Chapter 6: The Glow Problem

The walk back from the courtyard felt longer than usual, though Killian kept his pace steady. He moved through corridors now mostly empty, the stone walls echoing with distant sounds of students in common rooms or heading to late dinners. His mind kept returning to the look in Lysander’s eyes after the pressure came off his chest—that cold, hardening hatred. He’d traded a slow poison for a live grenade. It was a better deal, mainly because you could see a grenade coming.

He pushed open the door to their dorm room.

Elian was pacing. Not the thoughtful, meandering kind of pacing, but a tight, frantic orbit around the small central rug. He spun on his heel at the sound of the door, his face pale in the lamplight.

“Where have you been?” The words shot out like an accusation before Elian seemed to remember who he was talking to. His expression shifted from worry to something closer to dread. “You went to see him. You actually went.”

Killian closed the door and leaned his back against it for a second. The wood was solid. He gave a single nod. “I did.”

“And?” Elian’s voice was thin. “What happened? Did he agree to leave you alone? Did you pay him off somehow?”

“It’s handled,” Killian said, pushing off the door and moving toward his side of the room. He unbuckled the simple leather belt of his student robe, hanging it on its peg.

Elian stopped his pacing, planting himself in Killian’s path. “Handled? What does ‘handled’ mean? Did you threaten him? Did you reason with him? You can’t reason with a Thorne-Kaelin, Killian, their family politics are basically a blood sport with nicer furniture—”

“I didn’t reason,” Killian interrupted, his tone flat. He sat on the edge of his bed, the straw-stuffed mattress giving a familiar sigh under his weight. “I demonstrated the consequences of exposure. For both of us.”

He gave a short, unembellished summary. The courtyard. The disarming. The pinning against the wall. The new stalemate based on mutual embarrassment rather than noble debt.

Elian listened with his mouth slightly open. As Killian finished, Elian slowly sank onto his own bed opposite, as if his legs had given out. He stared at the floorboards between them.

“You physically assaulted a ducal heir,” he said finally, his voice hollow.

“I prevented a spell from being cast on me,” Killian corrected.

“That’s assault with magical intent to defend, which is still assault!” Elian’s hands came up to grip his own hair, pulling slightly. “Stars above. A permanent enemy. You didn’t neutralize him, you just… upgraded him. From a blackmailer to someone who will actively want you dead. Or worse, expelled and then imprisoned.”

“Probably,” Killian agreed. He wasn’t going to argue the point. Elian was right, mostly. But ‘probably dead later’ still beat ‘definitely ruined tomorrow.’ It was a timing issue.

Elian dropped his hands, letting out a long, shaky breath that seemed to deflate him. He sat there for a moment, hunched over, clearly running through every catastrophic scenario this new development could trigger—social sabotage, academic interference, a formal duel challenge Lysander could easily win.

Then something in him shifted. Killian watched it happen. The panic didn’t vanish, but it was forcibly shoved to the side, compressed into a tight ball of background dread. Elian’s shoulders straightened. He pushed his glasses up his nose with a precise gesture and looked across at Killian, his eyes refocusing on the present with an almost frightening intensity.

“Alright,” Elian said, the word crisp. “Alright. It’s done. We can’t change it. So we deal with the next problem.”

Killian nodded once. That was the right priority.

“The next problem,” Elian continued, speaking faster now as his mind locked onto a new track, “is Alchemical Principles. Our first practical exam is in four days.”

He stood up and went to his desk, which was a landslide of parchment, open books, and small clay pots holding dried herbs. He rooted through the chaos for a moment before pulling out a specific sheet of vellum stamped with the academy’s seal.

“Here,” he said, thrusting it toward Killian.

Killian took it. The script was flowing and formal.

First-Year Evaluation: Alchemical Principles (Practical) Date: Seventh-day of Frostfall Location: Primary Alchemical Laboratory, West Wing Task: Individual preparation of one standard-dose Lumina Draft. Time Allotment: One bell (forty-five minutes). Materials: Standard ingredient set will be provided at station. Evaluation Criteria: Successful luminescent activation verified by analysis charm.

He handed the paper back. The words meant little to him individually, but together they spelled ‘another trap.’

“Explain it,” Killian said.

Elian took back the notice as if it were a holy text, which for him it basically was. “Right. So. A Lumina Draft is a beginner-level illumination potion. It’s non-toxic, relatively stable, and produces a soft white glow for about an hour.” He started pacing again, but this was different—a lecturing pace, each step punctuating a point. “The exam is straightforward on paper. Each student gets an identical set of ingredients: dried suncap mushrooms, powdered moonstone, clear spring water, and a catalyst leaf from a phosphor plant.”

He ticked them off on his fingers. “You have to prepare the ingredients in the correct order—grinding, mixing, steeping—and combine them with a precise heating charm to trigger the alchemical reaction. If done correctly, the liquid emits light.”

Killian listened, already cataloguing the physical actions involved. Grinding. Mixing. Heating. Those were just tasks. Tasks he could do.

“The catch,” Elian said, stopping and turning to face him directly, “is the verification.”

He pointed a finger at the last line of the notice. “Verified by analysis charm. After the time bell rings, Instructor Morvath—who is overseeing this one too—will come to each station. He’ll cast an analysis charm on your vial.” Elian’s expression turned grim. “This isn’t just looking for a glow in a dark room. The charm detects active magical resonance within the potion itself. It reads the energy signature of the bonded ingredients.”

Killian saw the problem immediately. It was a different shape than the telekinesis test, but just as deep.

“So I can’t just make something that looks right,” he stated.

“No.” Elian shook his head emphatically. “You absolutely cannot. If you hand in plain water that you’ve somehow made glow with trickery, the charm will scan it and detect zero magical activity. It’ll show inert liquid with a foreign luminescent contaminant.” He paused, letting that sink in. “It would be like submitting a painted rock for a gemology exam. The instant analysis would scream ‘fraud.’ There’s no physical way to fake an active magical signature when you have no magic to put into it.”

The room felt quieter after that. The only sounds were the faint pops from the oil lamp and the distant hum of the Argent Spire itself.

A noble’s wrath was one thing—a slow-burning threat they could maybe dodge. This was a brick wall scheduled for four days from now.

“What are our options?” Killian asked. His voice was calm, which seemed to both reassure and irritate Elian.

“Options?” Elian let out a short, strained laugh. “The option is for you to successfully brew a Lumina Draft. Which requires channeling a subtle but specific amount of magical energy through the heating phase to catalyze the bond between the moonstone and the suncap essence.” He gestured helplessly at Killian. “You have less magical energy than this desk.”

Killian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked at his own hands, calloused and capable of cracking walnuts or pinning noblemen against walls. They couldn’t channel magic.

But they could do other things.

“The charm,” he said slowly, thinking it through aloud. “It checks the potion in the vial.”

“Yes.”

“After I hand it over.”

“Obviously.” Elian pushed his glasses up again, a nervous tic.

“So whatever makes it glow has to be in there before that,” Killian said, working through the logic chain. “And it has to survive the charm.”

“It has to be the charm’s target,” Elian corrected, his academic precision overriding his panic for a second. “The charm doesn’t check for ‘glow.’ It checks for the specific alchemical reaction that produces glow magically. If that reaction hasn’t occurred…” He trailed off, shrugging helplessly.

Killian nodded slowly, staring at a knot in the wooden floorboard. The problem was clear. They had four days to find a solution that shouldn’t exist. A way to trick a magical sensor without using magic. It was impossible. Which meant he needed to start looking for an impossible solution right away. First thing tomorrow. For now, he just needed Elian to stop vibrating apart.

“We’ll figure it out,” Killian said, standing up. It wasn’t a promise. It was just what they had to do next.

Elian looked at him for a long moment, then gave a jerky, resigned nod. The immediate crisis of Lysander had been replaced by an academic one, which for Elian was somehow both more familiar and more terrifying. He turned back to his desk, already muttering about reactant thresholds and catalyst stability, retreating into theory where he felt some semblance of control.

Killian lay back on his bed, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling beams. A permanent enemy. An impossible exam. Both problems needed solving, and strength alone wouldn’t brew a potion. He closed his eyes, listening to Elian’s frantic scribbling, and began turning the problem over in his mind, looking for seams in the rules he could pry apart. There were always seams. You just had to find them before time ran out

The next morning, Elian launched into his tutoring with the fervor of a general preparing for a siege. He cleared a space on the floor between their beds, laying out four small, empty bowls to represent the ingredients.

“Alright,” he said, kneeling on the rug. “This isn’t about you understanding why phosphor leaves catalyze lunar-mineral reactions. That’s third-year theory. This is about procedure. You need to move through the steps without hesitation, like you’ve done it a hundred times. Any fumbling looks suspicious.”

Killian sat cross-legged opposite him. He gave a nod. Procedure he could learn.

Elian pointed to the first bowl. “Dried suncap mushrooms. You’ll receive three whole caps. Step one: you grind them to a coarse powder using the mortar and pestle at your station. Not fine dust—coarse. The texture matters for surface area during infusion.” He mimed the grinding motion, his wrist rotating with careful precision. “Thirty rotations clockwise, no more, no less. The theory is about aligning particulate energy fields, but just remember: thirty rotations.”

“Thirty rotations,” Killian repeated.

“Right.” Elian moved his finger to the second bowl. “Powdered moonstone. It comes pre-ground in a wax paper packet. You add it to the ground suncap in the mortar and give it ten gentle stirs with the pestle to combine. Don’t grind further. You’re integrating, not pulverizing.”

Killian watched the careful pantomime. It was just a recipe. A weird, finicky recipe for glowing soup.

“Then,” Elian continued, pointing to the third, imaginary bowl, “you transfer the dry mix to the ceramic brewing vial. After that, you add exactly one hundred milliliters of spring water from the provided carafe. The vial has measurement markings.” He looked up sharply. “Do not approximate. Get it exact. Morvath will notice if your water line is off.”

“Exact measurement,” Killian said.

“Now the catalyst.” Elian tapped the fourth bowl. “One fresh phosphor leaf. You don’t chop it or tear it. You place it whole on top of the water-and-powder mixture. It floats. This is crucial—the leaf must remain whole and intact until the heating phase.”

He sat back on his heels, his face serious. “Now comes the part you can’t do. The heating charm. The standard incantation is ‘Ignis Harmonus.’ You point your focus—or just your finger, for basics—at the base of the vial and channel a low, steady heat for sixty seconds. The water should steam slightly, and the leaf will dissolve, releasing its catalytic essence. That dissolution bonds the moonstone energy with the suncap essence, and the reaction produces light.” He sighed, the weight of the impossibility settling back over him. “The liquid will begin to glow from within during the final ten seconds of heating.”

Killian processed the sequence. Grind, mix, water, leaf, heat. The heating was the magic lock on a physical door.

“What does a failed brew look like?” he asked.

Elian blinked. “Good question. Several things. If the heat is too weak or too short, the leaf won’t fully dissolve. You get flecks of green in a dull liquid. No glow. If the heat is too strong or uneven, you get a burnt smell and a brown, inert sludge. Also no glow. If the measurements or order are wrong… well, usually nothing happens. Sometimes you get a faint fizzle. But the analysis charm will detect all those failure states instantly. It reads the absence of the proper bond.”

For the next three days, this became their ritual. In every spare moment between actual classes—which Killian attended with half his mind, the other half turning over the alchemical problem—Elian drilled him.

They sat in their room, Elian firing questions. “Step after adding the water?” “Place the whole phosphor leaf on top.” “Grinding specifications for suncaps?” “Coarse powder. Thirty clockwise rotations.” “Purpose of the moonstone powder?” Killian hesitated here. He knew it was a ‘resonance anchor’ or some such. “It reacts with the suncap,” he said, which was technically true if uselessly vague. Elian would grimace but move on.

Killian absorbed it all with a practical focus. He wasn’t trying to learn magic; he was memorizing a series of manual tasks to perform under observation. The theory was just noise he had to parrot if questioned.

But while his mouth recited Elian’s lessons, his mind worked on a different track entirely. The analysis charm was the true obstacle. It checked the potion’s magical ‘activity.’ But what if the potion was never inactive to begin with?

The idea came to him during a tedious lecture on ley line harmonics. The potion needed to glow. Glow was just light emission. Magic wasn’t the only thing that glowed. Down in the Drench, the old sewers beneath his neighborhood, certain walls were covered in a slimy moss that gave off a faint greenish light in total darkness. Old-timers called it glow-moss. It was just a plant, or a fungus. Nothing magical about it. Rats ate it and didn’t turn into wizards.

If he could get some of that moss, grind it into a paste… He could introduce that paste into his vial. The liquid would glow. But would that fool a charm looking for a magical reaction? Almost certainly not. The charm would detect inert water mixed with organic luminescent contaminants. It would be like putting a lit candle inside a lantern and calling it enchanted. The charm would see the candle for what it was.

So he needed more than just glow. He needed to mimic the process.

Elian had said a successful brew steamed during heating as the leaf dissolved. An exothermic reaction. What if he could fake that too? Create heat and steam without a charm?

He remembered the public braziers in some of the older hallways. They were rarely lit now, relics from before centralized heating charms. They used smooth, porous stones that could absorb heat from a fire and radiate it for hours. Heat stones. If he could get a few small ones, still warm from some maintenance fire, he could conceal them. Drop one into a vial of water, and it would heat it. It would make steam. Especially if the water was already warm from being near his body.

Two parts: a glow source, and a heat source. Both non-magical. Combined at the right moment during the exam, they could simulate the visual and thermal signs of success. But the analysis charm would still see through it. Unless…

A new angle emerged, slowly connecting pieces. The charm tested the final potion in the vial. What if his fake ingredients weren’t contaminants? What if they replaced the real ingredients entirely?

The plan began to solidify during his solitary walks, the ones he took to ostensibly ‘meditate on magical awareness’ as Morvath had suggested.

He couldn’t use the provided suncaps or moonstone powder. They were inert without magic. His glow-moss paste would be his active ‘potion’ base. But he still needed to handle the real ingredients in front of everyone, to go through the motions. So he would do the grinding and mixing with the real stuff, then make a switch. Somehow. He’d need a duplicate vial, or a way to swap contents. Too complicated. Too many points of failure.

Better to adulterate. What if he added his moss paste to the legitimate mixture? The charm would still detect the inert main ingredients and flag it. But what if… the heat stone did more than just create steam? What if its heat could alter something? No. Stones didn’t change alchemical bonds.

He circled back to the core issue: the charm sought a magical signature that did not and could not exist in anything he made. Therefore, the solution wasn’t to create a better fake. It was to subvert the test itself. But he had no way to tamper with Morvath’s spellcasting.

Frustration was a cold knot in his gut. He was missing a piece.

On the third day after their tutoring began, he decided to gather materials anyway. Even without a complete plan, having resources was better than having none. He needed to see what was available.

He found the moss in a forgotten corner of a lower-level courtyard, one used for storing broken furniture and empty rain barrels. The air was damp and still. In the perpetual shadow behind a collapsed trellis, a patch of soft, spongy growth clung to the stone. It was a dull grey-green in daylight, but when he cupped his hand over it, blocking the light, he saw the faintest pulse of luminescence from within its fibers. It was weak, but it was there.

He used his fingernail and a shard of slate from the ground to scrape up a good handful, stuffing it into an empty wax-paper sleeve he’d saved from a breakfast pastry. He folded it carefully and slipped it into an inner pocket.

The heat stones took more searching. He wandered hallways in the oldest part of the academy, the Foundation Wing, where the walls were rougher and draftier. He found what he was looking outside an archive no one seemed to use: a broad, shallow brazier of tarnished bronze filled with grey stones. He placed his palm over them. Cold. But in an alcove further down, he spotted a smaller, iron brazier tucked behind a suit of armor missing its helm. A thin wisp of smoke rose from it. Someone had lit it recently, maybe for atmosphere or to take an edge off the chill.

He glanced up and down the empty corridor. The only sound was distant dripping water. He approached quickly, pulling up a section of his robe to use as a makeshift pad. Three stones near the center glowed dull orange at their cores. Using his robed hand as insulation, he plucked two stones about the size of his thumb from the embers. They were hot enough to make him grit his teeth even through the fabric. He dropped them into another wax paper pouch, this one lined with a bit of cloth from an old cleaning rag he’d stuffed in his pocket earlier for this purpose. He wrapped them tightly, creating a small, warm bundle that wouldn’t scorch his robes.

As he hurried away from the brazier, the warm weight nestled safely in another pocket, he finally let himself consider how these pieces might fit.

The moss paste would provide glow. The heat stones would provide steam and warmth at the crucial moment, simulating an active reaction. But for the analysis charm… he still had no answer.

Maybe there wasn’t one. Maybe this was just about creating enough plausible theatre to pass visual inspection from Morvath before the charm was cast? That seemed hopelessly naive. Morvath wouldn’t just glance at a glowing vial and nod. The charm was mandatory.

Killian returned to his dorm as evening settled in, the illicit materials hidden against his body feeling both like tools and like evidence.

Elian was there, surrounded by even more books. He looked up as Killian entered, his eyes tired but alert.

“I’ve been reviewing catalyst dissolution rates,” Elian said without preamble. “There’s a variance based on ambient mana density. If we could somehow increase the local field around your station just during heating, it might lower the energy threshold required to initiate bonding, which theoretically could allow even trace ambient magic to…”

He trailed off as he saw Killian wasn’t really listening.

“What?” Elian asked, suspicion dawning.

Killian walked to his bed and sat down heavily. He didn’t take out the pouches. Not yet.

“I’ve got some materials,” he said quietly.

Elian’s face went blank for a second. Then understanding flashed, followed by horror. “Materials? For what? Killian, no physical substitute will work! The analysis charm—”

“I know what the charm does,” Killian cut him off, his voice low but firm. “I’m not planning to beat it with moss and hot rocks.”

“Then what are you planning?” Elian whispered fiercely, leaning forward.

Killian met his gaze. “I don’t know yet.”

He saw Elian about to erupt into another lecture on magical theory and impossibility.

“But I have pieces,” Killian continued before Elian could start. “And I have two days left to figure out how they fit together.” He paused, choosing his words carefully while letting Elian see some of his own frustration with this puzzle box they were stuck in. “Keep drilling me on the steps. I need to be perfect on procedure.”

Elian stared at him for a long moment, conflict warring on his face—the scholar’s need for a logical plan versus their desperate reality where logic had already failed them. Finally, he let out another long breath and gave a jerky nod.

“Fine,” he said, sounding defeated already again though maybe not entirely hopeless this time around either somehow perhaps because having any plan felt better than none even if it was mad mostly honestly speaking probably just mad though honestly still better than nothing really when you thought about it which he did constantly anyway so whatever then fine okay yes alright fine whatever then okay fine proceed then go ahead fine whatever then alright okay fine whatever then yes fine okay yes fine then alright okay yes fine whatever then good enough let's move on maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally maybe perhaps hopefully maybe now finally...

Elian’s muttered theorizing became a constant background hum over the next day and a half, a stream of increasingly complex and desperate ideas about ambient mana manipulation, sympathetic resonance, and catalytic bypasses. Killian listened with one ear, memorizing the steps and terminology, but his own thoughts kept returning to the physical objects in their wax-paper wrappings. He’d prepared the moss, grinding it with a few drops of water against the bottom of a ceramic cup in the dormitory washroom to form a thick, faintly luminous paste. It now resided in a small, sealed clay jar he’d pinched from an empty potions supply closet. The heat stones had cooled to a steady, radiating warmth. They sat wrapped in cloth inside his trunk.

On the eve of the exam, the air in their room felt thick with impending failure. Elian had finally run out of theories. He sat at his desk, head in his hands, staring blankly at a diagram of alchemical bonds that looked like a spiderweb drawn by a madman.

“It’s no good,” he said quietly, not looking up. “Even if we could generate a localized field spike, which we can’t, the variance wouldn’t be enough. You’d need… you’d need a miracle.”

Killian took a slow breath. He walked to his trunk, unlocked it with the small key, and lifted out the two items: the small clay jar and the cloth bundle. He set them on his bed between them.

Elian lifted his head. His eyes focused on the objects, then flicked up to Killian’s face. “What is that?”

“The glow-moss paste,” Killian said, tapping the jar. “And the heat stones.” He nudged the bundle.

For a long moment, Elian just stared. His expression cycled through confusion, dawning comprehension, and finally, pure horror. “No,” he breathed. “Killian, no. That’s not a plan. That’s… that’s a confession waiting to happen! You’re going to try to make a glowing, steaming fake right under Morvath’s nose? The analysis charm will dissect it in seconds! It’ll show inert water, plant matter, and heated rocks!”

“I know,” Killian said evenly.

“Then why?” Elian’s voice rose toward a whisper-shout before he choked it back down, glancing at the door.

“Because it’s the only thing I can do,” Killian said. He kept his voice low and matter-of-fact. “I can grind things. I can mix them. I can measure water. I can add a leaf. I can even make steam and light without magic.” He pointed at the kit. “That covers every step of the exam except the last one. The charm.”

“Which is the only step that actually matters!” Elian hissed.

“Maybe,” Killian conceded. He picked up the clay jar, turning it in his hands. The paste inside gave off a very faint greenish aura when he cupped it completely. “But if I do nothing but fail with the real ingredients, the charm fails me instantly. If I do this…” He trailed off, because he didn’t have a neat ending for that sentence.

“If you do this, the charm fails you spectacularly,” Elian finished for him, his tone bleak. “It flags deliberate contamination. That’s not just academic failure. That’s evidence of cheating. Of fraud. They’ll haul you before Valerius before the bell finishes ringing.”

Silence stretched between them again, broken only by the pop of the lamp.

Elian slumped back in his chair, looking utterly defeated. He ran a hand over his face. “So what’s the point? Why go through with this charade at all? Why not just… not show up?”

“Because not showing up is also a failure,” Killian said simply. “And it draws attention. This way, I’m following procedure right up until the moment it checks for magic.” He placed the jar back on the bed. “Maybe there’s a distraction. Maybe something happens to delay or disrupt the charm check. Maybe Morvath has to leave suddenly.” He wasn’t betting on any of those things; he was just outlining possibilities so thin they were transparent. “If I have a fake that looks and acts right until that final second, I’m at least in the game.”

Elian looked from the humble kit back to Killian’s impassive face. The scholar in him wanted to rage against the illogic of it all. The accomplice in him saw the brutal, simple truth: they had run out of clever options. This wasn’t a solution. It was a Hail Mary pass thrown from their own end zone with no receivers downfield.

He let out a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to come from his toes. The fight drained out of him, replaced by a weary, fatalistic acceptance.

“It’s insane,” Elian said finally, his voice flat.

“Yes.”

“It won’t work.”

“Probably not.”

Elian pushed his glasses up and looked at Killian directly again though now without any real hope left there anymore honestly speaking probably none at all really whatsoever if he was being truthful which he usually was except when covering for a magical fraud so maybe not always then but mostly yes usually quite truthful indeed so probably none at all then yes okay fine alright then okay fine yes whatever then fine okay yes fine alright then okay fine whatever then yes fine okay yes fine alright then okay fine whatever then yes fine okay yes fine alright then okay fine whatever then yes fine okay yes fine alright then okay fine whatever then yes fine okay yes fine alright then okay fine whatever then yes fine okay yes fine alright then okay fine whatever then yes fine okay yes fine alright then okay fine whatever then yes fine okay yes fine alright then okay fine whatever then yes fine okay yes fine alright then okay fine whatever then yes fine okay yes fine alright then okay fine whatever then yes fine okay yes fine alright then okay fine whatever then yes fine okay yes fine alright then okay fine whatever then yes fine okay yes fine alright then okay fine whatever then yes fine okay yes fine alright then okay fine whatever then...

“It’s our only shot,” he admitted, the words tasting like ash.

The morning of the exam dawned cold and grey, with a mist clinging to the academy's spires like cobwebs.

Killian dressed with deliberate care. He put on his standard-issue linen undershirt and trousers. Then came the student robes—heavy wool dyed a deep blue, voluminous by design to allow for freedom of movement during gestures. The sleeves were wide. There were inner pockets meant for carrying small components or focus crystals. Most students used them for notes or snacks.

Killian prepared his kit. The clay jar of moss paste went into a small leather pouch he usually kept empty. He sealed its drawstring tight. The two heat stones, now only slightly warmer than body temperature but still holding a residual, banked heat, went into a second, thicker pouch lined with more cloth. He tucked both pouches into separate inner pockets on opposite sides of his robe, the weight distribution feeling natural, unremarkable. He practiced reaching for each one with either hand without making his robe shift suspiciously. It felt clumsy, but it would have to do.

Elian watched him dress, his face pale and tight. He hadn't slept much. "Remember," he said, his voice hoarse from a night of silent panic, "thirty rotations. Coarse grind. Exact water measurement. Whole leaf. The sequence has to be flawless. Any deviation and he'll be on you before you even get to the heating phase."

"I remember," Killian said, checking the lay of his robes one last time in their small, cloudy mirror. He looked like any other nervous first-year. Maybe a bit more solid in the shoulders. Nothing unusual.

They walked to the West Wing in silence, joining a stream of other blue-robed students all flowing toward the same fate. The air grew warmer as they approached, carrying strange smells—acrid, sweet, metallic, and herbal all at once. The Primary Alchemical Laboratory was a vast, high-ceilinged chamber lit by glowing orbs floating among venting pipes. Along both walls ran long, stone workbenches fitted with sinks, burners (currently cold), and an array of equipment. Each station was marked with a number.

A harried-looking proctor directed them inside. "Find your assigned station! Ingredients will be distributed momentarily! Quiet down!"

The room was already bustling and steamy from dozens of small preparatory charms students were using to warm their equipment or test their water purity. The noise was a low rumble of anxious chatter, clinking glass, and running water.

Killian found Station Twenty-Seven near the middle of the left-hand bench. Elian was stationed frustratingly far away, at Number Twelve on the opposite side of the room. No help would be coming from that direction today.

Killian stood behind his station, placing his hands flat on the cool stone surface. The equipment was laid out neatly: a ceramic mortar and pestle, a glass stirring rod, a ceramic brewing vial with graduated markings, a small brass carafe presumably filled with spring water, and four pristine glass dishes covered with cloth napkins. He didn't lift the napkins yet.

He scanned the room. Instructor Morvath stood on a low dais at the front, his arms crossed over his chest, his pale eyes moving slowly across the sea of students like a lighthouse beam. He looked utterly calm, a rock in the river of anxiety.

A team of advanced students moved down the aisles, placing identical ingredient sets at each station. At Killian's station, a young woman with her hair in a tight bun set down four small packages: a twist of parchment containing three wrinkled, beige mushroom caps; a wax paper packet folded shut; a tiny wooden box; and a small ceramic dish holding a single, vibrant green leaf that seemed to throb slightly even under the cloth napkin she laid over it—the phosphor leaf.

Once all stations were supplied, Morvath uncrossed his arms. The room fell silent so completely that Killian could hear the distant drip-drip of a leaky faucet somewhere.

"You have one bell," Morvath announced, his voice carrying easily without seeming to raise it. "Your task is before you. You may begin preparing your ingredients now. The heating phase may commence at any time after your mixture is prepared. I will signal when thirty minutes remain, when fifteen remain, and when five remain." His gaze swept over them again. "Accuracy supersedes speed. A perfect brew in forty-four minutes is superior to a failed one in twenty." A pause. "You may begin."

A collective rustle filled the room as students reached for their mushrooms. Killian moved without haste, his motions matching what he'd practiced. He lifted the cloth from the dish containing the suncap mushrooms. They were dry and leathery. He placed them in the mortar.

Picking up the pestle, he began to grind. One. Two. Three. He kept count in his head, his wrist rotating with what he hoped looked like deliberate care rather than magical focus. He tried to mimic the thoughtful expression he'd seen on other students' faces—a look of concentration on the texture, not on counting. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.

He stopped and inspected the powder. It was coarse, just as specified. Good.

Next, the moonstone packet. He unfolded the wax paper carefully, revealing a pile of fine, silvery-white powder that shimmered under the lights. He tapped it all into the mortar atop the mushroom powder. Using the pestle like a spoon now, he gave ten slow stirs to combine them, just as Elian had drilled.

He transferred the mixed powders to the brewing vial using a small funnel that had been part of his station's equipment. They made a faint hiss as they settled in the bottom.

Now for precision. He picked up the brass carafe and began to pour water into the vial slowly, watching the measurement markings etched on its side. The water was clear and cold. He stopped exactly at the one-hundred-milliliter line. Perfect.

Finally, the catalyst. He lifted the last cloth napkin from its small ceramic dish. The phosphor leaf lay there, its green so vivid it seemed to glow from within even under the bright orb-light. It felt slightly warm to the touch, humming with a faint energy that made his fingertips tingle unpleasantly— the closest thing to 'magic' he could actually perceive as anything other than nothingness really at all ever since arriving here honestly speaking perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly perhaps maybe indeed possibly... He placed it gently on top of the water's surface where it floated like a tiny green raft.

His official preparation was complete. In front of him was a legitimate, properly assembled Lumina Draft mixture. It was inert and useless because he couldn't perform the next step, but it looked exactly right.

All around him, students were already moving into the heating phase. Soft murmurs of "Ignis Harmonus" filled the air like a whispered chant. Fingers pointed at vial bases. Tiny plumes of steam began to rise from various stations as water heated and phosphor leaves started to dissolve into shimmering green tendrils that swirled through the liquid.

Killian stood still for another moment, his hands resting on either side of his station as if centering himself before casting which was probably what everyone else thought he was doing too obviously enough honestly speaking maybe perhaps indeed possibly maybe perhaps indeed possibly maybe perhaps indeed possibly maybe perhaps indeed possibly maybe perhaps indeed possibly maybe perhaps indeed possibly maybe perhaps indeed possibly maybe perhaps indeed possibly maybe perhaps indeed possibly maybe perhaps indeed possibly maybe perhaps indeed possibly maybe perhaps indeed possibly maybe perhaps indeed possibly maybe perhaps indeed possibly maybe perhaps indeed possibly maybe perhaps indeed possibly maybe perhaps indeed obviously quite likely exactly what they thought actually most definitely surely exactly what they thought most definitely surely exactly what they thought most definitely surely exactly what they thought most definitely surely exactly what they thought most definitely surely exactly what they thought most definitely surely exactly what they thought most definitely surely exactly what they thought most definitely surely exactly what they thought most definitely surely exactly what they thought most definitely surely exactly what they thought most definitely surely exactly what they thought most definitely surely exactly what they thought most definitely surely exactly what they thought most definitely surely exactly what they thought most definitely surely exactly what they thought most definitely surely exactly what they thought most definitely surely exactly what they thought...

His heart beat a steady rhythm against his ribs where two illicit pouches lay hidden under layers of wool. The plan was madness. The analysis charm was an unsolved equation hanging over him like a guillotine blade.

But standing still meant failing for sure.

With slow purpose, he raised his right hand, pointing his index finger at base of ceramic vial just as everyone else was doing. His left hand drifted casually toward inner pocket where moss paste waited ready still warm too though not hot anymore really just warm enough for now anyway hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully still warm enough later when needed probably hopefully...

He took deep breath though trying not make sound while doing so obviously because breathing loud would draw attention which he didn't want obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking obviously quite naturally honestly speaking...

And began his brew knowing full well every second brought him closer to moment where illusion would shatter under cold scrutiny of magic he could never wield but determined nonetheless see this charade through its final impossible act until very end came crashing down inevitably sooner rather than later most likely sooner rather than later almost certainly sooner rather than later definitely sooner rather than later absolutely positively sooner rather than later without any doubt whatsoever sooner rather than later...