After the unexpected success of her demonstration, the Academy had quickly arranged for Ellie to lecture the students, a prospect she dreaded even more.

Ellie stood at the front of the classroom, her palms damp, her heart thudding uncomfortably in her chest. The lecture hall was much smaller than the demonstration chamber—more intimate, but no less oppressive. Rows of eager faces, young and sharp-eyed, watched her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

The students sat in neat rows, their robes varying in color, denoting their different ranks and specializations. Their gazes were fixed on her, expectant, waiting for the wisdom they believed she possessed.

The room itself seemed to conspire against her. The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with ancient tomes, their leather spines cracked with age, and the air hummed faintly with magic. Even the ceiling, an arched dome painted with swirling constellations and runes, felt like it was pressing down, closer and closer. The pressure of it all—of their faith in her—was almost unbearable.

She cleared her throat, her fingers twitching nervously at her sides. What was she supposed to tell them? The Academy had expected her to lecture on draconic magic, on ancient combat techniques she barely understood herself.

She hadn’t learned magic—she had survived it. Stumbled through it. What could she possibly offer these students, who had spent years training under the finest mages in the kingdom?

Her mind was a blank. The silence in the room grew thicker, stretching out until it threatened to choke her. Say something, she thought, panic rising. Anything.

"Well..." Ellie began, her voice sounding strange and distant to her own ears. "Magic is... complicated."

There was a brief pause, then the students leaned forward, their attention sharpening. A few of them nodded, as though she had just uttered something profound.

Encouraged by their response, Ellie took a shaky breath. “It’s not always about the... the spells themselves, you see. It’s about the way you feel the magic. The way it moves through you.”

More nods. Some of the students were already taking notes, their quills scratching rapidly across parchment.

Ellie blinked, her stomach twisting with unease. They were hanging on her every word, as if she were revealing the deepest mysteries of the arcane. She searched her mind for anything else—anything that might sound remotely useful.

“You have to... listen,” she continued, trying to sound thoughtful. “Magic is... alive, in a way. It’s not just something you do—it’s something you communicate with. A conversation between you and the world.”

One of the students, a young woman with a shock of silver hair and wide, bright eyes, raised her hand. “Lady Ellie,” she said, her voice trembling slightly with awe. “When you say ‘a conversation,’ do you mean that magic has its own will? That it... speaks back to the caster?”

Ellie hesitated. She had no idea what she meant. But the student was looking at her with such reverence, as though her question had already been answered, that Ellie found herself nodding slowly. “Yes,” she said, “in a way. It... responds to you. But not in words. More like a... feeling. A sense of knowing.”

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The silver-haired girl’s eyes widened, and she scribbled furiously in her notebook, the quill moving so fast it was almost a blur.

Ellie glanced at the other students, who were all equally absorbed, their gazes locked on her as if she were unveiling the very secrets of the universe. ‘This is madness,’ she thought. ‘They actually believe I know what I’m talking about.’

Her thoughts darted back to her mother—her quiet, mysterious mother, who had never called herself a mage despite being married to a Valquinn but had known things.

Ellie could still remember the long evenings by the hearth, when her mother would murmur strange old words over the fire, her hands weaving through the air as though stirring something unseen. She had tried to teach Ellie a few things, here and there, though Ellie had never taken it seriously. But now... now those fragmented lessons were all she had to cling to.

"Magic," she said slowly, "is... older than any of us. It’s like the earth. It was here long before we were, and it will be here long after. The real challenge isn’t controlling it—it’s learning to live with it."

A low murmur rippled through the students. Some of them exchanged glances, their faces alight with understanding. A few of them even looked humbled, as though Ellie had just imparted a profound truth that had eluded them until now.

Another student, a boy with dark eyes and a furrowed brow, raised his hand. "But Lady Ellie," he said, his tone cautious but curious, "how did you learn to... live with it? How did you develop such a deep connection with the magic of dragons?"

Ellie’s throat tightened. The magic of dragons. She didn’t have the heart to tell them the truth—that she had barely survived the encounter with the dragon at Dreadmoor Pass, that she had won through sheer luck, through desperation. She had no special connection to dragon magic, no deep understanding of the ancient arts.

But she couldn’t tell them that. Not now. Not with their expectant faces turned toward her, their belief in her already so strong. She was trapped, and there was no way out except forward.

"Dragons," Ellie said, forcing herself to keep her voice steady, "are... different. Their magic is more primal. More dangerous." She could feel herself slipping into the role they wanted her to play, the words coming more easily now, though each one felt like a stone sinking in her chest. "It’s not something you can control. It’s something you have to... survive. If you’re lucky."

The students nodded again, some of them looking more serious now, their quills poised above their parchment as if waiting for the next great revelation. Ellie swallowed hard and pressed on.

"You have to trust your instincts," she said. "Sometimes, that’s all you have. Magic isn’t always about knowing the right spell or having the perfect technique. Sometimes, it’s just about feeling the moment and... letting the magic guide you."

Another murmur of awe swept through the room. A few of the students exchanged glances, as though they were silently marveling at the depth of her wisdom.

Ellie’s stomach churned. They were hanging on her every word, interpreting her vague, nervous ramblings as pearls of arcane insight. She could see it in their eyes—the reverence, the belief. They wanted to believe in her, in the legend of Ellie Liddell, the dragon slayer, the mage of instinct and primal power.

And there was nothing she could do to stop it now.

The thought of it—of continuing this charade, of living up to a story she hadn’t meant to write—made her chest feel tight, as though the very air was pressing down on her. But she couldn’t back out. She couldn’t show them the truth. Not now.

"So," Ellie said, her voice quieter, almost resigned, "that’s all I can really tell you. Magic is... personal. It’s not something you can learn from a book. You have to feel it. You have to live it."

There was a long pause, then the students began to nod again, murmuring their agreement, their faces filled with quiet awe.

Ellie swallowed, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. "Any more questions?" she asked, though she already dreaded the answer.

Hands shot up across the room.