I walk through the vestibule—the temple of knowledge. It opens into a high-ceiling hall. Pillars of polished marble rise along the walls, set with patterned ceramic tiles. Heavy wooden beams support the roof. Above, chandeliers hum softly, glass containers glowing with steady white light.
Students move through the entrance, spilling into branching corridors. Shoes scrape stone. Voices echo and overlap, never quite settling.
At the center stands a massive sheep statue carved from stone. Its surface is worn smooth where hands have touched it. Students cluster around it.
I approach one. "Excuse me, do you know which room Professor Silva is teaching in?"
"Professor Silva? Room 3‑1. Morning class is about to start—you'd better hurry."
"3‑1?"
"Third floor, room one. Hard to miss." He points toward the grand staircases flanking the hall.
"Thanks." I nod and move toward the stairs. Oil paintings line the walls as I ascend.
On the third floor, I enter a corridor of classrooms. To my right, a sign reads 3‑1.
Through the glass, I see hundreds of students seated on tiered wooden benches, arranged like a small amphitheater. At the bottom rises a wooden platform. At its center rests a heavy oak desk. Light comes from liquid lanterns hung at intervals and from high open windows, admitting pale daylight.
Most female students sit in the front rows. The men gather toward the back.
A voice comes from behind me.
"Are you going in?"
I turn. A young man in a long dark coat over a white shirt. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Sharp features. Professor Isaak Silva stands there.
"Yes, Professor."
I open the door and enter. He does not follow yet.
I climb to the highest tier and sit at a long wooden desk in the back row.
The room settles into a strained quiet. A few students whisper.
Then the door opens.
"KYAAAAAAAA!"
High-pitched screams tear through the room. Some girls slap their desks. Others clap, hands trembling, faces flushed. A sound halfway between panic and celebration.
The professor enters, walks to the platform, and places his bag on the desk. He stands at the center.
"Shhh." He raises a finger to his lips.
The room falls silent.
He steps toward a girl in the front row.
"I like you, Sylva. We share a name."
Before she can respond, he kisses her on the lips.
"KYAAAAAAAA!"
The classroom erupts.
"Shhh… enough fun." He raises both hands.
"What's the topic for today? Anyone know?"
He steps toward another girl in the front row.
"How about you?"
"History?" she replies, uncertain.
"Too broad." He walks to the center.
A young man raises his hand. "Mass Chromatic Hysteria?"
"Correct," Professor Silva says. "If you were a girl, I'd kiss you too."
Laughter ripples through the class, uneven and loud.
He raises a hand; the room goes silent again.
"Cultists outside our glorious Republic claim they can see what cannot be seen. It is the effect of religious hysteria."
He moves along the front row.
He taps a girl's shoulder. "Why is religion wrong?"
"Too many deities," she says quickly. "We can't keep up."
"Correct." Professor Silva leans in to her face and kisses her lips.
"Our Republic has no choirs, no deities—only Orders." He slams his foot down; the sound cracks. "It is proof of our superiority. We don't rely on divinity, we rely on logic and reason."
"Yessssss!" a boy screams.
"I like your energy." The professor points at him, smiling.
I write some of his statements in my notebook. Others belong in my diary.
I pay attention to his actions, not his words, until class finishes.
Once the class ends, I follow him down the corridor, matching his pace, letting my steps fall quietly behind his.
He takes the grand staircase up to the fourth floor, then walks down a long corridor.
He stops at the door at the end. I wait a fraction, then knock.
"Come in," he says.
I open the door and walk in. A single wooden bed presses against one wall; a desk sits near the open window. The liquid lantern above casts a wavering glow.
Professor Isaak Silva sits near the window.
"Good Friday, Professor."
"Good Friday," he replies, turning to face me.
"About your class—," I start, then let the pause hang. "I wasn't there because it's my first choice."
"Is my class boring?" he asks.
"No, it's very exciting," I raise my tone, careful. "I like it, but…"
"Yeah?"
"There's this girl—"
"Ah, a third one," he cuts me off. "I see where this is going."
"You do?"
He stands.
"Come to me after class next week." He steps closer, resting a hand on my shoulder.
"Okay."
"Your name?"
"Damian Smith."
He leans in and whispers, "You have a promising future, Damian."
He smiles.
I return the smile, measured, steady. I let it linger in just the right rhythm, gauging his reaction.
Then I leave his chamber. Walk away from the main building. Leave Haverstock University.
I take a carriage back to Hearthlight Building. The wheels scrape wet cobblestones, leaving a faint rhythm in the foggy air.
Gary sits in his office.
"Good Friday."
"Good Friday. So?"
"I don't have proof he practices alchemy. But I think I can get close to him."
"Good." He claps the table. The sound echoes faintly, wood striking wood. "How so?"
"He wants me to spend time with him next Friday."
"Okay. You don't need to come here next Friday."
"I'd also like to work half a day tomorrow," I say, exhaling. The air smells faintly of ink and lavender. "I have somewhere else to be."
"Done. Just finish today's work." He coughs, a dry, rasping sound. "Margaret needs you."
"Understood."
I leave his office.
Margaret sits at her usual desk. Paper rustles as she shifts.
"Good Friday, Len."
"Good Friday, Margaret."
She hands me a black uniform with blue accents. A white bird, etched into a glowing lantern, gleams on the chest. The fabric smells faintly of beeswax and starch.
"Your uniform's ready."
"Thanks."
"Wear it now." She giggles.
I unbutton my blazer, remove it, and slip into the Hearthlight uniform. The cloth feels crisp, almost alive under my fingers.
"You look wonderful." She smiles, dragging me to a clerk desk. "This is your desk."
"Thanks," I murmur.
"You know what to do, but I'll teach you how to be a proper clerk."
I nod, watching her movements—the way she shifts weight, gestures, smiles. Small lessons.
A dark-skinned man approaches. Skin and bone. Tattered clothes. His eyes dart nervously.
"Pay attention," Margaret whispers.
I nod.
"Good Friday," the man says, voice gravelly.
"Good Friday," Margaret replies, cheerful.
He drops two rocks on the desk. The clink echoes lightly. "I want to show my gratitude… this is all I can donate this week."
"Two Phens! How exciting," she says, cheerful. "You can double it tomorrow."
He smiles, teeth glinting in the lantern light. "You're right. I can double it tomorrow. I just need to fast again."
"Every problem has a solution," she says, voice soft but firm.
He nods, leaves. His boots scrape the floor behind him.
"See, Len? Easy," Margaret says. "You do it now."
I step forward.
"Remember to smile."
I put on a smile. It feels like a mask pressed onto my face.
Another client arrives. Skin and bone. Deep-set eyes. Blonde hair. Emerald-green eyes. Clean silk dress. Tanya. Her perfume is faint—citrus and dust.
"Good Friday, Tanya."
"Good Friday, Len. Weekly donation."
She spills rocks from her bag. The sound is sharp against the wooden desk. "A hundred phens."
"That's great," I say, cheerful. "You can double it."
She coughs, smiling faintly. "I'll ask my fiancé for more."
I take the rocks, cold and smooth in my palm, and place them in the container under my desk as she leaves.
"Good job, Len," Margaret taps my shoulder. Her hand is warm, brief. "You learn fast for an initiate."
I continue accepting donations and finish my job for the day.
That day I learn to wear a mask.
A proper man without identity.