Why are you still following me?" I asked.
"Official Council order," Aari replied, not looking up from the scroll hovering beside her. "You're unstable. You're under-monitored. You're technically not even enrolled. So they sent me."
"To spy on me?"
"To mentor you," she said with finger quotes so aggressive they could slice butter.
We stood at the gates of the Language Arts Institute of Thistle, which looked less like a school and more like someone had let a magical library explode into architectural chaos.
Floating runes buzzed in and out of stone arches. Scrolls circled towers like lazy seagulls. Somewhere in the distance, someone yelled, "I said past participle, not past particle!", followed by a minor explosion.
"What even is this place?"
"It's where casters learn how not to accidentally summon breakfast demons. You're gonna love it."
---
✏️ Caster Orientation (aka Language Boot Camp)
The hallway was alive.
Not with people — with words. Literal words, zipping through the air like fireflies.
Every surface was etched with glyphs that glowed faintly when you passed. Whispering scrolls flapped by like pigeons with anxiety. Someone tried casting a greeting spell and instead turned their tongue blue.
"This is… overwhelming," I said.
"It's worse on Tuesdays."
Aari handed me a folded parchment.
"Your 'schedule.' If the scroll eats it, that's normal. Just memorize the subjects before it digests your electives."
I opened it.
Intro to Scrollcasting
Glyph Stability & Control
Language Theory and Emotional Binding
Runic History
Lunch (probably safe)
"What's 'emotional binding'?"
"Try casting a love poem without crying and you'll find out."
---
🤓 Secret Motives & Slight Guilt
We entered our first class — Scrollcasting 101 — and Aari immediately looked more excited than she'd admit.
I caught her scribbling things into a small leather-bound journal.
"What's that?"
"Nothing."
"You're studying me, aren't you?"
"You're a living linguistic anomaly. You awakened a core through a broken oath. Your pronunciation warps spell structure. And you once accidentally set a man's pants on fire by misdeclaring breakfast."
She paused. Looked faintly guilty.
"...also, I might be writing my research thesis on you."
"I knew it!"
"Don't worry. I gave you a fake name in the footnotes."
"What name?"
"Monsieur Baguette."
"Seriously?"
"It's a working title."