Several months had passed since the Winter Ball.

  It seemed the dragons, having failed to get what they came for, had finally left me alone—allowing me to finish my studies in peace.

  Maybe the letter from the rector to the Emperor had something to do with it.

  Galeon Marinex, a descendant of ancient water dragons, clearly wasn’t pleased that for the second year in a row, invited guests had stirred up trouble at his academy.

  A week later, the rector summoned me to his office and handed me an official letter from Vir Terragon and Vir Ventus—apologies.

  There was also a letter from the Emperor’s financial advisor… attached to a promissory note worth one hundred gold crowns.

  A short, unsigned note included with the bond read:

  

  Apparently, the rector had described the events in great detail—and with enough force to get results.

  A hundred gold crowns was a generous sum. On the Northern frontier, it was equivalent to my father’s yearly stipend. In the capital, it could buy a small telipage and two riding deer.

  The telipage was a common mode of transport across Arcania.

  It looked like a large box on wheels, with tiny windows and built-in portal crystals. One could enter coordinates and activate the crystal—and be transported anywhere in the Empire in minutes.

  For shorter trips, the vehicle was hitched to riding deer, which were often used by poorer Northern residents.

  These deer adapted easily to any temperature, whether freezing or tropical, and could cross any terrain.

  They were smart, easy to train, and common across the continent—famous for their massive antlers and heavy hooves.

  Not sure what to do with the Emperor’s gold, I decided to set it aside until I figured out how to spend such a sum.

  I told no one about the sudden generosity.

  As I settled back into my studies, it took me a while to notice the shift in how my classmates treated me. The whispers and snickers behind my back had stopped.

  It seemed the dragon’s outburst had made an impression—not just on the students, but even on a few dragons. Their whistling ceased too, and I no longer felt anxious walking past the combat training fields.

  The rumour about me being the assistant dean’s fiancée still lingered, but the nickname “Mink” was slowly fading away.

  As for Vir Dymov, he continued to play the part of my fiancé with care and consistency. At first, it made me uncomfortable—but eventually, I got used to it.

  There was always a basket of candies waiting outside my door, and after lectures, Chester would walk me back to the dorms.

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  That was the extent of our strange relationship—more than strangers, less than lovers.

  If anything, we were stuck somewhere between acquaintances and friends, never quite crossing either line.

  And really, what could a grown man and a timid student possibly have in common?

  Most days, I barely left my room. We talked about lectures. Sometimes, in the lab, Chester would help me tweak a simple spell I couldn’t quite get to work. That was all.

  And just like that, the school year came to an end.

  Ahead of me was a practicum at a tavern, where I planned to stay and work after graduation.

  Fixing furniture, recharging enchantments, adjusting the servers’ uniforms—easy work, and the pay would be enough for a modest life.

  My father, of course, wasn’t thrilled. He tried to persuade me to take a post under our local Custos, but I’d had enough of dragons at the Academy.

  I’d already made up my mind.

  Maybe in time, when the memory of those abyss-black eyes finally faded, I’d think about finding a better job.

  Maybe even marriage, if it ever came to that.

  Chester and I never actually discussed how long our fake engagement would last.

  I just assumed it would end with my graduation.

  After that, I’d leave the town, and he would step into the dean’s seat.

  His jokes about keeping a chair ready for me as his assistant? I never took those seriously. I had neither the knowledge nor the experience.

  Positions like that usually went to those who had completed practicum in the Department of Urban Development in the capital—and only men were accepted there.

  There wasn’t a single female professor at the Academy.

  Dragonesses didn’t have magic.

  And like elven girls, they were educated at home.

  As for mages like me, we weren’t eligible for the Department at all.

  Which meant returning to the Academy after graduation was impossible for us.

  Only women working here were in the kitchens—every other position, even cleaning, was filled by men.

  ***

  The practicum passed without incident.

  I received a few letters from Chester, which read more like news summaries from The Magical Chronicle—a weekly leaflet highlighting the most important events across our vast empire.

  It reminded the North that, beyond the endless cold, there were places where warmth still existed.

  Northerners never forgot who ruled them, or that the capital of Arcania was full of life.

  Whether the South or Draconia remembered we existed was another matter entirely.

  News about the North rarely made it to print.

  And what was there to report in a land of permanent frost? Someone found a missing deer, or a fight broke out at a tavern—those were the headlines.

  My mother and I sewed a new dress for graduation.

  Sky-blue, made from thick fabric, with a hem that stopped just above the ankles—just enough to avoid sweeping snow off the academy steps.

  And, of course, my red half-coat—now turned white for the occasion.

  The blue mink fur could last for years, unless damaged on purpose. It was the only thing I owned that could withstand frequent magical tampering.

  In the end, I’d grown fond of the coat—even if it had originally been made for someone else.

  I pinned my hair up, leaving a few strands loose over my shoulders, and made my way toward the academy’s main building.

  It was hard to believe that by morning, I’d be leaving this place forever.

  Two years had passed in a blur—though they had been full of events.

  I glanced with envy toward the dragons’ dormitory.

  Their studies lasted six years. Mine would end after just two.

  Whoever decided that two years was enough for a Domestic mage had clearly never tried to live off basic enchantments. We weren’t taught defensive spells, or even minor attack magic.

  Every time I visited the library, I saw shelves full of textbooks written for mages—left to gather dust. And every time, I forced myself to stop wondering if the Empire was intentionally keeping mages uneducated… to make it easier to put down future uprisings.

  Before the Great Purge, students of the Domestic Magic faculty studied for four years. They learned third- and even fourth-order spells, including defensive magic. Some even trained with dragons, learning fifth-level combat spells.

  But after the mages’ failed rebellion, the Domestic Magic departments were shut down in all three academies.

  Only the Northern Academy reopened decades later—its curriculum stripped down to the most basic spells, just enough to serve the local Custos.

  Those chosen to serve the Emperor directly received extra training during their practicum in the Department of Urban Development.