The Obsidian Academy rose from the Whisperlands like a crown of black glass, its seven spires piercing the perpetual twilight that had settled over the ancient grounds five centuries ago.
Professor Theophilus Roarke stood in The Chronos Chamber, where time dripped like honey, a viscous material sticking to the walls carved from crystalized starlight, capturing it.
Here, in the space devoid of passage of time, the Academy's most crucial decisions had been made for three hundred years. But today, Professor Roarke stood here alone. Above his head, thousands of floating orbs of captured aura drifted at various speeds, crashing into the walls and each other, bouncing around in random directions. He was glad he had brought his helmet with him. A fear of concussion had always plagued him, unfortunately.
"Show me," he whispered to the chamber.
The orbs started pulsating with light, each one in a different rhythm and intensity. They almost blinded Professor Roarke, who had realized he had forgotten to bring sunglasses, yet again. No one would believe it if he told them how violent the Academy's dealings could get.
The pulsating slowly synchronized between the orbs and allowing the knowledge to escape from them, flooding through him. The weight of three centuries pressed against him. The Academy's memory was vast and terrible and beautiful: brilliant minds that had bent over star-charts and thick tomes, studying into the dead of night. Each generation repeats the successes of the previous.
But that was the issue, Professor Roarke thought. They repeat. The patterns were always the same. Crown princes learned to bind oaths with celestial light because that was what crown princes did. Merchant heirs mastered the mathematics of desire, transmuting gold into influence, because commerce was in their blood. Scholar-lords brewed wisdom from moonwater because knowledge was their inheritance.
Generation after generation, fulfilling their destinies with precision. A determined precision. It was all so boring.
"The pattern is degrading," echoed an angelic voice. "Our graduates master every art we teach them. They brew perfect potions, they summon familial spirits, they learn the ancient tongues."
"And yet?" Professor Roarke prompted, though he already knew.
"They have become predictable. When power follows bloodline and bloodline follows tradition, even the most magnificent magic becomes ordinary."
"We need students who will fail magnificently," the Professor concluded and smiled, walking toward the spiral staircase that would carry him down through the Academy's living heart. He had ravens to send, family trees to examine, and so much probability to calculate. There wasn't much time left.
But first, he had to find some eye drops.