The voice was sharp, commanding, but also edged with exasperation—like someone used to being annoyed by just about everything. Michael blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his eyes. Gone was the endless sky and glowing hedges. Instead, he stood in a circular office that looked like a hoarder's paradise and a scholar's nightmare all at once.
Towering bookshelves spiralled up the walls, crammed with tomes, scrolls, and artifacts. A great stained-glass window bathed the room in shifting colors, its pattern depicting—what else?—a griffin in battle with a dragon.
At the center of it all sat an enormous desk carved from dark oak, its surface covered in yet more books, maps, and quills that scratched on their own without anyone touching them. Beside him was a woman,
she was old, with silver hair coiled into a tight bun and sharp gray eyes that looked like they had seen through centuries. But her back was straight, her robes immaculate, and her presence filled the room with an authority that pressed down on Michael harder than the griffin's gaze had.
Headmistress Halden.
She finally let go of his wrist and brushed her hand as if dusting off something bothersome. "Honestly. Do you have any idea how loud that beast gets when someone dithers around my door? You'd think I starve it for entertainment."
Michael swallowed, trying not to look like a deer caught in a spotlight. "Uh… sorry?"
Halden fixed him with that hawk-like stare. "Sorry, won't keep you alive in this place, boy." Her eyes narrowed just slightly, and then, to Michael's utter confusion, her mouth twitched—just a little. "But it's a start."
Slowly, the Headmistress made her way around the desk, her robes whispering against the floor as she moved. With one hand, she gestured toward a chair opposite her.
Michael scrambled up, brushing the dust off his clothes before sitting down. The chair was stiff and far too big for him, but he forced himself to sit tall under her piercing gaze.
Halden leaned forward, her sharp gray eyes narrowing as if peeling back his very skin.
"So… you're the boy who took on a Chieftain," she said, her voice low, measured, each word carrying weight. "Quite a feat for a commoner with no guidance."
Michael opened his mouth, unsure how to answer, but she raised a hand.
"I don't believe in miracles."
The air changed in an instant. The pressure that fell upon him was crushing—far heavier than Sir Edward's, heavier even than the suffocating presence of the Goblin Chieftain. Michael gripped the arms of the chair to keep from shaking. His heart pounded, sweat prickled at his temples, and every breath felt like it might be his last.
Her gaze sharpened. "Where are you from, boy? And do not try to lie." She leaned in, her presence pressing down like an avalanche. "My eyes see all."
Michael gritted his teeth, forcing his head up to meet her stare, fury burning in his eyes. For a moment, he forgot the griffin, forgot the strange garden—forgot everything but her. Through clenched teeth, in between a cough and the metallic taste of blood, he rasped, "I'm… an orphan."
The weight didn't lift. If anything, it grew heavier, smothering.
"That seems to be the truth," she said coolly. "Then who trained you? Was it Edward? Or are you a pawn for those hidden old foxes?"
Michael's vision dimmed, the world blurring into darkness as if he were going blind. Panic clawed at him. His chest burned, desperate for air. Think—answer—before she crushes me completely.
"Nobody…" His voice cracked, raw. "Nobody trained me...in the world of magic."
One of her brows arched. The suffocating weight eased slightly, though her gaze remained fixed on him, unyielding. "Then where did you train—in the human world?"
Dots of light returned to his sight. His throat tasted of rust, as if he had swallowed a gallon of blood. His skin was slick with sweat. But in that agony, something stirred inside him.
A pulse.
Almost without meaning to, Michael let out a pressure of his own. Weak, raw, uncontrolled—but unmistakably an aura. It seeped into the air around him, instinctual and untamed, like a wild flame refusing to be snuffed out.
Drawing a ragged breath, he raised his eyes to meet hers again. "The Aldcrofts."
The moment the words left his lips, her expression shifted. The pressure vanished entirely. The storm in her eyes softened, and for the first time, the iron in her face cracked.
'Another lost soul,' she thought, studying him. Poor boy. Even his aura is cold and devoid of emotion—but there's a light in his eyes. Warmth. What horrors shaped him, broke him, and forced him to mend in such a way?
For the faintest heartbeat, grief flickered across her gaze. Then, with a long, weary sigh, she lowered herself back into her chair with a heavy thud.
With a graceful swipe of her hand, porcelain teacups and a steaming kettle shimmered into existence on the desk. The scent of herbs and honey drifted through the air. Without a word, Headmistress Halden poured the tea herself, sliding one of the cups toward Michael.
"Drink this," she said. Her tone was now calm, steady, almost soothing compared to the crushing force from before. "It will help you feel better."
Michael hesitated, his hand trembling slightly as he wrapped it around the warm porcelain.
Halden's gaze softened by a fraction. "And I apologize for the… demonstration. It was necessary. Too many students come here with bad intentions. We must be careful—especially when the boy in question is rumored to have held his own against a Chieftain before developing a core."
Michael nearly dropped the cup. He blinked at her, heat rushing to his face.
"You knew about me?" he asked, voice tight, almost accusing.
Halden set her own cup down with deliberate care, her sharp gray eyes locking on his. "About you, boy. About the Goblin Chieftain, about the man Edward dragging you here, about the strange way you fight without a core yet still manage to survive."
She leaned back slightly, studying him as though he were a puzzle she intended to solve. "Do you think tales of a child defeating a Chieftain wouldn't reach my ears? Or that Edward would bring someone into this academy without cause?"
Halden's eyes lingered on him a moment longer, but she let the name Aldcroft slip away, folding it quietly into her thoughts. Instead, her lips curled into something between a smirk and a sigh.
"Edward…" she said at last, tasting the name like it carried both weight and bitterness. "So he's the one who found you."
Michael frowned. "You know him?"
Her gaze flickered, sharp and distant all at once. "Know him?" She gave a dry chuckle and leaned back in her chair. "That man has been a thorn and a shield in my side for longer than you've been alive. We've stood on the same field, bled under the same banners, and argued until kingdoms crumbled around us."
Her eyes narrowed, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth. "Friend? Rival? The truth is blurrier than either of us would ever admit."
Michael sat frozen, unsure if she was speaking to him or to herself.
Halden's expression hardened again. "But if Edward has sent you to me, then I cannot ignore it. He does nothing without purpose. So tell me, boy—what reason did he give?"
"He didn't give any reason," Michael admitted, his voice steady despite the knot in his chest. "Only that this school would be the only place in all the realms where I could learn to control my power… and the first step to finding the answers I've been looking for."
Halden's gaze softened, just slightly. "Helping young people control their power is what we do," she said, her voice shifting into something almost grandmotherly, gentle where it had once been sharp. "But as for answers… You must first ask the questions. Don't you think?"
Michael hesitated, then leaned forward, speaking almost in a whisper.
"Well, I would like to know who wrote this: 'When the inner flame stirs… time no longer holds dominion.'"
The words hung in the air like a bell tolling through silence.
Halden's teacup slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor, tea spreading in a dark stain across the carpet. Her gray eyes went wide, locked on him as though she were staring at a ghost long thought buried.
Her hand trembled—just slightly—but her gaze never wavered. When she spoke, her words came slow, deliberate, every syllable heavy.
"Michael… what is your power?"