Sevrin stood near the professor’s desk, his arms crossed as he listened to Marilla. He kept his face neutral, his expression unreadable, but his fingers twitched slightly against his sleeve.

“During the lesson, you’ll make yourself useful,” Marilla said, her voice calm yet laced with something unmistakably firm. “Once the dueling exercises begin, position yourself toward the back of the room.”

Sevrin remained silent, waiting for the real instructions.

“There will be a bag,” she continued, her eyes locked onto his with that eerie, knowing gaze. “It belongs to Soya. Inside is a sketchbook. You will take it and leave.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Sevrin’s face. He wasn’t some errand boy. “What’s so important about a sketchbook?”

Marilla’s expression didn’t change. “That’s not for you to question. You’ve seen what the boy can do, haven’t you?”

Sevrin scoffed. “He’s a fluke. Muggle-borns shouldn’t—”

Marilla took a step closer, tilting her head slightly. “Yet he is, isn’t he?”

Sevrin clenched his jaw. He had seen it. The way Soya had held his own against an older student in a duel. How his rune had caught Wirruna’s attention. How everyone seemed to take notice of him.

A nobody. A Muggle-born.

Sevrin didn’t like it. Didn’t trust it.

“You don’t have to understand it,” Marilla continued smoothly. “You just need to follow my instructions. Take the book, leave quietly, and bring it to me.”

Sevrin exhaled sharply through his nose. This was beneath him, but refusing wasn’t an option—not with who he was talking to.

“…Fine.”

Marilla smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “Good.”

Without another word, Sevrin turned on his heel and left the office, his mind already calculating the best way to move unnoticed.

Soya walked alongside Davonte and Draven, the three of them making their way toward the dueling hall. The corridors of Austramore were busier than usual, students moving in every direction, chattering about the upcoming lesson. A dueling class always drew attention—whether from excitement or nerves.

Davonte nudged Soya’s shoulder playfully. “Bet you’ll get called up first.”

Soya rolled his eyes. “It’s not a competition.”

“Of course, it is,” Davonte smirked. “Everything is.”

Draven, walking slightly ahead, glanced back at them. “It would be wise to observe before engaging. We’ve only had a handful of structured dueling lessons. Rushing in without preparation—”

“Is exactly what’s going to happen,” Davonte interrupted, grinning. “Because Marilla’s gonna toss Soya into a match whether he likes it or not.”

Soya sighed, but deep down, he knew Davonte was probably right.

When they reached the dueling hall, the room was already set up. Training mats covered the floor, and pairs of students stood ready, waiting for instructions. Professor Marilla stood at the front, surveying them with her usual calculating gaze.

Her stern eyes swept over the gathered students before settling on Soya. As expected, her gaze softened, a strange contrast to the way she looked at everyone else.

“As you all know,” she began, voice sharp, “dueling is not a game. It is a test of control, precision, and tactical awareness. If you rely on brute force alone, you will lose. If you hesitate, you will lose. If you panic, you will lose.”

She let the words settle before clapping her hands together. “Come forward. You will each take turns attacking and defending. I will assign the first duel.”

The room fell silent, everyone waiting for the inevitable.

“Soya. To the center.”

Of course.

Davonte gave him a knowing look as Soya stepped forward.

“Your opponent…” Marilla scanned the room before selecting a stocky boy from Bunjil House. “Vaughn.”

The boy nodded and stepped onto the mat opposite Soya.

Marilla’s lips curled into something that almost resembled amusement. “Soya, stand here.” She gestured to a very specific spot—one that, if he were to turn, would have the bags completely out of his line of sight.

Soya steadied his breath and took his position.

Marilla’s usual sharpness returned as she addressed the class. “Now. Wands out.”

Sevrin moved carefully, keeping his steps light as he maneuvered toward the row of bags lined up against the wall. The students were all focused on the duel, their eyes locked on Soya and Vaughn as they exchanged spells under Marilla’s watchful gaze. The perfect distraction.

He had done things like this before—small, precise acts that required no unnecessary movement. Sevrin knew that drawing attention, even in a room filled with noise and excitement, was the fastest way to fail. He kept his pace natural, his expression neutral, like he was simply repositioning himself for a better view of the duel.

As he neared the bags, he slid his gaze across them, looking for the one that belonged to Soya. It wasn’t difficult to find. The strap was slightly frayed, the stitching along the side worn from use. He had seen Soya carry it around enough times to recognize it instantly.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Sevrin knelt as if adjusting his shoelaces, fingers working swiftly to unbuckle the flap and slip his hand inside. His fingers brushed against parchment, books, and then—there. The sketchbook.

He pulled it free, tucking it against his side as he rose to his feet. No sudden movements. No hesitation.

A sharp crack echoed from the dueling platform as a spell rebounded, and all eyes turned to the match. It was the moment he needed.

Sevrin moved, stepping backward toward the door as though simply repositioning himself again. He slipped into the hall without a single glance back.

Once outside, he exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the sketchbook. He knew better than to stop moving. Marilla had given him an order, and lingering would be foolish.

He turned down the corridor, heading for Marilla’s office.

Soya tightened his grip on his wand, the wooden handle warm against his palm as he faced Vaughn across the dueling platform. His heart pounded, not out of fear, but anticipation. He hadn’t had much formal training, and most of what he did in battle was instinctual. His spells were quick, reactionary, and often improvised. That had worked in the past—but against someone like Vaughn, who had a pureblood upbringing and years of magical exposure, it might not be enough.

“Expelliarmus!”

Soya barely had time to react. He twisted his body, sidestepping just in time to avoid the disarming spell. Vaughn was fast—faster than Soya expected. But something in him had already adapted. His stance shifted naturally, body moving before his mind could fully process it.

“Protego!” Soya cast the shield charm just as Vaughn fired off a second spell. Sparks of magic crackled against his barrier before dissipating. He adjusted his grip, trying to get a feel for Vaughn’s rhythm.

Another attack. Vaughn didn’t hesitate.

“Flipendo!”

Soya ducked, feeling the force of the knockback jinx just barely miss him. He scrambled to the side, firing back with the first thing that came to mind.

“Locomotor Wibbly!”

Vaughn stumbled, his legs wobbling slightly under him, but he quickly forced himself upright with a grunt. His counterattack was sharp and immediate.

“Everte Statum!”

The force of the spell struck Soya in the chest, knocking him back several feet. He hit the floor hard, breath leaving him in a sharp gasp. He groaned, pushing himself up as Vaughn advanced.

Soya’s mind raced. His magic had always come to him in bursts of instinct, guiding him in ways he couldn’t always explain. Right now, that instinct screamed at him to stop defending and start acting.

He saw his opening.

“Rictusempra!”

The tickling charm hit Vaughn square in the ribs. His eyes widened in shock as an uncontrollable burst of laughter erupted from him. His wand hand trembled, struggling to hold steady as he gasped for breath. Soya took his chance.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

The full body-bind curse struck before Vaughn could counter. His limbs snapped together stiffly, and he toppled backward, frozen in place. The duel was over.

For a moment, silence hung over the room. Then, Marilla’s voice cut through.

“Match over. Winner—Soya.”

Soya blinked, barely processing what had just happened. He had won. On instinct alone.

The weight of it settled in as he stood there, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

Marilla stepped forward, her gaze unreadable. She didn’t praise him outright, but there was something in her eyes—a softness that wasn’t there for the other students.

Soya didn’t know why, but he didn’t like it.

Still, he had won. And the realization sent a thrill of excitement through him.

Soya moved to the back of the room as the last duel wrapped up, his mind still buzzing from his unexpected victory. His heart was still racing, his hands slightly unsteady as he reached down to grab his bag. He opened it and rifled through its contents to find his water bottle.

Then he froze.

His sketchbook was gone.

Panic spiked through him like a bolt of lightning. He flipped through everything—his textbooks, his parchment, his quills—but the sketchbook wasn’t there. He crouched down, checking under the desk, under the benches, even glancing around the room in case it had somehow fallen out.

No sign of it.

His breathing grew uneven as dread settled deep in his stomach. That sketchbook wasn’t just a book—it was his. It had his drawings, his observations, his thoughts. It was personal. And worse, it had sketches of things he couldn’t explain.

Things he had drawn that moved. That changed.

If someone saw those...

He clenched his fists, trying to steady himself. Maybe it had just been misplaced. Maybe he’d left it somewhere without realizing.

Or maybe someone had taken it.

“Is something wrong?”

Soya’s head snapped up at the voice. Professor Marilla stood nearby, her expression unreadable. She wasn’t addressing him like she had the others—harsh and critical. Her tone was... softer.

Almost concerned.

“My—” He hesitated, swallowing thickly before forcing himself to answer. “My sketchbook. It’s gone.”

Marilla’s brows lifted slightly. “Gone?”

Soya nodded, feeling a fresh wave of frustration. “I had it when I got here. It was in my bag before class. Now it’s just... gone.”

She studied him for a long moment before giving a small, thoughtful nod. “That is troubling,” she murmured. Then, as if making a decision, she turned toward her desk.

“Wait here.”

Soya blinked in confusion as she walked over and pulled something from a drawer. When she returned, she placed a book into his hands—a new sketchbook.

But not just any sketchbook.

Soya’s breath hitched as he ran his fingers over the cover. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the binding strong, the pages thick. His hands trembled slightly as he opened it, his eyes widening as he recognized the faint shimmer in the paper.

Shadowmend paper.

His heart pounded.

He had read about this after arriving at Austramore—high-quality, magically reinforced pages designed for preservation, often used by spellcrafters, scholars, and artists who needed their work to endure. It was expensive. Nearly impossible for a first-year student like him to get his hands on.

He had wanted this.

Marilla—or rather, Salsiar—had known.

“I’ll look into what happened to your sketchbook,” Marilla said smoothly. “But in the meantime, this should suffice.”

Soya swallowed hard. This was... too much. Too generous. He wasn’t used to generosity.

His fingers traced over the cover again.

Why was she doing this?

“I... I don’t know what to say,” he admitted, his voice quieter now.

Marilla’s lips curled ever so slightly. “Then say nothing. Just use it well.”

There was something unnerving about the way she spoke, but Soya was too overwhelmed to process it fully.

He clutched the book tightly, a mixture of gratitude and unease settling deep in his chest.

Something was very wrong.

He just didn’t know what.

Soya sat in the corner of the Thylacea common room, his new sketchbook propped up on his lap, a fresh set of pencils resting beside him. The common room was alive with the usual hum of conversation, but he had tuned it out, too focused on the feel of the shadowmend paper beneath his fingertips.

It was different from anything he had ever used before. The texture was smoother, almost silky, yet the way it absorbed ink and graphite was sharper, more defined. Every line he traced had a depth to it, a crispness that felt almost too perfect. He had read about shadowmend paper in the school’s library—it was enchanted to preserve artwork, preventing smudging and fading. A dream material for any artist.

He had already started sketching the outline of something, though he wasn’t entirely sure what it was yet. His hand moved on instinct, letting the image form naturally, rather than forcing it. The pencils glided effortlessly, as if the paper itself was guiding him.

Davonte plopped down beside him on the couch, stretching his legs over the armrest. “Still brooding over the missing sketchbook?”

Soya sighed, keeping his eyes on his work. “Not brooding. Just... unsettled.”

Draven, who sat cross-legged on the floor flipping through a thick tome, didn’t look up as he spoke. “It is suspicious, I’ll give you that. A sketchbook disappearing in the middle of class? Either someone stole it, or it simply ceased to exist.”

Soya frowned, erasing a stray mark with the side of his hand. “That’s not comforting.”

Davonte smirked. “Hey, at least you got an upgrade. This thing looks expensive.”

“I didn’t want an upgrade,” Soya muttered. “I wanted my sketchbook.”

Draven finally lifted his gaze. “It’s possible a student took it for a prank. Or perhaps Marilla was testing your reaction.”

“She was really nice about it,” Soya admitted, his voice quiet.

Davonte raised an eyebrow. “Marilla? Nice? Now that’s suspicious.”

Soya’s pencil hovered over the page, his thoughts turning over the possibilities. His gut told him something wasn’t right. But at the same time, what could he do?

With a small sigh, he pushed the thoughts aside and returned to his drawing. He would figure it out later.