The office of Dean Oswald Wlywin was not nearly as large as one might expect for the most prestigious mage alive. No marble halls, no ostentatious chandeliers. Just a modest chamber lined with bookshelves groaning under centuries of tomes, the scent of parchment and ink stronger than perfume. A half-dozen paintings hung on the walls — landscapes, portraits of past eras, and one faded piece of a hero's party standing triumphant on a battlefield.
A desk, dark oak polished smooth by decades of use, sat buried under paperwork.
And behind it, the dean himself.
Oswald Wlywin, Exalted Tier magician. Elf of two centuries. Survivor of an age when the world teetered under the shadow of gods.
His silver hair fell loosely down his back, shimmering faintly as though woven from starlight. Eyes like quicksilver swept across documents, hand gliding with effortless grace as he signed and sealed one after another. His frame was tall and willowy, six and a half feet of elegant symmetry, the very picture of elven perfection.
The staff at his side — carved from a living branch of the World Tree itself — floated in a column of shimmering glass-like mana, its emerald leaves still alive, pulsing gently with light.
Finally, he set the quill down, finishing the last page with a flourish.
"Ah." He leaned back with a sigh, rubbing his temple. "The older I grow, the more tedious these things become. Wasn't the battlefield kinder than paperwork?"
A chuckle, soft and rueful, echoed in the quiet.
And then he felt it.
An old, familiar heat pressing at the edge of his senses. A burning energy that curled like smoke. He did not reach for the staff. He simply allowed it.
The air shimmered, heat distorting the room. Crimson smoke unfurled, and from it stepped a tall figure: hair like living fire, eyes glowing red, three horns curving back from her temples, and a thick tail lashing lazily behind her.
The air tasted of ash.
"It's been a while, heroic elf."
Oswald looked up, silver eyes calm, and smiled as if greeting an old friend.
"My, how long has it been since I last had the fortune of laying my eyes on the queen of dragons herself — the Great Red Dragon, Queen Ignacia The Crimson."
She waved a clawed hand, irritation flickering across her face. "Spare me your pleasantries."
Oswald rose gracefully, pouring tea into two porcelain cups. He slid one across the desk toward her. She didn't touch it. Instead, she exhaled a breath of heated air, boiling the tea in seconds, before sipping.
"Still brewing it too weak," she muttered.
Oswald chuckled, sitting once more. "And still as punctual as ever. Dragons are rarely so precise with their time."
Her eyes narrowed, but amusement curved her lips.
"Why are you here?" he asked softly. "This is no casual visit."
Ignacia's tail flicked, the tip glowing faintly red. "You already know."
Oswald closed his eyes. For a long moment, silence stretched.
Then he said, "The cycle has begun again."
Ignacia nodded. Her voice was low, rough with centuries of age. "So, what are you going to do, elf? Or rather — how much will you participate in the nurturing of this era's Chosen Hero?"
A loaded question.
Oswald opened his eyes, gaze calm, serene as a lake. "You remember the pact. After the death of the last Hero… we swore. None of us — the world's greatest powers — would interfere directly in the growth of the next Chosen, unless they trespassed against our domains. This is their path, not ours."
Ignacia's lips curled into a thin smile. "The same answer as always. You elves never change."
He only smiled in return. "Does that answer your question, Queen Ignacia?"
The queen of dragons finished her tea, setting the cup down with surprising gentleness for claws that could rend stone. She rose, her towering presence casting shadows across the room.
"Hm," Igancia turned around, her thick tail sliding across the floor. "I only came to make sure you hadn't… grown sentimental in your old age."
Oswald tilted his head. "You wound me. I'm only two hundred."
She snorted, smoke trailing from her nostrils. Then paused at the door. "Oh yes, I'm merely asking, but you wouldn't happen to know where my dear rascal of a husband and consort, Drew Barrymore is, now would you?"
At the question, Oswald tried to stay as calm as he could, despite his knife-ears twitching ever so slightly, which caught the ever-diligent attention of the Dragon Queen.
BOOM!
In an instant, Oswald's room had been scorched black, as if somebody had thrown a nuke inside his office, but he and his desk was otherwise fine, as a barrier of finely stapled mana threads had formed around him, with his staff firmly held in his right hand.
He stayed seated.
Ignacia grinned, showcasing her very, very sharp teeth at the elf. "Oh? Looks like the years haven't been too cruel to you, knife-ears."
Oswald just took another sip of his tea, as his magic worked it's way, fixing his completely wrecked office one by one. "Please, Ignacia, I thought we were beyond the younger days of you setting everything that inconvenienced you with your breath attack."
Ignacia just laughed, as her tail whipped the ground under her, making a very visible dent. "Are you trying to say that I'm getting old, knife-ears?"
At the accusation, Oswald felt a tremble. No matter the race, no matter the powers a man held, he would always fear having asked one of the three questions by a woman;
Am I getting fat?Am I getting old?Am I getting ugly?
He'd seen Alex, his old-time friend and previous era's Hero, been beaten black and blue multiple times by the women that fancied him simply because he'd been too dense to answer those questions correctly.
Using the long experience and knowledge of his elven heritage, along with his own personal analysis from the multiple beatdowns of Alex, he knew exactly what to say.
Oswald let out a cough before smiling, "Why, my lovely Queen, you hurt me dearly by accusing me of such things. How could any man not be immediately entranced by your visage, truly a beauty that surpasses time and era."
He inwardly smirked at his own wise answer. See, Alex, this is how you do it.
At that, Ignacia asked another question. "So, why is it that my own husband and consort seems to be running away from me?"
Oswald's smile turned upside down. Fuck. He inwardly apologised to Alex, but luckily it seems that he wouldn't have to fix his office a second time, as weirdly enough, Ignacia just let out a snort before turning to leave, as a portal appears behind her.
From it, he could feel the fire and brimstones that was the natural habitats of the dragons Ignacia ruled over, in the Pacific Ring Of Fire.
But, right before she stepped through, she paused, before turning around. "Oh yes, I almost forgot, Oswald— my daughter will be among your special entrants this semester."
Oswald's lips curved, his expression softening. "Little Drake? It has been years. How is she?"
Ignacia chuckled, shaking her head. "Not so little anymore. She's grown taller than me, and feistier too. A headache, if I'm honest."
Oswald laughed quietly, the sound like wind chimes. "And you're handing her to me. A wonderful problem gift-wrapped."
Her smirk sharpened. "Consider it my way of sharing the joy."
Then her eyes glimmered crimson, narrowing to slits. "But make no mistake, elf. This year's freshmen… they'll be interesting. The Parisian Crown Princess & Saintess. The mountain hermit's daughter. And, most likely, this era's Hero himself. And, of course, many others."
"And yet—" She paused, the heat in her presence flickering hotter. "I feel something else. Something far more… more intriguing than all of them."
"Something that will surprise even both of us, no not something - a somebody, I can feel it in my gut. And you know how accurate those are," Ignacia said. "Anyways, keep your eyes peeled, knife-ears. Bye."
Her body dissolved into a blaze of red smoke. In an instant, she was gone.
Oswald sat alone again. The gentle smile lingered on his lips. Slowly, his gaze drifted to the black-and-white photo framed on the shelf.
A younger elf, smiling brighter, an arm slung around a human swordsman in the middle. Two beautiful women argued at his side, tugging at the swordsman's free arm. Behind them, the rest of their old party laughed at the chaos.
Oswald traced the photo with his eyes, the ghost of laughter tugging at his mouth.
"Ah… the good old days."
The window stirred. Wind chimed faintly through the glass.
"The new wind blows as the old wind dozes off…" He chuckled at his own rhyme, shaking his head. "Or something like that."
He leaned back in his chair, silver eyes soft as the weight of another era pressed against his heart.