The classroom filled with hushed murmurs after Nemya's welcome. She stood there in silence, her golden eyes sweeping slowly over every row, her presence commanding without a word. For a moment, it felt as though the orb of water itself held its breath, its ripples pausing with her stillness.
When no answer came, she tilted her head and exhaled sharply through her nose, the faintest shake betraying her disappointment.
"You are the worst class I ever—"
Her words had barely left her lips when Syl rose abruptly from her bench, fingers closing around Noah's sleeve to pull him up with her.
Both of them bowed low. Syl's voice was the first to break the silence, calm and steady despite the weight pressing on the room.
"My apologies for the delay in speaking. I was... caught in awe of the orb at the center of the hall. I believe this is the first time I've ever seen something like it. Thank you for receiving us in your class, Professor. I hope to learn much under your guidance."
Nemya's expression softened, the sharp edge of her disappointment giving way to a smile that curved like sunlight breaking through clouds.
"Raise your head. I understand. I too was struck by wonder the first time I saw one. But grow accustomed to it — every one of our classrooms uses a water-mirror orb. It is a reminder that learning should be the first destination of invention, not its last resort. In the past five hundred years, that truth has shaped us more than any weapon or crown."
Her words lingered, settling deep. Her eyes, bright as polished amber, held Syl a moment longer, then flicked in quiet amusement to Noah — still half-stumbling into his seat, clearly lost in the exchange.
Nemya turned her attention once more to the entire room.
And her face changed again. The warmth receded, leaving only the cool edge of disappointment, sharp enough to be felt in the silence.
Boots struck stone. As though a single signal had rung, the rest of the class rose in flawless unison. They bowed low, voices washing together in a chorus that shimmered with practiced harmony: "We hope to learn much from you, Professor. Thank you for receiving us."
The words echoed, but hollow, their harmony too flawless to be anything but imitation.
Nemya's eyes swept across the chamber, and when she spoke again her voice was stripped of warmth. It was tempered steel, ringing sharp against the walls.
"Weak. Useless. Every one of you. Nothing more than cheap flatterers."
The words struck like lashes, the air itself trembling under the weight of them. Some students flinched; others bowed lower, as if stone alone could shield them.
Her gaze lingered, deliberate, drifting toward Syl — and then Noah. The corner of her mouth curved, sharp as a blade.
"Today, you witnessed the difference between a leader who acts, and common soldiers who only echo. Learn it well. By the time this year ends, I will have broken and remade every last one of you."
The shame in the air was palpable, heads still bowed.
Then, with a graceful turn, the water orb shimmered alive at her back, sigils blossoming across its surface. Her tone shifted, smooth and commanding:
"Let us begin with our first subject."
She slipped her left hand free from the folds of her vest, the silver ring on her finger flaring faintly with each delicate motion. Her fingers traced the air like a calligrapher's brush, and the orb obeyed — its liquid surface deepening to crimson, twisting until it mirrored a sky pierced by a blood-red moon.
The glow washed across the chamber, bathing every face as though they stood beneath that sky themselves.
Nemya turned, placing her back to the orb, amber eyes sweeping the rows. "Who here can tell me about the Blood Moon?"
The class shifted uneasily. Silence. Students glanced at one another, waiting for someone else to speak.
Nemya's smile sharpened, her voice soft but biting. "Do you know why none of you answered? Because only those bound by a Soul Link can see it. That, my dear students, is the first truth you will learn today."
Her lips curved into a half-smirk, and she let her gaze linger a moment longer before continuing. "Now... another question. Raise your hand if you've heard of the Floating Festival."
Almost every arm shot into the air. The professor let out a low hum, her smile widening. "As I thought."
She moved with a grace that made the folds of her coat whisper as she walked, golden eyes flicking across the room. "There is no need for me to dwell on something you all already know."
But then her expression shifted — a flicker of curiosity, amusement. One hand still hung in the air.
Noah's.
He cleared his throat, awkward under the sudden weight of so many stares. "Excuse me, Professor. I don't know much about the festival. I've heard of it, but... my family never celebrated. If it's not too much trouble, could you explain it?"
The silence broke in hushed laughter. A ripple of disbelief spread among the students, as though he had confessed to never having learned how to breathe. Whispers rose sharp and cruel, until Syl's glare cut back over her shoulder. The sound died instantly, choked into silence by the weight of her eyes.
Nemya inclined her head, the gesture unexpectedly gentle. "Of course, young man. The pursuit of knowledge is both the heart and the crown of our people. It seems even among my own kind, some forget this truth more easily than I would like to admit."
Her tone cooled, cutting sideways at the students who had mocked him, and for a heartbeat her disapproval hung in the chamber heavier than stone.
Turning again to the orb, she lifted her hand.
"But before we speak of the festival, we must understand why it exists at all — and the bond it shares with the Blood Moon."
She lifted her left hand; the silver ring at her finger caught the light. The orb behind her darkened and then unfurled into soft color: a ring of moons circling like a slow clock. Names shimmered across the water's skin — Dahlia Moon at the end of the ring, Rose Moon at the beginning — while an uncolored band opened between them, a narrow, gleaming span of six hours.
"The red moon and the festival," Nemya said, "are, in truth, different faces of the same phenomenon."
At a subtle turn of her wrist, lanterns bloomed within the uncolored band — tiny lights rising and drifting, music sketched in faint ripples as if the water itself remembered flutes and drums.
"Between the final night of the Dahlia Moon and the first light of the Rose Moon, our calendar enters what we call the floating hours. For a brief time, we belong to neither cycle — the last is finished, the first not yet begun. We are adrift."
She turned from the orb to the class. Some students nodded, eyes bright with shared memories; others wore the soft smiles of inherited nostalgia, lanternlight reflected where joy had once been real.
And then — like a herald sent to wrench the sweetness from their memories and hand it back, chewed — she clicked her heel once against the marble. The sound was clean as a blade. Conversations died.
"Or so it is told," Nemya said, voice silken and cool. "That is the story for those without a Link — for non-summoners."
She let the lanterns fade from the orb, leaving only the slim, pale band of the six hours hovering between Dahlia Moon and Rose Moon.
"For us, the floating hours are not simply a pretty superstition or a convenient excuse to celebrate. They are a real interval in the flow of our year — an interstice where the measure of time loosens and then binds again. The Academy begins at the first dawn of the Rose Moon for this exact reason: so that you have a full cycle to study and strengthen yourselves before the next six hours return."
Her hand fell to her side. The orb's moons dimmed to a patient glow.
"We will speak, in due course, about what that interval means for summoners. For now, remember only this: the city has its lanterns so the streets stay calm. You will have your lessons so the world stays standing."
Nemya lifted her hand again. With a long, deliberate sweep of her fingers, lines of light began to thread across the great water-orb — not radiating from a center, but weaving into one another, a lattice with no origin and no end. The more she traced, the more the pattern resolved: a living web suspended in water, every strand humming faintly as if singing to its neighbors.
"This," she said, voice low and clear, "is the true reason behind the Blood Moon — and the festival dressed up to hide it. An interdimensional network. Our world was never alone. We were fools to mistake ignorance for singularity."
Something pained flickered across her features — grief that had nothing of theater about it — and then anger tightened the line of her mouth. She stepped closer. This time, she didn't gesture — she set her palm to the orb. The silver ring on her finger did not flare; it slipped free, drawn as if by a tide, and sank into the water's heart. The sphere answered with a deep, resonant thrum. Images bloomed.
They came in cycles, each one forming with glassy clarity, dissolving, and then returning, refined: a sky veined with hairline fissures, thin cracks spidering outward until the firmament looked ready to splinter; a battlefield glimpsed through a red haze — broken wards guttering like dying candles, banners half-buried in mud, armor scattered among bodies and black pools spreading slow as oil; and moving through that ruin, shapes that would not hold — specters of color smearing at the edges: a wash of sickly green, a flare of bone-white, a sulfurous yellow glint, and swathes of devouring shadow. They slipped like smoke and yet cast weight on the ground, as if the orb could feel them even when it could not define them. Faces never resolved; only the suggestion of limbs, the impression of claws, and the steady, inhuman poise of things that did not breathe.
The class held its breath. Ink-strokes stalled mid-curve. Memory orbs dimmed to watch.
A boy lurched to his feet, a hand pressed to his stomach, face gone pale, and bolted for the door. It banged open, then sighed shut behind him.
Nemya didn't so much as turn her head. "Only one this year," she said, voice cool. "It seems you're not quite as fragile as I expected."
The vision shifted: scholars in soot-streaked robes, chalking constellations of sigils across slate and stone, mapping currents no eye could see while the cracks above them breathed like a wound; early summoners beneath red-tinged nights, hands pressed to their chests as if listening for a door inside the ribs, for something that wasn't there — until it was; and, at last, lanterns rising over a human city — drifting, drifting — while runes along the eaves brightened and dimmed like breathing, the streets below washed in festival light that could not quite chase the crimson from the sky.
Noah watched, trying to drink everything at once and knowing he couldn't. Beside him, Syl sat very still. At first he thought she was simply concentrating — and then he saw her hands. Her fists were closed tight in her lap, tucked beneath the lip of the desk as if hiding would make the tension smaller. When the images shifted toward the rift-lit sky again, her gaze slid away, not sharply, but with the quiet stubbornness of someone refusing a wound fresh air.
Noah hesitated for a heartbeat, then set his palm, light as a promise, over her knuckles. He leaned fractionally closer until his shoulder touched hers and said under the low hum of the orb, "I'm here. It's all right. You don't have to look."
She startled at the contact — a small, involuntary flinch — and then, carefully, she uncurled her fingers beneath his and laced them through his own. Her head tipped, the weight of it coming to rest against his shoulder. She shut her eyes.
He twined his fingers properly, not letting the touch be halfway, and let her settle there.
I've never seen her like this.
Since breakfast she's been... different.
But now isn't the time to be curious.
She needs you. That's enough.
He lifted his eyes to the orb again. At its core the silver ring glowed, brightening with each new projection as the sequence looped and refined: the world-web pulsing in threads of light... then the image slid, and hairline fractures spidered outward through space itself above fields strewn with bodies. Dark stains soaked the earth. At the edges of sight, shapes moved — shadows that never quite resolved, as if the world refused to hold them. The chamber stayed very quiet: the soft rasp of a quill, the chiming breath of the water, the shared rhythm of held lungs.
Nemya lifted her hand and curled two fingers. The ring answered. It rose from the heart of the orb, beaded with water, spun once, and slipped back onto her finger. As it left, the carnage drained away; the fractures thinned to threads; the display resolved cleanly into a lattice of luminous lines — an ordered map of crossings and currents.
"As I said," she resumed, her voice even, "this is the interdimensional mesh from which Soul Links are drawn when a pact is formed." A faint sweep of her wrist and the mesh magnified, strands breathing in slow tide. "Our conduits for pactwork resemble rifts, but they are not the same. A summoner's gateway carries a clean signature — its light steady, its resonance orderly. The apertures used by Nulls are not. Their hue drifts off-shade; their resonance muddies — like bruised glass." The water obeyed her touch, its tint shifting just enough that the class could feel, more than see, the difference. "You cannot record them — only their afterimage."
She let that settle, then added, "And the most important distinction: Null apertures open only during the Blood Moon. In those six 'floating' hours between the last day of Dahlias and the first of Roses, the mesh aligns. Every bond between realms tightens. Your Links will feel stronger. That alignment is what makes invasion possible." The mesh dimmed to a quiet ripple, leaving only the low pulse of the orb in the room.
The classroom settled into a low, living hush. Professor Nemya let the quiet breathe, then made a small, precise motion with her fingers.
A soft rustle moved through the chamber as she circled the water orb, her long coat trailing behind her like a slow tide. The orb answered her nearness with a faint chime, light playing over the stone and the pale faces of first-years.
The murmur of students swelled again — thin threads of arrogance and disbelief twisting together. From just behind him, Noah caught a hissed remark, sharp enough to sting though it wasn't aimed at Syl this time.
"My family says those Nulls aren't even real. Just a story. A way for the Crown to bleed coin on phantom wars."
A small ripple of agreement followed — careless voices unscarred by memory.
Syl's fingers tightened around Noah's hand. He felt her lean in, the slight weight of her shoulder brushing his, a wordless answer of steel.
Before he could speak, another voice cut cleanly across the room. Cold. Exact. Unforgiving.
"You think the Nulls are stories?"
Nemya had not raised her voice. She didn't need to. The air itself seemed to recoil.
Until then she had moved with graceful restraint, her left hand sketching symbols into the orb. Now she shifted. The long folds of her coat fell aside. Her right arm lifted.
The sleeve slid back.
Gasps scattered through half the hall.
Her arm was a ruin — flesh and stone married by violence. Jagged scars ran like claw marks from shoulder to wrist, and within them faint, molten fissures glowed, as if something had tried to burn its way out. It was grotesque and compelling at once: a record carved into a body that had not been allowed to forget.
Nemya raised the arm higher so the light could find every line.
"Many of you were born after the war," she said, voice almost quiet, almost gentle. "I can forgive ignorance. I can even forgive arrogance. But make no mistake—" Her amber eyes swept the circle, pinning faces one by one. "The Nulls do not care whether you believe in them. They will tear your throat open and leave you to drown in your own blood, belief or not."
Silence pressed down like a hand. Even the orb seemed to still, its ripples gone to glass.
With deliberate calm, she drew the sleeve back into place. The coat settled as if nothing had disturbed it. Her expression smoothed — elegance restored, authority intact.
"Now," she said, voice returning to satin over steel, "let us return to the class."
Faint hums drifted from scattered memory orbs — little crystals no bigger than a clenched fist glowing on the desks of the more devoted students. Their light was steady, pulsing with a rhythm of their own as they quietly captured every word and ripple of the lesson. At other tables, magical quills whispered across white-silver plates: strokes flared — crimson, blue, pale gold — before settling into ordinary ink. A few students experimented, sliding a second sigil into a quill to blend pigments; a violet line bloomed from red and blue, an ember-orange cooled into sepia. With each touch, a translucent blue film unfurled over the plate like thin water accepting rain, then dimmed as the letters set. At the edge of every plate, a small rune glowed; a tap and the film scrolled upward, leaving a fresh surface, like turning a page without moving the book.
The room breathed around these small motions: the soft clink of quills, the hush of boots repositioning on stone, the damp, mineral scent that came each time the water-orb gave a low, answering chime. Whispered comments braided with the steady scratch of note-taking, a familiar weave of diligence and nerves.
Noah leaned forward, eyes flicking from the glimmer of sigils to the pale films rolling like endless scrolls. He caught the faint metallic tang off his plate, the cool breath of the orb, the distant echo of the chamber's round acoustics. It was a lot all at once — sound, light, smell, motion — but he couldn't look away.
At the center, the orb's glow softened. Light drew inward. The sphere shrank to half its size and stilled, water gone to glass, a perfectly frozen moon hovering over the floor.
Professor Nemya faced them. "That," she said, calm and absolute, "means we are finished for today."
For a heartbeat no one moved. Then the room loosened all at once: memory orbs dimmed and slipped into velvet pouches; runes were tapped and blue films scrolled clean; quills clicked into cases; benches creaked as students stood. The low tide of voices returned, careful at first, then swelling as the doorways filled with uniforms and chatter.
Noah set his plate aside and rose. Beside him, Syl was already on her feet. She hadn't let go of his sleeve since the last sequence of images; now her fingers slid to his forearm and stayed, firm and unembarrassed. Up close he felt the tiniest tremor in her grip. He didn't say anything — just shifted so her hand could anchor more easily and matched his pace to hers.
They stepped into the aisle. The circle of the room folded behind them in reflections: the stilled orb like a captured moon. As they reached the doors, the smell of damp stone thinned into corridor air — cold light, distant footsteps.
Syl kept his arm as they crossed the threshold. Her chin was high, her expression composed again, but her hand didn't loosen. Noah let the silence stand, steady as a hand on a hilt, and walked with her into the hall.
They hadn't gone ten paces down the corridor when a figure peeled out of the shadow of a windowed alcove and settled into their path — leaning against the stone with the kind of ease that still read as posture.
"Excuse me — may I speak with you both?" The elf dipped a neat bow. "I'm Fley, second-year. I want to apologize for Kurtys."
Her gaze flicked to Syl's hand on Noah's forearm — just a heartbeat of notice — then back up. "He doesn't represent the second-years. Or me. If you need anything, just ask for me."
Noah opened his mouth, found nothing there, and managed a soft, "Thank you," that sounded like it had tripped on the way out. He shifted, not pulling away from Syl, but aware of every place her fingers anchored him.
Syl inclined her head. "Your consideration is appreciated," she said. Her voice was steady, but a shade lower than usual, as if something had passed over it and left a coolness behind. She didn't move her hand. If anything, she eased closer by a fraction, a natural, unconscious step that placed her shoulder between Noah and the corridor's drift of students.
Syl let out a breath Noah hadn't known she was holding. She didn't drop his arm. As they started forward again, her knuckles brushed his sleeve once, twice — an almost absent reassurance — and she stayed close enough that her shoulder brushed his with every third step.
Fley stepped back to the wall with a small nod, letting the current of students close the space. Syl guided Noah on, and their footsteps found the corridor's rhythm again — stone underfoot, low voices thinning behind them. By the time they rounded the next archway, the second-year was already lost to the flow; only the cool wash of garden light ahead remained, and Syl's hand, still resting lightly at Noah's arm, eased but did not leave as they walked.
After two more classes they returned to the lodge. Syl went in first; three steps past the door she sank onto the couch and leaned back in silence, eyes closed.
Noah watched her, worry pinching his brow. He glanced down at his boots, thinking.
What can I do to cheer her up...
Think, Noah, think...
SOUP.
He slipped into the kitchen and looked back at her. The classroom had emptied from her eyes, but the weight of it still clung to her shoulders.
"I'll make the vegetable soup you liked in the labyrinth," he said, trying for lightness as he rolled up his sleeves. "The one you admitted you only mostly liked — remember?"
Her mouth tugged — almost a smile. "Yes. Thank you."
Noah scratched his head, gathered carrots, leeks, and a squat potato, and set a cutting board on the counter. An idea clicked.
"Want to help? Only if you feel like it."
She looked up quickly and, with a small, eager hop, was inches from him. "I do."
He handed her a knife and a carrot. Syl braced, concentrated — and promptly reduced the first slice to uneven gravel. A tiny, mortified sound escaped her.
Noah bit back a laugh and failed softly. "Not like that." He tilted his head. "Here — let me show you."
His hand settled over hers, warm and steady. "Curl your fingers. Knuckles forward — see? The blade kisses the knuckles and can't bite you." He anchored the tip, rocking the knife in a slow arc. "Like this... gentle. Let the knife do the work."
They moved together — his palm guiding, her grip easing by degrees. Slice, rock, draw back. The knife whispered. Water sighed in the pot as it began to warm; the air lifted with the green-bright scent of leeks and a tickle of thyme he crushed between his fingers. Syl's first true slice fell clean. Then another. A quiet, surprised laugh slipped out of her, light and honest.
"Again," she said, a little breathless.
"Again," he echoed, easing his hand away but staying close. She found the rhythm, shoulders loosening, the line of her mouth unknitting as the board filled with neat coins of carrot and pale-green half-moons of leek. A wooden spoon tapped the rim of the pot; steam curled up, soft and home-warm. Somewhere in the lodge a floorboard clicked as the evening cooled.
When she glanced up in triumph, lamplight caught in her green eyes — and the smile there was the kind that asked for nothing and gave everything away.
Noah smiled back and thought, quietly:
There it is.
What I was looking for.
The most beautiful smile I've ever seen.