The scent of scorched parchment and old chalk clung stubbornly to the walls—silent evidence of magical mishaps from a prior lesson that had clearly gone awry.
Lucien stepped into the Spellcraft classroom with Caelum beside him, his gaze sweeping over the rows of desks and rune-etched floor tiles.
Not bad… for a place that once would've barred the old Lucien from entering.
Unlike the courtyard's chaotic noise, this room was heavy with a tense stillness—the kind that demanded precision and punished failure. The long wooden desks were marked by years of overcharged spells and burnt corners, their battered surfaces speaking of the trials endured by students before him.
Gradually, the classroom began to fill. Students took their seats, murmuring softly, glancing toward the blackboard where half-erased runes from the last class still lingered in fading strokes.
Lucien, settling next to Caelum, let his eyes wander across the room. It wasn't curiosity that drove him—it was instinct, an old habit that remained sharp even after a thousand years.
That's when he saw him.
Seated alone near the back was the same boy from the courtyard—Merin Garrow. His hair was still a mess, and his glasses slightly crooked, but his attention was laser-focused on the notebook in front of him.
The way his quill moved—sharp, efficient, methodical—spoke volumes to Lucien.
"Hey," Caelum murmured, leaning closer. "That's the kid from earlier. Merin Garrow, I think. Keeps to himself most of the time."
Lucien didn't answer, though the name tucked itself neatly into the back of his mind.
Caelum rubbed his neck, casting a nervous glance toward the front. "I just hope Varn's not in one of his moods again today…"
Moods? What does he—
But before Lucien could respond, the classroom door slammed open with a force that made several students jump including Caelum.
Professor Varn entered like a blade unsheathed—swift, silent, and cold. His robes billowed behind him, each step landing with crisp finality as his sharp gaze swept over the class, dissecting them with a glance.
The room fell into immediate silence, as though the very walls recognized the man's disdain for inefficiency.
Without preamble, he raised a hand.
"There will be no lecture today," he announced, voice clipped and brisk, the kind that sliced through distractions with surgical precision. "You will all be working in pairs to reconstruct a First-Era ignition glyph. Fail to complete it by the end of class, and I'll assign double the homework."
A few students shifted uncomfortably in their seats. One audibly swallowed.
"Project outlines are being handed out. You are expected to already know what this glyph does as you all went over it last semester in Spell Gate Theory. If not… you better read up fast."
With a flick of his wrist, a string of glowing glyphs sparked across the blackboard. Names appeared in pairs, scrolling in crisp magical handwriting.
Lucien quickly scanned the list, but paused the moment he saw who his partner was.
What a trick of fate, huh?
Lucien Renhardt — Merin Garrow
"Well," Caelum said, glancing sideways, "you got the quiet one." He tilted his head slightly toward Merin. "But he's sharp. Maybe one of the top students here."
Lucien raised an eyebrow at this.
Caelum grinned, then added in a low voice, "Just don't intimidate him. He spooks easily."
Lucien smirked faintly. "You assume I'm the scary one. I think you've got a broken nose to prove otherwise."
As students began shuffling toward their assigned partners, Lucien made his way to the back of the classroom.
Merin looked up—only slightly—and blinked behind his smudged lenses. There was no surprise in his eyes. Just a muted wariness, like someone who expected little from others—especially from Lucien Renhardt of all people.
Lucien sat beside him and set down the sheet.
"Lucien Renhardt," he said simply.
"Merin Garrow," came the quiet reply. "I know."
Lucien nodded once, skimming his eyes over the blank paper between them. "I'll handle the tracing. You do the mana flow equations."
Merin hesitated, studying him for a beat. "You've done this kind of reconstruction before?"
Lucien's eyes dropped to the blank parchment between them, a hint of something older stirring in his voice. "Perhaps."
The two of them fell into a rhythm quickly. Merin's calculations were crisp, his logic tight and unwavering. He handled complex ratios like someone who lived inside numbers.
Lucien, meanwhile, drew with practiced confidence—his hand steady as if he had once traced such glyphs for centuries on end.
As Lucien completed the final sweep of the outer ring, there was a distinct click—a soft hum of aligned mana resonating from the parchment.
The glyph quickly ignited.
A flicker of flame spiraled gently along the sigil's lines, casting a soft glow that danced in perfect balance—controlled, contained, and flawless.
Several heads turned at the sound of this. Someone's pen even clattered to the floor in shock.
Professor Varn, mid-stride across the classroom, halted immediately. His gaze snapped toward the glowing parchment. And a moment later, he was standing beside their desk.
He bent to inspect it, eyes scanning the pattern.
"The pacing on the outer ring," he said, voice flat yet laced with quiet scrutiny. "Explain."
Lucien didn't look up, he didn't even need to. "I staggered the flow with a rotating break pattern to prevent feedback. First-Era frameworks collapse under stable loops, so I embedded disruption anchors to stabilize it."
A beat.
Then Varn stood straight.
"…Acceptable," he said at last, then turned and strode away, his robes swaying sharply with each step.
Merin exhaled slowly, still staring at the glyph. "You shouldn't have been able to do that," he said under his breath. "Everyone knows you… can't—" He caught himself on his words, quickly shutting up as he then nervously glanced up to look at Lucien through his stained glasses.
Oh? Would you look at this boy?
Lucien's smirk returned, subtle and unreadable. He tapped his pen once against the desk.
"People assume too much."
Merin looked away, but something in his posture eased. "…You're not what they say you are."
Lucien turned to him, ice-blue eyes lingering on the boy for just a moment longer.
How interesting... perhaps I should befriend him, it wouldn't hurt to do so.
"No," Lucien responded. "I'm not."
Across the room, Caelum caught his eye and gave him a grin paired with a lopsided thumbs-up. His bruised nose was still swollen from earlier in the courtyard, but he didn't seem to care.
Lucien offered the smallest of nods in return, his fingers flicking a half-hearted thumbs-up of his own.
Then, the classroom doors slid open with force, causing all heads to turn.
Three upperclassmen stood in the entryway, their presence instantly shifting the air in the room. The one at the front looked particularly annoyed, and even more entitled.
Professor Varn also turned, his gaze sharp. "This is a closed class. Explain yourselves at once."
The leader shrugged and spit his gum onto the floor. "Headmaster wants to see Lucien Renhardt. Now."
A stunned silence followed. Lucien blinked once, then slowly stood, his jaw tightening.
Well. So much for a peaceful school day.