"As I was saying before the interruption," Professor Rothwell resumed, pacing before the intricate diagram on the blackboard, his shadow dancing across the chalk lines as sunlight filtered through the tall, leaded windows. "Mana is not a substance. It is not a force. It is not, in any measurable sense, real. It is simply an idea—intangible, immaterial. By its nature, it cannot be interacted with directly."

  He paused, letting the silence settle over the classroom like a heavy cloak. The ornate pendulum clock in the corner ticked away the seconds, each movement amplified in the stillness. Students shifted in their seats, quills poised over parchment, waiting.

  "A dimwit might argue otherwise, calling it real," he continued, tone clipped and precise as a surgeon's knife, "citing the claim that even a single glass of water holds enough mana to conjure fire. If so, should mana not be considered like coal, or oil—some latent energy waiting to be ignited?"

  He gave a derisive snort, then rapped his ebony cane against the polished marble floor. The sharp strike echoed through the classroom.

  "A tempting comparison. But one built on misunderstanding." Rothwell's voice dropped to a near whisper. "Coal burns regardless of belief. Electricity flows whether or not one understands its principles. But mana?" He turned, his silver monocle flashing. "Mana conforms. It obeys."

  His eyes, the color of verdant forest, locked onto Eliana.

  "Lady Eliana," he called, "a simple question. Why, if mana leaves behind scorched earth and shattered stone, do we insist mana is not real?"

  The question hung in the air like a noose, tightening with each passing heartbeat.

  Eliana stared back at him, her mind desperately scrambling for an answer that simply wasn't there. The faces of her classmates turned toward her, growing more amused by her silence. There was nothing to grasp in her memory. How could it be that she remembered the language and proper decorum, yet nothing about mana? Her only reference was the collapse mentioned in the guidebook, and the fleeting snippets of lecture she'd caught due to her tardiness. Suffice to say, nothing of substance.

  Collapse only occurs while asleep, when mana becomes too unstable.

  She recalled. There wasn't enough to go on, but something inside her clung to it. Does mana require conscious effort? She wasn't sure and frankly, she was grasping at straws, desperately trying to weave coherence from threads of incomplete understanding.

  She smoothed her uniform skirt as she slowly stood, buying precious seconds by inserting some elegance.

  She forced herself to speak, voice steadier than she felt.

  "Because mana has no form of its own. It requires our perceptual framework to exist. Without it, it collapses back—into nothing.” A pause as she gathered herself, straightening her spine. "That is all, Professor Rothwell."

  The professor's cane struck the floor with such force that half the class flinched. The sound reverberated off the vaulted ceiling, setting the crystal chandelier tinkling faintly.

  "Insufficient," he hissed. "Lady Ravencrest, perhaps your time would be better spent rearranging flowerbeds than embarrassing your bloodline in my classroom."

  Humiliation flared in Eliana's cheeks, spreading like wildfire across her face and down her neck. She grit her teeth as she withstood the withering stare, feeling the judgment of every student boring into her back. There was so much disappointment in Rothwell's eyes, disappointment tinged with something like betrayal, as though she had personally failed him. And it annoyed her, that presumption, that expectation that she should be something she couldn't reciprocate—or couldn't remember.

  The professor turned with a dramatic flick of his wrist.

  "Lady Montgomery," he called, focusing on a girl three rows ahead of Eliana. "Perhaps you can expand upon Lady Ravencrest's... approximation."

  Lady Montgomery, a girl with immaculate chestnut braids wrapped in golden ribbons, was visibly surprised as she rose from her seat—less gracefully than expected from someone of her station. Her spine straightened with visible effort, shoulders squaring beneath the weight of sudden attention. Her fingers clutched at the lace handkerchief embroidered with her family's crest—a lion rampant surrounded by stars.

  "Because... people were led to believe mana existed, Professor?" she offered lamely, voice wavering before she took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Mages assumed a catalyst was needed to conjure magic, so they provided a reason—called it mana. That wrong belief made mana what it is. Not a substance, not even a potential, just a requirement. It doesn't exist... yet is somehow required for all conjuration of magic."

  A pause followed, just long enough for discomfort to creep in like a winter draft. The ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder, marking each second of uncertainty.

  Rothwell tilted his head, expression unreadable behind the gleaming monocle that caught and refracted the light.

  "A clumsy summary," he said at last, "but marginally closer to the mark. Were that true, every dreaming child would wield spells. No—mana does not answer to reason. It answers to certainty."

  He strode forward, cane tapping a syncopated rhythm against the floor. His shadow stretched across the lecture hall, distorted by the angled sunlight streaming through the windows. "Consider the Arctic wolf. It has never known warmth. To it, cold is not a condition—it is a truth. Put this wolf in a desert, and still the chill wind permeates its fur, the sand chills its pads. Why? Because mana answers not to the world's reality, but the wolf's."

  The room grew still as students leaned forward, quills forgotten as they hung on his every word. Even the birds outside seemed to pause their songs, as if listening.

  He raised his palm, long fingers splayed against the dusty sunbeam. "Mana has no structure. It is not energy. It is not substance. It is belief made manifest. As Lady Ravencrest—however fumblingly—suggested, it collapses without conscious effort."

  A flame bloomed above his hand, flickering unnaturally with colors that flames should not possess—touches of violet and cerulean dancing among the orange and gold.

  "Visualization gives it shape." The flame twirled like spun glass, forming intricate patterns in the air—first a bird in flight, then a blooming rose, the transformations fluid and seamless. "Understanding gives it properties." Heat pulsed outward in visible waves, pressing against skin and stone, causing students in the front row to lean back in their seats. "And certainty anchors it to reality."

  Then the fire vanished with a soft whoosh, causing confused gasps across the room. Several students reached for their notebooks, eager to capture the demonstration in words, while others simply stared in awe.

  "Ground it to reality and it fizzles in the air because it has nothing to burn—we knew this for a fact," Rothwell continued, his voice taking on the cadence of a practiced orator. "A fire made of mana, like fireballs, can hover in the air as it is not 'there' in the world; it is 'there' in the mind, and through that, imposed on the world. It exists in the liminal space where consciousness gives access to reality. But once your consciousness withdraws, the bridge collapses and the fireball dissipates."

  He turned toward the class, his gaze sweeping over their attentive faces like a lighthouse beam.

  "Despite our best research and study, mana could not replace fuel for industry. While a mana fire can burn and produce enough heat, it can never sustain itself—even when placed on oil—as it requires continuous, willed intent from a mage. That is not conducive to autonomy." His tone shifted, becoming almost reverent. "What mana can do is enhance fuels for greater efficiency, producing up to ten times more power than usual. This is why, despite its limitations, the study of mana remains crucial to our kingdom's advancement."

  He gestured to the two standing students with a dismissive wave. "You may both sit."

  Eliana had barely settled back into her seat, the humiliation still burning in her cheeks like a brand, when the classroom door opened with a soft click that somehow managed to silence all other sounds. The interruption drew all eyes away from her—a small mercy for which she was grudgingly grateful.

  A girl stood in the doorway, framed by the light from the corridor behind her like some divine apparition in a cathedral painting. She was a study in white and silver: hair like freshly fallen snow cascaded down her back in a perfect braid interwoven with silver thread that caught the light with every slight movement; skin so pale it seemed almost translucent; and eyes like polished silver coins catching the light. The only contrast to her ethereal visage was her dress—the same Academy uniform as Eliana's, the deep blue fabric only emphasizing the girl's ghostly complexion.

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  She stood with a poise that seemed effortless, one delicate hand resting on the doorframe, the other holding a leather-bound book embossed with silver filigree against her chest. Even from across the room, Eliana could sense something different about her—an aura of tranquility that seemed at odds with the competitive tension of the classroom, as though she existed in her own peaceful bubble untouched by worldly concerns.

  Eliana hated how perfect the girl was. Every strand of hair in place, every movement graceful and measured, as if choreographed by an invisible master. Oh how much she wanted to taint the girl with red, to see that pristine facade crumble, to witness imperfection mar that otherworldly beauty.

  "Rochelle," Professor Rothwell's voice transformed, the earlier sharpness melting into something almost paternal, warm and welcoming. "How gracious of you to join us."

  Rochelle dipped into a perfect curtsy, her movements fluid as water flowing over smooth stones. The silver threads in her hair caught the sunlight. "My sincere apologies for the interruption, Professor. I was up late at night practicing for the Festival of Light. Father Benson wouldn't like a mediocre performance now, would he? The orphans are counting on the bountiful donation so I must do my best."

  She spoke with a lyrical cadence, her voice clear as a bell ringing in a winter morning. Several male students straightened in their seats as she spoke, adjusting their collars and smoothing their hair surreptitiously.

  Where Eliana had received scorn for her tardiness, Rothwell merely nodded at Rochelle's, his expression softening further. "No apology necessary, my dear," he said, waving his hand dismissively, the rings on his fingers catching the light. "Father Benson sent a note ahead. Your efforts are always valued, especially when directed toward such charitable endeavors."

  Rothwell gestured toward a seat at the front of the classroom, one that had remained conspicuously empty despite the crowded conditions. "Please, take your seat," he said, his tone almost reverential.

  The white-haired girl glided down the aisle, drawing appreciative glances from the other students. Her steps made almost no sound on the stone floor, as if she were floating rather than walking. She passed Eliana without acknowledgment, as if she were merely another piece of classroom furniture, not worth even a passing glance..

  She took the empty seat beside a golden-haired boy whose uniform bore the additional silver piping of a prefect. His posture was immaculate, shoulders squared beneath the tailored jacket, chin lifted with unmistakable pride.

  "My Lord," Rochelle murmured as she settled beside him, arranging her skirts with practiced precision.

  "I told you to call me Adrian," he replied, turning to her with a genuine smile that transformed his entire face—the same boy who moments before had looked at Eliana with nothing but disappointment and disdain. "You've missed quite the demonstration," he whispered, just loud enough for Eliana to hear, though whether this was intentional or not remained unclear.

  Eliana frowned as Rochelle beamed at him, not noticing the tension that lingered in Eliana's eyes. A strange ache bloomed in her chest, something she couldn't understand why.

  "I'd love to hear it," Rochelle replied, her silver eyes bright with interest.

  "I'm sure you would," Adrian said, leaning closer to her, his golden hair nearly touching her silver locks, creating a striking contrast of sun and moon.

  The pendant at Eliana's chest brightened slightly, a subtle glow of pale red.

  "As a segue to our discussion, Rochelle serves as an excellent example," Rothwell announced, ignoring the confusion blooming across the girl's face, her perfect composure momentarily disrupted by surprise.

  "Saintesses of Galatean faith were bound by a singular, stringent tradition in passing down the title. The successor must be a woman of pure heart." Rothwell's cane tapped again, drawing a glowing symbol in the air—a circle with a four-pointed star inside, the traditional emblem of the Galatean faith.

  Rochelle stiffened as several students turned to glance her way, whispers rustling through the classroom like wind through leaves. Her cheeks flushed pink, the color stark against her pale skin, like rose petals on snow.

  "A Galatean ancestry," Rothwell continued, pacing before the blackboard where the diagram now pulsed with soft light, "devoid of hatred, brimming with kindness, and above all, unwavering faith in their goddess of creation—Lumina. This tradition illustrates another form of mana structure—one that can be inherited and reinforced over generations, passed down through blood and belief alike."

  "There's no need to single me out, Professor," Rochelle said, voice small, her face deepening to beet red, hands clasped tightly in her lap. The perfect picture of humility, though Eliana detected something almost practiced in the pose, as if it were a role learned rather than a natural reaction.

  "On the contrary," Rothwell said, tone unmoved, "you make the point no truer. Humility. Submission. Selflessness. These are not merely virtues of the Saintess—they are amplifiers of their Galatean faith. A sacred lineage. Through these Saintesses, the Galateans constructed a living conduit to their goddess."

  Rothwell continued unperturbed, despite Rochelle's mumbled protests that seemed more performative than genuine. Eliana could barely contain her annoyance, her nails digging half-moons into her palm. The sweet innocent voice made her stomach curl in disgust, urging to release its bile.

  "This represents our third principle of mana manipulation—belief systems can be codified. While individual certainty creates temporary effects, structured beliefs shared across generations create stable mana patterns." His voice took on the cadence of formal recitation, as if quoting from some ancient text.

  He tapped his cane on the floor three times, each tap echoing like a thunderclap, and a complex symbol appeared floating in the air—concentric circles intersected by triangular patterns, runes dancing along the boundaries between shapes. The symbol rotated slowly, casting prismatic reflections across the stone walls.

  "When a Saintess performs her rituals, she isn't merely manipulating mana through her own beliefs—she's tapping into a centuries-old framework. Their faith was so strong it became a stable bridge between mana and reality, persisting even when individual practitioners passed on."

  Several students leaned forward, quills scratching frantically against parchment as they tried to capture the floating symbol before it faded. Adrian watched with calm interest, occasionally glancing at Rochelle with what appeared to be pride, though his expression remained carefully controlled.

  "With that certainty," Rothwell continued, "they forged a new form of magic—invocation without structure which they called blessings and miracles. Invocation without calculation. No circles, no chants, no glyphs. Just belief, pure and unwavering as mountain bedrock."

  Rothwell turned to face the class fully, his shadow elongated by the afternoon light streaming through the tall windows, stretching across desks and students alike. "This also explains why noble families of Varenthia maintain such strict lineages. The Varenthians rather believed bloodlines important, for impurities may affect their magecraft. Lady Rochelle, however, doesn't conform to this as the Galatean tradition required differently—so long as she kept her status as virtuous, her magic will be as strong, just as you all were through inheritance."

  He fixed Rochelle with a penetrating stare. "You may protest, Lady Rochelle," Rothwell said, eyes glinting behind his monocle, "but your very presence here proves the legacy persists. The church chooses carefully, and you are living proof of their success."

  He tapped his cane once more, dispelling the floating symbol with a shower of sparks that dissolved before touching any surface. "Let us continue with our examination of structured belief systems and their impact on mana manipulation."

  The moment Professor Rothwell dismissed class, Eliana gathered her materials and left hastily, nearly knocking over her inkwell in her haste. The dark liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim before settling back, a near disaster avoided by mere chance. Her fingers fumbled with the leather strap of her satchel as she watched her classmates filter out through narrowed eyes. Several cast glances in her direction—openly mocking with snickers barely hidden behind cupped hands, others whispering behind leather-bound notebooks.

  "Ravencrest embarrassed herself again—" "—couldn't answer the simplest question—" "—heard the family's considering disownment—"

  The golden-haired boy, Adrian, and Rochelle departed together, their heads bent close in conversation, not sparing her a second look as they disappeared through the arched doorway. The contrast between them was striking—gold and silver, sun and moon, moving in perfect harmony through the sea of more mundane students.

  It was sickening to watch, that easy confidence, that belonging she couldn't seem to grasp for herself.

  She waited until the classroom had nearly emptied before slipping out herself, hoping to avoid further scrutiny. The corridors teemed with students changing classes, a sea of blue uniforms flowing between lecture halls like a great river dividing around islands of professors in their black robes. Tapestries depicting famous magical battles and discoveries lined the walls, animated figures moving subtly within their woven confines—a dragon's eye blinking, a mage's staff glowing as it completed an ancient ritual.

  Where could she go to read in peace? Not her next class, certainly—wherever that might be—as she really needed to satiate her confusion. Her chambers seemed the obvious choice, but that would only add more ammunition for insults if she were caught retreating there during class hours. She needed somewhere quiet, somewhere she wouldn't be disturbed.

  A courtyard caught her eye through an arched window—secluded, with stone benches situated beneath the dappled shade of an ancient oak tree whose branches spread like protective arms over the space below. Perfect for her needs, and close enough that she could claim to be taking air between classes if questioned.

  She pushed through the crowd, ignoring the whispers that followed in her wake like persistent shadows, the weight of judgment pressing down on her shoulders.

  "There goes Ravencrest—" "Did you see her in Rothwell's class?" "—another failure—" "—heard she hasn't produced proper magic in weeks—" "—family must be mortified—"

  So noisy. So petty. So ANNOYING.

  The courtyard air was cool and sweet with the scent of early blooms—moonflowers opening prematurely in the shade, their white petals unfurling like tiny stars against the dark green foliage. A fountain burbled softly in the center, water flowing from the outstretched hands of a marble statue representing Lumina, goddess of creation. Fish with scales like jewels darted beneath lily pads, flashes of ruby and sapphire in the clear water.

  Eliana chose the bench furthest from the entrance, partially hidden by the oak's massive trunk, its bark etched with generations of student initials and small, secret symbols—hearts pierced by arrows, stars connected by lines, runes of protection and luck worn smooth by countless fingers tracing their patterns over decades.

  Her hands swiftly opened the guidebook that contained all the answers to the questions she'd had since morning—her affliction, her status as a social pariah. The book was bound in worn leather, the pages yellowed with age, the text inside written in multiple hands as if added to over time. She skimmed past the introduction to the section boldly labeled "RULES" in faded red ink, underlined three times for emphasis.

  Her eyes widened as she read the first rule.

  1) Never reveal our condition to anyone. Not to the professors. Not to the servants. Especially not to our father, the Head of Ravencrest. No one must discover the pendant, a mana conduit, it contained the echo of First’s consciousness.

  No one must discover that First forfeited her life.