The morning sun broke clean over the First Sector, casting long, pale shadows across the manicured lawns.
Here, even the earth felt curated. The turf was cut to an immaculate, uniform depth, vibrant green and devoid of weeds, rolling gently toward rows of silver elms pruned with geometric precision. Flanking the broad flagstone path, a narrow, engineered canal guided a ribbon of crystal-clear water over pale river stones. It moved without the violent rush of mountain runoff, murmuring softly as it caught the light in smooth, mirror-like ripples.
Scattered between the groves stood low-slung, open-air pavilions and glass-fronted study lounges—small, elegant structures designed for student recreation during quiet afternoons.
Cyril walked half a pace behind, his pristine white cotton robes catching the slight morning breeze. His red eyes darted casually from the water to the pristine hedges, untroubled by the foreign grandeur of the flying island, yet observing every stone with quiet wonder. For a boy who had spent his life among the jagged limestone caves and wind-scoured soil of Grenfell Village, the Academy's artificial perfection was another world entirely.
As they crested a slight rise in the path, the quiet trickle of the canal was swallowed by an encroaching wave of sound.
The low hum of conversation grew into a lively clamor of overlapping voices, laughter, and the sharp clatter of iron-rimmed carriage wheels against cobblestones. Ahead, dominating the skyline beyond the treeline, rose the imposing limestone facade of the Northern Dormitory. Slate-tiled roofs peaked into sharp gables, while towering arched entryways opened out onto a wide, sprawling plaza.
The plaza itself was a churning sea of activity. Students filled the square, their energy buzzing with the nervous excitement and raw bravado of the new year. Piles of brass-bound trunks, leather travel sacks, and wooden crates formed small islands throughout the crowd. Attendants heaved luggage up the dormitory's broad stone steps, shouting directions across the courtyard as groups formed, dispersed, and called out to old acquaintances.
Arthur slowed his pace just enough to bring himself level with the younger boy, his posture effortlessly straight beneath his black high-collared uniform. Silver combatant epaulettes caught the sun as he turned, his face settling naturally into the gentle, familiar warmth that commanded the ease of everyone around him.
He raised a hand slightly toward the bustling structure.
"This is the Northern Dormitory."
Lowering his hand, Arthur stepped down from the rise and led the way into the wide expanse of the plaza.
The moment they entered the courtyard, the ambient clamor subtly shifted. Heads turned across the flagstones, and the tide of bustling movement naturally parted to make room for his arrival.
"Good afternoon, Cedric!" a student called out over the scrape of an iron trunk, grinning and raising an arm in greeting.
"Afternoon, Cedric!" came another voice from a group gathered beneath the limestone portico.
Arthur met each greeting without a hitch in his stride. His smile widened into an effortless, easy glow—the kind of quiet warmth that made every passerby feel specifically acknowledged. He raised a hand in return, offering a familiar wave to a pair of passing peers and a friendly, encouraging nod to a circle of flustered admirers struggling to secure a canvas bedroll. Every gesture flowed naturally, settling over the courtyard with unhurried grace.
Trailing just a step behind, Cyril did not go unnoticed. The stark, unadorned simplicity of his flowing white robes and the untamed halo of his snow-white hair instantly stood out against the dark, structured Academy uniforms. Warm, inquisitive eyes drifted from the luggage piles to settle on him. There was no hostility in their looks—only the bright, welcoming curiosity of young mages on the first day of the term. A few students chatting near the decorative dry-stone fountain sent him gentle, encouraging smiles, while another offered an amicable nod as they crossed paths.
A pure, uninhibited warmth bloomed in Cyril's chest as he took in the laughter, the shouted welcomes, and the open faces all around them. It carried the same easy familiarity as the mornings after Sunday sermons back home, where the villagers gathered in the rocky square to share bread and talk about the day ahead.
It's just like how the villagers treated me, he thought, his soft crimson eyes brightening with quiet joy. I want to be friends with them all!
"Cedric!"
The shout cut through the courtyard's hum like a ringing bell. Before Cyril could track the voice, a blur of chaotic vibrancy launched itself through the crowd.
A girl with a mane of teal-cyan hair pounced toward Arthur, her arms thrown wide as if to tackle him into an embrace. Without breaking his stride or dropping his gentle smile, Arthur casually raised his forearm, catching her firmly by the collarbone. He held her at an exact, measured distance, absorbing her momentum with ease.
"Good afternoon, Lady Celeste," Arthur said, his tone polite and perfectly even.
Cyril blinked, tilting his head as he observed the girl struggling against Arthur's extended arm. Her luminous amber-gold eyes were wide and playful, radiating an overwhelming, almost feral energy.
Celeste? Cyril thought, a polite smile touching his lips. She must be another one of Mentor's friends.
But as he looked around, Cyril noticed the ambient noise of the plaza had fractured. The laughter nearest to them died out. Trunks were hastily dragged backward over the cobblestones, the iron wheels scraping loudly in the sudden quiet as the surrounding students scrambled to create a wide, terrified circle around the trio.
Cyril looked left, then right, his white eyebrows furrowing in mild confusion. Huh? Where are they going?
Completely ignoring the retreating crowd, Celeste leaned into Arthur's forearm, her boots sliding slightly on the stone. "You have to keep your promise—" she whined, straining to push past his block.
"Hmm…" Arthur tilted his head, his amber eyes reflecting a calculated warmth. "Since the new semester is coming up, you must be referring to the duel, right? Don't worry, I won't go back on my word."
He ended the sentence with a brilliant, reassuring smile.
"That's not it!"
Celeste violently jerked backward, retracting her arms. In a fraction of a second, the whimsical joy vanished from her face. Her expression twisted into a feral, unblinking glare of genuine, vicious hatred.
The air pressure in the plaza instantly plummeted. Suffocating heat warped the space behind her as three perfectly aligned, glowing-red magic circles flared to life. The intricate geometric syntax rotated with glaring intensity, casting a hellish crimson light over the pale flagstones.
A collective gasp rippled through the distant onlookers.
"Just kidding," Arthur said smoothly.
Before the heat could fully expand, Arthur reached into his coat and produced two cylindrical caramel sticks wrapped in wax paper. He held them up, dangling them precisely at Celeste's eye level.
The lethal tension snapped.
The glowing red circles shattered into harmless ambient sparks, dissolving like mist. Celeste's terrifying glare instantly melted back into a bright, chaotic grin. She snatched one of the caramel sticks from his fingers, tore the paper with her teeth, and shoved the sweet into her mouth, humming with sudden delight.
"Don't mess with me like that," she mumbled around the caramel, resting her hands on her hips. "The duel is already a given."
She puffed out her chest, intending to look deeply intimidating. But with the candy jutting from her mouth and her mood completely reset to a happy, bouncing rhythm, the threat carried no weight at all.
Arthur's smile remained fixed, an immaculate mask of fond exasperation. Behind the warm amber of his eyes, however, his mind was already processing the interaction.
She says that, Arthur calculated, watching her happily chew, but every time she spends more than three hours apart from me, she succumbs to violent tendencies. She becomes a completely unrestrained menace to everyone around her.
He had tested the variables methodically since the break began. The only tactic that kept her docile for extended durations was targeted irritation. Given her hyper-sensitivity, mild teasing achieved this instantly. Since she hadn't exhibited this level of volatility before the third month of the last semester, Arthur had deduced a dangerous truth: she had developed a profound, chaotic dependency on him.
Coupled with her arbitrary nature, he had hypothesized a severe defect in her memory retention in social interaction. If true, the solution required engraving a memory of his presence she couldn't easily discard. He had systematically induced a spectrum of emotions to test their half-lives, narrowing the optimal anchors down to sadness and anger. Anger was the easiest to synthesize.
Initially, he had feared that constantly infuriating a Rank Two mage would fracture their dynamic and jeopardize his standing. Instead, he discovered the ultimate failsafe: her arbitrary amnesia. The induced emotion only dictated the lifespan of the memory's effective period; the moment he apologized, the anger was instantaneously forfeit, her slate wiped entirely clean.
Arthur allowed his eyes to soften, projecting genuine contrition.
"Forgive me, my lady," he said gently, his voice a soothing balm over the tense courtyard. "I was lost in my head for a second. You haven't finished moving your things in yet, right? Why don't I help you, as compensation?"
Celeste paused mid-chew. She tapped her chin with a dramatic hum of contemplation. Then, she threw her arms up, the caramel stick clamped between her teeth.
"Hmmm… Alright, all is forgiven!" she declared, her teal hair bouncing as she latched onto his sleeve. "You are my closest friend, after all. Let's go!"
Standing quietly behind them, Cyril tilted his head. His crimson eyes blinked, processing the exchange.
Closest friend? Cyril thought, looking at the girl practically hanging off his mentor's arm. With a girl?
A memory surfaced from the rocky, wind-scoured limits of Grenfell Village. He remembered standing by the well while Andrew's mother affectionately leaned against Andrew's father, proudly declaring to the villagers that he was her 'closest friend' in the whole world.
Cyril looked back at Arthur and Celeste, connecting the dots with absolute, innocent certainty. A wide, beaming smile spread across his face.
Oh. I see; mentor must want to become a deacon first!