Sweet.

  It smelt as if the breeze held sugar. Such a wind beckoned a youngster’s nose to follow and pull his resting mind to the conscious world. His brown hair rustled as the gentle air tickled.

  Sitting up, with eyes half closed and dazed, he counted. Empty, person, person, empty, person. Those were the rows stretched before him. Further stood a man, who's complexion had lost against age, in front of a blackboard. A teacher, the youngster thought, and in turn he was a student.

  His foggy eyes caught the instructor’s motions. An arm raised with its palm upwards. Streaks of dust spun together above the hand, akin to a ball of yarn. Perhaps the culprit behind the sweet winds? With that hairball-like appearance? Maybe not.

  With a small head tilt, the student’s ear caught a muffled sound. Ever slow the barely-audible noise cleared up. Focusing on the voice he caught a single word through the drowsy jumbling.

  Magic-

  “Ah.”

  A single sound escaped his mouth and dragged the attention of all near. Feeling his peers' gazes the youth could not help but fall silent. Even the instructor showed a face of annoyance. Disregarding the interruption the lesson resumed and too the student continued to listen.

  Akin to the allure of habits, he echoed the lesson in an unheard mutter. Word by word, without a flaw, speaking in unison with the professor. For a sentence, then two, three, four. The silent mimicry of words continued for dozens of minutes. Until…

  Arcadamian Magi.

  Those two, all-too-familiar words, sung in the student’s thoughts. An overwhelming ecstasy filled with anticipation. The youth smiled as the professor moved his hands to contract and expand the sweet-scented ball of dust. Not a beat after, began a demonstration as the single sphere divided into several and flew. Orbiting around the room they turned into a gale. Then into an updraft pulling loose papers into the air, to the dismay of everyone else.

  Watching the pages flutter to the glass ceiling, akin to autumn leaves, the youngster was breathless. So long ago he read of such a scene; never expecting to witness it. Despite the simple display and the annoyance from peers, it felt as if the breeze welcomed him. A fickle smell of sweetness had fully bloomed into a breath of candy.

  Laughing with glee, and flick of a hand, the teacher calmed the winds. The free-flying papers returned to their owners. With a smile he reminded the class to bind their papers and welcomed them to the Eastline College of Research. Those final words dismissed the lecture.

  Still entranced, the youngster only came to when those around chatted and packed. Following suit he stuffed his supplies into a satchel. While making room for a leather notebook he paused and flipped through it. Years upon years of notes, theories and doodles littered the pages. Despite the endless scribbles of ink, there were still as much and many more pages to be filled.

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  Closing the book his fingers slid along a single word engraved on the cover. Palette. The last name to his first, Cymir. A nostalgic smile appeared while stowing the notebook away. Hints of candy lingered in his thoughts while leaving the room.

  Exiting into the hallways the sense of sweet treats were replaced for another, the smell of the sea, salt. The scent drew Cymir’s gaze upwards towards the skylight filled ceiling. Salty air perforated from the blue crystal lanterns that gently swung from dark-wooden support beams. The student could not help but ponder the reason behind such aroma.

  With a lazy stroll, the youth’s aimless wandering led past glass doors and outside. A chilling yet manageable cold greeted him. The morning light scattered through blue gemstones embedded in concrete paths and walls creating an illusion of surface water. Treading down a tiled path, covered with snow, he could not help but chuckle at the oceanic theme. The closest grand body of saltwater stood days away beyond a mountain range and off the cliffside. Was it the longing for the former fishing town or just the commercialization of an area behind the stylization? Only negligent theories persisted for the city’s lore.

  Boundless and thought-filled, he wandered around the college campus. The salt filled scents mixed with a variety of others. Bitter sweetness of success and failure meandered near the study hall. The pricking peaceful warmth enraptured his nose while peering into the campus’ cafe. Nectoret blooms of flowerbeds and groves as students chattered in the plaza. Finally spiciness flared as he arrived upon the testing grounds.

  The ground shook. Snapping the youngster from thoughtless wanderlust. Puffs of smoke rose from within the testing grounds’ glass roof. As the unknown drew curiosity he slipped into the building of textured and colored concrete. Into the warm interior the youth unconsciously showed his identification to the receptionist. Luckily or not the attendant spared not a glance and allowed entry, unfazed by the earlier shake. Seemed the front desk was simply a formality instead of a necessary precaution… or maybe just a lazy employee?

  Following the signs and around a distant corner, fields worth of space greeted Cymir. Bordered with stone-like materials the glass above shimmed in waning light. A presence of security emanated from the subtle glow that stretched upon all surfaces. In contrast to the peaceful reassurance, an overwhelming whirlwind of unmixed scents caused his mind to spin. Although, not too unpleasant.

  Trotting carefully down the dirt paths that spun through the uneven grounds; he noticed several smoking craters a distance away. Laughter from afar could be heard from said direction. Perhaps they were the cause of the earlier quake? Seemed like their efforts spectacularly backfired and left the earth scarred. An idea popped into the student’s mind. Concluding such actions were safe, he jogged to a far corner of the field. With gleeful eyes to go with an aloof smile the youngster prepared. Calling forth a desire. One that had only been seen in dreams and words.

  Arms stretched out and eyes closed, those descriptors of that beautiful moment came to him. Recalling the warmness of the cafe tainted by bittersweetness, and with obsession, he spoke with memories.

  “Without despair and a face of resolution her hand rose. Recalling those distant flower fields. Petals once red danced to gray. Such burnt sweetness may remember those halcyon days. To allow the last bloom of the wastelands to not bring salvation, but ignite the last embers of hope.”

  With those words a rush of foreign energy swirled around and through Cymir. The testing ground's nauseating odor scattered leaving only the scent of embers and sweetness. Feeling as if his thoughts flew he opened his eyes and saw what could only be called magic. Leaves of flames. They danced as fires sprouted around. The blooming flowers brought in warm sunlight, turned into a daylight aurora, and-

  Exploded.