A thick, dark mist was slowly dispersing. Light filtered through her eyelashes, bringing with it disjointed images of an unknown meadow. The young girl searched her memories, but they acted like a book with a mind of its own, slamming shut and refusing to tell her how she had arrived at this place. The sunlight was already fading, yielding its throne to the twilight.
In the distance, a man lay on the ground. His elegant clothes, embroidered with stitching and patterns that seemed from a distant land, gave him the air of a fallen deity. His face possessed fine features, carved with inhuman delicacy; his hair fell down his back like a waterfall of liquid silver. His expression was that of a father who, with bitterness and despair, watches his son depart for a place of no return. In front of him stood another figure, a blurred silhouette she couldn't quite make out.
"You must live, Ka..." she heard him say, his voice a broken whisper.
"That dream again..."
The melancholy echo of her own voice woke her up. Veridia bolted upright, her heart hammering against her ribs and her cheeks wet.
"Again..." she repeated, lower this time, letting the words bounce softly off the stillness of her room.
With her mind still foggy, her eyes began to scan the room, seeking an anchor to reality. Her gaze traveled across the walls, their coating gleaming with the cold, mineral depth of lapis lazuli tiles. She looked down at the warm wooden floor—those planks she knew by heart would creak under her steps. Finally, her attention drifted to her wardrobe, where her green uniforms hung in a quiet row; though, to be honest, "order" was a relative term: one lopsided on its hanger, another with a sleeve caught... a relaxed, everyday chaos.
Everything in the room breathed absolute calm. Until her gaze slid one centimeter to the right. Toward the nightstand. Her eyes snapped wide, focusing on the clock hands with a terror that no monster from the abyss could inspire.
07:49.
The scream caught in her throat, escaping only as a high-pitched squeal like a boiling kettle. The sheets flew. Veridia catapulted out of bed. Her feet hit the wood and, in a move that surrendered all human dignity, she lunged across the room toward the bathroom while violently wrestling with her pajama buttons.
I'm late! she thought frantically as she jumped into the shower.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAH! IT'S SO COLD!" she screamed, taking a shower at breakneck speed.
"I can'f beliefe faf sfupid clock didn'f go off!" she exclaimed, spitting out words and toothpaste simultaneously at the fogged-up mirror. "I only haf nine minu'es!"
She burst out of the bathroom, combing and yanking at her hair as if her life depended on untangling every strand.
"Ow!" she yelped when the comb got stuck in an impossible knot. With a grunt of frustration, she hurled the tool against the wall. "I don't have time for this!"
She sprinted toward her bedroom door, snagging her backpack with her right hand in mid-air and grabbing her breakfast with her left: a Star Meat Pastry.
I'm not going to make it. I'm dead. They're going to expel me before I even summon a pebble, she thought, feeling the hallway stretch infinitely before her like a nightmare.
As she passed, portraits of ancient archmagi seemed to follow her with their gaze from their heavy gilded frames, judging her with stern oil-painted eyes for such a lack of decorum. Under the violence of her run, the noble wooden floor groaned loudly.
◆ ◆ ◆
Suddenly, amid the solemn gloom of the hallway, her gaze was caught by a rectangle of bright light: an open window where curtains danced, inviting her outside. A mischievous smile flashed across her face.
A perfect landing. Feet together, knees bent, arms extended. If Zenith Academy evaluated athletic ability instead of magic theory, she would undoubtedly be the top student.
She dropped from the third floor with a naturalness that betrayed habit, her boots sinking for a moment into the soft earth to cushion the impact before she continued her sprint; the Grand Hall awaited. She tore through the inner garden like a blur, ignoring the white gravel paths designed for slow, meditative strolls. Instead, she took a shortcut directly across the immaculate lawn, feeling the scent of fresh-cut grass and dew hit her face as she dodged ornamental hedges that curved with elegance.
Without stopping, she reached her arms toward the perimeter wall. Her fingers sought the rough coldness of the stone until they found that hidden crack in the ivy she knew by heart. She hauled herself up. Her balance tried to betray her as she reached the top, but a frantic waving of arms—resembling a windmill in a storm—saved her from a humiliating fall.
She ran along the crest of the wall, avoiding the long, ostentatious detour of the main entrance. From her vantage point, she spotted her goal outlined against the monumental architecture of the building: the heavy side door of reinforced oak, guarded by a professor who was already preparing to close it.
Her gaze overflowed with confidence. She ran with the certainty that she wouldn't be seen, as she was surely the only disgraced soul not yet inside. Without breaking stride, she pulled a crumpled parchment from her pocket and recited:
"May the flow be in favor of the bearer of this incantation. Light, I implore you: be my accomplice and make this impossible entry a reality!"
She threw the parchment, which dissolved into a green trail swept by the wind. Instantly, a luminous sphere exploded in her hand, and she let it fly toward the professor. The man was momentarily blinded, giving her the exact second—the perfect instant—to run and slip past his back into the interior.
◆ ◆ ◆
Inside the hall, Nalia was drilling the entrance with her blue eyes. She maintained an expression of severity capable of fracturing granite, though the solitary bead of sweat trickling down her temple betrayed the panic she felt for her friend. Upon seeing Veridia enter half-combed and sliding with arms outstretched across the floor, the tension broke.
"Safe!" they both whispered in unison.
Veridia took advantage of the professor's temporary blindness to sneak toward the back row. She moved in a crouch, performing awkward contortions.
"Sorry, oops, excuse me..." she muttered under her breath so as not to step on the boots of the students already seated.
She was totally oblivious to the disaster that was her misaligned uniform until she reached the empty seat her friend had defended with her life. Nalia let out a restrained sigh of relief that seemed to carry the weight of the entire academy. With a gloved finger, she adjusted the glasses on the bridge of her nose to hide the shimmer in her eyes. Without a word, her hands moved with a fluidity that betrayed habit: she straightened the wrinkled collar of Veridia's uniform, brushed the dust off her shoulders, and, with a quick gesture, plucked a dry leaf that had become tangled in her messy green hair.
"You said things would be different at Zenith. You're a mess, Veri," Nalia whispered, using that stern tone Veridia knew actually meant "I'm glad you're alive." Her posture was rigid, impeccable; the perfect contrast to the girl still panting beside her.
"Technically, I wasn't late..." Veridia replied with a nervous giggle, surrendering to her friend's meticulous adjustments. "Thanks, Nalia. If it weren't for you, I'd be forced to sit in the back with a branch in my hair."
"It's a miracle you didn't come barefoot," Nalia retorted, pointing disapprovingly at Veridia's boots. "Did you tie those knots with your teeth?"
Veridia looked down at the tangle of laces and double loops that defied all logic.
"It was that or not making it..."
She looked up, and for the first time, the weight of the environment hit her. The Grand Hall loomed over them like a cathedral dedicated to magic. The ceiling was lost in a vaulted darkness where clouds of will-o'-the-wisps danced in silence—thousands of small spheres of cold light floating like living constellations, bathing the tiers packed with students in an ethereal, spectral glow. The air was cold and dense, heavy with the scent of ancient parchment and the static electricity of hundreds of mages breathing in unison.
But what stole Veridia's breath was at the front, on the main stage.
A figure made his appearance, shattering any protocol. He wasn't the typical "Merlin-esque" elder, nor the rigid military man one would expect in the cradle of the Guardians. Behind him, the spectacle was breathtaking. Hundreds of grimoires did not rest on shelves; they levitated in the air, forming perfect arches, spinning gently like planets around an invisible sun, emitting a low hum of latent power that made one's teeth vibrate.
Veridia's heart skipped a beat. There they were. The grimoires. Her hands began to sweat. Tomorrow would be the summoning trial in front of the entire academy, but today... today the book would choose her. Or so she hoped.
Please, don't let it be an empty one. Please, don't let them reject me, she thought, her back reacting as if a cold serpent were slithering up her spine.
Nalia, noticing the trembling in her friend's hands, gave her a light nudge with her elbow. She didn't look at her; she kept her eyes forward, stoic, but the contact was firm and reassuring.
"You'll do fine," Nalia whispered, so low only Veridia could hear. "Just don't trip when you go up."
◆ ◆ ◆
The man on the stage was young. Insultingly young for the position. Maybe twenty-five, twenty-eight at most. Tall and long-limbed, he walked with a lazy swagger, hands buried in the pockets of his modified uniform. His expression was relaxed, almost mocking, but his mere presence distorted the air around him: a primal instinct screamed to everyone in the room that this man was, indisputably, strong.
"Fuaaaah..."
He let out a theatrical, exaggerated yawn, stretching like a cat before wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.
"Alright, kids, let's get on with this," he said with a carefree smile. "Quiet down."
The murmuring continued.
"Quiet down," he repeated, though his relaxed tone didn't inspire much urgency.
The command floated in the air but had no immediate effect. The Grand Hall still looked like a beehive of whispers divided into three clear fronts. In the front rows, a group of girls covered their mouths with nervous giggles.
"He's so handsome!" some whispered, their cheeks flushed. "Look at those eyes, they're incredible!"
Further back, the sons of noble families scowled, radiating pure envy.
"Damned prodigy," one hissed. "They say he was Royal Rank by fifteen. It's gotta be pure nepotism."
The Director yawned again, scratching the back of his neck and olympically ignoring both the sighs of love and the venom of envy. He didn't even seem to hear them. But then, from the sector of the theoretical mages, a student with tight glasses whispered with disdain:
"He's a disgrace to the institution. A clown like that shouldn't be leading us."
The Director didn't stop smiling. He didn't even turn his head toward the boy. He simply moved his right hand. It was a blurred gesture, a flick of the wrist so fast the human eye couldn't follow. There was a sharp whistle cutting the air—fiuuu—followed by a dry, blunt pock!
The student who had spoken was sent flying back against his seat, a red, smoking mark perfectly centered on his forehead. A small piece of chalk, now pulverized by the impact, fell onto his lap. The silence that followed was absolute. Instant. Terrifying.
The Director blew the residual chalk dust from his fingers as if it were smoke from a revolver.
"Oops, it slipped," he said, with a smile that didn't reach his cold eyes. "I was saying, quiet down. Thank you."
No one dared to breathe loudly after that. In one second, he had proven two things: that he had the hearing of a bat and that he could decapitate anyone with office supplies if he felt like it.
◆ ◆ ◆
Ryumu Ren rested his chin on his hand, spinning a gold coin on the table with a monotonous rhythm. Cling, cling, cling. He watched dozens of students pass by. To his eyes—the only ones in that room who understood the true nature of magic—they were all the same. Talented children, yes. But they were performing their roles with mastery, blind to the fact that the play had been edited long before the curtain rose.
"Nalia Aegis," the herald called.
The cling of the coin stopped. Ren looked up. The girl walking up to the stage was different. Her posture, her mana flow, her discipline... everything about her screamed perfection. Nalia received her immaculate white grimoire with an elegance that made the hall sigh.
Ren's eyes narrowed. Behind his indolent facade, he saw the tragedy forming in real-time: a colossal talent about to be strangled by the mediocrity of dogma.
Another martyr of excellence, he thought, feeling the weight of the rusted iron pinning him to his seat. You're going to be the best of your generation, kid. And that will be your curse. I wish you had the courage to be a little less... perfect.
When Nalia gave him a respectful bow, Ren didn't yawn. He held her gaze for a second, nodding with unusual seriousness, acknowledging her worth before putting his mask of indifference back on. Nalia stepped down, and Ren went back to spinning his coin, resigned.
"Veridia Aethel," the herald called.
The rhythm of the coin changed. Ren watched the green-haired girl walk onto the stage. She didn't have Nalia's elegance. Her boots were poorly tied, her uniform was wrinkled, and her mana was a chaotic mess. But there was something in her nervous eyes... a spark of life that wasn't "programmed."
A slight smile curved Ren's lips.
At least you don't look like you came off an assembly line. Let's see what you do...
The standard sky-blue grimoire appeared, floating toward her. Ren was about to get bored again, resigned to seeing how, sooner or later, the norm ends up swallowing the exception.
CRACK!
The shadow fell. The pretty book was crushed. An intruder of tanned leather and scars took its place. Ren bolted to his feet, the coin forgotten in mid-air. The smile on his face widened. For the first time in years, something had gone off-script. He descended the stairs with a speed that contrasted with his indifference of a moment ago.
"Interesting..." he murmured, approaching the anomaly.
He felt the mana signature of the book. It was ancient. It was real. It wasn't the diluted magic taught in classrooms; it was something raw, from the era when magic had teeth. He raised his hand charged with silver magic, feigning protocol but expecting a reaction.
Come on. Show me you're real.
The book opened its mental eye. The pressure struck Ren's mind with a force that didn't belong to this plane:
"DO NOT INTERFERE."
Any other mage would have fallen to their knees and lost their mind. Ren took the blow head-on, felt the power of an equal, and smiled with complicity.
I hear you loud and clear, he thought, lowering his hand.
"Hmm..." Ren said aloud for the gallery, dissipating the silver magic. "False alarm. It's just an old relic with hallucinogenic residue."
The Director shrugged with disinterest and turned around, breaking the silent tension that had filled the room.
"It's all yours, kid," he told Veridia over his shoulder, winking at her almost imperceptibly. "Try not to let it bite you."
◆ ◆ ◆
Ryumu Ren walked lazily back up the stairs to his chair. The moment the Director turned his back on the "danger," the students' fear evaporated... and was replaced by something much crueler. Someone let out a stifled giggle in the front row. Then another.
"Residue?" a student in red robes repeated. "She got a rotten book!"
The phrase was the spark that lit the powder keg.
"Hahahaha!" a laugh erupted from the nobles' sector. "Look at that! The commoner got trash!"
"Hey, Veridia!" another shouted, pointing at the black, rusted tome. "Use it to prop up a table, at least it'll be good for something!"
"Careful, don't let it give you tetanus!"
The Grand Hall filled with a roar of laughter and mockery. Hundreds of students pointed at the green-haired girl on the stage. The solemnity of the ceremony was completely broken, turned into a circus where Veridia was the main clown.
Veridia felt her ears burning with painful intensity. She shrank into herself, clutching the "brick" against her chest, wishing with every fiber of her being that the marble floor would open up and swallow her. She wanted to scream at them, she wanted to cry, but shame had closed her throat. She glanced at the Director, hoping he would impose order. Hoping the man who had thrown chalk at the speed of a bullet would silence the cruel crowd.
But Ryumu Ren was already seated. He had put his feet back up on the table. His gold coin was spinning in the air again (cling, cling, cling). He stared at the ceiling with an expression of absolute boredom, as if the cruel laughter of five hundred students were as insignificant as the buzzing of a fly. He didn't defend her. He didn't quiet them. Simply put, he didn't care.
Her eyes searched for the exit. The side hallway was dark and inviting for running and hiding. Her legs, trained for jumping walls and windows, tensed, ready for flight. In that moment of desperation, her eyes met Nalia's. Standing among the laughing crowd, Nalia, with a steely expression, wasn't laughing. She was staring at her, not with pity, but with a silent demand.
If you run, you prove them right, her eyes seemed to say behind her glasses.
Veridia clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached. The urge to flee collided with the wall of her wounded pride.
No, she thought, digging her nails into the old leather cover. I'm not going to give them the satisfaction.
She took a deep breath, swallowing her tears and humiliation as if they were a knot of thorns stuck in her throat. She straightened her back, lifted her chin, and instead of running toward the darkness, she walked.
She didn't run. She walked. She stepped down from the stage with legs that were trembling but firm, walked through the aisle of mockery with her gaze fixed forward, and dropped into the empty chair beside Nalia. The silence between them was her refuge. Nalia said nothing, but she subtly moved her chair one centimeter closer to Veridia's, creating a united front against the rest of the hall.
On the stage, Ryumu Ren caught his coin in the air with a dry clack, stopping its hypnotic spin. He ignored the hard glare Nalia was throwing at him as if she wanted to break his teeth and settled further into his chair, closing his eyes as if he were about to take a nap in the middle of the chaos. He let the nobles laugh. He let them call her a clown. But he also saw that the girl hadn't run.
Rotten trash? he thought ironically, remembering the titanic, murderous pressure the book had projected into his mind seconds ago. Poor idiots. They have no idea they're mocking someone who just sat down with a sleeping catastrophe in her arms.
A genuine smile, small and sharp, curved his lips as he tossed the coin into the air once more.
"Maybe..." he muttered to himself, feeling strangely energized for the first time in a very long while. "Just maybe, this year won't be so boring after all."