Two years earlier.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days of sterile corridors and fluorescent lighting and the constant hum of machinery that never quite faded into background noise. Fourteen days of white walls and recycled air and the oppressive weight of being utterly, completely alone in a facility filled with people.
Griswald Von Garmisch hated Chaldea.
He stood in the medical faculty's supply closet, counting bandages for the third time that morning. Not because the count was wrong—it wasn't, he'd verified it twice already—but because counting gave him something to do. Something that didn't require interaction. Something that kept him away from the break room where the other staff gathered to share jokes he didn't understand and references he couldn't follow.
The closet smelled of antiseptic and processed cotton. Familiar scents. Safe scents. The kind of mundane, clinical odors that had defined his life since childhood, when he'd first discovered that healing was the only magical discipline where his pathetic circuits didn't actively embarrass him.
Thirty-seven gauze packages. Twelve bottles of saline solution. Eight emergency trauma kits.
The numbers were correct. They'd been correct an hour ago. They'd be correct an hour from now, assuming no one needed emergency medical attention—and no one would, because Chaldea's Master candidates were all healthy young specimens carefully selected for their magical potential and physical fitness.
Unlike him.
Griswald pushed his glasses up his nose and stared at the neat rows of supplies. The facility's climate control kept every room at a precise twenty-one degrees Celsius, but he was always cold. The beds were ergonomically designed for optimal rest, but his spine never quite agreed with the mattress. The food was nutritionally balanced and efficiently prepared, but it all tasted like cardboard mixed with obligation.
Everything at Chaldea was perfect. Optimized. Engineered for maximum human comfort and productivity.
And he'd never felt more miserable in his life.
A knock on the supply closet door made him flinch.
"Dr. Von Garmisch?" A technician's voice, muffled by the metal. "Director Animusphere is requesting all medical personnel in Conference Room B."
"I'm not a doctor," Griswald said automatically. "I'm just—"
But the footsteps were already retreating down the corridor. Of course. No one at Chaldea actually listened to him. They saw the white coat and the Von Garmisch name on his identification badge and made assumptions. Wrong assumptions, but assumptions nonetheless.
He wasn't a doctor. He was barely a mage. He was a medical assistant with a talent for healing magic that his family considered "quaint" and "provincial" and "not entirely useless, I suppose, if one must find something positive to say."
His mother's words. Delivered at the farewell dinner that had felt more like a funeral.
"At least you'll be out of the way," his father had added, not quite under his breath. "The Clock Tower rejections were becoming embarrassing."
Griswald left the supply closet and walked toward Conference Room B. The corridors stretched before him in endless identical segments—white walls, grey floors, evenly spaced doors with numerical designations that he still hadn't memorized. Everything looked the same. Everything felt the same. A maze designed by someone who believed efficiency was more important than humanity.
He passed a group of Master candidates heading the opposite direction. Young. Confident. Scions that any of the old families would be proud of.
None of them acknowledged him.
That was fine. Expected, even. The candidates came from prestigious magical families, names that carried weight in the Moonlit World. Names that opened doors and commanded respect and guaranteed admission to the Clock Tower without the humiliation of multiple rejection letters.
They had no reason to notice someone like him. A Von Garmisch? The family that had produced three notable magical theorists two centuries ago and nothing of significance since. The family whose greatest recent achievement was publishing a moderately well-received paper on the historical applications of combat magic in medieval Europe?
Invisible. That's what he was here. A ghost in a white coat, drifting through corridors filled with people who looked right through him.
The non-mages were worse, somehow.
At least the candidates' dismissal made sense. Magical hierarchy was brutal but comprehensible—power determined worth, and he had precious little power to offer. But the technicians, the engineers, the scientists recruited from outside the Moonlit World? They should have been allies. Fellow outsiders navigating an institution built on traditions they didn't understand.
Instead, they avoided him.
He'd tried, those first few days. Sitting in the cafeteria near groups of chatting researchers. Offering assistance with equipment calibrations. Making awkward small talk about weather patterns—which was particularly stupid, given that Chaldea was buried under Antarctic ice and the "weather" never changed.
But his presence made them uncomfortable. He could see it in their shifted postures, their suddenly abbreviated conversations, their polite excuses to be elsewhere. The mages treated him as beneath notice. The mundanes treated him as something unsettling. Something wrong.
A creature caught between worlds, belonging to neither.
Conference Room B appeared ahead. Griswald paused outside the door, straightening his coat, pushing his glasses up again, trying to arrange his features into something resembling professional competence.
Two weeks, he reminded himself. Just two weeks. It will get better.
The lie tasted bitter. But he swallowed it anyway and stepped inside.
The conference room hummed with quiet tension. Rows of chairs faced a raised platform where a podium stood beneath the facility's emblem—a stylized globe encircled by orbital rings. Griswald had claimed a seat in the back row, directly behind Dr. Roman Archaman, whose salmon-pink ponytail provided a convenient focal point for avoiding eye contact with everyone else.
The other medical personnel filled the seats around him. Dr. Vasquez from trauma surgery sat three chairs to his left, scrolling through her tablet without glancing up. Nurse Chen occupied the row ahead, speaking in hushed tones with the pharmaceutical specialist whose name Griswald still hadn't learned. They formed clusters. Conversational islands that he orbited without ever making landfall.
No one turned to include him. No one shifted to make space.
He'd stopped expecting them to.
Roman, at least, had acknowledged his existence when he'd sat down. A casual wave over his shoulder. A murmured "Morning, Gris." Nothing elaborate. Nothing performative. Just simple human recognition that Griswald had begun to treasure more than he wanted to admit.
The doctor was strange. Everyone at Chaldea agreed on that much. Too relaxed for his position. Too interested in idol videos and internet culture for a man of his apparent intelligence. But he was kind in ways that seemed almost accidental—remembering names, asking about sleep schedules, leaving extra coffee in the break room pot.
Small kindnesses. The only ones Griswald had encountered since arriving.
The doors at the front of the room opened.
She entered first.
Griswald's breath caught. Not from attraction—though she was striking, undeniably—but from the sheer presence she carried. The air in the conference room seemed to compress around her, thickening with expectation and barely suppressed anxiety.
Olga Marie Animusphere.
He'd heard the name whispered through corridors for two weeks. Seen it printed on official memoranda and facility announcements. But this was his first time witnessing the woman herself, and the reality exceeded every rumor.
She stood at the podium like a blade balanced on its edge—all sharp angles and controlled precision. Her silver-white hair cascaded past her waist, catching the sterile fluorescent light and transforming it into something almost luminous. A small braid traced along one side of her face, the only concession to softness in an otherwise severe presentation.
Her eyes swept the room they moved across the assembled staff with the clinical assessment of someone cataloguing inventory rather than greeting colleagues. Few met her golden eyes less kept her gaze.
Griswald was neither and found himself shrinking lower in his seat.
The black tailored coat she wore bore gold patterns along the lapels—the Animusphere family crest, he realized, stitched in thread that probably cost more than his annual salary. Deep red tights disappeared into ankle boots with heels that clicked against the platform with metronomic precision. Every element of her appearance had been calculated. His parents would have loved her.
She couldn't have been much older than him. Twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. Far too young to carry the weight that visibly pressed down on her narrow shoulders.
Behind her, Lev Lainur followed with the easy grace of someone accustomed to standing in shadows. His green suit cut an elegant figure—gold accents catching the light as he moved to position himself at the side of the podium. Curly dark hair framed a face that seemed perpetually amused, as though he alone understood some cosmic joke the rest of them had missed.
The chief engineer's presence should have been reassuring. Lev had been one of the few senior staff members to actually speak to Griswald during his first week. A brief conversation in the corridor. Nothing significant. Just a question about his adjustment to the facility, delivered with a slight smile that didn't quite reach his amber eyes.
But watching him now, standing at Olga Marie's shoulder like a well-dressed shadow, Griswald felt something cold trace down his spine, the professor seemed tense in this now and Griswald anxiety rose.
"I'll keep this brief." Olga Marie's voice cut through the room's murmuring. Sharp and precise this is the kind of voice that expected obedience and received it. "You've all heard the official announcement regarding the change in leadership. I'm here to address the rumors before they metastasize further."
She paused. Her fingers gripped the podium's edge, knuckles whitening almost imperceptibly.
"My father, Marisbury Animusphere, is dead."
The words landed like stones in still water. Ripples of whispered reaction and shock spread through the assembled staff. Griswald watched Olga Marie's face for any crack in her composure, any hint of grief beneath the aristocratic mask.
Nothing.
"The circumstances surrounding his death are under investigation," she continued. "I will not dignify the speculation I've heard circulating through this facility with direct response. What I will say is this: Chaldea's mission continues unchanged. The preservation of human history remains our paramount objective. My father dedicated his life to this organization, and I intend to honor that dedication by ensuring his work reaches completion."
Marisbury Animusphere.
Griswald had never met the man. The previous Director had been a distant figure during his brief tenure—a name on documents, a signature on his hiring approval, nothing more. But even from the periphery, even as a nobody medical assistant with no access to Chaldea's inner workings, he'd felt the weight of Marisbury's reputation.
He was not just one of the Lords. He was one of THE lords The ten most powerful figures in the Clock Tower's political hierarchy. The head of the Department of Astromancy. His was a position that commanded respect from the oldest magical families, that opened doors sealed to everyone else, that meant something in a world where lineage and power determined everything.
And his daughter had found him dead in his office three weeks ago.
The theories had spread through Chaldea like infection. Griswald had overheard them in corridors, in the cafeteria, in hushed conversations that stopped whenever he approached. Murder, some whispered. A rival Lord eliminating competition. An enemy from his past finally collecting on old debts. The man had accumulated plenty of both during his rise to prominence.
Others suggested suicide. The pressure of leadership. The weight of secrets. The burden of knowledge about things that Chaldea's lower staff couldn't begin to imagine.
No one knew the truth. Or if they did, they weren't sharing it with third-rate healers who counted bandages to keep themselves busy.
"Professor Lainur will continue in his role as Chief Engineer and Magical Systems Designer," Olga Marie was saying. "Dr. Archaman will oversee medical operations. All department heads retain their current positions pending formal review. I expect full cooperation during this transition period."
Her gaze swept the room again. This time it paused—briefly, almost imperceptibly—on the back row.
On him.
Griswald's stomach dropped. Those amber eyes held no recognition, no warmth, no acknowledgment of shared humanity. Just assessment. Calculation. The look of someone determining whether a tool was worth keeping or should be discarded.
Then her attention moved on, and he could breathe again.
"Questions can be directed to my office through proper channels," she concluded. "Dismissed."
The room began to stir. Chairs scraped. Voices rose in carefully modulated discussion. But no one moved toward the podium. No one approached the new Director with condolences or congratulations or any of the social rituals that typically accompanied such transitions.
They were afraid of her, Griswald realized. All of them. Even the senior staff. Even the candidates with their prestigious lineages and powerful circuits.
Olga Marie Animusphere stood alone at the podium, watching her inherited kingdom shuffle toward the exits, and something in her expression flickered. Just for a moment. A crack in the mask that revealed—what? Grief? Fear? Loneliness?
Then Lev leaned close, murmuring something in her ear, and the mask reformed. Harder than before.
She swept from the room without looking back.
Griswald filed out with the rest of the medical staff, already calculating how many hours remained until he could retreat to his quarters. The corridors stretched ahead in their usual sterile monotony. White walls. Grey floors. The soft hum of climate control systems working to maintain optimal human comfort in a facility that felt anything but comfortable.
"Hey, Gris! Hold up a second."
Roman's voice caught him mid-stride. Griswald turned to find the doctor weaving through the dispersing crowd, his white coat flapping with the easy carelessness of someone who'd never worried about proper presentation.
"Dr. Archaman." Griswald slowed, allowing Roman to fall into step beside him. "Did you need something?"
"Gris. I already told you that you can call be Roman or just doc if you want there is no need to be that formal with me." Roman burst into laughter. Griswald hesitated, uncertain whether to join in or not, and finally managed an awkward, "Oh, ok then."
The older man stretched his arms overhead, joints popping audibly. "That was something, wasn't it? The new Director, I mean. Quite the introduction."
"Mm."
"She's got a lot on her plate. Marisbury's shoes aren't easy ones to fill, especially under these circumstances." Roman glanced sideways at him. "How are you settling in? Two weeks now, right? Getting your bearings?"
"Fine."
"Fine?" Roman's eyebrow arched. "That's it? Just 'fine'?"
Griswald kept his gaze forward. The corridor branched ahead—left toward the medical wing, right toward the residential quarters. He needed to go left. Back to the supply closet. Back to counting bandages that didn't need counting.
"The facilities are adequate," he said. "The work is straightforward."
"And the people?"
"Professional."
Roman made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sigh. "You know, most new hires complain about the food first. The recycled air. The fact that we're buried under several kilometers of ice with no natural sunlight. You're very… diplomatic."
Griswald said nothing.
"Listen." Roman stopped walking. "I left some files in my office that I need for a meeting later. Patient records, nothing exciting. Would you mind grabbing them for me? I've got to check on something in Lab C, but I'll meet you in my quarters afterward."
A task. Something that didn't require conversation better than him keep failing at this conversation.
"Of course."
"Third drawer, left side. Manila folder, should not be that hard to find. Thanks, again for this Gris."
Roman disappeared down a side corridor before Griswald could respond.
Griswald sighed. He has yet to really know how to act around Doctor Romani Archaman. Griswald can't remember the last time someone above him didn't demand to have all twelve of their titles said in order of attainment before their name. But Dr. Roman was not anything like what he thought the head of the medical department would be like and he was not sure how to feel about it.
The walk to Roman's office took seven minutes. Griswald counted the steps automatically—a habit from childhood, when numbers had provided comfort that people couldn't. The door was unlocked, as Roman had implied it would be.
He stepped inside and stopped.
Someone was already there.
A girl sat in the chair beside Roman's desk, hands folded in her lap, posture so perfectly still she might have been a statue. Short lavender hair fell to her shoulders, bangs sweeping across her forehead to partially veil one eye. She wore a grey hooded jacket over a black collared shirt, a red tie providing the only splash of color against her muted palette.
Violet eyes lifted to meet his.
Neither of them spoke.
The silence stretched between them like a wire pulled taut as they locked eyes.
Griswald stood frozen in the doorway, one hand still resting on the frame. The girl—patient? visitor? he couldn't tell—remained motionless in her chair, watching him with those violet eyes. Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly in her lap. A nervous gesture.
He recognized it because he'd made the same motion a thousand times.
Say something, he told himself. Introduce yourself. Ask why she's here. Do something other than stand in the doorway like a malfunctioning automaton.
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Nothing came out.
The girl's gaze dropped to her hands. A faint flush crept across her pale cheeks. She seemed to shrink into her oversized jacket, shoulders curling inward as though trying to occupy less space in the room.
She's nervous too, Griswald realized. The observation should have been comforting. Instead, it only amplified his own anxiety. Two socially incompetent people trapped in the same small office, neither capable of initiating the basic human interaction required to escape the situation.
He could leave. Just walk to the desk, grab the folder, and retreat without saying a word. Roman hadn't mentioned anything about someone being in his office. This wasn't Griswald's responsibility. He was just here for files. Manila folder. Third drawer, left side.
Simple.
His feet carried him toward the desk. Three steps. Four. The girl's presence pressed against his awareness like a physical weight, even though she hadn't moved or spoken. He could feel her watching him. Could sense her uncertainty mirroring his own.
The drawer slid open with a soft click. Manila folders lined the interior in neat rows—Roman's filing system was surprisingly organized for someone who seemed perpetually disheveled. Griswald's fingers found the correct folder quickly. Patient records. Nothing exciting, just as Roman had said.
He straightened.
The girl was still there. Still silent. Still watching him with those quiet violet eyes.
Just leave, the rational part of his mind insisted. This isn't your concern. She's clearly waiting for someone. Roman will be back soon. There's no reason to involve yourself.
But she was in the medical director's office. Alone. Waiting.
People didn't wait in medical offices for pleasant reasons.
Griswald's grip tightened on the folder. The girl looked healthy enough. No visible injuries. No signs of acute distress. But appearances could deceive, especially in a facility like Chaldea where the staff dealt with forces beyond normal human comprehension.
"Are you—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, heat rising to his face. "Do you need anything?"
The words came out stilted. Awkward. The verbal equivalent of a stumble on flat ground.
The girl's eyes widened slightly. Surprise flickered across her features—genuine surprise, as though she hadn't expected him to speak at all. Her lips parted, closed, parted again. The same struggle he'd experienced moments ago.
"I'm fine," she finally managed. Her voice was soft. Measured. "I'm just waiting."
"Waiting."
"For Dr. Roman." She hesitated. "I have a checkup scheduled."
A checkup. That explained her presence, at least. But something about her posture—the careful stillness, the way she held herself apart from her surroundings—suggested this wasn't a routine appointment. Regular patients didn't sit in empty offices with the composed resignation of at the gallows. He didn't even realize that Dr. Romani did something as basic and check ups anymore.
"I see." Griswald shifted the folder in his hands, uncertain whether to stay or go. "He mentioned he had to check on something in Lab C. He should be back soon."
"Yes." The girl nodded. A small motion. Economical. "He often runs late."
She knows him, Griswald thought. This is a regular occurrence for her.
He should leave. The folder was in his hands. His task was complete. There was no reason to linger in this office, making stilted conversation with a patient who clearly wanted to be left alone.
A blur of white and pink erupted from somewhere beneath Roman's desk.
Griswald stumbled backward, folder clutched to his chest like a shield. The blur resolved into a small creature—furry, long-eared, moving with impossible speed—that launched itself directly at the girl's lap.
"Fou!"
The creature landed with surprising grace, tiny paws finding purchase on her black skirt. It was... Griswald squinted, trying to categorize what he was seeing. A squirrel? A rabbit? Some unholy fusion of both, covered in white fur with pink-purple accents on its ears and tail?
It was making noises. High-pitched chirps that sounded almost like—
"Fou! Fou fou!"
"Hello to you too," the girl murmured. Her entire demeanor had shifted. The careful stillness melted away, replaced by something softer. Warmer. Her hands came up to cradle the creature, fingers sinking into its fluffy fur. "Where were you hiding?"
"Kyu!"
Griswald stared.
The creature—Fou, apparently—turned to look at him. Large violet eyes met grey ones. There was intelligence in that gaze. An awareness that seemed entirely out of place in something so small and fluffy.
"What," Griswald said slowly, "is that?"
The girl glanced up. A hint of something that might have been amusement flickered across her features. "This is Fou. He lives here at Chaldea."
"He lives here." Griswald repeated the words without comprehension. "In Chaldea. This creature."
"Fou!" The creature's tail puffed indignantly.
"He doesn't like being called a creature." The girl's fingers scratched behind Fou's ears. The beast made a sound that could only be described as smugly satisfied. "No one's quite sure what he is, actually. He just... appeared one day. Dr. Roman says he's been here longer than most of the staff."
Griswald had read Chaldea's orientation materials three times. Cover to cover. There had been no mention of mysterious fluffy entities roaming the facility.
"I've been here two weeks," he said. "I've never seen him before."
"Fou goes where he wants." The girl's voice carried a note of affection. "He doesn't show himself to everyone."
The creature's violet eyes remained fixed on Griswald. Assessing. Calculating. Making determinations that Griswald couldn't begin to guess at.
Griswald had never considered himself particularly competitive. His siblings had claimed all the family's ambition, leaving him with scraps of determination that manifested only in stubborn persistence rather than any desire to win. But something about this creature's unwavering gaze triggered an instinct he hadn't known he possessed.
He refused to blink first.
Fou's violet eyes bore into his. The creature sat perfectly still in the girl's lap, tail frozen mid-curl, ears pricked forward with predatory attention.
The girl watched them both with growing confusion. Her hands had stilled on Fou's fur, fingers hovering uncertainly as the silent battle waged between man and beast.
Griswald's eyes watered. His lungs burned from holding his breath. Every instinct screamed at him to look away, to concede, to accept his place in the hierarchy of creatures more significant than himself.
He didn't.
Fou's head tilted. A fractional movement. Considering.
"Fou."
The creature launched itself from the girl's lap.
Griswald flinched backward, arms coming up reflexively—not to defend himself, but to catch. Years of medical training had drilled certain responses into his body. When something fell, you caught it. When someone stumbled, you steadied them. When a small furry projectile hurtled toward your chest with alarming velocity, you—
Soft warmth landed against his sternum.
Fou settled into the crook of his arm like he'd always belonged there. Tiny paws gripped the fabric of Griswald's coat. The creature's tail curled around his wrist, impossibly soft fur brushing against his skin.
"Kyu!"
Griswald stood frozen. The manila folder had fallen somewhere—he heard it hit the floor but couldn't process the information. His entire awareness had narrowed to the weight in his arms. The warmth seeping through his clothing. The small creature who had chosen him for reasons he couldn't begin to fathom.
"That's..." The girl rose from her chair. Her violet eyes had gone wide, lips parted in undisguised shock. "He's never done that before."
"What?"
"Fou." She stepped closer, movements cautious, as though approaching something fragile. "He doesn't... he's never jumped to anyone like that. Not even Dr. Roman. Not even—" She stopped herself. "He tolerates most people. Likes some. But he's never been one for physical contact outside of me. Not that I've seen."
Griswald looked down at the creature in his arms. Fou gazed back up at him, violet eyes soft now, the predatory assessment replaced by something almost affectionate.
"I don't understand," Griswald said.
"Neither do I."
They stood in silence. The girl had moved close enough that Griswald could see the individual strands of lavender in her hair, the faint dusting of color across her cheeks, the way her fingers twitched at her sides as though she wanted to reach out but didn't dare.
Fou made a demanding sound.
"I think..." The girl's voice had grown slightly stronger. More certain. "I think he wants you to pet him."
"Pet him."
"Fou!" The creature's tail lashed impatiently.
Griswald's hand moved before his brain could object. His fingers found the soft fur behind Fou's ears—the same spot the girl had scratched earlier—and applied gentle pressure.
The sound Fou made was obscene.
A purr rumbled through the small body, vibrating against Griswald's chest. The creature's eyes slid half-closed, head tilting to press more firmly into the touch. His tail unwound from Griswald's wrist and began swaying in lazy contentment.
"He really likes you." The girl's voice held wonder now. Genuine amazement that cut through her usual reserve. "I've known him for years and he's never... this is unprecedented."
"Maybe he's just hungry," Griswald offered weakly.
"Fou doesn't eat. Or if he does, no I have ever seen it." She shook her head. "This is something else."
Griswald continued petting. It seemed the safest option. Fou had begun kneading his coat with tiny paws, claws catching on the fabric in rhythmic cycles of grab-and-release that felt strangely meditative.
"You know him well," he said. "Fou, I mean."
The girl nodded. "He found me. When I first came to Chaldea. I was..." She hesitated. "I was having difficulty adjusting. Fou appeared in my room one night and just... stayed."
Something in her voice made Griswald's chest tighten. A recognition. A kinship he hadn't expected to find in this sterile facility full of people who looked through him like glass.
"I've been having difficulty adjusting too," he admitted. The words escaped before he could stop them. "It's been two weeks and I still feel like I don't belong here."
The girl's eyes met his. Understanding flickered in their violet depths.
"I've been here for years," she said quietly. "Sometimes I still feel that way."
Fou chirped. A soft sound. Almost encouraging.
"I'm Griswald," he said. "Griswald Von Garmisch. I work in the medical department. As an assistant. Not a doctor. People keep calling me doctor but I'm not. I just count bandages and—" He stopped himself. Heat flooded his face. "Sorry. You didn't ask for my life story."
But the girl was smiling. Small. Barely visible. Her lips twitched upward in a hesitant curve, as though the muscles were performing an unfamiliar dance, surprised by the sudden flutter of joy in her chest.
"I'm Mash," she said. "Mash Kyrielight."
"Mash." He tested the name. It felt right somehow. Simple and soft and genuine. "It's nice to meet you."
"Fou!" The creature demanded more attention.
They both laughed. Awkward, stilted sounds that nonetheless broke something open between them. Two people who had forgotten how laughter worked, remembering together.
Both remained oblivious to the figure in a white lab coat observing them from just beyond the doorframe.