He strolled leisurely down the corridor, blue-brown hair, cropped short, wild layers jutting every which way, trailing after shadows cast across the tiled floor. Every now and then, a glimmer of light arced across those messy locks, kindling flashes of metallic sheen. A fickle breeze wandered the open hall without a care, wreaking gentle havoc on his unkempt hair and sending a few rebellious strands dancing their own wild jig.
Pressed tight to his chest: a research journals, what the folks upstairs insisted on calling them, clutched as if a single loose page might take flight at the slightest provocation. Never one to walk too fast, but allergic to being called slow, his steps always measured and balanced, as if tiptoeing across a knife-thin bridge.
Between the echo of his boots, the professor's instructions replayed, Professor Inkletter's voice still lingering from after class: deliver these journals to Professor Lingard. Why, he wondered with a silent sigh, did Inkletter always have to look so terrifying? Would it kill the man to crack a smile once in a blue moon?
"If only the errand had come from that curvy professor in the next wing," he mused, the thought tinged with longing. he be light as a feather right now.
Inkletter's true passion was the mechanics of mana and prana. He possessed the unyielding persistence of a dwarven drill, absolutely driven to prove that mana, if tamed, might become an endless wellspring of energy. Legendary for his almost military discipline and merciless standards, he was the university's living night terror. And somehow, fate or maybe just lousy luck, had tossed him straight into Inkletter's gravitational pull.
Dwelling on this cruel little twist, he rounded a corner and, without warning, collided with someone at a junction. For a split second, the world paused, breathless. He slipped, journals erupting into the air, pages fluttering like startled birds. Opposite him, the accidental obstacle stood stone-still, her shadow stretched and defiant against the wall, as if the laws of gravity simply did not apply.
She was a girl, eyes sharp as freshly-forged crystal, gaze cutting deep and merciless. Her short, dark navy hair framed a sun-warmed face, a blunt fringe shadowing half her brow, her skin seemingly hoarding the daylight in every proud, unyielding feature. With a motion precise as clockwork, she crouched, nimble fingers gathering the scattered journals before he could even blink.
"My apologies," she said, her voice cool as stone floors.
"N-no worries," he blurted, cheeks blazing. The heat of embarrassment threatened to swallow him whole.
Before the girl could pivot and melt back into the stream of students, something snagged inside him. Curiosity, maybe, or the sheer panic of social floundering. His voice caught but pushed through:
"Uh, you're from Professor Lingard's room, right?"
The question hung awkwardly in the air, half hopeful, half hesitant, his fingers fiddling with the corner of the journal pressed to his chest.
She paused, just a beat then offered the faintest nod: brisk, chilly, like a morning breeze sneaking in through a cracked window. Distant, he thought with a flicker of envy. Lately it seemed everyone on this campus walked around wrapped in their own private pane of glass.
"You don't have to be so stiff, you know?" His smile was a wry tilt, laced with more bitterness than cheer. Each word seemed to dissolve into the empty hush of the hallway, as if the university itself was holding its breath and listening in. "Lately, I can't shake the feeling everyone's drifting away from me."
A gentle shake of her head, and her words drifted out as softly as morning mist. "It's nothing personal. We've simply never gotten to know each other. Besides—"
Before she could finish, he stepped forward. Just a small movement, but it sliced clean through the silence. He offered his hand, breaking the tension with quiet sincerity.
"Well then… I'm Ikaris." His smile faltered but didn't fade, honest as a door left unlocked.
Her gaze was sharp, almost piercing, but beneath it was a flicker of something gentler, a lantern's glow held in a cramped space. "I know who you are. Who in Tytoal-ba doesn't know the second prince?"
A blush swept across his face, blooming bright and impossible to hide. "Ehehe… you know how to make a guy feel embarrassed."
She studied him a moment longer, her next words softened to near a whisper, like wind threading through leaves. "Most thought you'd still be drowning in grief. About… that."
Shadows pooled in his features, a somber light flickering in his eyes. He didn't need to ask what she meant. His brother hadn't returned from the Wetlands, a loss that cast the kingdom along with the council into turmoil. All hopes for a steady succession had been pinned on the missing heir.
"Yeah… you're right. But who knows? Maybe he's just having too much fun and forgot to come home."
Her slim brows arched, skeptical but not unkind. "But… hasn't it been too long already?"
He forced a shaky laugh, drawing in breath to patch over the hollow inside. "That's always how he was." The sound of it felt clumsy, half-hearted.
"So optimistic," she replied, and for just a heartbeat, a fragile smile darted over her lips, swift and fleeting as a shooting star tracing midnight skies. Suddenly, the air between them thawed, just a little, brushing warmth into the conversation. She extended her hand at last, this time not out of formality, but genuine welcome.
"I'm Cella. We're in the same class."
"Oh… really?" He combed through his memory, racking his brain for her face among rows of lecture seats, but somehow Cella had always hovered just outside the edges of recollection.
She glanced from the pile of journals in his grip. "Didn't you come to see Professor Lingard? Why are you still waiting out here?"
The question hit him like a sudden drop of cold rain, shivering down the length of his back. He realized, with a jolt, how nearly he'd lost track of his purpose. Every second he stood there, clutching those papers, the day's fragile peace slipped that much further away. Drawing in a bracing breath, he straightened up and mustered the resolve to finally step beyond his own circle of doubt.
But before he could so much as take a step, Cella had already turned away. No parting words, no backward glance, just her shoulders slipping quietly out of sight, swallowed by the curve of the corridor. Her presence, her footsteps, faded as quietly as fog curling at daybreak, leaving him frozen in place. He could only linger there, watching her recede like a shadow: slipping from the light, asking for neither notice nor company.
Only then did he seem to awaken from that small pause in his universe. Drawing a breath, he faced the wooden door before him, hugged the journals tighter to his chest, and finally rapped his knuckles against the grain, letting his uncertainty and hope echo against old wood.
"Excuse me…"
"Come in."
Professor Lingard's voice cut through the door, suffused with quiet command. Relief spilled through him as he stepped across the threshold into the office that, no matter how many times he'd visited before, always left him quietly awestruck. Order here bordered on the supernatural blueprints and crystalline schematics lined the walls in regimented ranks, oak shelves soared floor to ceiling, books arranged with almost ritual care, cataloged by color gradient and author's epithet. Everything orbited some unspoken center of gravity.
Across the laboratory's wide expanse, a heavy research table sprawled beneath an organized chaos of strange instruments and fractured crystals. He forced himself not to gawk; nosiness was a habit best left at the door. At the far end, battling the dusk by the glow of a reading orb, Professor Lingard sat poised, one leg crossed, eyes fixed on towering volumes, the ambient glow deepening the lines of focus on his face.
Ikaris dipped his head in greeting, extending the bundle of journals toward Lingard. "Here are the journals you asked for, Professor. From Professor Inkletter."
Professor Lingard sat before him, appearing to be in his early fifties, the sort of age you'd expect for a university lecturer, but still almost too young to wear the full weight of a professor's title. There was barely a hint of age on his face; no trace of deep wrinkles, just a kind expression that rested lightly across his features. His hair was clipped short, colored like strong black tea, and every so often he'd nudge up his nearly-square glasses, usually after they'd slipped down his nose when he bent forward to read.
"Ah, thank you, Ikaris. Sit, won't you? No need to stand on ceremony." Lingard's voice was deceptively relaxed, every gesture crisp and efficient. In moments, he'd risen and prepared tea, a cup already warming Ikaris's hands before he could muster an objection. "Go on. Drink, it's no trouble."
Awkwardness hovered in the air, tying knots in Ikaris's throat until he nearly choked on his own hesitation. He stared at the porcelain, then at Professor Lingard, who was already paging through the journals, brow furrowed in deep concentration.
And then, before he could rein himself in, his mouth ran ahead of his thoughts. "About—about my last research attempt, Professor… I still haven't cracked it."
"The temporal portal project?" Lingard's head snapped up, eyes bright with curiosity.
"Yes… I did exactly as we talked about. I compressed the mana into a crystal, but when it cracked, nothing happened, not even so much as a flicker." Defeat colored every word.
"Solidifying mana into crystal is no easy trick," Lingard mused, lips quirking with half-amused skepticism. "You're dealing with something unpredictable, mana surges and swirls, wild as a spooked stallion. Force too much at once, and it'll buck right through your grasp."
Ikaris took this in, clinging to a scrap of hope in his gaze. "Then, Professor… do you know what I should do next?"
Lingard sipped his tea, letting the spice-laden steam curl between his words. "Runes, Ikaris. To soothe mana, you'll need runes, not the ordinary kind, mind you. They must be just right, perfectly tuned. It's not unlike coaxing a wild animal to sit quietly, one wrong note, and it's liable to go wilder than before." He topped off Ikaris's cup with practiced grace. "Details are best learned from Professor Inkletter anyway. No one on this campus knows more about it than him."
Inkletter's face flickered through Ikaris's memory.
I'd go, he thought, but… if only he weren't so intimidating. A silent grimace tugged at his mouth. He nudged his chair back, ready to take his leave, when a sudden memory surfaced.
"Oh—right. Professor Inkletter mentioned you'll be taking his place as the examiner for final exam. The day after tomorrow."
Lingard merely nodded, easy and unruffled, serene as a sea calf adrift in the tide. "That's fine by me."
Unbidden, a smile broke across Ikaris's face, the tangle of his anxieties seemed to melt, at least for a moment.
But as he neared the door, Lingard's deep voice reeled him back mid-step.
"Ikaris."
He turned, caught once more by that piercing gaze.
"So… are you really planning to head to the Wetlands?"