With a sharp jerk of its head, the goat sent Camille’s hand flying.

“Now, now,” she said to the animal, patting its muscular back. “Be nice. We’re friends now, aren’t we?”

In response, the goat bleated at her and walked away, browsing on scattered tufts of withered grass littering the landscape. Two weeks into their travels, Camille marveled at the goat’s resilience. Not only did the animal bear her weight with apparent ease, but it also managed the added burden of their luggage, packed securely in the panniers flanking its sides.

In size, the goat was a match for her, with its sleek, silvery-white fur glistening in the harsh sunlight of the Great Highlands. Its razor-sharp horns added an element of formidable elegance, and the ease with which it navigated the difficult terrain left Camille in awe. The locals, Bandawi, had warned them that these lands were ill-suited for horses, and she had come to appreciate the accuracy of their claim. At times, she found herself clinging to the reins—her knuckles white with exertion as she trusted the animal to navigate the sheer cliff faces and narrow ledges that marked their path, praying they would not plunge down the stone wall.

The Highlands bore little resemblance to her expectations. She had envisioned towering peaks, but was greeted by a puzzling landscape she could only liken to an amalgamation of flat-topped mesas, each one perched at varying height like uneven steps. After every treacherous ascent, they were welcomed by a wide flat plateau, its expanse punctuated by erratic boulders strewn across meadows of stunted grass.

This day, however, held a different surprise. The mesa they scaled was the highest yet, and as they reached its top, a transformation in the scenery greeted them. In here, the sparse and desolate vegetation gave way to a vibrant ecosystem teeming with blue-hued trees and undergrowth; the sight was so surreal it felt like they had stepped into an alternate realm.

Camille made a mental note of her observations, shelving the mystery behind this drastic shift in vegetation for future exploration.

“Brock, when Master Reif will be back?” she asked the man tending to their other goats.

In his early twenties, Brock’s countenance belied his years. His face bore an austere expression, etched deeply with experience that seemed to weigh on his youthful shoulders. The silver hue of his hair mirrored the glinting sunlight, while his eyes were perpetually shrouded in shadow beneath his lowered brow. He held his stance, his back turned towards her, and for a fleeting moment, she doubted he would even deign to respond. It was a fairly common occurrence—Bandawi ignoring her. Brock, however, was usually the more talkative of the bunch.

“Father’s gone to pay his respects to the local chieftain,” he finally said after a stretch of time. “Trespassing with a sizable party uninvited can be deemed a slight. More so with you Lowlanders in tow.”

“Are we staying for the night here, then?” Camille asked, noticing he was unloading their bags from the goats.

“We have to.” Brock released a weary sigh. “The Highlands do not sit well with you, Lowlanders. Travel too deep, too quickly and illness takes hold.”

“We’re hardly high enough to warrant such concern,” she countered, recalling the teachings of the tomes that filled the libraries in Paltra. Her homeland was encased by a mighty ring of mountains and tales told of climbers who dared to reach the peaks falling ill from the ascension. The cause remained a mystery, as the indigenous mountain folk seemed immune to its effects. Yet, their current elevation was far from those dangerous heights.

“High?” Brock scoffed. “The Highlands are blessed by Homini and under his protection. It’s not the height but the sacred nature of the land that’s hard for you, Lowlanders, to bear. It’s akin to a curse for you, one that requires you to tread slowly to avoid his wrath. Tonight, we all will offer our prayers for your safe passage.”

At that moment, she regretted she had not found time to scour Tramiria’s library for books about Bandawi and the Highlands. There was not enough time—they were to travel to the Far East, after all. At least before the professor suddenly came up with a new idea. As a result, she knew nothing about this land, its people, their culture, or their beliefs. Ignorance gnawed at her like a festering wound.

“You live in Tramiria, aren’t you, Brock?” She tried to steer the conversation in a different direction. “How many times have you visited your homeland before?”

This time, Brock remained silent.

(Of course, the only Bandawi who bothers speaking to me and I ruined it somehow.)

With a sigh, she left her goat to graze and made her way to the edge of the mesa they were camped on. The slope was not too steep on this side, but the prospect of tumbling down and smashing into boulders along the way filled her with a chilling sense of dread. She retreated, choosing instead to sit on a nearby rock and observe the towering shrubs growing farther away.

A voice came from behind her. “Peculiar, isn’t it? Down there, barely any grass, but up her, a whole jungle.”

“Could be the better soil up here,” she replied right away.

Turning, she found Leon striding towards her with a waddle, his legs splayed apart. “So, you’re still not fond of our fluffy mounts?” she said, teasing him about his awkward gait.

“Fluffy monsters, more like. That damned goat tries to bite off my leg at every opportunity. And I need one of the Highlanders to keep the beast steady every time I try to mount it.” He shook his head. “I wish we’d brought normal horses instead.”

“You reap what you sow.” Camille burst into laughter at his plight. “But you’re in luck—it’s my pleasure to announce that we’re setting up camp here for the night. No more riding today.” She bestowed a gleeful smile upon him.

“Oh, glory be!” he exclaimed, his face lighting up. “My poor, aching tights can finally have some respite. Glory to… er, what’s the name of that mountain spirit again?”

“Homini.”

“That’s it! Homini, I thank you for you gracious hospitality and beseech your protection.” He dropped an exaggerated bow towards a nearby bush. As he lowered his head, he turned slightly and gave her a sly wink.

“Hush, Leon, not so loud. What if one of the Bandawi hears you?” she said, lowering her voice and glancing anxiously around.

“And if you require a sacrifice,”—he continued, spurred by her reaction—“of a pure-hearted maiden, I may have one at hand. Just say a word.” He grinned.

“Stop. That.” She sprang to her feet, her brows arching in a stern forewarning. A clenched fist soon joined her proclamation, playfully brandished in an unmistakable promise of impending retribution.

“Whoa, whoa, I’m injured, have mercy.”

Retreating from Camille’s feigned aggression, Leon inadvertently stepped back onto a rogue stone, losing his footing as his weight pushed the stone from under him. His foot landed at an unnatural angle, twisted and skewed. He wobbled to his right, each frantic counter-step further compromising his already unstable stance. His duck-like gait failed him, his center of gravity skewing further with each stagger, his speed increasing as he lurched forward in a desperate attempt to stay upright. Gaining velocity, his duck-walking turned in duck-running.

And then the open field ended, replaced by a dense shrubbery. Leon, with a startled yelp, tumbled headlong into a thick barrier of blue foliage, vanishing from sight.

For a moment, the world seemed to halt, suspended in a silent limbo. Then, Camille’s laugher erupted, just for a second, before dying in her throat, strangled by a horrific gurgling sound that echoed from the bush, followed by a bone-chilling scream.

“Leon?” she called out, her heart pounding in her chest.

The scream rang again, even louder than before.

“Leon, are you all right? If that’s one of your pranks, it’s not funny.” Her voice trembled. She was at the edge of the vegetation now, straining to see through the thick blue curtain. Hesitant, she prepared to follow his path into the undergrowth, propelled by his ceaseless screams.

“Stop!” a voice boomed, freezing her in her tracks. “Stop! Don’t touch it!” reverberated again.

Whirling around, she barely had time to register Brock’s hurried figure as he barrelled past her and plunged into the leafy abyss. A symphony of rustling leaves and fading shrieks filled the air, with the former increasing in intensity as the latter dwindled.

Moments later, Brock emerged, hauling a limp Leon with him. He dropped the injured man at her feet, his face tight with anger. “We told you not to touch any plants. How stupid can you be?”

“Will he be all right?” Camille asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She knelt beside Leon, her eyes filling with concern as they traced the lines of pain etched on his still face.

“Pray, and perhaps he’ll live. If Homini’s in a gracious mood,” Brock answered.

She studied Leon. His usually jovial face was now marred with swelling blue blotches that extended in lightning-like patterns across his skin. His hands bore the same affliction, as did a portion of his abdomen exposed when Brock had dropped him. It seemed clothes offered no protection against the treacherous flora of the Highlands.

Leon’s breath was steady, save for occasional spasms that shook his body, drawing quick breaths from his lips. Seeing no other symptoms, Camille reached out, her fingertips hovering over his feverish forehead, intending to utilize Life Power scan to better understand his condition.

“No, don’t touch him,” Brock said, his voice sharp and clear in the quiet. “Or you’ll spend the night next to him, and maybe in the morning, we’ll be digging two graves instead of one.”

Her hand froze mid-air, then slowly withdrew as her gaze swung back to Brock. Tears swam in her eyes as she knelt beside Leon’s twitching form. “So what am I supposed to do?” she asked, her voice a desperate whisper.

“Nothing.” Brock shrugged with a grimace, the corner of his eyes crinkling in discomfort. “Leave him here. If he survives the night, he’ll live. It’s in Homini’s hands now.”

“But we can’t just leave him here like this!” Camille protested. “Can’t we at least move him to the camp?”

Brock’s mouth tightened into a grim line, his face reflecting an internal struggle.

“We cannot,” a voice rang out, not Brock’s but that of an older Bandawi who had joined their party after they disembarked the ship near the base of the Highlands. Unlike the Lorage family, raised in the Empire’s capital, this man was a native, a true son of the Highlands. “We’re on the edge of Homini’s domain and his blessing is quite capricious here. You can stay for a while, but you can’t spend the night in this place. The location we’ve selected for the camp has a more balanced aura—it’ll help you acclimate to the blessing,” the man continued.

Camille glanced around, noting for the first time the congregation of curious onlookers. The rest of their group, having been drawn by the commotion, began forming a half-circle around the unconscious Leon.

“So, I have to stay away, but it’s fine to leave him here?!” She sprang to her feet, her eyes locking in a heated contest with the elder Bandawi’s steady gaze.

“The blessing was forced upon him.” The old man’s eyes had not wavered. “Any shift in his position could disrupt the flow of the blessing and could prove fatal. If he’s still alive, the best we can do is leave him alone, and pray.” His voice was calm, yet firm. “We’ll assign a watch to stay with him through the night.”

“Professor!” Camille’s eyes landed on the shortest figure amongst the gathering. He was her mentor and her singular opportunity for a career at Paltra’s Academy. Sure, it was nothing comparable to the illustrious title of a Great Mage at the Grand Academy of Tramiria, but given her modest Power aptitude, it was far more than she ever dared to dream of. Her fortunate run-in with the professor and his subsequent decision to take her under his wing was, by far, the luckiest stroke of fate she had ever experienced.

“Professor, please, can you help him?” she pleaded.

He shook his head solemnly. “I’ve told you before, heed the wisdom of the people who live here. Even in the age of prosperity, before the invasion took its toll, the sages of old knew nothing about this ‘blessing’. I’m sorry, Camille. Let’s hope for the best. I’m sure he’ll pull through.”

A lump formed in Camille’s throat as she fought to hold back the tears. It was her fault. She had instigated Leon to take that ill-fated step, and now there was nothing she could do about it.

A sound stirred them from their melancholy—a distant thunder of hooves pounding against the hard earth echoed through the air. All heads turned in unison towards the direction of the noise. Their view was obstructed by a large boulder—the mesa’s peak was strewn with such stones, transforming the usually open plateaus into more of a labyrinth.

As the thumping grow louder, an imposing ram burst into view, its massive head bobbing up and down as it charged towards the group, a rider tailing closely behind. The sight of the rider elicited a gasp from Camille. It was none other than their guide, the leader of their caravan—Reif Lorage. He straddled a goat, a sleek, swathed in black fur beast, not the typical transportation goat they were accustomed to.

(It’s smaller than our goats, but oh boy, it can run,) she mused, temporarily distracted from her gloom as she watched the rider and his mount chase their quarry.

A sudden realization made her heart skip a beat. They were charging at the steep incline behind her. It was not a cliff, but at their speed, they risked launching off the edge and crashing down the slope. But before she could call out a warning, they passed her position in an instant. All she could do was to watch.

She swiveled around, tracking their course. The ram was at the edge of the mesa; the precipice looming ominously ahead when Reif closed in. At that very moment, both the ram and the goat leaped forward, their forms suspended in mid-air for a seemingly eternal stretch of time. And at the same instant, Reif made his move. In an audacious display of courage and precision, he sprang from his mount towards the airborne ram, his arms reaching out towards its thick neck. He snagged hold of the beast mid-leap, and together they plummeted down the slope in a reckless tumble.

Camille shuddered at the sight, her heart pounding in her chest as she sprinted to the edge, the rest of the crowd on her heels. She arrived just in time to witness Reif’s perilous descent, engaged in a deadly waltz with the ram amidst cascades of scree. Clad in a cloud of dust and stone, Reif wrestled the ram around its throat, struggling to maintain his position on the top to avoid being shredded by the shifting terrain underneath them. As they continued slithering down the talus, more and more large boulders littered the slope.

And surely, soon enough, a monstrous rock emerged directly in their path. Reif abruptly released the ram, using its bulk as a buffer against the impending collision. The animal hit the rock with a brutal impact, its legs slicing the air in frenzied confusion. Before the ram had the chance to gather its senses, Reif was on it again, hands wrapped tightly around its neck.

From a distance, Camille could not discern the details, but a sudden, unnatural twist of the ram’s head and the subsequent slackening of its body told her all she needed to know. With a victorious roar, Reif raised his arms, his voice echoing across the mesas. “The hunt is on!”

A loud cheer erupted at Camille’s side, startling her. In her preoccupation with Reif’s descent, she had missed the arrival of a group of Bandawi riders, all astride black goats similar to Reif’s. A few of them spurred their own mounts into a descent, and helped Reif hoist the ram’s carcass onto his goat, which had trotted back to him on a whistle. Then, they ascended the talus together, rejoining the group on the top.

“You didn’t lie when you said your fire is still burning,” the eldest looking Bandawi among the newcomers remarked as the group crested the slope, his stern, unfriendly expression contradicting the warmth in his voice. Perhaps it was the joint effect of his cold eyes and his silver beard partly concealing his face, or perhaps the warmth was an illusion—Camille could not decipher just yet.

“I may not be young anymore, but my fire isn’t going anywhere.” Reif laughed.

“So, those are the Lowlanders you’re towing along?” The man cast a cursory glance at Camille. “Are you heading straight to Hollow, to meet the Matriarch?”

“No, the Lowlander scholars seek to explore a particular cave, one at the western edge of the Highlands. But I do plan to winter in Hollow.”

“Western edge? It’s not a well-trodden path.”

“If some Lowlander could find a way in the past, I can too. They,”—Reif nodded at Camille and the professor—“follow some old journal. If that cave still stands, we’ll get there.”

A somber understanding washed over the elder Bandawi as he nodded the Reif’s words. “I see. Then you won’t be returning through my territory. In that case, we shall reconvene at the Spring Festival in Hollow. I need time to consider your—“

“Not here, old friend. This is no place for discussing business. We should sit, share a meal, and then talk.” Reif interrupted.

“Agreed. We are not pressed for time. Everybody, dismount!” the man shouted to his people, his gaze lingering on Camille for a moment, but he had not acknowledged her in any way, as if he were watching an object, not another person. Then he followed his men, still mounted.

The Bandawi, under Reif’s command, scattered without delay, understanding their duties with no explicit orders. They set to prepare their encampment for their guests. Reif was the last to stir. His eyes drifted over to Leon, lying pitifully in the distance near the thicket of bushes. Approaching Camille, he addressed her in a solemn tone.

“Please listen to me next time. If I tell you to not touch something, then don’t touch it.” It seemed he read the situation with a single glance.

Camille’s gaze sank, her eyes fixed on the earth beneath her feet. She had heard that admonishment already today. What more could she say?

“Look at me.” Reif placed his hand on her shoulder, waiting for her compliance. “He’ll pull through. If the shock didn’t kill him outright, then he’ll live. I’ve seen it happen before more than once. And for you,”—he gestured towards the lifeless ram—“a bite of this delicacy should aid your acclimatization. This land will never be safe for you, but it need not be lethal. So heed my words next time; the hunt is on, and I need you all healthy and in good condition.” He gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze and walked away.

Left alone, Camille searched for the absent professor. She had not noticed his departure; he must have mingled with the crowd sometime earlier. With a sigh, she trudged back towards Leon. His condition had deteriorated, his body nearly consumed by the unnatural blue swellings, save for a few patches of skin visible on his face. Yet his eyes were open.

“Leon?” she asked, dropping to her knees next to him.

“It’s hot,” he mumbled. “What happened?”

“You fell into the bush, you stupid oaf.” She brightened seeing him conscious.

“I remember that much.”

“Then Brock went after you and dragged you out, telling me to not touch you, or I’ll end like you. You’re contagious now.”

“I don’t mind. Come, we’ll lie together watching clouds.”

“No, thank you. You should see yourself. You look like a blue, swollen sausage.”

“That explains why I feel like one.” He attempted a smile, but his entire face was numb, and he barely could muster a whisper. “So, what’s in store for me? Am I done for?”

“Also no, they say that after a night’s rest, you’ll be as good as new. But you need to stay here—they claim it’s too dangerous to move you. I don’t understand how it works, but don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

“It’s so hot. My whole body is burning. Feels like my blood is about to boil.”

At this, Camile chuckled lightly. “I have some Ice shards; just wait, I’ll look for them.”

She leapt to her feet, and darted towards her packs, relief coursing through her. At last, there was something she could do.

As Leon lay helplessly under the open sky, his gaze followed Camille, a distant figure rummaging through her belongings with an uncanny grace. He felt detached, as if he were observing his body from a distance. The once intolerable pain had now receded, leaving in its wake an intense pulsating heat emanating from his skin. A searing warmth that originated from a myriad of points where the cursed bush had touched him, marking him with its poisonous kiss.

Alongside this sensation, a foreign feeling stirred within him, deep and persistent. Like an ocean’s current, it ebbed and flowed, a silent tumult of waves crashing against each other. Yet, it was neither violent nor energetic, but a peaceful, languid dance, slow and intricate. (Is that what the Power feels like?) he wondered. Born Powerless, he had never known the sensation of innate energy coursing through him. He could barely tell whether crystals contained any scraps of the Power, but far from being able to use them on his own.

What was he doing here, in this forsaken land? Adventure was not his calling, and he found no pleasure in travel. His heart belonged to the workshop, lost among gears and cogs, tinkering with mechanisms that allowed him to tap into stored Power without the need for special abilities. Back in Paltra’s academy, he had been revered as a young prodigy, a beacon of hope for the future, despite his inherent flaw. So, how had he ended up here, wondering if he would even survive to see another day?

He knew why. His reason had just straightened, brandishing a triumphant hand into the air, clasping something minute between nimble fingers. Then, his reason sprinted towards him, only to halt midway abruptly. In a surprising twist, it spun around, redirecting its course towards the huddled group of Bandawi instead.

Camille. She was his ‘why’. He vividly recalled the wave of awe that had struck him when he first spotted her during the ‘Introduction to History’ lecture. Her presence etched an indelible mark on his memory. From that day forward, he meticulously ensured his enrollment in every course that overlapped with hers. She often teased about how destiny seemed to conspire to align their academic schedules, hinting at some cosmic design. Little did she know, he was the architect of this supposed fate, meticulously weaving the threads of their shared moments.

He had even aligned his mentor choice with hers, despite their specializations standing worlds apart. The professor initially balked at the prospect of taking him under his wing, given the stark differences in their fields. Yet, somehow, Leon’s stupid argument, stating his interest as an engineer in excavating ancient ruins in quest of lost technology, kindled a spark of intrigue in the director of the engineering department. In an unexpected turn of events, the chief engineer himself insisted on Leon’s unconventional assignment.

Each of those carefully composed decisions had brought him to his current predicament. Most of his body lay paralyzed, a stubborn immobility from which only his finger could occasionally twitch, a meager feat the drained him of his energy. His belief in survival was as ephemeral as a wisp of smoke. The swelling mounted, and the heat intensified, turning him into a simmering pot, with his insides serving as the day’s unfortunate fare, cooked to a distressing medium-rare.

Emerging from the gathering of the Bandawi, Camile wove her way to his side in swift strides, reaching him in an eye-blink. She dropped to her knees and leaned towards him.

“Apologies. I had to ask Master Reif if I can do this,” she said.

“Do what?”

“You can’t invoke the Power of the Ice shard on your own, right?” She did not await his response, positioning the crystal above his chest. Releasing it from an insignificant altitude, it descended in a swift, calculated drop, only to bounce once against the fabric of his shirt before settling. Once its movement had stilled, she pressed it against his chest with a delicate precision.

A blast of cold spread from the point of contact, cascading through his body, putting out the burning sensation he had been experiencing. The arctic freeze was so deep, so pervasive, that soon he yearned for the return of the heat.

“Better now?” she asked, pulling her finger away.

“Better,” he sighed in relief as the cold stopped seeping into him.

Throughout the rest of the evening, and well into the night, Camille tended to him at regular intervals, reactivating the shard’s chilling effect. This attention from her elicited a sense of happiness in Leon, yet simultaneously dark thoughts tainted his feverish mind. He observed her interactions with Reif, Brock, and the other Bandawi—all rugged, their bodies hardened by the trials of their life. He felt insignificant in comparison and found himself engulfed by a torrent of jealousy, resentment simmering not just towards them, but also towards her, for her seemingly fickle attention. Each time he caught himself in such thoughts, guilt and shame would replace his ire, only for the cycle to repeat itself.

As the sun bowed before the night, the guests departed, and soon after, the Bandawi commenced their evening prayers. Guided by Reif, Camille joined them, while the professor observed from a distance. It was unlike anything Leon could have expected. The group meandered among the boulders, sometimes disappearing from his sight, at other times drawing near the encroaching bushes.

Each halt was marked by collective kneeling, their bodies folding as they extended their hands to caress the soil. Their prayers were a serene silence maintained for about a minute, held in a frozen pose, until it was time for the procession to move again, relocating to another chosen spot.

There was an apparent randomness in the places they chose or directions they faced while kneeling. Yet, as he continued to observe, he sensed a certain rightness in it. As the prayer progressed, he found himself predicting their next stop and the orientation they would assume, because there was simply no other feasible choice. There was only one way to align yourself with the world, only one way to match the waves.

His consciousness drifted from reality, wandering into a dreamy haze. He recalled Camille’s periodic checks on him, and the ever-changing Bandawi who served as his guardians, sitting on the nearby boulder. But beyond those brief moments of awareness, he submerged himself into the fantastical half-dreams; visions of becoming a Great Mage, now that he had discovered his Power; of going toe-to-toe with Reif in a hand-to-hand combat, and emerging victorious; of uncovering ancient secrets and ascending to prominence in Paltra. These dreams rolled though his mind in harmony with the rhythmic crashing of the waves, as the Homini’s blessing was settling into his body. He would live.

*

Ari surfaced form the depths of her slumber, her senses jarred by a feeling akin to a ship’s ripple. For a moment, she was adrift on the memories of those unusual days when her mother would bring her along to the quay, to her work at the docks. Her heart hitched as she anticipated the familiar fall, the balance tipping over. Then, a jolt. In the wake of startle, the truth emerged: she was safe, ensconced in her bed at the Academy.

Their westward-facing room was swathed in the dim light of predawn, barely enough to silhouette their surroundings yet sufficient to hint at the night’s retreat. Kiran’s bed, meticulously made, was vacant, the same as Alec’s. The same, if one disregarded all the ash scattered around, the remnants of charred sheets, and the scorched frame. Despite the windows being left open throughout the night, they fell short of completely banishing the stubborn stench of the smoldered fabrics that clung to the air.

The image of Alec’s plump naked body came unbidden to her mind. Heat bloomed on her cheeks, and she fervently shook her head, as though physically dislodging the unwelcome memory, questioning if it would ever retreat to the oblivion where it belonged. To distract herself, she smacked the railing of her upper bunk.

“Time to get up!” she called out.

A muted rustle was her response as Ria burrowed further into her blankets. “Five more minutes,” came the muffled plea, so faint the Ari barely made out the words.

(Well, if she wants to be late on our first day, let it be.)

Snatching up her uniform, Ari strode out of the bedroom. Elathiel was still sleeping on the sofa, curled into himself like a protective shell. She paused, debating the merits of rousing him, but ultimately decided to not risk souring her mood from the very morning. She ignored him, exiting their quarters.

Bathrooms and showers were communal, with each floor housing its own facilities. As Ari ventured in, she was engulfed in a thick blend of humidity and the rich aroma of lathered soap. The soft patter of water hitting the floor merged with the metallic clatter of the shower fixtures, echoing off the tiled walls. Occupancy was minimal at this early hour, and those present were absorbed in their own morning ablutions, chatter non existent.

She deposited her uniform on a nearby rack, then reached out for a fresh towel from the neatly stacked pile. Before stepping into the first available shower cubicle, she claimed also a soap bar and a small pail of shampoo from the provision shelf.

Once inside, she adjusted the water flow, cranking the lever towards ‘hot’ until it teetered on the brink of searing. For a spell, she simply existed under the cascading warmth, letting the water dissolve her residual sleepiness. She then used the soap bar, which was essentially a glazed wooden oval coated with a layer of soap. As she glided it over her skin, she rotated it, maximizing its usage until she had whittled the soap down to the wooden core.

To conclude her shower, she emptied the contents of the pail onto her head; the lather cleansing her lengthy hair as she rinsed once again under the streaming water. As the fierce heat prickled her skin, she marveled at how quickly she had grown accustomed to living in the Academy. Barely two months in, and she had taken for granted luxuries like hot water round the clock. Back home, the most she could hope for was a sun-heated dishpan. Only during the winters, when they stoked the stove to keep it burning for hours, her mother would allow to boil more water. And even then, she would still wash herself in the dishpan; there was simply no comparison to Academy’s spacious bathrooms.

After exiting the cubicle, she discarded the pail and the soap-stripped wooden core into a nearby bucket designed for that purpose. The glazed oval would be coated with soap again to serve another adept another day. In a similar fashion, she disposed of her tower into a larger bin tucked in a corner. She did not need to concern herself with cleaning or any other chores, neither in the bathrooms nor in her own rooms—servants would take care of everything.

She reclaimed her uniform from the rack and dressed in its familiar embrace. It had been her sole attire since the day Ria had generously gifted it to her. The garment required no washing; a simple infusion of the Power was enough to restore its fresh essence, making it feel pristine and new.

Despite wearing the uniform often, she had yet to explore all of its embedded options. Some of them were enigmatic, too complex to decipher. When she attempted to channel her energy through these intricate nodes, they would become clogged or inert, their constituent threads too entwined for her to direct the flow with precision. But what frustrated her most was the perception of her Power churning restlessly within, while her output remained a mere trickle channeled through her navel as the assistant from the boutique had showed to her.

As the last stop before departure, she approached an odd rectangular cavity in the wall and, by pressing an adjacent plate, she summoned a gust of warm air that spilled forth from behind the grille. She gathered her hair to the front, allowing the warm zephyr to evaporate any lingering dampness.

Her fingertips traced the sleek length of her silver locks. They were straight and obedient, resistant to tangling or curling, as if repelled by an unseen force. It was here, in the Academy, that she came to appreciate this unique quality, observing the struggles of other girls with their unruly, matted tresses, while her own remained docile, never giving her troubles.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

After she was ready, she reentered the main corridor and descended the stairs towards the canteen. She did not bother bringing back her nightwear to her room—servants would do it for her; somehow they always knew what belonged to whom.

The canteen, a vast hall cluttered with wooden tables and benches, was flanked by two smaller chambers. The left one offered an array of deserts and sweets, while its counterpart to the right housed a collection of fruits and snacks for those seeking on-the-go refreshment. At the far end of the main hall, breakfast delicacies beckoned from linen-draped tables under the vigilant gaze of the serving staff stationed a respectful distance away. The rich, tantalizing aroma permeating the air made Ari’s stomach grumble with anticipation, even though she could not discern any specific culinary scents.

Among the bustling adepts, she spotted Alec heaping his plate with lots of everything. When he was satisfied with the mountainous portion, he looked for a vacant spot to settle in. Catching sight of her, he appeared to falter, his face blooming into a shade of cherry red as he hastily averted his gaze. After a moment of hesitation, he scuttled aside, evidently avoiding any encounter with her.

(Great,) she mused. True, after yesterday’s events, she had not been particularly inclined towards conversation with Alec, yet his deliberate act of evasion struck a sensitive chord.

Suppressing a sigh, she reached for a pristine plate from the stack by the edge of the serving tables. Most of the dishes were alien to her, their allure lying in their exoticism. She meandered along the buffet line, letting the dishes’ aromas and visual appeal guide her decision. Today, she craved the comfort of familiarity over novel taste adventures.

“What is this?” she queried, pointing to a nearby platter, lifting her gaze to meet the servant stationed behind the serving table.

“That would be scrambled Badadu bird eggs. The Badadu birds are native to the Inaroa Islands. Uniquely, they grow too large for their diminutive wings to lift, rendering them flightless. Their eggs, while similar to chicken eggs in taste, have a distinct flavor that unfolds upon extensive chewing, and the texture is quite different.”

Pleased with the explanation, Ari served herself a generous portion of white and yellow mash, scooping it from the platter to her plate.

“One more thing,” she addressed the servant again. “We had a bit of an incident in our room yesterday. One bed was charred, and some linens got burned. Could someone look into that?”

The servant’s neutral expression remained unchanged. “Of course, adept. Your request will be relayed to the maintainers,” he said.

Relieved by the lack of probing questions, Ari continued along the tables, gathering bread, cured meat, cheese, and a variety of vegetables to assemble into sandwiches.

Choosing a bench that provided a clear vantage point of the canteen entrance—in case Ria or Kiran arrived—she immersed herself in the act of eating, her mind wandering back to the Badadu birds. She tried to envision such an odd creature—a bloated, balloon-like body, with petite wings and tiny legs, hopping clumsily through the underbrush. A soft chuckle escaped her as she imagined it ricocheting between trees in a forest, nearly causing her to spit out her food.

Her mind then pivoted to chickens. They bore some resemblance to birds in general, but fell short of truly being classified as such. Their sturdy legs were designed for terrestrial travel and for scraping the earth with their talons, while their wings lacked strength for sustained flight. (Just like the Badadu birds,) Ari thought. Chickens seemed to be a hybrid—part bird, part… what? The question lingered, unanswered.

A familiar ripple nudged at her senses, similar to the one that roused her from sleep, yet different, much weaker. It signified the passage of another hour, meaning that her first lecture was looming and time was scarce. She consumed the rest of her meal at a remarkable pace, her mouth stuffed full while she was returning her plate.

Alec was already gone. Without further delay, she also left the canteen, but even though she was about to start her first proper day in the Academy, intrusive thoughts were pointing her to a different problem.

(What is a chicken?)

Upon entering the auditorium, Ari’s eyes skimmed over the tiered rows of seats that wrapped around a modest stage. While smaller than the grand hall where the welcome ceremony had taken place, this room still felt overly spacious for the scattering of adepts in attendance. Students were strewn across the room, separated by swathes of empty chairs. The hum of their conversation reverberated off the high ceiling as Ari spotted Kiran nestled among the middle rows and navigated towards him. Along her path, she caught sight of both Alec and Elathiel, each planted in their solitary corners, far from each other and everyone else.

(Off to a great start,) she mused.

Once she reached Kiran’s row, she weaved through the narrow aisle between the seats, sliding into the spot beside him.

“Good morning,” she began, modulating her voice. “What a beautiful day to begin our new lives, don’t you think?”

Kiran bobbed his head in agreement, eyes forward.

“It really is today; our first lectures,” she continued.

Kiran nodded.

“The last two months were like a dream.”

Another nod.

“I wish I could tell my mom how it’s here, that I really have the Power. By now, my father probably convinced her it’s all a sham. Master Toaro wants me to not visit them until we’re branded. I thought that would be yesterday, and now I have to endure another long month of waiting.”

A nod.

“I’ve informed the servants about the damage in our bedroom. Hopefully, it’ll be fixed soon.”

Nod.

“Have you seen Ria?”

This time, a shake of the head.

“I bet she’s still sleeping. I should have checked on her after breakfast.”

A nod.

“Can I ask you something?”

Nod.

“Do you know what a chicken is?”

At that, Kiran finally turned to face her, a barely perceptible frown creasing his forehead. It was a subtle shift, one that would have escaped the notice of anyone else, but Ari immediately picked up on the change.

She could not help herself and grinned. In response, Kiran’s expression smoothed out once again, and he resumed his fixed stare ahead.

“Apologies, it’s just something bothering me for no reason today,” she tried to justify her previous question, even though she knew he did not care.

(I made him frown!) Her grin widened even more.

“There you are!” Ari’s ears perked up at the sound of Ria’s voice. She swiveled around to see Ria bounding up the steps toward them, each leap covering multiple steps. “I can’t believe this. How could you abandon me?!”

Ria’s outcry piqued the interest of the nearby adepts, who turned to watch the unfolding drama.

Ari narrowed her eyes, leveling a disapproving look at the latecomer. “I woke you up, but you wouldn’t even budge. Don’t blame it on me now.”

“I trusted you, and this is how you repay me? With a knife to the back?”

Ria’s petulance from yesterday seemed to have evaporated, replaced with her customary theatrics as she bent backward in exaggerated despair. Then she waltzed in between the rows to reach them, directing her reproach towards Kiran. “And you, what’s your excuse for leaving me behind?”

Predictably, Kiran remained a picture of stoic indifference, completely disregarding her. Undeterred, Ria refocused on Ari. “That was uncalled for. True friends do not act like that. I’m thoroughly disheartened that you’d let me miss our first lecture together.”

“Alright then, the next time you refuse to rise, I’ll bring a bucket of cold water to help you make the decision,” Ari said.

“Hold on, no. That’s not what I had in mid. Just wait for me next time.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to get up to avoid the cold shower before I return with said bucket.”

“No, no! You can’t—“

“Sarelli! Sit and stop talking!”

Ria immediately dropped into her seat, as if a lightning bolt had just struck her. Ari traced the sharp command to its origin on the stage and her heart skipped a beat. A shudder ran up her spine, a familiar cold wave surging from her toes to the crown of her head as she recognized Mrs. Tercel, the woman they had encountered in the city market. Ria shared her reaction, her eyes bulging as she stared in disbelief at the figure on the stage.

“The ‘stop talking’ part was meant for all of you.”

The murmurs died out across the auditory.

“Excellent.” Mrs. Tercel paced on the stage, hands clasped behind her back. “My name is Madeline Tercel. Over the next month, you will partake in four lectures under my tutelage. The objective is to enlighten you about your responsibilities and the expectations the Academy holds for you. In essence, you will explore what it means to be an adept and the journey towards becoming a Great Mage.

“I am aware that our esteemed Deputy Director, Adele Silverlight, has acquainted you with an introductory overview. Therefore, you should understand that your immediate ambition is to ascend to adept status. Yes, I reiterate, you are not yet true adepts. You are merely candidates on the path to becoming one.

“To earn the mark of an adept, to be branded, you must successfully complete all the assigned courses. Following this lecture, you will receive bags equipped with fundamental necessities such as notebooks and pens. Included within will be your personalized schedule.

“I want to make one thing crystal clear. Failing even a single course implies dismissal. These courses represent the foundation of our teachings and if you falter at this stage, then the path of the Grate Mage is not for you.

“That being said, we do not demand the impossible. For instance, if you have never learned to read or write, we do not expect you to excel in calligraphy within a month. However, we do require demonstration of your determination and effort, alongside tangible evidence of your progress. Those who had the privilege of early education, mastering these basics, can complete their evaluations ahead of schedule, thereby reclaiming time to invest as they see fit.”

Mrs. Tercel navigated her way to the edge of the stage, close to the first row, before resuming her lecture.

“Now, let us address the most crucial matter: why are we all here today?”

She paused, her gaze sweeping across the array of students, allowing the weight of her question to settle.

“To be a Great Mage is to serve. To serve not the Empire, as many may think, but all the people. The name of our Empire—The Frontline Empire—is not coincidental. It was conceived with the intent of serving as mankind’s bulwark, a protective shield against the relentless bane of the undead.

“Our founder, the Emperor, may Tarra bless his soul, was the first Great Mage. A true hero, he is among the rare few who still retain their own memories of the first invasion four hundred years ago.

“I won’t delve into the specifics now—the historical events leading to our current predicament will be part of your curriculum. However, the core of the matter is the Duty imposed by the Emperor. The Duty acts as a counterbalance to the privileges bestowed upon you as Great Mages. Each sixth year following your graduation, your assigned squad will reconvene and embark eastwards, venturing deep into the Far East. For an entire year, you will dedicate yourselves to the eradication of the undead, for the safety and preservation of us all. Remember this. Every. Sixth. Year.

“The number six also represents the years you will spend within the confines of the Academy, the time allotted to equip yourself to fulfill your Duty. At the outset of your second and sixth years, you will embark on the ‘Road to Truth’, a preliminary glimpse of your future in the form of a training expedition. Indeed, you heard correctly. This time next year, you’ll be engaged in genuine undead hunting in the Far East.

“And this leads us to the topic of squads. As you may have discerned by now, you have been allocated into groups of five. This segmentation was thoughtfully engineered by us, the Academy, based on our judgments of optimal compatibility. I trust you can piece together the implications. The individuals you shared a room with last night are now bound to you as your squadmates for life.

“During the first year, we permit transfers. Beyond that, such alterations could only occur under extraordinarily exceptional circumstances, so I implore you to consider it an impossibility. Yet, even in such rare instances, unanimous consensus among all parties involved is mandatory. All interpersonal conflicts and agreements must be resolved amongst yourself prior to seeking our intervention.

“I wish to make this point clear to avoid any misunderstandings. Should your squad be deemed dysfunctional, you will not graduate. Your squad will be dissolved, and it will fall upon you to seek acceptance into the squads of younger cohorts. This process may take years, as vacancies are few and far between, and in the interim, your will not be awarded the title of Great Mage, as you cannot fulfill your Duty.

“Hence, it is of paramount importance that you establish congenial relationships with your squadmates. You have six years to learn to coexist and to iron out any conflicts. Whenever discord emerges, remember, even if you are not directly implicated, the collective harmony of your squad is a prerequisite for graduation. A squad with a festering relationship is a squad destined for dissolution.”

Ria leaned toward Ari. “So, we have a full year to get rid of the traitor.”

Ari winced and nudged Ria with her elbow as Mrs. Tercel’s voice lapsed into silence, her piercing gaze darting in their direction. In response, Ria risked a glance at the stage, before promptly dropping her head, feigning intense interest in the floor.

The lecture continued, delving into the details of the Academy’s spatial layout, and elaborating on the forthcoming lives of the adepts. After its culmination, the trio sauntered towards the designated area to claim their promised bags brimming with essentials.

“Ow, a whole day confined to this auditorium and only the last lesson has a promise of hands-on practice?” Ria bemoaned, scrutinizing her schedule. “Which group were you placed in for the defense practice?” She darted to Ari’s side, peering at her weekly timetable. “Yes! We’re together,” Ria said, her glee evident as she jumped, clinging onto Ari’s arm.

“What about you?” Ria turned to Kiran, but he merely shook his head, presenting them with his timetable, which revealed a different training ground.

“Well, that’s a shame you weren’t assigned to the best group.”

Ari rolled her eyes at Ria’s last remark, but smiled regardless. “We have a short break before the next lecture starts. Let’s go outside to get some fresh air,” she said.

“Finally, it’s time for some fun,” Ria said to Ari as they both surveyed the small amphitheater. Some training grounds stood proudly under the open sky, while others, like their current location, resided indoors beneath a solid roof. On one end, a series of rustic, less comfortable benches ascended in layered rows, reminiscent of the auditorium, but significantly more austere. At the other end, colossal windows stretched from the lofty ceiling nearly to the floor, towering over the trainees.

“Yeah, I had enough sitting and listening,” Ari said. They had spent the day in the auditorium attending lecture after lecture, and her brain was melting from all the information fed to them.

“Uh, he’s in our group too.” Ria gestured subtly towards Elathiel, who stood solitary at a distance. As for Alec, he was not here, probably having a different training ground assignment like Kiran had. They had not exchanged even a single word with either Elathiel or Alec today, leaving Ari to anticipate an awkward evening once they reconvened in their shared quarters.

A thunderous clap echoed across the arena, drawing the attention of everyone present.

“Welcome, our soon to be adepts,” boomed the resonant voice of a man in his early middle age as he strode into the grounds.

His attire was sparse, showcasing a physique sculpted with admirable finesse. His thin shirt fluttered around him as if defying gravity, while his short trousers rustled with each step he took. His muscular arms, robust and intimidating, flexed and tensed as he crossed them over his chest, appraising his students. And he was tall, staggeringly so. Ari had to tilt her head back to see his face.

“Whoa,” a hushed exclamation slipped from Ria’s lips.

“I am known as Fang. Should you need to address me, ‘Master Fang’ will suffice. I bear no family name or clan name, or whatever it may be termed in your respective lands. If curiosity compels you to inquire why, I would direct you towards the library, where you can find my autobiography. It’s not particularly riveting, mind you, but it saves me from the incessant bombardment of repetitive questions. You are now informed of where to turn instead of pestering me.

“However, I digress. Our purpose here is to drill down on the rudiments of defense. The objective is straightforward: either disperse or deflect in my direction any projectiles launched at you. Achieve this, and you pass. Questions?”

Ari’s throat tightened as his icy gaze swept over her.

“No?” he asked, waiting another long second.

“Then line up.” His finger sliced through the air, gesturing from left to right.

“Make gaps to ensure everyone has space to exercise.”

“Very well. I will generate a miniature bolt of energy for each of you and hurl it your way. To defend, you will need to manifest a barrier with your Power. Those struggling with remote manipulations may extend their hands forward, initiating the creation of protective fields at their fingertips. Do bear in mind: to pass, you must maintain some distance between you and your barrier.

“We won’t delve into theoretical speculations or sophisticated controls. It’s as simple as it gets: channel your Power, sustain its density, distribute it uniformly in the space before you, and shape it into a shield to ward off my assaults.

“Now, commence!”

Tiny sparks, crackling with energy, materialized one after the other beside Master Fang, parallel to the line of students.

Ari, recalling the previous struggle to release her Power, promptly stretched out her hand to adopt the more elementary technique first. With focused determination, she guided her energy toward her fingertips. As she applied pressure, however, her Power stopped abruptly at the threshold of her skin and, unable to find an outlet, recoiled. The consequential whirl slipped her control, clashing with the current she was still striving to push through from the depths of her body, triggering a ripple effect that further eroded her command over her energy.

The rebound sent a jolt of pain through her entire hand. Gritting her teeth against the raw sting, she hissed through clenched teeth, clutching her throbbing arm. She allowed the power to scatter and retract from her limb, the energy receding like a tide withdrawing from the shore.

Just as she was grappling with her botched attempt, her assigned energy bolt struck her squarely in the chest. She wanted to protest, to claim she was not ready, but a quick glance around revealed a similar state of disarray among the other adepts. They too were gasping for breath, shaking off their daze.

The sparks flickered back into existence at their original positions, poised for the next onslaught.

“There are no breaks until the end of the session. I will launch attacks at regular intervals, ramping up the challenge as you progress and learn. Regain your stance and return to practice!” echoed Master Fang’s last command.

Each attempt to channel even the slightest trickle of the Power into her injured arm sent tendrils of pain lacing through her flesh, forcing Ari to switch to her other hand. This time, she was far more cautious with her efforts, aware that this was her last functioning hand. She navigated the currents, pressing them against her fingertip, all the while maintaining a vigilant control to avoid unforeseen backlashes.

However, the outcome remained unchanged. Her skin was an impenetrable fortress, holding her amassed Power captive, refusing to let even a hint of it seep out. Following several more unsuccessful attempts, she backtracked to the only method she was certain would work: directing the Power through her navel.

Centering her focus on that specific spot on her abdomen, she was met with a degree of success. But the volume of released power was minuscule and the reach of her control extended only a few centimeters beyond her skin. Stray strands of energy that drifted further dissolved into the air, leaving only faint ripples as evidence of their existence.

Her peers were faring much better, parrying and deflecting the barrage of sparks raining on them one after another. Although they could not thwart every attack, she was the lone one still stumbling at the starting line, not having blocked a single strike.

Ria’s anxious side-glances only served to aggravate Ari’s mounting frustration, even more so than her own failings. She could feel the prying eyes of others, weighing and assessing her. She was certain they were judging her. It was only natural a Bandawi could not wield the Power. They must have questioned her very presence amongst them.

Ari steeled herself for another attempt. An hour of ceaseless and fruitless exertions had taught her only one thing: how to anticipate the impending shock. Her muscles braced in expectation of the jolt, but this time, her personal spark veered off its course. All of them did.

They converged on a young adept a few paces down the line from her. Despite craning her neck out from the formation, she could not quite discern his identity. The sparks launched a collective assault on him, but the boy retaliated, constructing barrier after barrier in response to the shifting attack vectors. Suddenly, the sparks splintered into several groups, attacking from various angles simultaneously. In response, the boy materialized and sustained multiple barriers at once.

Responding to his resilience, the sparks swelled in size, the accompanying crackling growing more ominous. They coalesced into a single formidable wave and surged towards the boy. He amalgamated all his individual shields into a single, unified barrier and repelled the assault sideways.

The adepts next to him scrambled to dodge the spray of ricocheting energy. Yet, the attack did not abate. It amplified, even as the boy’s counter gestures became increasingly sluggish and unsteady. As the next wave swept over, his defense crumbled. He veered his face away, desperately attempting to shield himself with his bare hands. Consequently, he lost his footing, tripping over his own legs and collapsing to the ground.

As if on cue, the sparks dissolved into nothingness the moment they shattered the boy’s last line of defense.

“You pass. Don’t come again until you’re branded. The rest of you: last five minutes; show me some of your resolve,” Master Fang announced, reforming the sparks at their original positions.

Ari watched as the boy staggered to his feet, casting an uncertain gaze around the ground before finally shuffling towards the exit. When her focus returned to her own looming trial, her personal spark was already humming gleefully in its customary position.

She had grown weary of the relentless jolts of pain, and rather than battling in vain towards an inevitable defeat, she chose a different tactic. She channeled her power into her uniform. The moment her consciousness interfaced with the intricate web of woven Ao threads, she fast-forwarded to the most complex and convoluted node. Following Master Toulon’s teachings, she reoriented a few strands.

Energy flowed across the entire span of her uniform, but the resultant layer was thin. The uniform’s demand exceeded the power she could supply through her navel.

Time, however, was not on her side. As she strained to pour more energy into her attire, the spark was launched. It collided with her chest, yet the anticipated shock did not come. The spark had evaporated upon contact with her uniform.

“No, no, no. Cease,” Master Fang commanded, ending the exercise and extinguishing all the sparks. “Using any form of aid is strictly forbidden. This class aims to cultivate your ability to defend yourself with your own Power. Resorting to items is nothing short of cheating.”

“Miss Lorage,” he continued, “we are all aware that you are a pupil of Master Toaro. But I must impress upon all present that no student will receive their branding under my watch if I deem them not capable of protecting themselves. On the battlefield, a reality you can’t yet comprehend, you will become nothing more than a liability to your squadmates. A mere shockwave from an explosion occurring twenty meters away can turn your innards into pulp, let alone the more nefarious attacks.

“You might find yourself bisected by an unseen blade, forged from raw Sharpness, shrouded in spatial distortions. Or even eviscerated by rock shrapnel, remnants of a pulverized boulder hit by a spell you thought you had evaded successfully.

“Sure, the undead are mindless, but they’re also countless. And do you know what undead love the most? They have a peculiar fondness for absorbing all the residual Power you leave behind, and then, exploding. They’ll swarm you and blow you up using your own Power against you, just like that.

“Yes, undead are fun, but the real fun begins when necromancers enter the fray. When the tendrils of Death Power caress your ear, ravenous for every little drop of your Life essence.

“This, I assure you, is your future. The Duty mandates that every Great Mage risk their lives in defense of the weak, of those who can’t protect themselves. And it’s my responsibility to ensure that no incapable individuals infiltrate our ranks.

“If your source is tainted in a way that renders you defenseless, no amount of unique ability sprouting from it will matter. If you can’t guard yourself, you are unfit. This isn’t necessarily detrimental. Each of you has been selected for enrollment, signifying your immense potential. Harness this to lead a fulfilling life, rather than needlessly perishing on the distant eastern plains and hills where you clearly do not belong.

“You have a full month to contemplate your choices. To demonstrate that you possess the fortitude, the resolve and the skill required of a Great Mage. Don’t fret too much. It’s our job to make you capable. The young man who earlier showed his proficiency? You don’t even need to be half as good as he was to get my approval. But a certain baseline competence is non-negotiable.

“Class dismissed. Expect to see me daily, until you either pass, or renounce your ambition.”

The heat of embarrassment seared Ari’s ears as Master Fang vacated the arena, leaving her standing in the echo of his reprimand. She yearned to counter his public accusations, to argue that no explicit rule had ever banned the use of aids. Yet, the words stubbornly lodged in her throat, leaving her staring at the cold stone floor.

As the arena slowly emptied of adepts, Ari dared not meet their eyes, fearing the pity or the contempt she might find. Their whispers about her were inevitable, of that she was sure.

Ria lingered by her side, her mouth opening and closing in a disconcerting rhythm, each attempt at consolation withering unspoken on her lips. Before Ria could find her words, a figure stepped into their space. Lifting her head, Ari found herself meeting Elathiel’s gaze. A smirk played at the corner of his mouth, directed at Ria, before he carried on.

“It seems I won’t be the first to get the boot from our squad,” he said, turning his back on them, his words a barbed farewell.

Tears began their warm descent down Ari’s cheeks. She swept them away, but they were replaced as swiftly as they were banished. A relentless tide of sorrow.

“Um. Um. Uh.” Ria darted about, not knowing what to do.

In that moment, the grim realization that had always lurked in the shadows of Ari’s heart stepped into the light once again. Her dream of becoming a Great Mage seems to fracture before her eyes. Whether it was her blood or her skin thwarting her efforts, it was clear; they would deny her this aspiration.

The weight of her despair crushed her self-control. Unable to hold herself together any longer, she concealed her face in her hands and cried.

As the night was settling, shrouding the Academy grounds in a tapestry of shadows, Ari sat on the living room’s sofa, clutching a pillow to her chest with a desperate intensity. Her rhythmic rocking was a silent metronome, back and forth, back and forth, as if trying to soothe the turbulent storm within her. Her tears had long since dried, but every time her thoughts drifted back to the events of the day, a fresh wave of moisture welled up in her eyes. She blinked rapidly, struggling to suppress the tears from flowing again.

Ria approached, her uncertainty clear. She hovered at the edge of the sofa, a nervous tongue darting out to moisten her lips.

“I’m going to the canteen. Do you want anything?” she asked, trying to pierce Ari’s bubble of solitude.

Ari gave no answer, did not even glance in Ria’s direction. Her gaze remained fixed vacantly ahead as she continued her melancholic sway; back, forth, back, forth.

“Maybe pretzels?” Ria proposed with hope in her voice.

No response.

“Yes, I’ll bring you some pretzels, all right?”

Ria moved to place a comforting hand on Ari’s shoulder, but her resolve faltered midway. She drew back, her hand retreating to her own chest, her gaze dropping, turning away from Ari’s quiet distress. Moments later, she left the room, the door closing softly behind her.

Ari was left to ponder whether Ria’s actions were born from genuine concern or from regret for aligning herself with the wrong companion. In a more fortunate reality, it would be a blend of both rather than purely the latter.

(Well, I’m not giving back my uniform no matter what.)

The echo of the door closing behind Ria was still fresh in her ears when muffled voices seeped from the other side.

“Get back inside.”

“But,”—inaudible chatter—“…pretzels.”

In the next heartbeat, the door swung open again. Ria reentered the room, a woman with a long ponytail trailing behind her.

“Adepts! Assemble!” the woman commanded, her authoritative voice slicing through the lingering melancholy as she claimed the center of the room.

At once, Ari sprang from the couch, with Ria swiftly bounding to her side, the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder. Shortly after, the boys emerged from the bedroom, joining the line that now stood confronting the woman.

“Some of you already know me, but for those who don’t: I am Naymila Vego, the appointed coordinator for your squad. Should you require anything, your first course of action is to seek me out before troubling anyone else. Is that clear?”

A chorus of nods answered her.

“Very well. Now, concerning the incident yesterday, you must be Alec.” Their coordinator pinpointed the correct boy, her eyes resting on his plump form.

Color surged into Alec’s cheeks. “Yes, Master Vego,” he stammered in reply.

“I’ve been informed the damages were rectified and the mess tidied. Is that correct?”

Alec cast his gaze downward, giving no indication of a forthcoming response. A collective silence fell upon them until Elathiel broke it.

“Yes, a fresh bunk and brand new linens. But I narrowly escaped being roasted alive yesterday. Not even a full day in the Empire and there’s already an attempt on my life. Is that how you operate? Accidents happen? Should I permanently relocate to the sofa to avoid being incinerated? What even was that?” He fired back at their coordinator.

“Candalore, isn’t it?”

Elathiel gave a curt node.

“You’re still but a fledgling. If the Empire desired your death, you would remain oblivious until your last breath. However, we do not hold children accountable for their fathers’ transgressions. You possess the chance to absolve your family’s sins and contribute to strengthening our collective defense force.

“As you shall all know, undead do not originate from the Far East; they are transported there from wherever the necromancers spring up. The bulwark of the Empire, bolstered by the Dragonteeth pyramids range, is the sole protection you have. Your islands aren’t safe just because they’re surrounded by a mote of water.”

Elathiel clenched his fists, his face hardening like a mask, but he remained silent, offering no further retort.

Master Vego continued. “As for Alec’s incident, it should not occur again. He experiences what we term as ‘Bursts’. I am not an expert in that matter, but the basic principle is that his source space possesses an unusual curvature that creates pockets. These pockets gradually accumulate small quantities of the Power, causing an increasing strain on the spatial structure. Once a critical threshold is crossed, the space unfurls, expelling all the accumulated energy over a short period. Then, it reverts to its original shape. The cycle continues; rinse and repeat.”

“But you assured us it wouldn’t happen again,” Ria blurted out, clinging to Ari’s arm.

“And so I did, because it won’t. You ought to have learned about that today, but in case some of you have already been dozing off during your lectures, allow me to refresh your memory.” Master Vego gestured towards the two steel rods jutting out from the wall. “These are the horns. It is mandatory for you to utilize them daily, right before retiring to bed. Clasp them and channel your Power into them until you sense fatigue seeping into your body. Once you try it, you’ll understand what I mean. Just remember to maintain control over your flow—these horns are insatiable, siphoning off every bit of the Power you offer.

“All energy directed through them is funneled straight into Tramiria.” Master Vego paused, noting their puzzled expressions. “By that, I mean the Academy’s primary crystal, which powers everything, including this very room. Its name is Tramiria, not to be mistaken with the capital’s name. Although, technically, the city was named after the crystal, but that’s beside the point.

“Consider this akin to paying rent. Moreover, it’s advantageous for you as it aids in expanding your Power pool. Neglect this routine and you’ll soon witness your peers advancing in strength while you are left behind.

“Any other questions?” Master Vego’s gaze traversed their line from left to right, then again. Silence Prevailed.

“Now, Alec, this was not the first time it had happened, was it?”

Alec nodded, avoiding looking at Master Vego.

“We received a note about your condition. On the day of your admission, you should have been instructed on the use of the horns. The individual accountable for this oversight has been disciplined. But what about your previous caretakers? Were they not taking measures to prevent your Bursts?”

“No. They did sometimes ask me to expend all my Power, but they claimed it was for training purposes, not to prevent these Bursts. It’s been quite some time since I last did that,” Alec mumbled.

“Then it seems to be a combination of poor timing and unfortunate circumstances. They probably thought your enrollment was close enough to not warrant precautionary measures any more, and the admission clerk either overlooked it or presumed one day wouldn’t make a difference.

“Since no harm was done, I consider this issue resolved. I expect you to divert your full attention to the entrance courses in preparations for the branding ceremony next month.”

Master Vego studied each of them. Ari continued to clutch her pillow while Ria remained glued to her side. As no one else spoke, she turned on her heel and made her exit.

Once their coordinator departed, their collective gaze fell upon Alec. He swallowed, his throat working visibly before he muttered. “Fine. Fine.”

Thus, Alec was the pioneer to brave the horns. He gripped them, lingered for a few seconds, then retreated. No outward change marked the procedure.

“Whoa, it’s swift. And I’m dizzy now,” he said as he wobbled towards the bedroom.

Ria and Kiran followed suit, trying their hands at the horns.

“Uh, I’m so tired now. Ari, I’ll bring you pretzels tomorrow, all right?” Ria said after releasing the rods, also staggering towards the bedroom, Kiran following in her wake moments later.

That left Ari and Elathiel alone in the common area. Elathiel stalked in circles, casting furtive glances at the horns, and at Ari. Upon realizing she had no intention of making her move, he approached the protruding steel, meticulously inspecting the rods from all perspectives. He spent a good minute teetering on the brink of decision before he finally reached out to touch the horns.

Meanwhile, Ari resumed her rhythmic swaying on the sofa. Her mind was a blank canvas, void of any thought. The metronome-like movements proved oddly soothing, leading her into a gentle trance.

She was not sure how much time had slipped by when she resurfaced back to the reality, only that she was alone. The others must have been already deep into their dreams by now.

Discarding the pillow she had been clutching, she rose and traversed the room, halting directly in front of the horns. Their touch was as cold as she remembered from her first day at the Academy. The rods were merely icy steel to her.

She channeled energy into the palm that was gripping one of the horns, but to no avail.

Anger roused her heart. She had talent, she knew it, yet this accursed body of hers was her biggest hindrance. A cage, that what it was. Why did she have to be born with such a cruel curse?

She seized the horns with all her might and plunged her entire Power into her arms. If her body wanted to play like that, she would force her way out. She had not spent two months in the best place in the world just to be ousted because of her own flesh rebelling against her. That’s right; she was always telling herself and the others that she would wield her Power. Her objective was closer than ever. There was not room for surrender now. It was all or nothing all over again.

Her arms, still aching from the exertions of the defense class, protested vehemently, yet she disregarded it. She hammered her Power into her palms, driving it further into her fingers. The impact was potent, even more than before, but this time, she refused to yield to the rebound. Before the backlash could strike, she would shatter her confinement.

The energy grew so dense in her arms that it manifested physically, tormenting her tissues. A searing pain dominated her palms, but she persisted. She could feel the blistering current coursing through her veins, gnawing away at her skin. A bit more and it would puncture through. A bit more and her Power would break free into the world.

It happened—countless tiny perforations blossomed along her grip. Her energy seeped out, and similar to her experience with her uniform, her consciousness expanded to encompass the rods. What she encounter was akin to a bottomless abyss—a black hole spiraling inwards.

And this abyss was ravenous. It latched onto the stands of her Power, drawing them into its insatiable depths. Now, dual forces were in play: her determined, relentless push, coupled with the mounting pull of the horns’ voracity.

The immense pressure exerted on the skin of her palms rendered her numb. The pain ceased to exist.

Suddenly, she jerked, a splash of liquid hitting her face. She shook her head, blinking against the red splatters and stains smeared across the wall.

With no further restraints, her Power burst forth in a torrential surge, spewing from her arms, and fueling the abyss with an even greater intensity.

Staggering, she relinquished her grip on the horns. All the strength had drained from her.

(Huh, so that’s what they meant. It is exhausting,) she mused as the dizziness overwhelmed her. The room warped and wavered before her eyes. The horns blurred, replaced by the image of the lightstone mounted on the ceiling.

(How odd, who placed the lightstone in the middle of the wall?)

A frigid wave crept through her body, accompanied by a strange, yet familiar, sensation of profound emptiness. It consumed her, heightening with each passing second. Colder and colder. Emptier and emptier.

She heard the rambling sound of steps, and some round object eclipsed the shining lightstone she was so intently observing.

“Healer! We need a healer!” Ari recognized Ria’s frantic voice, resonating with panic as she knelt at her side.

A shadow darted past. Was that Kiran? Where was he heading at such a late hour?

She was too tired to think about it. If only they would grant her a moment of solitude, a brief respite. She longed to communicate her desire for Ria to move her pigtails out of her sight, to stop obscuring her view, yet her lips refused to obey her command. All she yearned for was to glimpse that luminous star once more.

Her mother approached, a comforting blanket in her hands. “Don’t stay too long,” she said, draping it around her.

“There is a monster in the sky. I can’t see my star, when it will go away?” Ari asked.

A pair of gigantic eyes blinked high above them, on the starry firmament.

Her father joined them on the roof, settling next to Ari. “The hunt is on. We’ll get that monster; you and I. Are you in?” he said.

Ari let out a gleeful chuckle. These were one of those rare nights when they would lounge on the rooftop of their home, looking at the night’s sky, chatting and admiring the celestial canvas. If only that damned monster had not obscured her favourite star.

“Yes, let’s hunt it.” Her red eyes glittered ominously in the darkness.

But the cold continued to creep in, accompanied by the hollow sensation of emptiness. At some point, her parents had left, the exact moment of their departure eluding her, and she found herself in solitude once again. It was just her, and the monster glaring down from its celestial perch.

“You’ll pay for this, monster,” she vowed to the eyes hanging in the sky.

A weight seemed to descend on her eyelids. The cold was harsh, but she still had her blanket; she would endure.

“I only need a quick nap. Just you wait for me, monster. The hunt is on.”

Then, her consciousness faded.

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