Chapter 3: The First Day

Killian accepted the deal. He agreed to the nightly tutoring, though his interest in the theory itself was pretty limited. Knowing how magic supposedly worked wouldn’t help him actually do it, obviously. But knowing where every door and staircase led, and when the halls were busy or empty—that was practical.

Elian started right away, still talking a little too fast, pulling a thick primer on foundational mana theory from his desk.

“This is crucial,” he said, opening the book. “You need to understand the basic principles. Mana as ambient energy, auras as personal conduits, intentionality as the—”

“What’s the best way to get from our spire to this workshop building without using the main courtyard?” Killian interrupted.

Elian paused, blinking. “What?”

“The workshop. For the class tomorrow. Is there a back route? Somewhere with less foot traffic?”

“I… suppose you could take the western cloister,” Elian said slowly, his mind visibly shifting gears. “It connects the Argent Spire to the Practicum Hall through an enclosed gallery. Fewer people, usually. But why does that matter more than understanding component theory?”

“Because if I have to run, I need to know where I’m going,” Killian said plainly.

Elian stared at him for a moment, then sighed, pushing the primer aside. He grabbed a blank piece of parchment instead. “Right. Of course. Priorities.” He began sketching a rough map with quick, sure lines.

The next two hours unfolded like that. Elian would try to explain the eight schools of magic or the somatic gestures for basic levitation. Killian would listen for about a minute before steering the conversation back to layout, schedules, and routines. Where did most students go after morning lectures? How many proctors patrolled the library stacks after dark? Were there any areas marked as restricted that a first-year should know to avoid, so he could avoid them conspicuously?

Elian provided the information with a sort of exasperated fascination, clearly filing away Killian’s pragmatic focus as another data point for his study. He gave him the schedule again: Arcane History at nine bells in the Hall of Echoes, then lunch, then the practical exam at two bells.

“You should go to the Refectory at lunch,” Elian advised, finishing his map. “It’s expected. It’s where you observe social dynamics, hear gossip about professors… it’s part of blending in.”

Killian just nodded noncommittally. Observing social dynamics sounded like a waste of time when he could be learning which corridors were blind alleys.

When Elian finally ran out of steam near midnight, his eyes glazed with fatigue, Killian took the map and a few notes on basic magical jargon. He lay on his unfamiliar bed in the borrowed robes, staring at the ceiling’s faintly glowing patterns. He memorized the map until he could see the routes behind his eyelids.

Morning arrived with a chime that seemed to resonate inside the stone itself. Elian was already up, dressed in immaculate robes and frowning at a complex diagram floating above his desk. He shot Killian a nervous look.

“Remember,” he said. “Hall of Echoes. Just sit and listen. Don’t draw attention. We’ll meet outside Workshop Three before the practical. I’ll save you a seat.”

“Got it,” Killian said, pulling on the blue robes over his own clothes. The fabric still felt wrong—too light, too soft. Like wearing a cloud that might dissolve.

He left the room before Elian, following the memorized route from the map. The Argent Spire’s central staircase spiraled down through cool air, other students floating past him on shimmering discs of force or taking steps two at a time with unnaturally long strides. He took the steps normally, one at a time, feeling the solid stone under his boots.

The Hall of Echoes was exactly what it sounded like: a vast, circular chamber with a domed ceiling so high it vanished into shadow. The walls were smooth, pale stone that caught every whisper and reflected it back in a soft, overlapping murmur. Long benches of dark wood curved in tiers around a central lectern.

Students were filtering in, their chatter creating a low hum that the hall multiplied into a gentle roar. Killian picked a bench near the back, off to one side where he had a clear line of sight to all three arched entrances. He counted them. Main entrance behind him, two smaller side exits flanking the lectern.

He watched the other students settle in. Groups clustered together by some unspoken rule—likely by family lineage or pre-existing cliques from preparatory schools he’d never heard of. They arranged their things with little flicks of their fingers: books floating open to the right page, quills positioning themselves above parchment, small orbs of light hovering to illuminate their notes. It was all done with an offhand ease that set his teeth on edge. It was like watching people breathe air he couldn’t.

A wizened man in grey Archivist robes shuffled to the lectern precisely as nine bells chimed somewhere in the distance. Archivist Pell had a voice that matched his appearance: dry, papery, and monotone. He began speaking about the founding lineages of the Arcanum without any introduction.

“The Therindil line,” he droned, the hall picking up his words and bouncing them around until they came from everywhere at once, “traces its thaumaturgical signature to the geothermic upheavals of the Second Age, manifesting primarily in pyromantic and terramantic affinities…”

Killian tried to listen for about thirty seconds. The words blurred together into meaningless noise—a list of names, dates, and magical specialties that had no anchor in anything he knew or cared about. His attention slipped away.

He started with the exits again. The main archway was wide, likely leading back to the central atrium. Good for merging into a crowd. The left-side exit was narrower, its door currently propped open with a stone wedge. He could see a stretch of empty corridor beyond. The right-side exit’s door was closed.

He shifted his focus to the students. Who looked bored? Who was actually taking notes? The girl three rows down was using her quill to doodle tiny dancing flames in the margin of her parchment. The boy to his left had his chin propped on his hand, his eyes half-closed. So boredom was acceptable here, as long as you were quiet about it.

He noted who had expensive-looking gear—gleaming focus crystals, robes with intricate embroidered sigils—and who had simpler things. Potential rivals with something to prove, maybe. Potential allies who might feel like outsiders themselves? Unlikely in this place.

Archivist Pell talked about inter-lineage marriage pacts and their effect on dominant magical traits. Killian mentally mapped the quickest path from his seat to each exit, accounting for the rows of benches.

He estimated the number of students in the hall—maybe two hundred—and how long it would take them all to file out through each door.

He watched how the light from glowing crystals set in sconces fell across the floor, leaving pools of shadow near the walls where someone could stand unnoticed.

The lecture droned on for an hour. Killian absorbed none of the history. By the time Pell concluded with a faint cough and a reminder to read the first three chapters of Lineages & Legacies, Killian knew every physical detail of the Hall of Echoes. He knew which floorboards near the side exit creaked when students stepped on them. He knew which groups would leave first, clogging the main arch.

When the hall erupted into the rustle of closing books and shuffling feet, Killian stood and moved against the flow, slipping toward the left-side exit while most everyone else headed for the main entrance. He stepped into the corridor.

The noise of the crowd faded behind him. This hallway was quieter, lined with doors marked with plaques naming various adjunct professors and research associates. It intersected with a broader thoroughfare where students streamed toward what had to be the Refectory—the air carried a warm smell of bread and something herbal.

Elian’s advice echoed in his head: You should go to lunch. It was expected.

Killian watched the flow of bodies heading that way for a moment longer.

Then he turned and walked in the opposite direction.

The academy’s layout was even more confusing up close than on Elian’s map. Corridors branched off at odd angles, sometimes sloping gently upward or downward. Staircases appeared without warning, some moving in slow, graceful spirals without any visible mechanism. Signs floated at intersections, their etched letters glowing softly: Alchemy Labs – South Wing, Grand Repository – Descend, Botanical Conservatory – East.

He walked at a casual pace, trying to look like a student who knew exactly where he was going but wasn’t in any particular hurry. He passed closed doors humming with energy, open archways revealing courtyards with impossibly symmetrical gardens, and alcoves where statues of past Archmages gazed sternly into space.

His goal wasn’t anything specific yet—just pattern recognition. Which corridors were main arteries? Which were service passages, marked by simpler stonework and fewer enchantments? He noted landmarks: a tapestry depicting a starry dragon coiled around a mountain; a fountain where the water flowed upward into a floating basin; a patch of wall where the stone was a different color, marking some ancient repair.

He saw other students occasionally, usually in pairs or small groups heading purposefully somewhere. A few gave him curious glances—a lone first-year wandering away from the Refectory was unusual—but no one stopped him.

He found a long gallery lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a training ground far below. Students there were practicing spells that sent bolts of colored light zipping across manicured grass or erecting shimmering shields around themselves. Killian watched for a few minutes from above, analyzing their movements not for magical form but for physical tells—how they shifted their weight before casting, where they looked when they concentrated.

Turning away from the window, he found another staircase leading down into a cooler, dimmer level of polished granite blocks. The air here smelled less like ozone and magic and more like old stone and dust.

This was better. This felt more like real territory. The ceilings were lower, the hallways narrower. The floating light orbs were fewer, spaced further apart, creating pools of shadow between them. Fewer people meant fewer chances of awkward questions. He could memorize this. He walked on, keeping his footsteps quiet, mentally noting turnings and doorways. He was building a different kind of map in his head, one made of escape routes and hiding places, while far above him in the sunlit Refectory, students debated lineage politics over enchanted lunches. His own lunch, when he remembered it, was still wrapped in waxed paper at the bottom of his duffel bag. It could wait. Right now, he needed to learn the lay of this strange, enchanted land, one corridor at a time. The labyrinth welcomed him, silent and unknowing. For now.

The lower level was a maze of intersections. Killian had been counting his steps and turns, building the mental map, but after the fifth identical-looking junction of granite walls and sconces holding dull, steady flames instead of floating lights, his internal count got fuzzy.

He paused at a corner. The main route he’d been following seemed to loop back toward a familiar-looking staircase. To his left, a narrower passage stretched away, its end lost in deeper shadow. A single, ancient-looking torch guttered in a bracket halfway down, casting jumping light over the stone. The sigils carved along the archway were worn almost smooth, their original paint faded to faint ghosts of color. They didn’t look like the clean, glowing directional signs from upstairs.

Probably a dead end. Maybe a service corridor for the groundskeepers he was supposedly related to.

Better to check it anyway. Dead ends were important to know.

He turned left.

The air grew cooler and stiller with every step. The sound of his boots on stone was louder here, with no other noise to absorb it. The corridor wasn’t long, but the poor light made it feel longer. It ended at a heavy door of dark oak, banded with black iron. No plaque, no marking, no handle—just a flat, seamless surface.

A storage closet, then. Or an old utility room. Maybe even another way through to a different section, though doors without handles usually weren’t meant for casual traffic.

He placed a hand against the wood. It was cold and solid. He pushed.

The door swung inward silently, which was the first wrong thing. Doors this heavy usually groaned. The second wrong thing was the smell that washed out—not dust and damp stone, but a dry, metallic scent layered with something sharp and alkaline, like crushed rock and ozone.

The room beyond was small, maybe ten feet square. No windows. Shelves lined every wall from floor to ceiling, crammed with stuff that looked like it belonged in an alchemist’s nightmare.

On the left, clusters of raw crystals sat on velvet pads. Some pulsed with a slow, internal light. Others had jagged fractures that seemed to trap darkness inside them. In the middle, rows of glass vials held liquids in colors that didn’t look natural: a green so bright it hurt to look at, a purple that swirled with oily rainbows, a clear liquid that bubbled slowly without any heat source he could see.

To the right, ceramic jars were labeled in a tight, spidery script he couldn’t read. One had leaked a fine powder that glittered like crushed diamonds on the shelf beneath it. Another jar seemed to contain what looked like shifting grey sand that moved against the curve of the glass.

In the center of the room stood a single stone table, its surface stained with rings of different colors and etched with deep channels that led to a central drain. The air hummed faintly, a pressure against his eardrums.

This wasn’t a closet. This was someone’s private stockroom for volatile ingredients. Probably highly restricted.

Killian took a single step back, already pivoting on his heel to leave.

The doorway was no longer empty.

A woman stood there, blocking the light from the corridor. She wore severe grey robes cinched with a silver cord, and her hair was pulled back into a tight knot so sharp it looked painful. Her face was all angles—sharp cheekbones, a pointed chin, thin lips pressed into a line. Her eyes were the pale grey of winter sky, and they were fixed on him with an expression that mixed shock, disbelief, and a frosty disapproval that could have chilled the glowing vials behind him.

She didn’t speak immediately. She just stood there, looking from him to the open door and back again, as if trying to reconcile two impossible facts.

Killian froze in mid-retreat, his mind snapping into assessment mode. Proctor’s robes. Authority. Caught somewhere he very clearly shouldn’t be.

The silence stretched for three heartbeats, thick with that humming pressure from the shelves.

“Student,” the proctor finally said. Her voice was low and flat, devoid of any warmth whatsoever. It cut through the hum like a blade. “Explain your presence.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a command for an immediate and satisfactory answer.

Killian kept his expression neutral, his hands loose at his sides. “I got lost, ma’am. I was trying to find a shortcut back to the Argent Spire.”

The proctor’s gaze didn’t waver. It swept over him, taking in his first-year robes, his posture, the complete lack of any focus item or magical paraphernalia. Her eyes lingered on the door behind him, then snapped back to his face.

“Lost,” she repeated, the word dripping with skepticism. “You expect me to believe you simply wandered down a disused maintenance corridor and chose to open a sealed containment door?”

“It wasn’t sealed. It opened when I pushed it.”

A flicker of something—incredulity, maybe—crossed her stern features. “Do not play games with me, boy. That door is warded with a Class Three containment field. It is keyed to reject any aura not specifically inscribed in its permit log. The recoil should have thrown you halfway back down the hall.” She took a step forward, entering the room. The air seemed to grow colder with her presence. “How did you bypass it?”

The question hung there, sharp and dangerous. Killian understood the real question underneath: What kind of magic did you use to break a high-level ward?

He had no magic. The ward hadn’t reacted because, to it, he wasn’t there. Elian’s explanation from last night echoed in his head: The trap doesn’t even recognize it as a target.

He couldn’t say that.

“I don’t know what a containment field feels like, ma’am,” he said, keeping his voice even. “The door just opened.”

Her pale eyes narrowed. She looked past him again at the shelves of volatile materials, her mind clearly working through the implications. A first-year, uninvited, in a restricted ingredient vault. Either he was a prodigy with unheard-of ward-breaking talents, which was a massive security breach, or he was lying, which was an act of serious delinquency. Neither option was good for him.

She made a swift, sharp gesture with her hand. Two shimmering lines of silver light shot from her fingertips, weaving themselves into complex knots in the air before settling around his wrists like cold, weightless manacles. They didn’t restrain his movement, but they hummed with a clear threat.

“You will come with me,” she stated, turning on her heel. “Do not attempt to separate from the bindings. They will respond.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, striding back into the dim corridor. Killian followed, the silvery bonds tugging faintly at his wrists as if guiding him. He matched her pace, his mind racing ahead of his feet.

They didn’t go back toward the main student areas. Instead, the proctor led him up a series of narrower, increasingly ornate staircases that seemed to be cut right into the central spine of the Academy. The air grew thinner and cooler. They passed no other students. The only sounds were their footsteps and the faint, omnipresent hum of powerful enchantments layered into the stonework.

After what felt like ten minutes of silent ascent, they emerged onto a wide landing before a pair of towering doors made of a strange, dark wood veined with silver. The doors bore no handle or knocker, but as the proctor approached, they swung inward without a sound.

The office of Head Archmage Valerius was a study in controlled austerity.

It was circular, occupying the top of what must have been the central tower. Tall, narrow windows of flawless crystal offered a panoramic, dizzying view of the academy grounds and the mist-shrouded mountains beyond. There was no fireplace, but the room was neither warm nor cold—it simply existed at a perfect, neutral temperature.

The furnishings were minimal: a vast desk of the same silver-veined wood as the doors, utterly bare save for a single crystal paperweight that glowed with a soft white light. Two chairs faced the desk, simple and straight-backed. No bookshelves cluttered the walls, no trophies or artifacts displayed. The pale stone floor was uncarpeted.

Behind the desk sat Head Archmage Valerius.

He was not an old man, though his hair was the color of iron and swept back from a high forehead. His face was lean, all sharp planes and quiet intensity. He wore robes of deep charcoal grey that seemed to absorb the light from the windows. He wasn’t doing anything when they entered—just sitting perfectly still, his hands resting on the arms of his chair, his eyes fixed on some middle distance. When the proctor cleared her throat softly, those eyes shifted to them. They were a pale, piercing blue, and they held no warmth at all.

“Proctor Len,” Valerius said. His voice was quiet, but it filled the silent room completely, devoid of echo.

“Head Archmage,” Proctor Len said, bowing her head slightly. “I apprehended this student in Secondary Ingredient Vault Theta, sub-level three. The containment ward was inactive upon my arrival. He claims he ‘got lost.’”

Valerius’s gaze moved to Killian. It felt less like being looked at and more like being scanned by something precise and impersonal.

“Student Thorne,” Valerius said. He didn’t ask; he identified. “First year. Admitted under… unusual circumstances.” He paused for a beat, letting the words unusual circumstances hang in the air like an accusation waiting to be made official. “Proctor Len informs me the vault door is secured by a ward that should have been physically insurmountable for you. Explain.”

It was the same demand, but delivered with even less patience. Killian met that piercing gaze steadily. Showing fear here would be like bleeding in water full of sharks.

He had one card to play, and it was flimsy—the handful of theoretical jargon Elian had drilled into him last night.

“I didn’t sense any ward, Head Archmage,” Killian began, choosing his words carefully. “I was returning from the Hall of Echoes and thought I felt… a dissonance in the local mana flow.” He used the term Elian had mentioned when talking about ward reactions. “I was trying to trace it. I must have misinterpreted the signature. The door seemed like a point of convergence, so I investigated.” He kept his tone matter-of-fact, as if reporting a minor observational error in a lab exercise.

Valerius’s expression did not change. “Dissonant mana flows,” he repeated slowly.

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are sufficiently sensitive to ambient thaumaturgical fields to detect such subtleties?” There was no mockery in the question, just icy inquiry.

“My sensitivity is still developing, sir,” Killian said, sticking close to what might be expected of a struggling first-year. “I may have been mistaken.”

Proctor Len made a small sound that wasn’t quite a snort. “The vault’s ward is designed to be inert and undetectable to unauthorized personnel precisely to avoid such ‘investigations.’ It does not produce dissonance unless actively challenged.”

Valerius held up a single finger, silencing her without looking away from Killian. “Your admission file notes an anomalous aptitude screening,” he said, his voice dropping even quieter. “A recalibration is pending.”

Killian said nothing. There was no safe answer to that.

“Your explanation is convenient,” Valerius continued after a moment. “It relies on a perceptual error that cannot be disproven, and it accounts for your presence while admitting no culpability.” He leaned forward slightly, placing his elbows on the bare desk and steepling his fingers. “It also defies probability. First-year students do not go ‘sensing flows’ in sealed sub-levels. They go to lunch.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to press on Killian’s shoulders.

Valerius watched him for another long moment, those pale eyes missing nothing—the lack of a magical focus, the worn boots visible beneath the robe hem, the steady but utterly non-magical posture.

He could feel the Archmage’s suspicion like a physical weight, a probe testing for cracks in his story. But suspicion wasn’t proof. The ward hadn’t reacted because Killian had no magic to react against—a truth so absurd Valerius wouldn’t consider it without evidence. All Valerius had was a student in a place he shouldn’t be, giving a shaky but technically plausible excuse.

Finally, Valerius leaned back.

“Lacking concrete evidence of deliberate malfeasance or ward-breaking,” he said, each word measured and clear, “I will not order an immediate disciplinary hearing.” Proctor Len stiffened slightly but said nothing.

Valerius’s gaze remained fixed on Killian. “However, your presence in a restricted area—regardless of intent—demonstrates either a profound lack of judgment or a critical deficiency in foundational magical awareness. Your file suggests the latter.”

He made another small gesture with one hand. A slender scroll of parchment materialized from the air above his desk, unrolling itself with a faint rustle.

“You are hereby assigned to mandatory remedial sessions,” Valerius declared. “‘Mana Sensitivity and Situational Awareness,’ with Instructor Morvath.” He said the name with a finality that suggested it was its own form of punishment. “You will attend these sessions twice weekly, in addition to your standard curriculum, until such time as Instructor Morvath deems your perceptual faculties sufficiently calibrated to navigate the academy without stumbling into high-security vaults.”

He paused, letting the sentence sink in.

“Should you fail to attend, or should another… incident… occur, this matter will be revisited with far less leniency.” He gave Proctor Len a slight nod.

The silvery bonds around Killian’s wrists dissolved into motes of light that faded away.

“Proctor Len will provide you with the schedule and location,” Valerius said, his attention already drifting back to the middle distance beyond the windows. “You are dismissed.”

There was no ‘get out.’ Just the statement of fact.

Proctor Len turned sharply and strode toward the doors. Killian followed, feeling those pale blue eyes on his back until the moment the great doors swung shut behind them with a soft thud that echoed in the hollow tower stairwell.

On the landing outside, Proctor Len produced a small slate from her robes and scrawled something on it with a fingertip that left a glowing trail. She handed it to him without looking at him.

“Morvath’s observatory,” she said curtly. “First session is tomorrow at dawn bell. Do not be late.” Her expression made it clear what she thought of Valerius’s verdict—too soft by half—and what she thought of him—a problem waiting to happen.

She turned and descended the staircase without another word.

Killian looked down at the slate in his hand. Glowing letters spelled out Observatory – North Peak and listed times. He stood there for a moment on the high, silent landing, the vastness of the Academy spread out below him like a glittering, treacherous puzzle. He had avoided disaster by the thinnest possible margin. But he had also just traded one kind of scrutiny for another, more focused one. Instructor Morvath, whoever that was, was now another person he would have to deceive. Another set of magical expectations he could never meet. He tucked the slate into his robe, the glow dimming against the fabric. He needed to find Elian. They had a practical exam to survive in a few hours, and now they had a whole new problem to figure out. He started the long walk down, his mind already churning through the implications, the map in his head growing another, more dangerous branch. Remedial mana sensitivity. That was almost funny. Now he just had to figure out how to fake sensing magic, too. Dawn bell tomorrow would come very soon