Chapter 57

  School Life III

  The gorilla-sized second year student strolled towards her. He moved with surprising grace and lightness, despite his overwhelming bulk of muscle.

  “Are you Rue’s roommate?” he asked, standing far too close, his towering form casting a long shadow that felt more solid than it ought to. His face was a mask of intensity and focus, mouth tight at the corners, and his dark eyes drilling into her.

  Mags narrowed her eyes slightly, instinct prickling at the base of her skull. She nodded once. “I am.”

  Guarani’s eyes flared with intensity, focusing like a scope locking onto a target. “Excellent!” he declared. The intense expression he had only a breath ago instantly melted, replaced by a wide, toothy grin.

  Before she could brace herself, he thrust out his hand and she took it out of politeness. But the moment their palms connected, it was like grabbing onto a charging horse. Her entire body jolted as Guarani pumped her arm up and down with such force that she was sure her shoulder was no longer properly seated in its socket. Her soles squeaked against the polished wood of the floor as she struggled to keep balance.

  “Oh, this is great,” Guarani boomed. “I can feel how strong your vitality is!”

  He grinned at her with such unrestrained joy that it bordered on manic.

  “Yes, you are the exact kind of roommate Rue needs. Vitality and strength of will are not her virtues.”

  Mags blinked, her vision rattling slightly from the aggressive handshake. “Her… uh, virtues?” she managed lamely, still trying to tug her hand free.

  Guarani’s grip only tightened. His jovial eyes hardened slightly, narrowing. And then something happened.

  A pulse. Not of sound or movement, but of pressure. His aura expanded like a storm front breaking open, the temperature of the room seemingly dropping as the weight of his presence pressed down on her like the first breath before battle.

  Mags staggered. Her soul resonated like a tuning fork, and for a split second she felt like she was standing in Malacoda’s presence again, her bones remembering the weight of power so far beyond her it barely acknowledged her existence.

  But Guarani was looking directly at her.

  “What virtues do you live by?” he asked.

  His tone was still warm. Still that same absurd cheerfulness that painted every word. But the power behind the question was not casual—it was probing. It was intentional. Mags didn’t quite understand the question, but she knew it was an important one.

  Was Guarani—this absurd, beautiful mountain of a man—testing her?

  She set her feet, refusing to shrink away from his gaze. The aura was suffocating, yes. But it wasn’t enough to knock her completely off her focus. She mentally pushed through it, re-orienting herself in a second and then exhaled. She could feel her own heart slowing.

  “I don’t know yet,” she said, her voice low, steady. “But when I do… I’ll let you know.”

  Guarani’s smile returned, slow and wide and real.

  “Excellent,” he said, releasing her hand. “There is nothing wrong with taking the time to consider which virtues will be your guiding star. Some say patience itself is a virtue.”

  “Er… Thanks?”

  Guarani jabbed a thumb towards himself. “Manliness and beauty are the two virtues I live by!” The proclamation was met by a curling flex of his bicep.

  “Manliness? So, strength is your virtue?” Mags could feel her eyebrow arch in skepticism, almost as high as Guarani’s bicep.

  Guarani laughed. “Manliness is not only about strength. It’s about compassion, empathy… The ability to grow and evolve. Exploring that virtue has helped me develop as a Soulsinger… And a person.”

  “Huh.”

  Guarani straightened, clearing his throat. “But the reason I stopped you is because I have something that I need you to bring to Rue.” He reached his hand out. The air above his palm shimmered, before twisting and turning. With a barely audible pop a small box with a ribbon neatly tied around it appeared in his hand.

  He has a Pocket just like me, Mags thought.

  He extended the box towards her. “I made aether-infused macaroons for Rue and the other members of my squad. But Rue forgot to take hers after our training session this morning. I made them myself during my Art of Magically Enhanced Cooking course… Hers are specially crafted to enhance sharpness and recovery of the eyes. Given the importance of vision in her skills, it would be good for her to use. Can you make sure she gets these?”

  Mags examined the box. Magically-infused cookies that could make your eyes stronger? She didn’t realize Artificery extended to the kitchen, but the possibilities were seemingly endless. How much training benefit was she neglecting by not enhancing all of her meals with Soulsinging craft? Her mind wandered to the tea Rubicante always served with their lessons. Was that magically-infused? She never knew it was a question she should have asked. Thinking about it now, she wouldn’t be surprised if that had been the case.

  “Sure,” she said, taking the box.

  “Thank you!” Guarani exclaimed.

  Then, with the same suddenness he had appeared, he clapped her on the shoulder hard enough to nearly send her stumbling, and turned, striding back toward the center of the room, humming a triumphant tune with his hands folded behind his back.

  When Mags returned to her room, Rue wasn’t there. She left the box on the older girl’s bed and left to see if she could catch Galiel and the others before heading to dinner at the Mess.

  The morning mist had just begun to lift off the rolling lawns of Brightwash Academy when Mags stepped barefoot onto the dew-slick grass. Cool, damp blades kissed her skin, and for a moment she simply stood there, toes curling slightly, her breath catching at how alive it all felt. The scent of loam and sunlit leaves filled the air, the chorus of birdsong twining through the trees like an invisible spell. Around her, other students were spreading out across the glade—some standing, others sitting cross-legged, all barefoot, their boots and shoes discarded in neat piles near the path.

  It felt… peaceful. Which unnerved her. She didn’t trust peace. Not anymore.

  “Everyone,” came the voice of Professor Safilo, dry as old parchment but still somehow compelling. He stood on a small rise, scarf wound lazily around his neck, coat unbuttoned, the wind rustling the edges like an old flag left hanging from a war long forgotten. “You’re here for Soul Refinement. This course is tied directly to the Second Trial. Pass the First Trial but fail here… and you’ll still be cannon fodder on the Front.”

  A beat of silence. No melodrama in his voice—just plain, clinical fact.

  “He could have phrased that a little more gently,” Galiel whispered to her.

  “Sit. Or stand. I don’t care. Just be barefoot,” Professor Safilo said, “You want to be grounded… Really feel the earth beneath you.”

  Mags lowered herself to the grass, letting her hands rest lightly on her knees. The chill of the morning air still clung to the earth, and it seeped into her skin in the best way.

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  “This class is not unlike Physical Enhancement,” Safilo said, pacing slowly. “But this time, we’re working deeper. Where the body is a conduit, the soul is the source. Mana does not come from the aether—it is your body’s attempt to translate aether into magic. Like wind moving through reeds, creating sound.”

  He gestured absently, and Mags saw a faint shimmer in the air around his fingers, like heatwaves above stone. “Your job is to find the places inside you that shape that sound. And refine them.”

  Guarani stood nearby, arms folded, his presence still somehow radiating a cheerfulness that clashed with Safilo’s grey solemnity like sunlight crashing into stone. He offered no guidance this time, only nodded to the students and took a seat himself, eyes closing, posture perfect.

  “Begin,” Safilo said simply. “Breathe.”

  Mags closed her eyes.

  At first, there was only her breath. The slow expansion of her ribs. The whisper of wind on her cheeks. But then she began to feel it: the warmth at the base of her spine. A slow, pulsing thrum that grew stronger the more she focused. It rose like a tide, curling up her back, threading down her arms, pooling in her palms. It wasn’t light. It wasn’t sound. It was a sense of motion, like water rushing through a series of hidden canals inside her.

  This is your mana, she realized. Not something conjured, but called. A truth always there, waiting to be noticed.

  Safilo’s voice drifted over the glade. “Every soul has a nature. Yours is not mine. It is not your neighbor’s. It may never be understood by anyone but you. But if you do not understand it… it will never bloom.”

  He continued, “But there are some similarities that can help you center and focus. We all have blood, and just like your soul, our blood differs from person to person. But our veins are extremely similar, using near identical pathways to circulate blood throughout our bodies. Mana is similar. Once your find the pool of mana within you, focus on following those pathways through your body. Focus on the movement of mana.”

  Mags inhaled.

  And something shifted.

  It was like a lock turning inside her chest. The mana moved more easily now, no longer sluggish. It coursed through her arms, through her legs, curling behind her eyes. The pathways lit up in her mind’s eye—veins of possibility, threads of will. It moved in spirals and arcs. Chaotic, beautiful.

  She sat deeper into the sensation, losing track of time.

  By the end of the session, the sun had fully risen, and sweat clung to her brow though she hadn’t moved a muscle. Her skin tingled. Her breath felt full of color.

  When Safilo finally spoke again, his tone was dismissive. “That’s enough. If you paid attention, you’ll feel different. If you didn’t… well. The Trials don’t care. Try again the next time.”

  Mags stood slowly, legs a little shaky, but there was a strange clarity in her limbs. Like every piece of her body had been reintroduced to every other. She could feel the way her mana curved beneath her collarbone. How it pooled in the soles of her feet. How it breathed with her—was her.

  Galiel stumbled up beside her, eyes wide. “I think I saw stars when it finally clicked. Anyone else feel a bit… woozy?”

  Edvard grunted. “I didn’t feel… anything.”

  Galiel patted the other young man on the back. “We’ll help you get that figured out before the Second Trial. Don’t worry!”

  The sun had already begun its descent, casting long amber fingers across the rooftops of Brightwash Academy, when Mags found herself trailing behind a strange group led by an even stranger man. Her feet still tingled faintly from Soul Refinement, but now boots were back on, crunching the gravel of the outer campus paths as they followed the crimson-and-cobalt glint of Professor Vissente.

  Professor Vissente was short—perhaps barely taller than Rue—his limbs too long for his body, his shoulders hunched in an almost habitual slouch. His skin bore a warm rust hue, the kind of coppery tone that didn’t belong to any one nation she could name. His hair, though, was unmistakably strange—an oceanic tangle of bright sapphire and lapis strands tied into a loose tail that swayed behind him like kelp in a gentle current.

  But it was his eyes that kept pulling her back.

  Where she had expected to find eyeballs, she instead found two gemstones staring back at her. One was a ruby, deep red and unblinking, the other a sapphire, darker than his hair and twice as sharp. Professor Vissente had explained that he could in fact see as though he had normal eyes, but long ago replaced his mundane eyes with aethertec constructs.

  “My eyes are, in fact, the sharpest amongst us,” he had said to the class, before taking them on a long trek across campus.

  Professor Vissente was a new visiting professor teaching the Aetheric Studies course. He was with Brightwash from the Explorers Guild. Apparently, that was big news on campus.

  Mags couldn’t help but remember the name Trompst when she heard mention of the Explorers Guild. The whispered words she’d heard behind the fronds of Bijel Garden that night. A conversation between the strange visitor from the Guild and the Shadow Maiden of Weles. A conversation she hadn’t been meant to hear. Her stomach still twisted remembering it. Vissente had that same otherness. He was the kind of man who didn’t walk into rooms so much as arrive, already knowing more than anyone had told him.

  “This way, this way,” Vissente sang, voice lilting as he gestured for them to follow him around a tall hedge wall and beyond the coliseum grounds.

  Professor Vissente stopped walking, his too-long arms flaring wide as he turned on his heel, facing the students gathered behind him. His voice, though still touched with whimsy, carried more weight now.

  “Class,” he began, “As you know, this course is called Aetheric Studies. But you should also know: the world does not consist only of harmony. There is dissonance. And that dissonant force in our field of study is Miasma.”

  “Miasma,” Vissente continued, beginning to walk backwards while still addressing the students, “is the opposite of Aether in many ways. Chaotic where Aether is ordered. Devouring where Aether nourishes. And yet…”

  He paused beside a patch of gnarled stone, scarred black by some old, forgotten burn.

  “It is power. A different kind of current. One less understood, yes. But not less.”

  The class murmured behind her, uncertain. Galiel made a small warding gesture, fingers brushing his pendant. Dermot snorted.

  “And this, my bright young minds,” Vissente continued, grinning at their discomfort, “is why Soulsingers exist. You’ve been told it’s to destroy Miasma and the creatures it breeds. To cleanse the land, purge its corruption. But ask yourselves… how can we purge what we do not comprehend? I may even suggest that purging blindly is unwise… When there may be things we can extract, or even harness.”

  Mags narrowed her eyes.

  “We can begin,” the professor said, gesturing ahead, “by studying the creatures born from Miasma: the Maldrath.”

  It was only then that Mags noticed the barrier running alongside the train of students.

  It was nearly invisible to the naked eye—just a shimmer, like heatwaves rising from a forge—but the feeling was unmistakable. A wrongness pressed against her skin, as if the wind had shifted the wrong way.

  She instinctively called on her [Aura Vision].

  What she saw stole the breath from her lungs.

  A latticework of brilliant lines shimmered into being, rising impossibly high into the air before arching away in every direction. The glowing threads crisscrossed to form a titanic dome—a magical containment net woven from layers upon layers of soul-forged thread and condensed aetheric energy.

  It wasn't just a wall. It was a prison. Mags didn’t have to ask for whom.

  “What is this?” Edvard asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Professor Vissente smiled, both eyes glittering. “That, my dear lad, is a magically sealed containment field. Designed by the professors of Brightwash themselves. It holds… rather unique residents.”

  Galiel stepped closer to the barrier, his breath catching in his throat.

  “You keep Maldrath here?” he asked.

  “We,” Vissente said, his voice tightening ever so slightly, “keep Maldrath here, boy.”

  The weight of those words landed with uncomfortable clarity. This wasn’t some distant battlefield. This wasn’t a diagram on a parchment or a tale told in whispers. This was now. This was real. Mags just realized that unlike herself, many of her peers had likely never encountered a Maldrath in person before. She could sense the fear and apprehension rising throughout some of those around her.

  “Why?” another student asked. Their voice was shaky.

  The professor’s smile thinned.

  “For training,” he said. “For upper-tiered cadets, of course. To prepare them for the horrors they will face beyond the Academy’s safety. But also…”

  He turned, tapping a gloved hand against the barrier.

  “For study. For research. For progress.”

  His expression darkened with awe. “That’s why I’m here. This Academy contains some of the finest living specimens in all of the Thirteen Crowns.”

  A ripple passed through the net of energy. Something stirred on the far side.

  “Ah,” Vissente said, his voice lowering to a near-whisper, “take this one, for example.”

  A shape emerged from the gloom—its gait slow, deliberate. A thing that did not belong to any sane part of the natural order. It was tall, perhaps ten feet, but impossibly thin, wrapped in writhing strands of black flesh that shimmered like oil. Its limbs were too long, its fingers ending in curved talons that left trails in the ground. Its face—if it could be called that—was a blank expanse of shadow and teeth. It neck stretched, extending from its body towards the barrier and the direction of the students, as though sniffing the air, a seeking hunger.

  Even with the barrier in place, Mags felt it. The Maldrath’s aura of fear. A wave of it. Cold and consuming, like being dropped into a nightmare.

  She shivered. Her breath caught.

  “It’s called a Fear-eater,” Vissente said, voice solemn now. “A Sin-leveled Maldrath. Not merely corrupt, but perfected in its abomination.”

  “It... eats fear?” someone asked.

  “No,” the professor said, turning to face them again. “It uses it. It enters the minds of its prey, finds their greatest fear, and taps into it. It paralyzes its victims with their own mind. Then it drains them of mana. What remains is… unrecognizable. A rotting, dead husk.”

  The Fear-eater turned its head, as if noticing them. It took a step closer to the barrier. The air rippled.

  Vissente chuckled.

  “This one took four of the Coalition’s finest Soulsingers to subdue and bring back alive. It’s one of our oldest residents.”

  He tilted his head. The gems in his eyes sparkled with something that was almost admiration. “…one of our most valuable.”

  Mags didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

  She was too busy fighting the instinctive scream rising in her throat.