Martin woke well before sunrise, blinking in the dim half-light of the arcane lamps he'd tuned to mimic pre-dawn. His wards dissolved with a whisper as he sat up, stretching off the residual stiffness from the makeshift hammock he refused to admit was more comfortable than a real bed.
Routine was ritual.
He brushed his teeth with a mint-clay mix that doubled as a mana-grounder, bathed in silence while the rune-stones heated the water, and dressed in a pressed suit and tie. Traditional. Crisp. Intentional.
His reflection in the mirror was slightly fogged by lingering steam, but his eyes were sharp.
"Let's not embarrass ourselves in front of the cafeteria staff today," he muttered.
His gaze drifted across the room—still a volatile mix of engineering, alchemy, and light hoarding disorder—and landed on the Varncrest Academy Student Handbook, lying closed on his desk. The cover pulsed faintly with the school's mana seal, a stylized arch overlaid with intertwined runes of Binding, Insight, and Surveillance.
Martin picked it up.
"Alright," he muttered, flipping it open, "where do I get food in this magical prison?"
The enchanted pages shimmered, reacting to his voice. Lines of script rearranged themselves until a new section bloomed like a responsive menu:
CAMPUS DINING — SECTION 3.4
"While Varncrest encourages culinary independence, we provide the following options for nutritional fulfillment. For safety reasons, none of these locations allow active spellcasting unless cleared by faculty. Violators will be hex-locked and reported to Administrative Discipline."
"They had to write that down, huh?" Martin mused, scrolling through a curated list of names.
The Wyrm's Larder — Faculty Dining Only
The Alchemist's Teas — Potions and Steeped Mana Snacks
The Meatpact — Rare Proteins from Licensed Realms
Bindlebrick's Baked Goodness — Traditional Breads and Arcane Confectionery(Recommended: Soul-safe, student-approved.)
Martin tapped the final name. "Bread it is."
He slid the book into an inside pocket of his coat and clipped his spell medallion next to it. Then, with a sigh, he waved his hand across the room. A complex ripple of ward-signatures activated. Glyphs on the floor and ceiling snapped into existence. Locks clicked, pulses of layered enchantment thudded into place, and the Reactor dimmed to a sleep-state.
He left, locking it all behind him like a dragon sealing its hoard.
The morning corridors of Varncrest were alive, though not crowded. Students and staff passed in trickles—some floating on minor levitation spells, others dragging sleep-heavy boots across stone floors that whispered back with latent runic resonance. Mana lamps shifted from blue to amber hues, mimicking dawn in a world above the clouds.
Eyes turned toward Martin as he walked. Some lingered with curiosity. Others darted away like birds sensing a predator.
His Independent classification badge glimmered faintly on his lapel, radiating a silent warning. People didn't need to know the details. They just felt it.
A younger student accidentally met his eyes.
Martin smiled, perfectly polite.
The kid paled and looked away.
Martin chuckled to himself. "This is useful."
The path to Bindlebrick's took him on a winding route through Varncrest's eccentric heart.
He passed a lecture hall that was mid-shift—its entire interior changing from an amphitheater to a terraced garden, as requested by the next instructor. On a lower tier, animated suits of armor were scrubbing blood from a dueling ring, grumbling in Old High Common as they worked. Further on, he skirted past the shimmering purple barriers that marked the Mind and Memory Department, where students in mirror-eyed masks walked in pairs, silent as ghosts.
Martin took one look at the ward sigils there and muttered, "Nope. That's a hard pass."
Bindlebrick's Baked Goodness looked surprisingly normal. A squat, cozy shop wedged into the base of an old pillar structure, its exterior was all brass-inlaid stone and steaming vents. Above the door, a sign read:
"BINDLEBRICK'S"
—Est. 177 Years Ago, Refounded 6 Times—
The sign's enchanted lettering blinked and winked at him, then spelled out: "WELCOME, MYSTERIOUS STRANGER!"
Inside, the place was alive.
Warmth poured from the ovens. The scent of fresh bread, powdered sugar, and something vaguely electric filled the air. Floating trays meandered through the room, each carrying loaves that shimmered faintly with freshness glyphs. A mechanical arm extended from the wall to gently pat sugar onto a cooling croissant. The croissant, naturally, purred.
Martin paused, visibly cautious.
Behind the counter stood a short, elderly gnome with a scorched apron and safety goggles perched atop a shock of frizzled white hair. He was currently soldering a bread golem's cracked crust back into place.
"This should hold," the gnome said to himself, tapping the golem twice. It hummed in response.
Martin cleared his throat politely.
The gnome turned, grinned wide enough to nearly split his face, and shouted, "Customer! And a strange one! You smell like iron, ambition, and mild necromancy. Welcome to Bindlebrick's! What'll it be?"
Martin didn't flinch. "Three servings of bread, salted butter, honey, and jam. Preferably without anything that explodes, melts, or tries to assimilate my jaw."
The gnome snapped his fingers. "Ah! A connoisseur of nonlethal breakfast. I like you already. Coming right up!"
He turned and barked orders into the back: "Order sixty-seven! Code: Boring but Respectable!"
A series of clatters and squawks followed.
Martin took a seat at one of the brass-rimmed tables. The chair adjusted itself to his weight and posture, offering unnecessary lumbar support. He ignored it and scanned the room. A few other students were present—most of them first- or second-years. One had a floating notebook dictating notes mid-bite. Another had a pile of glowing toast and was casting what looked like minor divination glyphs onto it before eating.
His presence drew the usual half-stares and quiet avoidance.
That was fine. He liked it that way.
A tray floated toward him, bearing three warm bread rolls, a dish of golden honey, another with dark fruit jam, and a neat curl of salted butter. A tiny spoon waved at him from the edge of the tray.
"Your dignity-preserving meal, sir!" the tray said, in a chirpy pre-recorded voice.
Martin ate slowly, appreciating the balance of flavor and the surprising crispness of the crust. It was… nostalgic. A rare feeling.
The gnome came by with a cup of thick herbal tea. "On the house. You look like someone who recently lost a bet with fate and survived out of spite."
Martin raised his cup in salute. "You're not wrong."
As the morning light filtered through the enchanted windows, Martin leaned back in his chair, savoring the warmth, the bread, and the momentary peace.
Tomorrow, someone would probably try to blow him up. Or worse, recruit him.
But for now—just bread.
And that was enough.