The Great Hall of the Royal Academy smelled of burnt parchment and desperation.
Five hundred students sat in tiered rows, their heads bowed, their quills scratching furiously against paper. The sound was hypnotic, a drone of collective misery.
At the front of the hall, Professor Hyst—a man whose face looked like it had been chiseled out of granite and disapproval—paced back and forth, tapping a long cane against the floor.
"Magic," Hyst barked, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling, "is not a gift. It is a discipline. It is the precise recitation of the Ancients. One wrong syllable, one misplaced inflection, and you do not summon a breeze—you summon a vacuum that collapses your lungs."
He stopped and pointed the cane at a trembling second-year student.
"Recite the Third Stanza of the Ignis Minor."
The student stood up, shaking. "Oh, Flame of the... uh... Flame of the Dormant Heart, seek the oxygen of the... the ether?"
"Wrong!" Hyst slammed the cane down. "Seek the oxygen of the void! Ten points from House Veridia. Sit down before you blow us all up."
In the back row, hidden in the shadows of the highest tier, Elian slumped low in his seat. He pulled the hood of his Grey Cloak further down, trying to become one with the wooden desk.
Inefficient, Elian thought, tracing a pattern in the wood grain with his finger. It's so incredibly inefficient.
He looked at the formula on the blackboard. It was the chant for a basic candlelight spell. It was forty lines long. Forty lines of flowery, archaic poetry just to excite a few carbon molecules and generate a spark.
You don't need to ask the flame to 'seek the void,' Elian argued in his head. You just need to vibrate the air molecules at a frequency of 40 hertz and introduce a heat source. It's simple thermodynamics.
But in the Kingdom of Aethelgard, physics was heresy. Only the Chant mattered.
Elian looked down at his own notes. They were a mess. While other students had perfectly transcribed the poem, Elian's parchment was covered in geometric shapes, vectors, and flow charts. He was trying to map the path of the mana, not the prayer.
"Mr. Elian."
The voice cut through his thoughts like a guillotine.
Elian froze. He slowly looked up. Professor Hyst's eyes were locked on him from across the hall. The sea of students parted, five hundred pairs of eyes turning to look at the "Grey Cloak"—the lowest rank of mage. The invisible class.
"Since you find the grain of your desk more fascinating than the Holy Texts," Hyst sneered, "perhaps you can demonstrate the Ignis Minor for us?"
Elian stood up. He felt the familiar weight of self-consciousness pressing on his chest. He was scrawny, his uniform hung loose on his shoulders, and he knew he looked every bit the mediocre student his file claimed he was.
"The whole chant, sir?" Elian asked, his voice quiet.
"Unless you wish to fail the semester right now. Proceed."
Elian took a breath. He closed his eyes. He tried to visualize the words on the blackboard, but his brain—his stubborn, "Purist" brain—revolted. It refused to hold onto information it deemed useless.
"Oh, Flame of the... Dormant Heart..." Elian started.
He paused. What came next? Was it seek or find?
"...find the breath of the... South?"
A ripple of giggles broke out across the hall.
"The South?" Hyst asked, raising an eyebrow. "You think fire needs a compass, Mr. Elian?"
"I meant... the breath of the void," Elian corrected quickly, his face burning hotter than the spell he was trying to cast.
He tried to push through. "Grant us the light to... to pierce the shadow..."
He stumbled again. The rhythm was off. The mana in the air remained stagnant. Nothing happened. No spark. No light. Just a scrawny boy mumbling bad poetry in a silent room.
I could do it, a dark voice whispered in the back of Elian's mind. I could just snap my fingers. I can see the mana stream right there, hovering above the desk. I just need to twist it.
He looked at his hand. All he had to do was grab the "source code" of the universe and pull. A simple snap.
But that was forbidden. That was "Wild Magic." That got you expelled, or worse—dissected by the Royal Researchers.
So Elian made a choice. He chose to look stupid rather than look dangerous.
"I... I don't remember the rest, sir."
The giggles turned into open laughter. Even the other Grey Cloaks looked away, embarrassed to be associated with him.
Professor Hyst sighed, a sound of deep, exhausted disappointment.
"Sit down, Elian. You are a third-year student, yet you possess the memory of a goldfish and the mana control of a cabbage. I suggest you transfer to the History department before you hurt yourself."
Elian sank back into his seat.
Let them laugh, he told himself, staring at his geometric doodles. They are memorizing the menu. I am learning how to cook.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the torture.
Elian was the first one out the door, moving quickly to avoid eye contact. He made his way to the edge of the Academy grounds, to an old stone bench near the abandoned clocktower.
"Rough day?"
Elian looked up. Kael was leaning against the wall, tossing an apple in the air. Kael was a Bard—a class that required high charisma and knowledge of pop culture (the latest ballads and gossip). He wore his uniform unbuttoned and somehow never got in detention for it.
Sitting next to Kael was Silas, the Mute Scholar. Silas didn't speak, but he was a genius at Runes. He gave Elian a sympathetic nod.
"Hyst put you on the spot?" Kael asked, taking a bite of the apple. "I heard about the 'South' comment. It's already trending in the cafeteria."
"It's a stupid chant," Elian muttered, throwing his bag onto the bench. "Why do we have to ask the fire for permission? It's fire. It burns. That's what it does."
"Because that's how the system works, buddy," Kael grinned. "You play the game, you get the grades. You, my friend, are trying to reinvent the wheel while everyone else is just driving the cart."
"The wheel is square," Elian shot back. "It bumps. It's inefficient."
Silas scribbled something on a slate and held it up: [But did you pass?]
Elian sighed. "No. I got a zero for the day."
"Classic Elian," Kael laughed, slapping him on the back. "Smart enough to critique the spell, dumb enough to fail the class. Come on, let's go get food. I heard the 'Ice Queen' is eating in the main hall today. Maybe if you stare at the floor hard enough, she won't notice your existence either."
Elian rolled his eyes. "I have no interest in Royals. Or their drama."
"Right, right. Just interest in... what is that?" Kael pointed at Elian's notebook. "Triangles?"
"Vectors," Elian corrected, clutching the book to his chest. "It's how the spell actually works."
"Nerd," Kael said affectionately.
As they walked toward the cafeteria, Elian looked back at the Great Hall. He felt the familiar ache of the "W-Curve"—the distinct knowledge that he was failing, coupled with the terrifying certainty that if he actually tried to do it his way, he would destroy them all.
He pulled his hood up.
Just survive, he thought. Just survive until graduation, and then I can disappear.
He didn't know that in the shadows of the clocktower above, a girl with silver hair and eyes like winter frost was watching him leave, holding a violin case.
End of Chapter 1