Chapter 55

  School Life I

  A week later, boot camp had come to an end, and to Mags’ quiet relief, the entire group of her friends had made it through. Even Galiel, whose flair for dramatics often overshadowed his stamina, managed to scrape by. Mags had worried about him more than she cared to admit, but he proved resilient when it counted.

  The first day of classes dawned crisp and clear, the sting of early morning drills and physical training sharpening the senses and waking up the body before breakfast. Mags settled into a routine, often finding herself seated with Galiel, Edvard, Szed, and—more often than not—Bast, surprisingly. The latter seemed to oscillate between seeking academic help from Szed and using their group as an excuse to dodge responsibilities at the Royal Academy, whose campus overlapped with parts of Birghtwash’s own. Regardless of his motives, his presence had become a fixture at their table. She had actually grown to like the noble and enjoy his company, despite how often she’d find herself palming her forehead at something that would spill out of his mouth. I’m surprised I don’t have a permanent bruise on my face.

  As Mags glanced over her class schedule, she realized that while she shared some classes with the others, their paths would diverge frequently. The thought left her feeling unexpectedly adrift, but she pushed it aside. She had survived worse.

  “It looks like we have Body Enhancement and Soul Refinement together,” Galiel said, doing a side-by-side comparison of their class schedules. “Nice!”

  “I’ll also be in those courses at the same time,” Edvard said, sharing a soft smile.

  Mags glanced across the table to Szed, who was sliding a glass of water over to a terribly hungover Bast, whose head was planted firmly onto the table. He took the glass of water without lifting his head, mumbling something that Mags couldn’t transcribe.

  “Do we have any courses together?” she asked, extending her schedule out towards Szed.

  The Laanian boy delicately grabbed her schedule and his eyes quickly scanned the page. He handed it back to her. “Combat Training.”

  She smirked. “Looks like I’ll have my chance at revenge after all.”

  Szed stared at her blankly, not taking the bait. Galiel guffawed.

  After breakfast, they parted ways. Military Formations was her first course, a continuation of the drills and exercises from boot camp but with more emphasis on strategy and unit cohesion. The instructor, a stern-faced veteran with a voice like gravel, barked orders that echoed across the training grounds.

  Following that grueling session, Mags made her way alone to her Artificery Lecture.

  The hall was vast, filled with rows of polished wooden benches and high arched windows that bathed the room in pale morning light. The lecture hall sloped downward in tiers of seats, each arranged in a semi-circle around a broad dais where a single, long blackboard stretched across the wall. The board was already covered in dense equations, diagrams of aetheric flow, and careful annotations in looping script, all half-obscured by a cloud of white chalk dust that still lingered in the air. Strange contraptions and magical diagrams adorned the walls. Taking a seat near the middle, she set her jaw with determination, ready for her first true course at Brightwash.

  At the center of it all stood Professor Farrukh.

  He was a man of sharp angles—long, bony fingers clasped behind his back, papery tawny skin tight over a skeletal frame and face. He had a hooked nose protruding above a curtain of white mustache, and deep-set eyes that gleamed like embers beneath the shadow of his brow. His beard, thick and well-groomed, framed the lower half of his face like the tail of some regal bird, though his smooth, bald head gave him a severe, almost spectral presence.

  The hum of conversation faded as he turned his gaze upon them. He did not speak immediately, merely let the silence stretch, heavy and expectant, until even the most restless among them sat up a little straighter.

  Then, in a voice as dry as old parchment but clear as ringing steel, he said, “You are here to learn.”

  His fingers unfurled, gesturing toward them with an eerie sort of grace. “You are here to be trained, molded, and tested, yes. You will serve in the Crown Coalition, yes. But none of you—” his eyes swept across the room, and Mags felt as though he had peered straight into her “—are expected to serve forever.”

  There was a rustle of shifting seats, an unspoken question hovering in the air. He did not wait for someone to voice it.

  “While there are a handful of you that will become career soldiers, Brightwash does not produce soldiers alone. We produce scholars. Tacticians. Engineers. Some of you will go on to lead Companies, perhaps even Guilds. Others will go on to create. Some, perhaps, will do both.” He lifted a hand, fingers forming a loose circle. “You are here, in part, because you have awakened souls. Because you are capable of grasping what ordinary men cannot—the channeling of aether, the shaping of the lifeforce within you we refer to as mana.”

  Mags straightened slightly at that. It wasn’t a new concept. In fact, it was one she was painfully familiar with. But now that she was among those with shining souls full of potential, she couldn’t help but feel the pull and allure of anything having to do with Soulsinging.

  Professor Farrukh turned to the board, sweeping his sleeve across a section of equations, erasing them with casual ease before lifting a stick of chalk. He began writing, speaking as he did.

  “For some of you, Soulsinging will be a means of combat. For others, a tool. But the greatest use—the most practical, the most lucrative, the most fundamental—” he turned back to face them, tapping the chalk once against the board, “—is Artificery.”

  There was a murmur of interest now, the kind that only grew when the professor gestured to the side of the room, where a long table had been covered with an array of objects—glowing gemstones, etched metal plates, even a delicate lattice of wire humming faintly with energy. Mags couldn’t help but think of Cagna and Dragnazzo—the Ghost Hounds’ resident Artificers. The thought summoned a faint smile to her lips. She missed them and their constant bickering. She particularly missed playing Sovereign’s Gambit with Dragnazzo, and wondered if she’d be able to play with anyone at Brightwash. She would need to surprise him with how sharp she had become the next time their paths crossed.

  “We will discuss theory, of course. History, limitations, principles.” Professor Farrukh’s lips curled into something that was not quite a smile. “But, in the lab component of this course, you will also build. You will create. And most importantly—” his eyes gleamed with sharp amusement “—you will fail.”

  A murmur rippled through the room as Professor Farrukh folded his hands behind his back and let his gaze settle on the students once more.

  “Yes, some of you will fail,” he said, voice even, unbothered. “If you’re lucky!”

  The murmuring ceased.

  “This is not a warning. It is a certainty.” His bony fingers flexed briefly, as if grasping something unseen. “And yet, failure is the seed of creation. No piece of aether-technology was perfected on the first attempt, no grand discovery made without countless missteps. It is through error, through failure, through ruin that we build the wonders of the modern age of Artificery.”

  He turned sharply, snatching up a stick of fresh chalk, and the lecture hall snapped to attention.

  “The first Artificers of the Ivaldi were geniuses of the craft, by their own records, but also had access to a magic unlike anything seen within our current understanding of Soulsinging.” He scrawled a jagged rune onto the blackboard with swift, precise strokes. “As far as we know, they did not need to rely on runes such as these to impute magical qualities onto objects.” He punctuated each phrase with another rune, another set of symbols that looked so effortlessly placed, yet already threatened to overwhelm Mags’ notes. From her vantage point, it was hard to tell she was getting each and every line within the sets of runes drawn properly. “And yet, despite not needing these principles that we find so dear—what did they do? Create the very foundation upon which all of modern Artificery stands. Yes, even the basic principles of Artificery we use today were ultimately passed down by the Ivaldi.”

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  He gestured to the blackboard, his sleeve sweeping across chalk dust like a conjurer’s flourish.

  “Failure is the path. And yet, failure is only worthwhile if one understands why one has failed.”

  He tapped the chalk against the board twice, then, without hesitation, launched into something new.

  “Now. Fundamental principles of mana manipulation. Can someone tell me what this set of runes is? Hm?”

  A few dozen hands shot into the air.

  Professor Farrukh pointed the stick of chalk at one of the eager students. “Yes, you. First, tell us your name.”

  Mags’ eyes followed the line of the professor’s chalk, which landed on the front row and a student with long, pinkish hair.

  “Isolde Ovetha, sir,” Isolde said.

  “Ms. Ovetha,” the Professor said without any affectation or indication that he recognized the surname of the Broceli princess. “Proceed.”

  “The runes displayed on the board are the fundamental runes of binding. From my left to right, you have adhesion, cohesion, and resonance.”

  “And the difference between the three?”

  Isolde continued comfortably. “Adhesion increases the natural attractive forces between different substances. Cohesion increases the natural attractive forces between identical substances. The Resonance rune, meanwhile, creates a system for storing or transferring energy between two or more different storage modes.”

  “Indeed. Well done.” Professor Farrukh returned to the chalk board.

  The shift was seamless, like a swordstroke flowing into the next, and Mags barely had time to flip a fresh page in her notes before Professor Farrukh was already halfway through drawing an intricate diagram between the three runes. Lines intersected in precise arcs, converging around what looked like a lattice of interconnected nodes. Next to it, a string of equations began forming under his hand.

  He continued the lecture, describing the uses and underlying mathematic theorems of each of the principal binding runes.

  He moved as he spoke, illustrating his words with sweeping marks of the chalk. But what left Mags scrambling was that while his left hand continued writing, his right hand moved in tandem, erasing portions of the previous equations just as she was finishing copying them down.

  She swore under her breath.

  Professor Farrukh’s writing was quick, but more than that, it was relentless. He did not stop, only pausing briefly to pepper the students with a few questions. As soon as one concept was explained, it flowed directly into the next. He did not dwell on repetitions, did not linger for slower hands.

  Mags’ own handwriting devolved into jagged shorthand as she raced to keep up, ink blotting as she tried to scribble faster than her own quill could handle.

  A glance around the room told her she wasn’t alone. A few students had simply given up on note-taking altogether and were instead watching the professor with a kind of horrified awe.

  Somewhere to her left, a student made a strangled noise. Another hesitantly raised a hand, attempting to stop the onslaught for a moment of clarification.

  Farrukh ignored them both, already moving on.

  And so, the lecture continued.

  The lecture was immediately followed by the practical lab component of the course, which was held conveniently down the hall from the lecture room.

  The scent of metal shavings and fresh ink hung thick in the air as the Artificery Lab hummed with quiet activity. Rows of heavy wooden workbenches filled the space, each table fitted with small glass-domed apparatuses. A small glass bulb extended from a metallic box. Inside the bulb, attached to the top of the box was an almost hair-thin filament.

  Professor Farrukh spent the better part of thirty minutes reviewing laboratory procedure and safety practices. Before taking a spot at the front of the room, hands clasped behind his back. “For this semester, you will each be paired with a partner for the practical portion of this course,” he announced, his voice carrying effortlessly over the hushed murmurs of the students who were all awkwardly huddled near the back of the room. “When I announce your name, please take a seat at one of the stations alongside your partner.”

  So Farrukh began listing names aloud, and students two-by-two took their seats, filling in the rows of workbenches. Eventually, he got to Mags. “Magdalenda of Solstice,” he announced. She stepped forward to walk towards the next open workbench. “And Isolde Ovetha.”

  Mags froze for a brief moment.

  Isolde.

  Of all the people to be paired with, it had to be her.

  She kept her expression carefully neutral as she made her way to her assigned station, meeting Isolde’s gaze across the workbench. The princess’s pale champagne-colored hair was neatly braided back, her uniform crisp and perfect, not a thread out of place. She did not look at all troubled by their pairing.

  Mags, on the other hand, could feel her nerves tightening. She still couldn’t be sure. Couldn’t tell if this was the same girl who had stepped through the doors of Soulgrave House all those years ago. Even if she was, how would she recognize Mags? Mags thought of that time from so long, long ago. The girl who had arrived with her protective escort. Unlike the other children who had arrived that day, this particular girl hadn’t stayed long.

  And yet, that same air of quiet authority and power that had clung to that little girl from Mags’ past radiated off of Isolde.

  Mags took a steadying breath. Focus.

  Professor Farrukh had finished doling out the semester’s partnerships and had launched into a description of their task for that day. “For today’s task, you will etch the correct sequence of runes onto the mana conduits before you, then channel energy through them to illuminate the filament. Do not—” his eyes swept the room, “—incinerate your lab stations. If you do, you will fail. If you somehow do it twice, you will fail spectacularly. If you fail spectacularly, at least make it interesting.”

  The filaments encased in glass—which Mags learned were carefully crafted from mana stone—were currently dull and lifeless. The walls bore racks of tools—engraving chisels, fine-tipped brushes, vials of conductive ink—while overhead, arched steel pipes ran along the ceiling, humming softly with residual aether. Professor Farrukh had explained that an intricate ventilation system had been built into the pipes, in case there were any gaseous reactions during their time experimenting in the laboratory.

  Mags looked down at the task before them. The apparatus was simple enough—just a filament of mana stone, suspended within a small glass dome, anchored to a compact metal box. The box itself had a smooth, blank face, waiting for their runework. The box was a metal that was particularly difficult to channel one’s aura through, and it would require very specific runes in order to do so in a fashion that would reach the filament and illuminate it.

  Easy.

  Straightforward.

  She could do this.

  Isolde picked up one of the fine-tipped engraving tools, turning it between her fingers with a twirl. “You take the left side, I’ll take the right.” Her voice was calm, businesslike. Not dismissive, but certainly not warm.

  Mags gave a sharp nod. “Got it.”

  For the next few minutes, they worked in silence, etching careful runes into the metal housing of the device. Each stroke had to be precise—too shallow, and the mana wouldn’t flow properly; too deep, and the structure would weaken. The runes formed a network of channels, guiding energy toward the filament inside.

  Mags stole a glance at Isolde’s work.

  Perfect, of course.

  The girl’s engravings were elegant, her strokes swift but measured, her grip sure.

  Mags set her jaw and redoubled her focus. You’re not going to be the weak link in this.

  Eight minutes passed in a quiet rhythm of carving and adjustments. Then, finally, the last rune was set. Mags double-checked her work against her notes from Professor Farrukh’s lecture.

  Isolde set her tool down. “Now for the fun part.”

  Mags exhaled. She wiped her hands against her uniform, rolling the stiffness from her shoulders.

  “Would you like to do the honors?” Isolde asked.

  “Er—sure,” Mags responded lamely.

  She pressed her finger tips against the cool surface of the metallic box and breathed, tapping into the pool of mana within her. She drew on it as she channeled trace amounts of aether from the air around her, converting the mana into the familiar presence of aura that pulsed within her body. She willed the aura into the box.

  Nothing happened.

  She took her fingers off the box, cleared her throat and then tried again, this time placing her entire palms on the box. Again, her aura flowed out of her, only to hit a wall when it reached the barrier of the box.

  “Everything alright,” Isolde asked, brow arched.

  Mags scratched her head, not sure what to say. “I’m sure my runework is correct, but I’m having trouble channeling my aura into the device.”

  Isolde took another glance at Mags’ half of the box. “Yes, your runework is good.” Her green, faintly glowing eyes found Mags’. “What is your Control Attribute, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Mags hesitated. Based on her preparation with the Ghost Hounds, she knew that it was often strategic not to share the specifics of your assigned Attributes within Yggdrasil. But Isolde didn’t seem to have any malice behind her question, so Mags responded. “E-3,” she said.

  Isolde’s eyes widened before she quickly tamed her expression. “I’m sorry. I think I wrongly assumed it was higher, given you’re on Special Recommendation.”

  “Is E-3 particularly low?” Mags asked, feeling a little defensive.

  Isolde’s face reddened slightly. “N-no, not at all. It’s fairly on par with the average student. I, I just . . . I apologize. I shouldn’t have made assumptions.” She looked around the laboratory. “Everyone else is channeling together with their partner. We should do the same. Does that work for you?”

  Mags glanced around the room and indeed every other pair were placing both partners’ hands on their boxes. “It does,” she responded.

  “Okay,” Isolde said. “Ready when you are.”

  Then, together, they placed their palms flat against the metal box and both reached inward.

  Mana stirred within Mags as she tried, for the third time to push her aura through her hands and into the metallic box. This time, she hit the barrier, but it felt. . . softer? She pushed a little harder and broke through. A feeling of relief washed over Mags before it was quickly replaced with a feeling of awe as her aura touched Isolde’s, which had already suffused the entire box. However, their filament was still dull.

  She must be keeping her own aura at bay to make me feel better. Mags pushed her aura forward, using the pathways created by their runework to find the base of the filament within the box. This part felt more natural. It wasn’t too different from her time working with the Daedalus Orb—just following the lines of the runes, as opposed to the Orb’s intricate maze.

  A soft hum filled the air as she and Isolde each channeled energy into the runes, guiding it carefully, watching as the etched lines began to glow with a faint blue light. The energy flowed through the network, winding its way to the filament—

  A spark.

  Then, a steady, golden glow.

  The filament inside the dome ignited with warm, steady radiance, casting a soft light over their workbench.

  Mags let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

  Isolde studied the glow with a critical eye. Then, with the barest hint of approval, she nodded. “Not bad.”

  Mags smirked, wiping her hands again. “Not bad yourself, princess.”

  Isolde’s expression didn’t change. But Mags swore she saw something flicker—just for a moment.

  And then it was gone.