Mana’s low. Again.
I don’t need a reading to confirm it—the ache in my shoulders, the drag in my bones, the dull static behind my eyes says enough. But I check anyway.
Bandu stirs at the foot of the bed, stretching out his long, grey body, paws flexing in the faint morning glow. He yawns like I’m already making mistakes by standing. He's probably right.
My room is quiet, tucked into the inner wall of the east tower. The ceilings are high, curved with smooth white stone.
Thin beams of sunlight filter through the ivy-laced windows, catching on the threads of old mana that drift through the air like dust.
Books fill every shelf—some stacked two-deep, some cracked open with pressed leaves between the pages.
A map of Croutonaire, hand-pinned and annotated in violet ink, stretches across the far wall.
My desk is chaos in layers: three journals, seven half-used scrolls, two sets of notes with conflicting conclusions, a dish of runestones, and a small, delicate blade hidden beneath a dictionary of bestial anatomy.
On the far shelf, a tall flask pulses gently with silver-blue liquid. A minor mana restoration elixir. I don’t drink it.
I don’t want to rely on shortcuts.
My uniform—forest green robes with black underlayers and subtle arcane threading—hangs perfectly folded on the chair by my bed. I dress quickly. I tighten the silver belt, secure the knife at my thigh, and pull my hair back with practiced ease. Clean. Precise. Like everything I’m supposed to be.
Bandu follows as I leave, padding silently at my heels.
The mess hall hums with life.
Not loud. Not chaotic. But alive in that strange, resonant way magic tends to make things.
The room itself is vast. Circular. Built into the curve of the main library’s roots. Columns carved from living wood hold up the ceiling, wrapped in soft-glowing vines that change color with the season.
Stone floors echo with footsteps. Long, smooth wooden tables stretch from one side of the room to the other. Between them, Scribes settle into quiet rhythm—tea steaming, scrolls unfurled, some laughing in whispers, others nose-deep in equations before their first bite of food.
The scent hits first—fresh herbs, roasted fruit, spiced bread. Everything here is made to restore, not just fill. Mana is folded into the food like an old recipe. I can feel it even before I taste it.
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I collect a plate from the center counter, where enchanted dishes refill themselves every few hours.
Plate: Herb-roasted graincakes with honey glaze
Bowl: Spiced mana stew with sunroot and thyme
Side: Crystallized lotus fruit
Drink: Blackleaf tea (High focus, mild restoration)
I sit by one of the outer tables, back to the wall, eyes on the room.
It’s warm here. Still. But underneath the comfort, there’s always movement—magic, thoughts, secrets. You can feel it if you’re quiet enough.
Bandu curls beneath my chair. I sip the tea, slow. Bitter and grounding.
Then the shadow falls across my table.
Bravius.
He looks tired. Not in the way people do after a long night. Tired in the way someone gets when they’ve seen something that didn’t make sense—and couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“You’re standing like someone with a problem,” I say, voice even.
He doesn’t smile. Just pushes his glasses up, then lays a folded parchment on the table between us.
“It’s not a theory,” he says. “It’s a dragon.”
The words freeze the air between us.
I unfold the paper.
A field sketch. The eastern forest. Marked in charcoal, rough, but clear. Deep claw marks. Trees bent like they were made of reeds. Scorch patterns, too precise to be wildfire.
“Scouts confirmed it this morning,” he says, low. “It’s close.”
Dragons don’t come to us.
They prefer highlands, craters, mana-rich caverns—places where they can fly freely, coil in ancient heat. Not fog-choked forests and knowledge hoarders hiding behind wards.
“This is wrong,” I murmur. “It doesn’t fit.”
Bravius nods. “The Guild wants to contain the news. Quiet panic is better than loud fear.”
“They should be afraid.”
He leans in, eyes sharper now. “It should be a Hunter problem.”
I meet his gaze. “Then where are the Hunters?”
He says nothing.
Because we both know what that means. The Hunters won’t act. Not until it’s clawing at the gates.
I take another bite of graincake. Let the warmth and mana settle into my blood. Then I fold the parchment and slip it into my robes.
Bravius studies me. Not quite suspicious. But close.
He doesn’t know.
About the training.
The blades.
The part of me that already decided—
If they won’t act, I will.
And right on cue—
“Paulita! Bravius!”
Cetale.
She swirls into the space like a gust of wind through a paper archive. Scroll under one arm. Bread crumb in her hair.
“You’ll never guess—field studies are back!”
Bravius sighs. “Posted already?”
“Nope!” she beams. “But I know we’ll be assigned together!”
I nod, more to move things along than anything else. I like Cetale. I do. But sometimes I wonder how she’s survived this long without being devoured by her own scroll case.
The board is posted by midday.
FIELD STUDY GROUPS
- Paulita, Bravius, Torex
- Cetale, Milen, Mander
- …
Bravius makes a noise halfway between relief and resignation.
“At least it’s not Mander.”
“I’ll take readings,” I say quietly. “You handle cartography. Torex can… nap.”
We both glance at the far end of the hall, where Torex is face-down in a pile of books, unmoving. A light snore escapes from beneath a diagram on ward displacement fields.
Bravius sighs. “Low expectations are still expectations.”