The following day dawned cold, with the promise of more torment looming on the horizon. Ezra dragged himself from his bed, limbs aching as if they'd been filled with lead.
The thought of another grueling day was enough to make him want to stay in bed forever, but that was never an option. Not in Blackspire.
He couldn't afford weakness, not now. The memory of Cassian's mocking smile and the weight of the instructor's punishment from yesterday gnawed at him, pushing him forward. As he dressed and tied the threads of his uniform tight, the thought of the next class—more lectures, more lessons, more pain—was a heavy cloud that hovered above him.
The classroom was dim, the only light coming from a lone flickering lamp in the corner. The air smelled faintly of old books, burnt incense, and something stronger—alcohol. The students who had filed in before Ezra shifted uncomfortably in their seats, eyes darting nervously between the half-empty bottle of wine sitting on the professor's desk and the grizzled man leaning back in his chair, feet propped up on the desk, his clothes half-unbuttoned.
Professor Theodore was everything Ezra had been warned about and more. His hair was matted and greasy, falling loosely around his face. His unshaven jawline looked like it had never seen a razor in weeks, maybe months. His eyes, bloodshot and unfocused, seemed to stare at nothing in particular. He was leaning back in his chair, a bottle of wine clasped lazily in his hand.
Ezra hesitated at the door, the weight of what had just happened still pressing heavily on his chest. He'd been kicked out of Master Vawn's class after the altercation with Cassian. Desperate to find some way to prove himself, he'd remembered the name of this class: Improfanity & Arcane Theory. It was an elective that few took seriously, most assuming it was a waste of time or a joke.
But right now, it seemed like the only class he could get into.
"Come in, Valentine," Professor Theodore's slurred voice called out, as though he had sensed Ezra's presence before he even stepped into the room.
Ezra stepped forward, and a few of the students gave him a passing glance. They were all seated, leaning forward on their desks with their hands clasped together, their faces a mixture of boredom and disbelief. The classroom was in chaos—papers were scattered, chairs were askew, and the air was thick with the tension of a hundred students who didn't know whether to laugh or walk out.
"The name's Theodore," the professor grinned crookedly, waving his hand as if brushing off an invisible fly. "And yes, this is where the magic happens, if you want to call it that. But don't expect me to teach you about that boring 'arcane theory' stuff. No, no, no. That's for the other scholars. We're here to talk about real power—the kind that makes the ground shake, the kind that makes the heavens fall. The kind that gets you drunk and out of your mind!"
He took a swig from his bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes flickered over to Ezra, noticing his awkward stance and the way he seemed to shrink under the professor's gaze.
"Right, Valentine. You're the new one, right?" He squinted, trying to remember. "Yes, kicked out of Master Vawn's class, weren't you? You got into a fight with that Leichstein brat. Hell of a move. I respect it. You've got guts. Don't know if that's gonna keep you alive here, but it sure counts for something."
Ezra nodded slowly, unsure of how to respond to the professor's drunken tone.
"I'll tell you this, kid," Theodore continued, standing up, swaying a little before catching himself on the edge of the desk. "You're gonna need a lot more than guts if you're gonna make it here. You need heart, but you also need—" He paused for dramatic effect, grinning wildly, "—improfanity."
The students in the room exchanged confused glances, some stifling laughs.
"What do you mean?" Ezra asked, genuinely curious despite the overwhelming absurdity of the situation.
"Improfanity," Theodore repeated, pacing in front of the class. "A tool. A weapon. A spell. Something you'll never learn in a boring textbook or from those stiff professors who pretend they know what real power is. You need to be able to break the rules—bend reality if you have to—and say whatever the hell you want. Because words, kid, they're magic too. If you know how to use them."
He threw his hands in the air like he was summoning an invisible audience, his bottle spilling a little as he tilted it back. "So here's the deal. If you want to know the true magic behind resonance and arcane energy, you need to embrace the chaos. And what better way to start than by learning how to curse like a goddamn beast?"
Ezra's eyebrows furrowed. "You're saying… words are magic?"
"Exactly!" Theodore slapped a hand on Ezra's shoulder with surprising force.
"You've got it. Now, listen up!" He turned to the class, suddenly serious, his tone shifting like a switch had been flipped. "Let's start with something simple. What's the first thing you'd say if you were about to face death in the arena? If a monster were staring you down, fangs dripping with venom?"
The students shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
Ezra hesitated, unsure where this was going.
Theodore grinned again, a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You'd curse, right? You'd shout 'FUCK!' or 'DAMN IT!' or some shit, because that's your survival instinct kicking in. The words aren't just noise—they're pressure. They push back.
They bend reality. When you speak the right curse, when you say the right thing, you disrupt the flow of resonance around you. And that… that is where true power comes from."
A laugh bubbled up from somewhere in the back of the class.
"But you have to believe it," Theodore continued, his voice lowering. "It has to come from your gut. From the core of you. You say the words like you mean them. Don't give a damn if they sound pretty. Don't give a damn if you think you'll offend someone. You say it because it means everything."
He dropped back into his chair, throwing his feet back up on the desk and yawning, as though this entire conversation meant absolutely nothing. The students were still frozen in place, some unsure whether to laugh or leave.
Theodore shot Ezra a look. "You, Valentine, you're gonna need this. You need to learn how to fight with your words. It's the only way to survive here, I promise you."
Ezra nodded, slowly starting to understand. He had no choice but to play along—after all, this drunken mess of a professor might just be the only chance he had to gain something useful.
The rest of the class was a blur of strange incantations, bizarre phrases, and a constant stream of rambling from Professor Theodore, who seemed to speak more in vulgarity than in any sort of academic language. But Ezra couldn't help but feel a strange sense of comfort in the chaos.
By now, the majority of the students had already left, unable to tolerate the eccentricity of the lesson. It was only his squad—along with Milo, the timid boy from earlier—who remained, still seated in their chairs, trying to look engaged, though they were all visibly exhausted and disinterested.
Professor Theodore, however, seemed entirely unaffected by the mass exodus. He was still on a roll, his voice loud and slurred as he rambled on about the different ranges of curses anyone could use. His hands waved around in exaggerated gestures, the wine bottle now perched on the edge of the desk, dangerously close to tipping over.
Ezra shifted in his seat, glancing at his squadmates, each of them looking as bored as he felt. He could feel the weight of time dragging on, every word from Theodore's mouth blending into a blur of nonsense.
"Let me tell you about the most powerful curse," Theodore slurred, leaning forward with a drunken gleam in his eyes. "It's not the one that rips your enemies apart. It's not the one that burns everything in its path. No, no, no. The most dangerous curse is the one that… well, you'll find out one day. You see, magic, like power, it's… it's all about intention. And words are the vehicle of that intention."
Ezra fought the urge to roll his eyes, his fingers tapping restlessly on his knee. The professor's rambling was starting to feel like an endless stream of meaningless words.
The others seemed just as unenthused, Milo shifting nervously in his seat and looking like he was seconds away from sneaking out, though he knew better than to break the silence.
"Ezra," Theodore suddenly called, pulling him out of his thoughts with a sharp glance. "You're looking like you've seen a ghost. What's wrong? This not interesting enough for you?" His grin was wide, almost manic.
Ezra sighed and leaned forward, his eyes weary. "No, sir," he muttered. "Just… trying to keep up with all this."
"Trying to keep up, eh?" Theodore leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Well, let me tell you, kid, the real magic isn't in those books. It's in here," he tapped his head with his finger. "It's in your will. Your defiance. Your ability to curse everything around you to hell and back, your ability to communicate with the gods…"
The last part had caught everyone's attention. The words hung in the air like smoke, thick and heavy. Even Milo straightened up, eyes wide, and the rest of the class shifted, their expressions hardening. A sense of something ancient, something unspoken, stirred in the room.
"You see," Theodore continued, his voice softening as though savoring the moment, "resonance isn't just a tool. It's a language, a contract with the universe. And to wield it… you have to understand who you're speaking to."
He gave them all a long, lingering look. "The gods, the Celestials, the powers above and below—they're always listening. Don't think for a second they're not."
A few students fidgeted in their seats, unsure of what to make of this cryptic rambling. But then Theodore's tone shifted, darker, more introspective.
"But then again…" he continued, rubbing his chin as if lost in thought, "they did abandon their people. How many years has it been? A century? A millennia?" His eyes glazed for a moment, and for a second, Ezra saw something like regret flicker across his face—before it was gone, replaced by his usual drunken detachment.
Was he bluffing, or was it another one of his drunken ramblings?
"Uh, anyway, moving on," Theodore mumbled, swiping the air with a lazy hand as though he had forgotten his previous words entirely. "The mystery of the unseen, dragons, elves, mermen—men who can shapeshift into wolves. Mythical creatures whom many think only exist on paper."
Ezra rolled his eyes, feeling the pull of boredom settling over him. He would definitely be dropping this elective after class. The last thing he needed was more of this nonsense.
He glanced around at the rest of his squad. Silas, to his right, didn't even give a second thought to the rambling teacher, his eyes glued to his notebook, occasionally looking up in disinterest. Rin was lost in thought, her gaze fixed out the window, clearly somewhere far away from the lecture.
Cassian had his head down on the desk, snoring lightly as though this class was beneath him. Octavia, ever the vain one, was meticulously applying gloss to her lips, clearly more interested in her reflection than anything Theodore was saying.
Asli, however, was the only one who seemed genuinely engaged—intently listening, occasionally making small talk with Milo, who seemed like he couldn't decide if he was terrified or fascinated by Theodore's presence.
At this rate, Ezra thought grimly, his whole squad would fail this class without even realizing it.