We live in a world where our souls determine the fate of the lives we live.

Those who are born with souls full of manna are born with everything. They are ensured with a life of success, comfort and satisfaction. They will bring honour to the rest of mankind.

Those who are born without are born with nothing. They will suffer for the rest of their lives, not knowing the taste of comfort and happiness, and die in vain quietly, slowly. They will not be missed.

In our world, survival is predetermined by Nature, our lives dictated by destiny and luck. Manna is what makes us strong; without it, no one will ever survive the hell we live in.

That's what we are taught as children.

That's how our world works.

That's our Law of Nature.

It's too bad I don't believe in it.

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The soft clicking of heels resonated through the atrium as Great Sorcerer Noah Hill slinkered through the vast polished marble floor of Chauncey's Institute of Integrated Magic. He carried with him a leather knapsack, old and covered with dust, which hung loosely by the tips of his fingers. It stank of dung as well, which made Madame Alphonse, standing by one of the columns, move an elegant, dainty hand over her nose.

"You're late," she snapped as Hill approached the large over-arching wooden door at the end of the atrium. She joined him, taking out a golden pocket-watch from beneath her cloak in order to look at the time. It was two minutes past ten. The meeting had ended well over two hours ago. "Where have you been? Everyone was looking for you."

Hill put down the bag, rummaging through the pocket of his cloak to take out a key ring. He thumbed through the keys, each one glowing, until he found the exact match and inserted it in the lock, opening the door, and sliding through another corridor whose columns lit with torches and whose walls were decorated with drab paisley scroll wallpaper. The faint stench of mildew indicated that it hadn't been cleaned in a while; the windows peppered with dust and yellow stains.

"There was a fire over at Sanction 5," Hill replied, voice light and airy. Despite his rugged looks Madame Alphonse thought he had quite a nice voice. If only it didn't spew as much garbage. "It was a Predator. I couldn't exactly leave it be."

He picked up the bag and made his way down the corridor, Madame Alphonse following suit.

"We have Sorcerers for that, you know," she said, scowling. Sorcerers were stationed at every Sanction. Sanction 5 should have at least fifty of them.

"Sanction 5 is Hillary's."

Madame Alphonse ignored the need to rub away the headache forming beneath her temples. Hillary, although dubbed Great Sorcerer just after the Third Verusian War, was epically known for his inability to execute proper governance. Because of that, the Tribunal had to regularly dispatch low-level Sorcerers in order to clean up whatever mess he'd made. Nevertheless, despite his incompetence, his magic and combat skills proved to be invaluable.

"Tell me he hasn't be slacking off again." Her voice couldn't betray her exasperation.

Hill hummed thoughtfully. "Not exactly," he said. "Although I did overhear that he had an exemplary time with the people down below yesterday night. Marvellous drinking fest, they said. Wines imported from the West District. Hillary must have had a wonderful evening."

Hillary was also a pig, misogynistic and perverted. Madame Alphonse failed to hide her disgust. "Don't be obscene," she reprimanded. As an afterthought, she added, "How many died?"

"One hundred and fifteen."

She frowned. "That's quite a lot."

Hill shrugged. "Sanction 5 has been battling overpopulation for quite some time now. I assure you, Madame Alphonse. One hundred and fifteen is a millilitre in an ocean as wide as Sanction 5."

"My, you're awfully pessimistic today."

They entered an archway before continuing down the corridor, the torches flickering in their wake. The corridor was dimly-lit, this time absent of windows.

Hill clicked his tongue in distaste. "Visiting Hillary always leaves a bad taste in my mouth." He frowned in annoyance. "The way he handles things is disgusting. Have you seen the way they live in that hell hole? People desecrate in the streets, children running around naked, men and women don't even have enough to go by a day. Prime production, they say? Absolutely disgusting."

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Madame Alphonse smiled in amusement. "You should be careful, Sorcerer Hill," she said softly. "With the way you're talking they might mistake you for being sympathetic with those down below."

Hill scoffed. "And what a joke that would be," he said, sarcastically. "Great Sorcerer Noah Hill, saviour of hundreds, murderer of tens of thousands, sympathetic of low-bloods? The inhumanity!"

"Well, you had saved a child. And he lived with the low-bloods too," she reminded, voice light and teasing. "And look how well that turned out."

"I do hope you're not being sarcastic," Hill chastised. "Alexander has grown up to be a wonderful boy, if I do say so myself!"

"Awfully proud of him, are you?"

There was a doorway at the end of the corridor. Hill flicked his forefinger and the doors swung open. The torch flames flickered at the movement.

"Hard not to be, the way he turned out."

They entered another hallway, this time turning left at a fork. "Speaking of, how is Alexander? I haven't seen him in weeks. He hasn't been skipping classes, has he?"

This time it was Madame Alphonse who scoffed. "Why ask? The boy's doing perfectly fine, if only too perfect. He's still top of the class," she informed him. "Although I can't say much about his relationships."

Hill tutted. "I'm sure he means well to his friends."

"Friends?" Madame Alphonse asked incredulously. "Why, Hill, he hasn't got any! The closest to friends he has is that Berkley boy and I don't think for a moment that he's got any interest in Alexander other than copying his assignments."

Hill hummed noncommittally. "Well, I suppose it's always better to be alone than to be with people who don't care."

"Of course you'd say that," Madame Alphonse interjected. There was an accompanying eye roll with the statement. "It's unhealthy, Hill. Alexander is a growing boy. Having friends to share problems with is an important facet in life. Otherwise, he'll grow up misunderstood and miserable, just like you did-"

Hill stopped dead in his tracks, surprising Madame Alphonse. Swiftly, he faced her, a stern look etched on his gruff, tired face yet his eyes glimmered with underlying viciousness. "I'd choose my next words very carefully if I were you, Alphonse," he threatened, voice low and raspy.

Madame Alphonse huffed indignantly, staring straight unto his eyes. "Or what? You'll slap me? Cry to the Tribunal like you did last year when someone talked behind your back? Hex me?"

Hill smacked his lips, turning around. "Tempting, but no," he said, nonchalance decorating his voice. "For now, I'll let you off. Now, enough banter. Tell me about the meeting I so alarmingly missed. Something important came up? Gardens not trimmed? Gargoyles unpolished?"

There was no reply for a few moments, deafening silence reverberating.

Then, without ado, Madame Alphonse acquiesced, "It's getting worse."

Hill turned around once again, this time the frown had deepened and his lips were set in a dismal line. The atmosphere had turned grim, emphasized only by the flicker of the torch above them.

"What happened this time?" Hill demanded softly. The question, calm and falsely flippant, seemed to echo throughout the hallway.

Madame Alphonse spoke carefully. "One of the servants was found mangled in the orchard yesterday night and just earlier today, before lunch, another was found in the staff's pantry. Both of their innards were gone." Madame Alphonse sighed. Her expression had turned grey. "None of the students seem to know anything yet, although it's getting difficult to hide the situation. We have to do something before this thing gets to the students."

"What did the Council decide?"

"Preventive measures, mostly," Madame Alphonse responded. "Stronger spells. Meals are served earlier and bedtime is at exactly eight. Teachers are taking turns guarding the entrances."

"And what if it's inside?"

"We don't know for sure. Until we do, we're taking precautions against the external factors." Madame Alphonse looked at him, imploring. "We might need extra help." The implication was there.

Hill paused before, albeit resignedly, he sighed. "I guess my stay is extended."

Madame Alphonse shrugged, a smile faintly gracing her thin lips. "I'm sure Alexander would love it." She glanced back at the parcel Hill had been carrying. "What is that, anyway?"

Hill looked to where she was pointing, baffled, before recognition dawned upon him. "Oh, right! It's Predator liver. I had it extricated from the creature before they burned it. It's a gift," he informed, although a bit too proudly. "For Alexander. Today's his birthday and I'm sure he'd be ecstatic-he's interested in Predatorial Anatomy now, although I should really ice this before it goes bad."

Madame Alphonse cringed. "You really should." She hid her hands inside her pockets. "Well, I do have a primary appointment to attend first, so I do apologize that this is as far as I can take you." She gestured to the hallway. They had been standing in the middle of a three-way intersection.

Hill heralded a guess. "Marcus?"

At her nod, Hill gave her a pitying look.

"No need for apologies," Hill reassured. "I'm sure I can find my way. Well, then, I'll be off first." The Sorcerer nodded in dismissal before turning around and heading straight ahead. "I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early."

"Not too early, I hope."

His chuckle echoed through the walls.

Madame Alphonse watched his figure get smaller as he made his way down the hallway. Out of earshot, she sighed sombrely, turning to head the opposite direction. "I do hope things go well," she mumbled. Otherwise...she didn't dare think about it.

In the silence of the night, her footsteps echoed through the cavernous labyrinth of the Institute's many corridors. Moonlight shone from the skylight high up in the alcoves, casting a melancholic glow in the hallways, the shadows flickering under the illumination of the torches set on walls and columns.

Outside the Institute's walls, across acres and acres of land, and unknowing, a low growl reverberated, hungry and deep in the dead of the night, carried by the midnight wind.

And then, without warning, a scream pierced through the field, ragged and bloody, stuttering off as time passed.

Not long after, a howl followed, boastful and hungry.

Satisfied.