After breakfast, Martin stepped out of Bindlebrick's with a satisfied stomach and a mind already humming with idle calculations. The warmth of bread lingered on his breath, the herbal tea's bitter finish sharpening his focus like a whetstone across steel.
Varncrest was slowly waking up around him.
No bells rang. No schedules dictated movement. The pulse of the academy followed deeper rhythms—mana tides, temporal shifts, moods of the faculty. The city-island hovered in the upper atmosphere like a miracle no one wanted to question too closely.
Martin walked, letting instinct and mild curiosity pull him forward.
The academy had no consistent layout. Varncrest had not been built like a school; it was a city that had accidentally learned how to teach. Buildings rearranged themselves with arcane fluidity. Stone steps retracted and grew elsewhere. Floating walkways pivoted midair to form new intersections. Lecture halls migrated, and once in a while, a doorway would simply vanish and reappear three corridors away.
Maps were enchanted, contradictory, and deeply opinionated. One he'd seen the previous day had insulted him in Ancient Draconic for asking about the dueling courts. Another had pointed him toward "the emotional heart of the academy," which turned out to be a student therapist who charged in favors instead of coin.
Now, he strolled past pockets of rising activity.
Students of every sort populated the campus. There were beings here from every known province of the Marlo Empire—and a few that technically weren't part of it anymore. Some wore robes of molten gold stitched with symbols that floated above the fabric. Others favored dark silks, leather etched with personal seals, or enchanted armor that whispered to itself.
Skin tones varied like a painter's palette: frost-pale from the snowbound northern tribes, earthy reds from the dunes, charcoal-black from the volcano wanderers of the Scorched Range. Languages flowed like overlapping rivers—some sharp as blades, others melodic, others primal enough to make the air shiver.
Some spoke to spirits. Others to weapons. A few had symbiotic familiars that coiled around their throats like jewelry. Most traveled in packs. Martin didn't yet recognize the factions, but their loyalties were carved into how they walked, grouped, and watched others.
It was tense. But clean. Order through chaos.
No one looked particularly safe. That made Martin feel at ease.
Reaching a high ironwood railing, he stopped. Below, an entire district shifted minutely as a structure realigned itself toward a leyline. Several towers resettled like chess pieces. A spiral-shaped lecture garden bloomed with fresh light.
He pulled out the Student Handbook, flipping it open with one hand. The seal flickered and a new page unfurled at his request.
"Let's see what responsibility I have to fulfill."
The book, as always, obliged.
EXPECTATIONS OF THE INITIATE
At Varncrest, freedom is responsibility. You are granted unprecedented autonomy. Abuse it, and the consequences will find you faster than the faculty.
To maintain your standing as a student, you must fulfill the Three Pillars of Participation:
I. SUBMIT A RESEARCH REPORT
Required: Once per month
Topic: Anything arcane, practical, theoretical, or horrifyingly ambitious.
Delivery: Paper, blood-bound grimoire, psychic imprint, or live demonstration.
Evaluation is not guaranteed. Judgment is inevitable.
Martin snorted. "The notes from the reactor should keep them busy for months. And my collection of cult grimoires... that's at least fifteen submissions, depending on how much I redact."
He casually flipped to the second pillar.
II. ENGAGE IN COMBAT ACTIVITIES
Required: 2–5 instances per month
Accepted forms:
Duels (formal or informal)
Sparring (instructors, peers, or summoned entities)
Monster Hunts (sanctioned or opportunistic)
Kill nothing you can't outrun. Wound nothing that bleeds smoke.
Martin's smirk curled like smoke.
"Oh, this one's in my wheelhouse."
Combat was his second language—no, his first. Magecraft was a toolset for survival and dominance. The many branches of theory he'd scavenged from his cult's remains—blood symbology, chaos-binding, kinetic flow—weaved together like an intricate predator's web.
And here, in a place that rewarded calculated violence, he didn't even need to pretend to be peaceful.
He'd already overheard whispers. The independent variable. The cult-breaker. The lunatic with four grimoires and no supervision.
"If I'm lucky, someone picks a fight before the end of the week." He tapped his classification badge. "And if I'm unlucky? Same result, honestly. Saves me the trouble."
III. ATTEND A LECTURE
Required: 1 per month
Attendance is tracked through obscure means.
No, we will not tell you how.
Lectures may be announced minutes before they begin—or not at all.
Martin stared blankly at that for a moment. Then turned to the fine print below, outlined in blood-colored ink:
COMPENSATION CLAUSE:
Fail one requirement, and you must overachieve in the others. Balance is enforced. No exceptions.
"Guess I know what I'm skipping," Martin muttered, pocketing the book.
He had no intention of attending a surprise morality lecture held in a forest that only existed on Thursdays.
Instead, he leaned on the railing and watched a pair of flying beasts—griffons, maybe, or half-dragons—glide toward a suspended dueling ring shaped like an hourglass.
Somewhere, a tower split open like a flower to reveal a floating orb of water around which students in glass helmets conducted spellwork.
To Martin, it all felt like a challenge barely disguised as a school.
Perfect.
His pace resumed. One hand rested inside his coat, thumb gently brushing the edge of his grimoire, just in case.
Let the games begin.