Mirian stood frozen for a moment, her eyes tracking the spot where the shrouded figure had vanished. The plaza was alive with the morning rush, but the sight of that intruder felt like a jagged crack in a polished mirror.
Nearby, a Torrviol guard stood as a pillar of black, white, and orange. His ceremonial plate armor caught the flickering lamplight, and a heavy halberd rested in his grip. Despite the medieval look, Mirian knew the lethal reality: the revolvers and spell-wands at his belt were far more dangerous than the steel.
She approached him, feeling a sudden, fluttering nervousness. She'd never reported a crime before. "Hi, sorry to bother you..."
The guard remained a statue, eyes fixed on the horizon.
Mirian cleared her throat, louder this time. "It's just… I saw someone on the roof. A person in a shroud. They jumped from the brick building onto Alchemistry. I don't think they belong there."
The guard finally shifted his gaze, his expression unreadable. "I'll report it," he said flatly, before returning to his silent vigil.
"Great. Well, thank you. I'm… off to class," Mirian muttered. When she glanced back, he hadn't moved an inch. 'Report it' must mean later, she thought bitterly. Much later. She felt like a fool, and with an Alchemistry exam looming, she couldn't afford the distraction.
The entrance to the Alchemistry building bore a grim motto: Respect for the Fundamental Forces of the Universe. Below it, a plaque titled In Memoriam listed four names—students who had failed to show that very respect and paid with their lives.
Inside, Professor Sefora Seneca was already at her lectern, her eyes darting between her pocket watch and the straggling students. Seneca lived for her subject; she spoke of volatile molecules with the same passion others reserved for fine art, often pointing to a student-gifted banner that read: It's a complex subject, so it takes a lot of study.
Mirian took her seat just as the clock tower bonged six times.
"Today, we do the grand overview," Seneca announced, her voice chirpy but firm. "And yes, this will be on tomorrow's exam."
With a tap on a rune, the lights dimmed, and a spell-engine in the ceiling projected a shimmering illusion onto the central pedestal. Mirian watched, mesmerized. Even after years at the academy, the way magitech could turn raw mana into light and data still felt like a miracle.
"Remember," Seneca continued, gesturing to the glowing diagrams, "Natural mana—the auric flow around your soul—is for casting. Do NOT feed it directly into a spell-engine unless you want your soul peeled apart like an orange."
"Will that be on the test?" a student blurted.
"It will be now!" Seneca chirped.
As the lecture dived into the Tarrian-Bolt equations and the lethality of D-class mana—which Seneca compared to eating "toxic rocks"—Mirian's pen flew across her notebook. Math was her sanctuary; the equations made sense where the rest of her life didn't.
"Damn," a voice whispered next to her.
She looked up to see Nicolus leaning over, admiring her meticulous, color-coded notes. Nicolus was the kind of handsome that came with a heavy price tag and effortless confidence. He was the center of every bit of drama in the final-year class, and Mirian usually made it a point to stay in his blind spot.
She blushed and looked back at her desk.
By the end of the hour, as the class packed up, Nicolus leaned in again. "Hey. Want to study together? I've got a personal tutor who can help us both."
Mirian's heart skipped. A tutor? That was a luxury she couldn't dream of. "Sure," she said, trying to sound casual. "My last class ends at four."
"Great. Meet me at the Bainrose gatehouse. Stay out of the rain." He flashed a grin and vanished before the bell even rang.
Her next stop was Myrvite Ecology 351, held in a refurbished granite arena where gladiators once bled for sport. Now, the arena housed a massive greenhouse of magical flora. Professor Viridian, a man who looked so much like a wizard he might as well have been a caricature, stood before a chalkboard, shunning the modern spell-engines.
"Regal Cordyline, ruby variety," Viridian announced, pointing to a plant shimmering in a pot surrounded by protective runes. "Beautiful, yes? But it produces Glycoaurate 15-A. What do we know of its classification?"
The class stayed silent until a hand shot up. Valen.
"Glycomyriate," Valen said, her voice sharp. "Extremely volatile if the flow is destabilized."
Mirian suppressed a sigh. Valen had been her shadow for five years—insulting her, spreading rumors, and always competing for the top artificer spots.
"Observe," Viridian said. He donned a heavy, rune-plated steel gauntlet and reached toward the plant. As he plucked a leaf, the air hissed. A crown of golden light erupted above the plant, crackling with enough heat to make Mirian recoil in the second row.
"The Golden Crown," the professor whispered, showing the black singe marks on his metal glove. "Wear your gear, or lose your arm. We can't grow those back yet."
The lecture was brilliant, connecting the alchemy they learned from Seneca to the living, breathing world. Mirian sketched the plants in her margins, her mind wandering to Nicolus. A friendship with him could change everything—security, money, a future for her family.
But as she left the arena, the feeling of safety shattered.
Down a restricted stone corridor leading to the myrvite kennels—where the most dangerous beasts were kept—she saw it again. Another cloaked figure, moving with a predator's grace away from the light.
"Did you see that?" she whispered, turning to the person next to her.
She froze. It was Valen.
"Yeah," Valen replied, her usual sneer replaced by genuine confusion. "That's a forbidden corridor. And that definitely wasn't a researcher."
Mirian stood there, the weight of the morning's omens finally sinking in. The hole in her ceiling, the scream, the shadowy figures, and now even Valen was being... helpful.
"We should tell Professor Viridian," Mirian said, her voice trembling. "Something is very wrong."