadorned. The words fell like a verdict. I could feel my pulse hammering, my chest tightening further. She knows. She knows everything. She—she must have. But how? No, no… she couldn’t have.

    Raven’s eyes held mine, calm and unblinking, as though she had already read every possible thought swirling in my mind. I should have stayed in the mess hall. I should have eaten the pottage in peace…

    But not. Of course not. Here I am, trapped in the slowest, most infuriating conversation of my life. Every word she says stretches out like taffy. Every pause drags on, deliberate and heavy, like she’s timing how much more patience I must waste.

    I clenched my jaw, my thoughts bouncing, panicked and jagged. Why does she always have to make everything feel like a trap? Couldn’t this have been a simple question? One sentence, maybe two? Then I could run to Aethelred and finally—finally—be done with it.

    My chest tightens under the weight of deadlines, of scrolls still tucked in my bag, of Professor Aethelred waiting impatiently for my final exam report. If this drags on any longer, it’ll be too late. Everything I’ve worked for… gone.

    I take a deep, steady breath, trying to smooth the edge of panic from my voice. “Oh… I’m very sorry, ma’am,” I say, keeping my tone polite, deferential, and forcing a small, careful smile. “But I’m in a tremendous rush. Perhaps we could have this conversation at a later time?”

    Raven tilts her head slightly, her eyes glinting with that precise, calculating light that always makes me feel simultaneously observed and measured. “A rush?” She repeats, her voice calm, polished like tempered steel.

    “And what, pray tell, renders this moment so… untenable?”

    I swallow, forcing my words to stay formal even as my stomach twists. “As you know, Madame Inkwell, all students at the Academy operate under heightened vigilance for our studies. To be more precise, we are currently under strict deadlines for our subjects and final projects. I was amid returning several documents,” I gestured vaguely toward my bag, “as you can see, still in my possession. And—well—I cannot delay their submission any longer without risking… well, significant consequences.”

    Raven’s expression doesn’t change, but her eyes narrow just the slightest fraction, a glimmer of something unreadable flashing through them. “Is that so?”

    She murmurs, the words measured, calm, and almost amused—not in laughter, but in that quiet way of someone who already knows you’re reluctant and is simply acknowledging it.

    Raven studied me for a long moment; her gaze was steady and unreadable. Then, at last, she closed her eyes.

    “Very well,” she said.

    The words were accompanied by a smooth, controlled sigh—neither weary nor irritated, but deliberate, as if she were setting a matter aside rather than dismissing it. When her eyes opened again, they were sharp as ever. “I will concede this moment,” she continued evenly. “However, I do wish to have a conversation with you at the nearest opportunity. If possible.”

    Relief loosened something tight in my chest, though I didn’t let it show too plainly. I inclined my head respectfully. “Very well, Madame Inkwell. If it pleases you… perhaps tomorrow morning. I will be on break from my studies then.”

    Her lips curved—not quite a smile, but something close enough to unsettle me. “That,” she said, “would be a most opportunistic time.”

    With that, she turned on her heel, her coat shifting smoothly with the motion. She walked down the corridor without another glance back; the measured echo of her footsteps lingering against the stone—slow, composed, and impossible to ignore. The sound faded gradually, like a metronome counting down to a future I couldn’t yet see.

    Only then did I exhale.

The breath left me in one long release, as though I’d been holding it since the moment she first said my name. My shoulders sagged, just a little, before I straightened again and adjusted the strap of my bag.

No more delays. Now, let's get to Professor Aethelred and accept this summation of my work.

I began to roam around to find the professor Aethelred yet again.