In the lower corridors of the spell grounds of the Magnus Hall, where stained glass filtered the warm sun into glyphs and drifting motes of light, Lucien Brunet strode like a man born to be watched.
He adjusted the cuffs on his robe, deep midnight blue with sigils embroidered in silver-threaded flame, flawless, pressed, and just recently laundered.
His boots did not creak. His steps did not echo. He moved like a polished wand: straight, refined, and aware of its own worth.
Magnus Hall was a sanctuary of higher minds, the absolute pinnacle of magical learning in the known world. And Lucien, fourth-generation alumnus, prodigy of three disciplines, and likely candidate for junior faculty status within a year, was one of its brightest stars.
So, when he saw the two newcomers loitering by the arched entryway to the lower library vestibule, he paused.
They were clearly not from here. Not from any of the recognized circles, that was certain.
The man wore a black, travel-worn robe and had loose white hair, as if personal presentation were optional.
He at least carried a staff, simple, by the looks of it, but wore no pin of formal schooling. He was chatting with a young girl whose posture was too casual, too brutish, to be of academic stock.
Together, they looked more like wanderers or, gods forbid, practitioners of hedge magic; self-taught, without any formal education.
Lucien's mouth twitched into the faintest smile. He approached with the grace of a diplomat and the inner smugness of someone preparing to be graciously condescending.
"Welcome," he said, inclining his head by precisely the right number of degrees. "You must be… transferees? Visitors?"
The man turned toward him, expression unreadable. "Something like that."
Lucien nodded solemnly. "Ah, yes. A commendable effort by the school council to open our doors. Inclusion is noble, of course, though I do worry about standards being diluted. You understand."
"I'm sure someone does," the man replied dryly.
Lucien didn't catch the tone, or perhaps he didn't care. He forged onward.
"I'm Lucien Brunet. Senior student, specializing in theoretical conjury, scroll transcription, and ancestral binding. I'm currently preparing for ascension candidacy." He smiled as if that meant something to the world. "It's quite competitive, but I've managed to stay ahead."
"You must study a lot," the girl said.
"Oh, not at all. Discipline makes it invigorating." He folded his arms, letting the long sleeves fall back to reveal the enchanted silver bands along his forearms. "I dedicate eighty hours a week to scrollwork alone. Not including meditation, comparative alchemical theory, or planar resonance calibration."
"Eighty hours?" the girl repeated, looking to the man, who arched a brow.
"Yes. You see, excellence requires total commitment. I'm not sure what your… ah… previous institutions, if there are any, emphasize, but here, rigor is everything."
"I see," the man said.
Lucien leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a confidential murmur. "Now, if I may ask, strictly as a fellow scholar, how many hours do you dedicate to scroll study?"
Now the man exchanged a glance with the girl and then returned his gaze to Lucien.
"I'd say," the man said slowly, putting a finger to his chin, "closer to none."
Lucien blinked. "None?"
"I don't much like scrolls."
"You don't… like… scrolls."
"Not really. I've come to a point in my life where I think I've read enough. I mostly read casually now."
"Read… enough…?"
Lucien's mouth opened, then closed. He searched the man's expression for a hint of sarcasm and found none, only an unhurried, almost amused calm.
He drew himself straighter. "Well. I suppose… one studies what one is suited for. Though, I must say, without scrollwork, it's difficult to develop a true foundation in precision magic. Without transcription drills, the mind begins to wander, does it not?"
"I guess."
Lucien was about to speak when someone descended the steps behind him, a robed archivist, a high archivist no less, carrying a stack of tomes. He paused and gave a respectful nod to the newcomer.
"Ah. Master Vellichor. Welcome. We didn't know you had already arrived. We've just readied your chamber."
Lucien froze.
His mind blinked rapidly, flipping through every article, report, and half-legend he'd ever read or heard.
There was just one Vellichor.
The Vellichor.
The Dread Mage.
The one who closed the Breach of Heaven single-handedly? Who turned an entire siege army into mist?
Supposedly the most powerful mage in the world.
Lucien turned slowly to face the man again, his voice suddenly hoarse. "You're… Vellichor?"
"Nice to meet you, Lucien."
Lucien stepped back, color draining from his cheeks. "I… I wasn't aware you'd arrived, sir. I apologize if my comments seemed-"
"No harm done," Vell said, already turning toward the hallway. "I admire your dedication. Eighty hours is impressive."