The people of the capital watched as a tide of students rose up the wide staircases that connected to the subway, shouting, singing, celebrating the start of classes. For some, it was the last year, but for others, the beginning of an adventure they would never forget.

  Hand in hand, Annya and Feralynn emerged. Their destination was close. They had to cross a small grove to reach it. Even so, its enormous towers were already visible from afar. It seemed to sit at the edge of the capital, where the city ended and the countryside began.

  The castle was beautiful…

  Not a single building, but several joined together, a vast campus. One with a border courtyard that could easily host a football championship. Hell, even two if needed. The city breathed differently on this margin—under another essence, with other rules.

  The iron gate loomed tall, as wide as a full-grown troll standing upright. At its center, the two closed leaves formed a single shield: a pentacle.

  A simple, almost childlike drawing, yet heavy with power. The five points marked what was essential: water, fire, earth, air… and life.

  It was the emblem of the Academy, stitched onto every uniform over the heart.

  “I heard the Headmaster is pretty funny,” said Annya, watching her classmates walk toward the gate. “They call him the ‘Toymaker', some say he’s three hundred years old, or more.”

  “Hm. Guess retirement benefits don’t cover that long.”

  Feralynn was anxious. She kept looking everywhere—every branch, every tree, every classmate walking near. Her palms were damp, and Annya noticed, but it didn’t bother her at all. She couldn’t blame her; her own stomach was doing a million flips from the excitement.

  The forest ended, school life was approaching. But—

  “WOW, LOOK!”

  A boy shouted in excitement. Absolutely everyone stopped walking to look at the sky, where he was pointing. The squeal of pegasi flying, their wings flaming with each beat, announced an arrival fit for a show. They halted above the earth, landing in a cleared field.

  As if by… “magic” (bad joke, sorry), photographers appeared to take pictures of the carriage, flashes glinting off its silvered metal. The driver dismounted, opened the door, and from it stepped—

  “Lady Miria, Lady Miria!” A journalist, notebook in hand, spoke. “How does it feel to be the only girl among the four noble families not attending the Royal Guard Academy?”

  “Is it true you’re afraid of competing against the Goldbrand?”

  “Lady Miria, a photo please, with your father!”

  She wore sunglasses—not because of the weather—but to block those damned flashes. Her father? He was used to them decades ago.

  “Miria Frostweaver!” Annya squealed, squeezing Feralynn’s hand. “I can’t believe it, she’s going to study with us?! Oh gods, imagine if she’s in our same class?!”

  Confused, Fer noticed how her classmates—including her friend—stared in awe at the noble girl beside her father. She didn’t understand a damn thing of what was happening, or who she was.

  “Uhhh… who the hell is she?” she whispered into Annya’s ear.

  “What?! Ugh, Fer…” Annya complained playfully, teasing her. “She’s the youngest heir of the Frostweaver family.”

  A brief silence. Fer squinted, trying to grasp why people in Lorian cared about that sort of crap. She quickly remembered Soleria was an ordinary republic, not a kingdom with a parliamentary monarchy like this nation.

  “…So what, she’s the king’s niece or something?”

  Annya giggled, shaking her head.

  “No, silly. In Larion there isn’t a single throne—there are four families that uphold royalty.” She spread her hand, fingers opening as if sharing a childish secret.

  “Each embodies a season: the Frostweavers winter, the Goldbrands summer, the Bloomwardens spring, the Amberfalls autumn… and at the center, the Royal Family: life itself.”

  Miria removed her glasses, letting her white hair flick lightly with a hand, before answering the press.

  “Oh, I understand the surprise my decision may have caused. After all, it is tradition for every heir. I would like to say that the Royal Guard Academy is, of course, an honorable path. But I believe that over time it has been forgotten that Larion also breathes thanks to the other pillar of its greatness: magic. The Academy of Larion is not some modern whim; it stands in the very foundations of the Kingdom. To enter here is not to abandon tradition, but to honor the root of who we are. And I will not allow its prestige to be diminished just because it shines without swords.”

  Her answer, coupled with her modest smile, charmed everyone. Her father laid a hand on her shoulder, completing the justification.

  “Every branch of the Frostweaver family must bloom in different soil. My son represents martial strength; my daughter will represent magical excellence. A family’s greatness lies in embracing all realms of duty. The Royal Guard forms protectors of the throne. The Academy of Magic forms protectors of life itself. There is no lesser nobility in choosing one or the other. My daughter will serve the kingdom of Larion in body and soul, from the place her talent calls her to.”

  Everyone was delighted by the refined manners of his words. They nodded, seeing the justification dressed up as noble reasoning. Except Fer, who rolled her eyes, shaking her head silently.

  They hadn’t noticed, but with slow, stealthy steps two identical silhouettes, tall as the gates, spread open the main entrance.

  The crowd turned like a swarm toward them, forgetting the flashes and nobility in an instant.

  Those who had already attended the school were unmoved. For the rest—including our girls—goosebumps rose on their skin.

  Frozen expressions, curled wigs stiff in the air, skin of wood still smelling of fresh paint, identical tailcoats. When they moved, it sounded like the faint crack of breaking branches.

  Annya wanted to climb onto their shoulders like carnival giants.

  Feralynn thought of shooting them.

  Miria smiled, but it was a forced grimace to hide her disgust.

  One with an orange wig: Chappi.

  The other with a green wig: Choppi.

  Two perfect copies, smiles painted like red cracks, eyes lined in coal-black. Noses red as fresh tomatoes.

  They raised their top hats and bowed, one on each side of the entrance.

  “WELCOME, DEAR STUDENTS!”

  The echo of their voices was syrupy, cloying, as if the words came from inside a music box.

  The school opened its arms. No one knew if it asked for an embrace, or if it prepared to snap shut a trap. There was a second of silence…

  “Come on, what’s the matter, kids? I know my brother’s ugly, but he doesn’t bite!” Choppi called, then cupped his hands to whisper loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Though don’t lean in too close—he hasn’t brushed since the last eclipse.”

  Chappi cackled. “Ugly? The real horror here is your broccoli haircut, dear brother!”

  The young students just stared, wide-eyed, frozen between laughter and disbelief.

  “Don’t just stand there!” Choppi barked, throwing his arms wide like a ringmaster. “Inside, inside! Last one in has to eat what’s left in the cafeteria cauldron!”

  Chappi lurched forward on his wooden legs, each creak like a drumbeat, clumsy and theatrical. Choppi only shrugged, grinning, before bounding after him.

  That broke the spell—the students screamed and bolted through the gates, their laughter chasing them inside.

  Fer and Annya quickly grabbed hands so they wouldn’t lose each other in the shoal of kids. Annya laughed as she ran, not before glancing at Choppi, who had turned while running to watch the students follow. The tall clown winked with a smile, tipping his top hat.

  “Annya—WAIT!” Fer shouted, but her protest was drowned by the euphoria of the crowd. “You’ll get us crushed!”

  But Annya only laughed, chasing after the clowns.

  Miria waited for the crowd to enter before stepping in last, calmly, masking her racing heart.

  As they ran toward the entrance, the ground trembled like an earthquake. The young students froze—while the veterans smiled softly, continuing their unhurried walk, already knowing what was coming and keeping quiet not to spoil the surprise.

  From the sides of the wide dirt path sprouted enormous trees, their crowns gold and pink. They wept leaves of joy in song.

  Alongside the trees rose sturdy knights of stone. Faces hidden beneath helmets, lifting sharp swords in salute.

  Leaves and confetti rained over the students. Choppi and Chappi beckoned while tossing little spheres into the air that sprouted tiny wings and fluttered among them. They were fairies, darting like hummingbirds, trailing the colors of their wings behind them.

  The children’s hearts pounded with excitement. Their cheeks couldn’t stop smiling, and their eyes tried to capture every color.

  One stopped before Annya. She halted in awe. The tiny yellow fairy grinned mischievously. It touched her nose, and at the contact golden sparks burst.

  “It tickles!” she laughed, scratching the tip of her nose with a blush on her cheeks.

  She felt inside herself more joy than usual. Maybe it was a spell—or simply the beauty of letting herself be charmed by life’s surprises.

  It drifted toward Feralynn’s nose, who with a look of disgust cocked her index finger like a slingshot. She released it, flicking the fairy away like an annoying fly. A nearly inaudible squeal rang out. She smirked slightly with malice, hearing it cursed as it flew off.

  Luckily Annya was too distracted to notice. Fer escaped a scolding—and another threat of no more cookies.

  Still hand in hand, they kept walking. Fer’s eyes were sharp, her enthusiasm contained. Her heart beat fast, yes—but her face stayed under control. They blended into the crowd, reaching the massive doors. Huge, like the maw of an ancient dragon. They bore an unnecessary, comical oversized lock of metal.

  The only thing making company to Miria was the backpack on her back. She sighed in defeat at the sea of confetti and laughter. She kicked a small stone on the ground, frowning at it.

  Almost she regretted her decision, but felt a faint flutter of wings approach.

  She looked up and saw a tiny fairy, sky-blue like her eyes.

  The little one smiled shyly and offered her a small glowing orb in its tiny palm. Perplexed… Miria took it delicately.

  “…For me?” she asked, slightly agape.

  The fairy nodded eagerly, pointing at the sphere. Miria held it in her palm, looking like an almost intangible marble. When she brought it close to her face to examine—It burst! A soft cerulean implosion, sparkles brushed her face, accompanied by a faint jingling sound.

  Miria recoiled instantly, eyes shut, teeth clenched, bracing for mockery or a cruel joke. To her surprise… she felt better. She opened her eyes with several blinks; the glow still fell upon her like snow in slow motion.

  Frustration melted inside her. Not all at once, not immediately—just enough for her shoulders to ease and her chest to breathe fully at last.

  Still unbelieving, she looked at the fairy, who curtsied lightly, lifting her tiny skirt at the sides. Miria smiled for the first time in a week, and copied the gesture.

  “Thank you so much, little miss,” she said, with formality.

  The fairy giggled, blushing, and flew off, mingling with her sisters in the air.

  THWACK!!!

  Wood smacked against wood—Chappi had crashed headlong into the door. His limbs bent and stretched like a puppet with loose strings. Choppi, unfazed, produced a comically oversized spatula from his coat and scraped him free. Chappi slid down to the ground like a poster peeling off a wall, stuck a thumb in his mouth, blew hard, and with a pop! reinflated to his normal shape.

  “Brother! Where’s the key?” he demanded.

  Choppi patted himself down, digging through his endless pockets. Out came an anvil, a rubber duck, a rusty sword, an unlit bomb, a life preserver, a birthday cake, and finally a set of dentures. He shrugged, head tilted, as if this assortment made perfect sense.

  Both clowns scratched their identical curly wigs in unison, humming in mock concentration.

  “HMMMMM…!”

  “Hmmmm…??!!!”

  “Wait—I’ve got it!” Choppi cried. He grabbed Chappi by the ankles, hoisted him upside down, and jammed his head into the lock. After some rattling and a squeaky twist, a loud click! rang out—the padlock sprang open. When Choppi yanked him back, Chappi’s head was stretched into the shape of a giant key, but his painted grin remained frozen and proud.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The students erupted into laughter, the absurd timing hitting like a practiced routine. Miria pressed her hands to her mouth, trying to smother her giggles, while Fer only stared, arms crossed, unmoved.

  The two brothers tossed the lock aside, pushed open the hungry gates with force.

  “Enter, children. Be happy in your learning.”

  They said in unison, bowing once more, each at an end of the entrance. No mockery, no joke. Only a gentle summons. An offering to the soul.

  The background was dark, the clown brothers remained in their bowed reverence, letting everyone file in. Chappi’s head was still shaped like a key. Now no one ran. Their steps were measured, cautious, attentive to the darkness of the hallway that embraced them toward the castle’s main hall.

  Upper-year students stood aside, allowing the new arrivals to go first, opening the way for them.

  They ended up surrounding a platform, like an audience waiting for a concert. They stood there, waiting. Nothing happened. Whispers and questions rose among them.

  BAM!

  A circular light flared.

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  Another. Five, no—seven. Drums began to sound, announcing the entrance of someone—or rather, something…

  They thundered, the percussion quickening as the lights darted across the scene, following no pattern.

  Suddenly, a yellow ball with a red five-pointed star in its center dropped down. It bounced a couple of times before coming to rest. The drums stopped, but the students’ attention was at its peak.

  It rolled slightly on its axis, and then, silence…

  POOF!

  The ball exploded, raining colorful confetti, and from it emerged a most peculiar figure.

  “DEAR STUDENTS, IT’S A PLEASURE TO WELC—oh, oops. I’m upside down, hehe.” The figure flipped over and cleared its throat. “IT’S A PLEASURE TO WELCOME YOU TO OUR ACADEMY OF MAGIC FOR ANOTHER YEAR!”

  A puppet…

  Yes. A damned puppet. Its skin polished white to perfection. Fer frowned. Was this a school or a fucking circus?!

  A body of jointed wood, finely crafted, sturdy in structure.

  Wine-red suit, top hat, bow tie, and tails.

  A white mask with a permanent grin: expressionless yet unforgettable.

  Golden strings dangled from its joints, nearly invisible unless one squinted under the lights.

  “FOR THOSE UNLUCKY WHO DON’T KNOW ME, ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF!”

  The golden threads on its shoulders lifted it, making it float among the students, gliding above their heads, arms outstretched as the lights and drums followed.

  “I am Headmaster Glorthamiel Xanderius Qwibblenox the Third, Grand Keeper of the Velvet Ravens, Left Hand of the Crystal Omelet, High Master of the Seven and a Half Forbidden Bicycles, Duke of the Dagger Sandwich, Commander of the Moonlight Tap-Dancing Brigade, Archmage of the Arcane Sock Dimension, Guardian of the Eternal Spoons, Bearer of the Last Toothbrush, Founder of the Guild of Slightly Annoying Laughter, voted ‘Most Likely to Explode’ in the Academy Yearbook, and two-time undefeated champion of Magical Musical Chairs!”

  When he finished reciting his name, he returned to the center of the arena, but the strings snapped and he fell face-first with a dull thunk. He quickly sprang back up, dusting off dust that wasn’t there, laughing foolishly.

  Total silence followed. Miria covered her face in shame. Feralynn thought her mother had accidentally enrolled her in a psychiatric ward. Annya was the only one who smiled and clapped softly.

  “…But you can call me Director Smiley!” he added, throwing jazz hands with a squeaky little hop. The puppet burst into laughter—cheerful, yet unsettling enough to raise goosebumps.

  The new students had heard stories about the headmaster. Rumors. But none had expected this. Just as some were beginning to question the seriousness of the institution, a sordid bolt of deep blue lightning struck beside the Headmaster. A pulse of ether itself.

  It released a radiant trail that, on impact, extinguished the lights. Students screamed and shielded themselves. Feralynn didn’t hesitate a second—she stepped in front of Annya, shielding her from the force of the spell. Miria stood her ground, not even squinting.

  A few seconds passed; the burst stabilized before fading. Darkness. Until a single white spotlight lit again.

  From the shadows emerged an elven woman—her skin a rich onyx tone, her long blond hair cascading down her back like a golden river. Her attire was firm, elegant. It commanded respect without harshness. Her eyes were sharp, merciless. She didn’t just step into the hall—she claimed it. One hand rested on her hip.

  “Thank you for the colorful introduction, Headmaster Smiley,” she said. Her voice was controlled, yet sharp enough to cut air like steel. She snapped her fingers, igniting the massive wall torches with a fierce white fire.

  Her gaze fixed on the students.

  “I am Headmistress Astera Birklake, and I wish to welcome each and every one of you. The Academy of Magic of Larion opens its doors so you may receive the finest magical education in the known world.”

  The atmosphere shifted instantly.

  “She’s like a drill sergeant, heh…” Feralynn muttered, grinning with sarcasm, recalling the orders of past superiors.

  “Hmph.” Miria crossed her arms, eyes like rapier-points. “Finally, someone serious…”

  Annya felt intimidated, though she could not deny the elf looked imposing.

  “You will not only learn ancient words from forgotten scrolls, but also to command the arcane power within you. You will be trained to work as a team, to be part of a community. Each of you was born with an extraordinary gift—and it is our duty as instructors to guide it, to help shape a world worthy of it. We will do our utmost as an institution to make you grow. It is our duty to protect the weak and aid the needy. For that reason, with the help of our excellent professors, we wish to shape mages capable of building a better future for all.”

  No one dared make a sound—not even a cough broke the stillness her presence created.

  She paused, eyes sweeping across the massive hall like a predator’s.

  “Isn’t that right, Headmaster Smiley?”

  The puppet let out syrupy, strange giggles—oddly charming in their own way.

  “Absolutely, absolutely, Headmistress Astera!” Smiley flailed his wooden limbs with exaggerated air. “A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! This school has stood for over a thousand years, and it only gets better at forming quality wizards! No doubt the future of magic shines—and will continue to shine—here in Larion!”

  Astera gave only the faintest nod, her expression unreadable.

  “Then allow me to be the first to say… WELCOME!”

  Her final word echoed across the chamber. The massive stone torches along the walls roared alive, bathing the hall in bright blue light. The room became fully visible. Giant thresholds, tall as titans, rose from the walls, opening into corridors. Each marked a different direction, giving way to long hallways with windows, lockers, and classroom doors.

  A chorus of gasps rippled through the crowd.

  “That wasn’t pyromancy…” Feralynn thought, narrowing her eyes. “It answered her voice…” Her instincts stirred. Already analyzing everything.

  Chappi and Choppi, aided by fifth-years, guided the newcomers through the usual first-day chaos.

  “Please, no one beyond 7 p.m.—thank you! No shoving! Wait, wait! Third-years to Wing C! No running! First-years: Wing D!”

  The instructions rang again and again.

  “Fer! Come on, let’s sit together!” Annya exclaimed, practically hopping.

  “Mhm.”

  Feralynn barely registered the words—her heart was pounding, her legs trembling slightly, and that unsettled her. She had survived war, faced horrors no teenager should, but this… this feeling was… warm? Hopeful? She didn’t know the word. Not yet. But in that moment, it didn’t matter.

  As they moved, Fer accidentally bumped into a girl her own height.

  “Hey, move it, damn it!” Feralynn barked amid the chaos of rushing students.

  The girl turned—it was Miria.

  Annya gasped softly at the way her friend addressed her. Glaciar eyes met volcanic ones. Miria didn’t blink at the aggression.

  “My apologies, it’s difficult to walk among so many,” she said with icy venom. “And it is hardly proper to speak to classmates like that. Don’t you think?” Her gaze didn’t waver.

  “Did riding in a carriage put your legs to sleep or what?” Fer shot back.

  Annya watched as wolf and hawk threatened to tear each other apart. She quickly stepped between them.

  “W-We’re very sorry, Miria. I mean, um—Lady Miria.” She forced a nervous little laugh. Then tugged Fer down by the sleeve to hiss in her ear, angry: “Fer, for heaven’s sake, be nice today.”

  Miria stood with arms crossed, her expression unchanged.

  Feralynn stared a moment longer. Those piercing eyes. They were like hers—but of another color. Another surname. Another magic.

  “Tch… whatever.” she muttered, glancing back once before letting Annya pull her along.

  The noble girl watched them go, seeing the orange-haired one, slightly shorter than her dark-haired friend, scold her in vain. She exhaled through her nose.

  “Stupid girl…” she murmured before rejoining her classmates, fists clenched so tightly her knuckles were whiter than her hair.

  The first-year group was a mix of elves, orcs, and humans—the latter being the majority. Led through broad corridors, they arrived at a great oval lecture hall, like a university classroom. The space had semi-circular seating arranged in tiers, all facing a massive dark-green chalkboard.

  At the center, behind a desk, a man lounged with his legs propped on the table and his arms crossed behind his head like a pillow.

  “Ah, fresh meat. Fantastic. Just… fantastic,” the professor said, voice dripping with sarcasm, before sighing and letting the tone deflate.

  The students filed into their seats. Annya dropped beside Fer, grinning wide and excited.

  Fer showed no emotion—but noticed her hand was still clutching Annya’s without permission. She averted her eyes and let go.

  Miria was the last to enter. She walked calmly; a group of girls tried to speak to her. Smiling politely, she greeted them, explaining she preferred her own pace, then stepped inside. There were no more seats left. Though the hall was wide, there were too many students.

  Feralynn noticed Annya pulling out her pink notebook decorated with cat stickers and a violet pen. She scanned the room with disinterest—until someone sat down beside her.

  “This has to be a joke…” she thought.

  Without a word, Miria sat next to Feralynn. She refused to look at her. With mute, practiced movements, she pulled out a black notebook and a silver pen. Her back sat straight against the chair, hand poised to write.

  Annya waved to her silently, and Miria responded with a calm smile. They didn’t know if they would become friends—or if they’d even get along. But that subtle gesture, that reverent acknowledgement… tied them together in a way. Still, she pretended not to see Feralynn.

  Fer had yet to take anything out of her bag. Just an empty notebook. Her chin rested in her hand, her back slouched forward, bored.

  To her left, Annya softly hummed a tune while doodling cupcakes at the bottom of the page, testing the pen’s ink. To her right, Miria looked like a mannequin—unblinking. But Fer noticed the pen in her hand trembled ever so slightly…

  Then the professor stood.

  “All right. Listen up, my dear larvae,” he said, his voice lazy yet authoritative. “I’ve been at this for over a decade, so we’re going to skip the boring introductions.”

  He adjusted his rectangular glasses and walked to the board.

  “I’m Professor Bernt. I’ll be your instructor in Basic Theory of Magic… or BTM, for short. Try to keep up.”

  Bernt was tall and thin, around forty. He wore a dark-blue dress shirt that fit snugly, formal trousers, and polished shoes. A small ponytail trailed at his nape, and a shadow of stubble roughened his jaw.

  With a flick of his wrist, he grabbed a piece of chalk.

  “Principles of Arcane Energy. Page twenty-five. Now.”

  His voice was clear and firm—but carried the weight of someone dulled by routine… maybe even a little bored with life itself.

  As he wrote on the board, he spoke in a tone between apathy and a gray resolve to simply finish the lesson.

  “You should already know this—but given all the sugar you probably eat daily, a review won’t kill you.” The screech of chalk on green matched his words. “Magic is divided into five main aspects. Anyone want to name them?”

  Miria raised her hand with serene poise.

  “Go ahead,” Bernt said, without enthusiasm.

  “The five main aspects of magic,” she began in a refined, educated tone, “are destruction, healing, illusion, alteration, and conjuration. Destruction encompasses offensive and defensive spells; healing covers medical and restorative magic; illusion is the manipulation of perception; alteration, the art of changing matter; and conjuration, the creation of objects or beings through magical means.”

  The professor arched a brow.

  “Impressive. Name?”

  “Frostweaver. Miria Frostweaver,” she answered gracefully.

  An intrigued murmur rippled among the students.

  “Oh?” Bernt perked slightly. “Looks like we’ve got the Frostweaver heir among us. Excellent answer, Miss Frostweaver. You may sit.”

  A low applause spread.

  Feralynn rolled her eyes, making a mocking grimace full of sarcasm.

  At the board, Bernt kept writing.

  “Good. Five categories, four specialties. Who knows them?”

  Annya’s hand shot up like lightning.

  “You,” Bernt said, almost amused. “Pumpkin-hair.”

  “T-The four specialties are… uh… um. Miracles, sorceries, nature-elements, and hexes,” she stammered, cheeks flushed.

  Bernt nodded. “Good enough. Name?”

  “Oak! Uh—I mean, Annya Oak!”

  “...Oak?” Bernt muttered. “Damn good donuts at that bakery…”

  He resumed scrawling on the board.

  “All right my maggots, next question. How do magic users like us channel power? Hm? This is an easy one, come on.”

  Every hand shot up—except Feralynn’s.

  “You,” Bernt said, pointing with the chalk. “The quiet one.”

  Feralynn blinked. “…Me?”

  “What tool do magic users employ to cast?”

  She froze. Her mind drifted to the battlefield—mages in bloodstained armor, hands sparking raw power.

  “…Gloves,” she answered firmly. “They use gloves.”

  The room fell silent.

  “Well… not wrong,” Bernt admitted. “But not quite right either.”

  He turned to the board and wrote one word:

  Catalyst

  “A catalyst is a focus—a bridge between your soul and the arcane world. The first recorded was the broken horn of a silver stag. Any object with arcane potential can become a catalyst.”

  He kept writing.

  “Over time, mages crafted wands. Small sticks with a nexus inside. Then staffs—larger, stronger, but slower. But the true game-changer? Science.” He raised his gloved hand. “Modern gloves—each with a tiny shard of Etherium embedded—let us cast efficiently. Etherium is mined from crystal caves saturated with arcane energy.”

  He snapped the chalk against the board.

  “You will learn the origins of magic, and how to use these gloves correctly. If you don’t have a pair, get one before the week ends—unless you want to fry yourselves in spellcasting classes.”

  Feralynn, quiet since her first answer, raised her hand now with a sharp, steady gaze.

  Bernt looked at her. “Mm? You—blood eyes. Go ahead.”

  Feralynn rose slowly. “Professor… what about mages who don’t need a catalyst?”

  Silence again. Even the screech of chalk froze.

  Bernt tapped the chalk against his chin.

  “…Now that’s a pretty good damn question.”

  He turned back to the class.

  “They’re rare cases,” he began. “Extremely rare. Mages able to conjure using only their bodies. No wands, no staves, no gloves—just raw power and will.”

  The students leaned forward.

  “They’re usually prodigies of old bloodlines—clans with magic etched into their very bones. Or rare individuals who’ve honed their craft so long their own bodies became the catalyst. But their numbers have dwindled. Why strain the flesh when technology now forges wands and gloves that channel mana more efficiently than blood ever could?”

  He shrugged.

  “Humans? Almost impossible. Our shelf life is short. We die before we can even spark without a focus. Elves? Sure, they live long enough that some achieve it. But even then, it’s rare.”

  Feralynn sat again in silence. Her mind drifted.

  She saw her father—his hands ablaze, shaping fire into bullets, into grenades—hurling them across battlefields like divine artillery. He needed no gloves. He was the weapon.

  Her gaze dropped to her own hands. Eight years in Soleria. Eight years firing bursts of flame from her palms, just like him.

  Annya glanced sideways, worried. “Fer, you okay?”

  Feralynn blinked. “Hm? Ah…Yeah, yeah. All good. Just… thinking.”

  But her fingers still tingled, remembering the heat. Annya was remembering how her friend was able to cast a single candle in front of her with the tip of a finger. She glanced at Miria—and caught her watching, scrutinizing. Quickly Miria feigned disinterest, looking away.

  “Anyway, back to the book. Pages 25 to 35, fundamentals of catalysts…”

  The lesson continued, everyone scribbling notes. But Fer kept staring at her hands a little longer than necessary.

  “Wait, the Headmistress didn’t have any gloves or a wand…Did she?” Feralynn thought, looking at her scarred fingers. “Didn’t know it was that weird…”

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