"Ink in Eclipsara is alive—just as alive as the wind, the rivers, the stars, and the soul."
Professor Spooks' voice echoed softly through the chamber, the blue-flamed candles swaying gently, as if listening.
"That is because of one truth… one word."
He lifted a hand. Ink rose with it.
"Thauma."
He let the word sit in the air like a mantra. A pulse moved through the room—subtle but undeniable. The shadows on the floor shifted. The walls seemed to inhale.
"Other realms call it Mana. Chi. Prana. Aether. Orgone. But here, in Eclipsara—the infinite cradle of all living magic—we call it what it truly is: Thauma. The Breath Between Things. The living essence. The song beneath the silence."
A hush fell over the class. Even Bruce had stopped grumbling.
"Thauma is not simply magic. It is not cast. It is felt. It is the soul of this realm. The pulse of creation. The awareness behind matter."
He stepped forward, and the ink-stick in his hand unraveled into shimmering script, dancing in the air between us.
"You are born with Thauma Veins—not physical veins, but spiritual channels etched into your being by the realm itself. Everything birthed in Eclipsara has them. Humans, beasts, trees, shadows, and yes—even ink. That's why it breathes. That's why it listens."
He looked at us all—slowly.
"Through your Thauma Veins, you absorb the ambient magic of Eclipsara. It flows through you. Nourishes you. And for some of you… it will awaken into something more."
"Thauma is awareness."
"Thauma is memory."
"Thauma is power... but only if you understand it."
The chalk dissolved. The board dimmed. And in that moment, every student felt it.
Not a lesson.
A revelation.
The moment we stepped out of the classroom, it was like the air itself lightened.
"Whew. That sure was something," I muttered, stretching out my arms.
"Yeah," said Mark, ruffling his curls. "Super interesting… but also hella spiritual. I feel like I just got baptized in metaphysics."
"I had no idea Thauma ran that deep," Isaiah added, his white eyes still wide with thought. "Like… soul-deep."
"Too confusing, if you ask me," Bruce grumbled, rubbing his temple. "It felt like I was trying to decode poetry while underwater."
"Well, I liked it," Fay said brightly, brushing a lock of black hair behind her ear.
I turned toward her. "I think you're the only one who genuinely paid attention to the whole lesson."
That earned a round of laughter from all of us.
Emilia smiled, holding up a small notebook. "I took notes. Just in case anyone needs a refresher later."
My eyes lit up. "Oh really? Can I, uh… copy them later? My brain's already trying to forget everything."
"Of course," she said warmly. "I figured you'd ask."
"Thanks." I smiled back.
"So…" Mark looked around. "What class is next?"
Twenty minutes passed in a blur.
We were now gathered behind the academy, standing in an open training field nestled between two spire-shadowed cliffs. The sky stretched above us—clear, violet-tinged, and alive with faint glimmers of Thauma drifting like dust motes.
The field itself was ringed by floating lanterns and strange spirals carved into the grass—faintly glowing, like ancient runes that never stopped breathing.
Then she walked out.
A young woman, maybe in her late twenties, with a high ponytail of ink-black curls, wore the silver-black robes of a professor with boots that looked more suited for cliff-diving than lectures. She carried no wand, no staff—only a folded fan and a grin that dared the wind to test her.
"Hello, children," she said brightly. "I'm Professor Mary Brom Ripple—but if you call me Professor Ripple, I won't make you ride the unstable gliders first."
A few nervous chuckles fluttered through the group. Mark audibly sighed with relief.
She opened the fan with a flick—revealing a spiraling ink glyph.
"I'll be your instructor for Flightcraft and Portal Sensing, officially known as Thauma-Motion Basics. Let's keep it simple."
She tapped the air, and a ripple of Thauma shimmered outward like a soft gong sound.
"Flightcraft," she said, "is the art of bonding your Thauma with constructs of ink and shadow to move through the skies. We make our own mounts here—no borrowing brooms from the closet. Your bond is your control."
With another flick of her fan, a trail of ink curled up from the ground, forming the shape of a thin glider with feathered edges and spiral veins glowing faintly violet.
"Think of it as skywalking through willpower."
Then she turned, and pointed to a tear in the air—thin as a crack in glass, just above the ground. It pulsed with eerie blue light.
"Portal sensing is about understanding the scars between realities. Cuts, slips, folds—Eclipsara is stitched with them. Sometimes they shimmer, sometimes they whisper, and sometimes they bite back if you aren't careful."
She smiled with a little too much excitement.
"Before you learn to enter another realm, you have to feel where reality is weakest. That's what this class is for. Flight gives you mobility. Sensing gives you survival."
Then she clapped her hands.
"Today, we're starting with the basics. That means: glider crafting, anchor syncing, and—if none of you fall off screaming—maybe a few baby portals."
Mark raised a hand. "Wait, uh—how do we craft a glider again?"
She grinned.
"With Thauma. Heart first. Will second. Ink last. Let's get to work."
Professor Ripple's voice rang out across the open field, clear as a bell.
"Alright everyone, line up—shoulder to shoulder. You're about to do something most people will only dream of. But here, we don't just dream—we fly."
We all took our places. I could feel the ground pulsing gently beneath my boots, like a heartbeat beneath the soil.
She raised her hand and spread her fingers wide.
"Now," she said, "start by opening your hearts."
A few students glanced at each other.
"Yes, I mean it. You must want this. You must feel the Thauma."
She stepped forward, walking slowly in front of the line like a general before a battle.
"Thauma is everywhere here in Eclipsara. In your breath. In your blood. In the wind above and the soil below. It's not yours to control. It's ours to become. So first, feel it. Then, call it."
She flicked her fingers, and the glyph on her fan glowed.
"Let it come to you—not by force, but by intent. Then, when you feel the pulse of it inside you, shape it. Mold it. Turn it to ink."
I closed my eyes.
Thauma.
It was there—the ever-present buzz in my veins, the hum in the wind, the shimmer just behind thought. I reached for it—not with my hands, but with something deeper.
And then—I saw it.
Black ink swirled at my feet, rising like smoke made solid. I extended my hand, and the swirling shadows twisted, curled, and stretched.
A glider.
Sleek, dark, and faintly veined with silver. My very own.
"Woah," I breathed.
"Good job, Mr. Duskwright," Professor Ripple called. "That's how it's done."
Fay was next, her glider forming in a swirl of lavender-tinged ink. Then Mark—his was a bit uneven, but it held. Isaiah's followed, then Bruce's thick, brutish-looking board, and finally Emilia, whose glider shimmered like a script written in moonlight.
One by one, others began succeeding too.
"Now," Ripple said, "gliders alone won't save you."
She paced in front of us again, eyes sharp.
"The next step is flight. You need more than ink and shape. You need vision."
She turned to face us fully.
"Close your eyes again. Invision yourself not standing on the ground, but riding a wave of Thauma. Let it carry you. Feel its current, its rhythm. When it lifts you—don't fight it. Let it glide you."
I nodded, gripping the sides of my inked glider.
Alright, I thought.
Time to fly.