Magic returned no less than 14 hours after the incident. The academy was in shambles, even with just a small disruption. Some students were able to adjust within hours, redoing their incantations to align with the lower magical density but those precious minutes were lost just the same. More than a few dozen experiments that hinged entirely on a constant flow of magic were lost in seconds. Many more spells cast at inopportune times resulted in misfires, slips, and explosions.

  Ingrid returned to the greenhouse to see that her small scale smokeleaf processor was completely defunct. As she opened the door, the rustling of leaves brought about a sharp pang in her chest. The plant itself went from a deep charcoal black to a muddy brown, the stalk now hanging over, wilted. Many of its leaves had fallen onto the floor, now littered with the remains of several other botanical studies. She stood there in the doorway silently, the wind from outside clearing a path of sorts. The ground it revealed was stained by the quickly decaying leaves, leaving a sea of tiny mixed brown shards that stuck to the ground in the tiny cracks and crevices of the stone. Ingrid simply stood there, hand resting on the handle of the door, surveying the scene. ‘It looks abandoned’, she thought, a single vine climbing up the side of the cold furnace truly solidifying the notion in her mind. Ingrid felt a tear welling up in her eye. Nearly two years of work had simply decayed to fragmented leaf litter in a single day. The countless late nights of fine tuning, adjusting the water, making sure the roasting of leaves was done absolutely perfectly. It was all gone.

  The tin of cigarettes had nearly all turned to dust overnight. A memento and a finish line of sorts. She had first gotten them years ago when visiting a farm in Azmarin. Mount Ultarok had yet to erupt and the soil had begun to dry up. The stark difference between the dark field of smokeleaf plants and the surrounding greenery was striking to a younger Ingrid. She stood among the crop, waist high to a shocking degree of consistency. The leaves gave a delightfully relaxing twinkling sound like windchimes. An older farmer stood to the right of the group of botany undergrads talking about the seasonal cycle, how magic interacts with the leaves, and the volcanic soil’s effect, but Ingrid wasn’t listening. She was staring at the mountains. The ash of the volcano had been taken over by a blanket of green, the only other color coming from the ashy fields of smokeleaf. While her eyes were captivated by the sight, her ears were filled with the gentle twinkling of the leaves swaying in the mountain breeze. The group of botanists were intentionally brought here during the green season so it would be more appealing, but most had the insight to understand what living next to a volcano meant. Ingrid had that insight and more. She came back months later during the next eruption. The green landscape had been scrubbed gray, the only remnant of color being a few small streaks of orange magma on the side of the volcano. The twinkling had vanished as the harvesting was finished long ago and planting season had come. Though Ingrid wasn’t put off by the grey landscape, something else had her worried. The many farmhands coughed loudly as they tilled the soil and scattered large seeds. She stared at the ash slowly falling from the sky. Some wore masks, most did not. When she asked those who didn’t wear masks, they gave scattered answers: ‘They don’t work’, ‘They’re too expensive’, ‘They get in the way’, but most of all ‘I know what I signed up for’. That day, she asked for a sample smokeleaf plant and soil, bought a tin of cigarettes, and headed back to the academy with a simple promise: I won’t smoke a single cigarette until I find a solution.

  Now Ingrid was standing in the remains of the greenhouse, her project dead along with her promise to herself and the dozen other projects scattered on the work benches.

  “So are you just gonna stand there, cause I need to get through that door.” A familiar voice rang from behind her.

  “Apologies your Grace, I didn't mean to stand in your path to leaves and sludge.” Ingrid sneered, turning to Leland. He stood there with hands in pockets, wearing his usual smug smile.

  “Really? ‘Your Grace?’ I at least deserve a ‘Your Highness.’ I’m true royalty obviously.” He said, spinning around to show off his “Royal” garb. He stood, skinny as ever, with a pair of slacks far too wide for him, belt too long, and a shirt and vest combo which left his spindly arms looking bare.

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  “Yeah, your outfit really does read as ‘spoiled prince’ doesn’t it.” Ingrid said, stepping out of the doorway, the door closed behind her. Leland frowned slightly.

  “Hey, come on. That was mean. Besides, I’ve come bearing gifts.” He gestured to the envelope in his hand. It was made from thick paper and bore a wax seal with a dragonfly stamped onto it. Ingrid speedwalked up before snatching it from Leland’s hand. He pulled his hand away from the frightening display and said softly, “Hey I was gonna apologize before giving you that.” Ingrid looked up from the envelope at Leland.

  “What? What for? You never apologize.” She said, bewildered. Leland truly never apologized. Ingrid thought back to a time when Leland had killed a new sample of hers and still didn’t apologize. Instead he brought a new sample from the same batch as compensation. An apology of sorts, but he’d never made a verbal apology before. Leland took a deep breath and started rambling incoherently.

  “I’m sorry for being so callous the other night, I should have been more thoughtful and less jokey. It wasn’t the time or the place and I fell asleep when you were sad when I should have been more present and…” Before he could continue, Ingrid smacked him on the top of his head with the letter.

  “Three things: Slow down, I don’t care, and don’t apologize, it's weird. Besides, I was in a really weird mood last night and honestly, you were there for me plenty that day, even if you really should have been finishing your paper.” Ingrid gave Leland half of a smile and patted the top of his head with the letter. He sheepishly nodded before suddenly hugging Ingrid. “Oh, so we’re doing this now are we? Weird, but okay, I guess.” She paused and awkwardly patted Leland’s back before sighing deeply and asked, “What happened to you?”

  “What do you mean?” Leland said, muffled against Ingrid’s shoulder.

  “The apologies and hugs. Are you dying?” Leland laughed slightly before squeezing a bit harder.

  “No, but I’m gonna be gone for a bit. The Dean’s recruited me for a bit of a journey.” Ingrid pushed off of Leland and grabbed his shoulders, a look of confusion plastered on her face. Leland was summoned on a journey? By the Dean? Why him? What kind of journey? This must be some kind of bad joke. She inspected his face for any sign of a lie: A wry smile, a stifled laugh, anything. Instead he just had a dumb sad smile on his face. He wasn’t joking. Ingrid wrapped her arms around Leland and hugged him tight, her eyes wide open in shock. The breeze blew lightly, jostling the windchimes hung just outside the door to the greenhouse. Leland sighed again before breaking the silence, asking, “So are you going to open the letter. The Dean gave it to me to deliver right after our little meeting.” Ingrid felt the letter in her hand. The fibers in the thick paper felt rough against her skin. She relaxed her hold around Leland and pulled away. Leland gasped dramatically. “Whew, I thought you were gonna strangle me. You know, your hugs really show how little you do it.” He had that wry smile on his face. Ingrid glared at him. Her gaze quickly softened as she looked down at the letter in her hands. She ran her finger along the inner edge, peeling back the wax. Ingrid scanned the inside.

  To Miss Ingrid Sathauris

  Your presence is requested in the office of the Dean of the Grand Kamaaldorian Academy at 1:15 p.m. for a conference with the Dean in regards to your continued studies here at the academy. This is a result of the fluctuation that occurred yesterday, 1/47/4516 at 7:14 p.m. affecting many student’s studies including your own. You will be discussing the future of your studies with Dean Kedam.

  Thank you,

  Jonathan Porovna

  Head Secretary

  “It’s a meeting with the Dean.” Ingrid said. She thought back to the chance meeting with The Dean the night before. The odd casual feeling of it despite the fabled regality of the Matriarch Kedam. She then remembered the foreboding message The Dean gave right at the end. A calmness settled around Ingrid as she resigned herself to what came. Whatever it was, she would figure it out. It wasn’t as if she had any choice in the matter, she could either choose to adapt or be forced to.