Taking Gregory's advice, I spent the next few days following my friends around to whatever caught their interest, trying to learn as much as I could about my colleagues—and about magic.

  Turned out Cass had really taken to Sylvarus, and Dara had drawn her up a whole syllabus.

  One morning, after telling Cass my plan, she shrugged and told me to grab breakfast to go. Turned out Cass had graduated from having a single hobby—running—to having two hobbies: running and alchemy. She'd spent the better part of the morning in Estelle's class, sipping tea that smelled like raw ginger and scribbling detailed notes. Even drawing fucking diagrams of various potions and decoctions like some kind of magical chemistry student.

  I tried redeeming myself from my last alchemy class by following a recipe to the letter, no matter how drawn out and obtuse it seemed.

  Big mistake.

  The measurements made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Every recipe had entirely different ways of measuring things that defied all logic, and many were dozens of pages long. At one point, the instructions called for a 'clutch' of something literally named "mana salt." I used a small, metal spoon to scoop it out, feeling a sharp pinch in my hand as a tiny sliver of mana passed into the now-glowing powder. The moment I added it to the mixture, the whole thing exploded spectacularly in a shower of rainbow sparks that left my eyebrows singed and the air tasting like the color purple.

  Cass gawked at me from her station, her own perfectly bubbling pot looking smugly successful.

  "You used like ten times the amount needed for that," she said, shaking her head. "I'm not sure I want you teaching me how to make beer if it's going to turn out like that."

  I threw my hands up, still blinking away afterimages. "I give up. First it was distance measurements, but now alchemy has a whole other version that makes no sense and keeps changing. What the fuck is a 'clutch' of powder? Or a 'whisker' of blue nettle?" I gestured wildly at the ingredient shelves. "There's nothing blue in these bottles!"

  Cass shrugged, not even looking up from her notes. "Most of these were written by Albinus Vildar, so a whisker..." She pointed casually at a bottle of green stuff. "A strand of that green stuff there."

  "Of course the green shit is called blue nettle." I threw my hands up again, frustration boiling over. "Fuck alchemy."

  "Ben Crawford, I have had it with your bullshit," Estelle sighed from the front of the room, her voice carrying the weight of someone who'd dealt with too many explosive disasters before noon. "I was hoping you'd have some aptitude for the sacred art of alchemy, but all you do is complain and make a gargantuan mess. You may leave."

  I gaped at her for a minute, then doubled over laughing.

  "Holy shit, I haven't been kicked out of class in forever! I'd forgotten what that feels like."

  Grinning, I grabbed my things and got to my feet while Cass snorted with laughter.

  "I'll go see if Zachary wants to kick my ass or something. Would be more fun than trying to decipher this nightmare. At least cooking has measurements that make sense!"

  "I'll come find you! Don't forget you and Katie said you're making dinner for us this week in the kitchens," Cass said, practically waving me away.

  "Oh, I haven't forgotten. Katie wants to make chocolate fudge for dessert." Two Vildar heads snapped around like I'd announced free money. While I'd introduced a few decadent desserts to Ark, fudge wasn't one of them. The Vildar had figured that shit out on their own. What happens when you stabilize melted sugar with a shitload of butter and cream?

  Fudge happens.

  "Did you say chocolate fudge?" one of the Albinus students asked, her eyes lighting up with dangerous interest.

  I nodded. "Oh yeah, there's going to be a battle royale, soon. I wish Doreen was here for a rematch."

  "Ben Crawford, get the fuck out of my class!" Estelle shouted from the front of the room.

  I laughed again, partly to cover up my genuine frustration. I'd thought magic potions would be awesome to learn, but none of the ingredient combinations or measurements made sense, and I had zero desire to spend the next three weeks learning the difference between a "grip" and a "snag" of something based on who wrote the recipe.

  One afternoon, while hunting for Malcolm, I ran into Felix walking with Ferris—his Sentarian colleague—and Dorian Graves of all people. Dorian might not be my rival, but he was definitely a prick. After Malcolm had fucked him over at the tournament, even his friend Darryl Summers, Katie's cousin, seemed to have ditched him. Now, Dorian clung to Felix like an unpleasant shadow, and I could hear his scoff echoing down the hall before I even saw him.

  Of the three, only Ferris acknowledged my presence as we passed, giving me a slight nod that felt oddly respectful.

  Once we'd moved past each other, I ventured a glance back to see Dorian eyeing me with a hard look that could've curdled milk. I smiled and waved, which earned me a sneer as he whirled around and stomped to catch up with Felix—who had completely ignored me.

  Something about Felix's behavior lately felt totally bizarre. Even Cass had mentioned it was out of character for him. Felix used to get into trouble, break rules, and sometimes piss her off, sure. But his complete lack of empathy and outright disdain for people who'd been his friends? That was new territory. All because he'd been disqualified from exhibition matches for nearly killing Erik with a modified lightning spell.

  Probably something else to add to my growing to-do list: confront Felix about whatever the hell was going on with him. That conversation was going to be about as pleasant as a root canal.

  Eventually, I thought to check Thea's laboratory for Malcolm. Even though she was currently back in La-Roc, I suspected Darla—Thea's talking pig companion—was still blowing things up in the name of science.

  As I walked down the hall toward the lab, a loud bang shook the entire building. Dust rained from the alabaster ceiling, and smoke billowed out of the doorway ahead as if a dragon had just sneezed. I sighed as Valor automatically picked up the life signatures inside.

  Malcolm spilled into the hallway, coughing his lungs out as he sprawled across the polished floor, covered head to toe in soot that made him look like a chimney sweep.

  "The fuck was that, Malcolm?" I laughed, the acrid smell of burnt everything hitting my nose.

  Malcolm rolled over and blinked up at me, leaving a perfectly clean outline of his goggles around his eyes. "Oh, hey Ben! Great timing. We were trying to replicate that spell you made from my illumination spell. So far all we've managed is creating balls of fire. Still useful, I think!"

  I helped him up, then peeked inside the lab to see several scorched sections that looked like a small war had broken out. The air reeked of burnt wood and something chemical that made my eyes water. A painted wooden table burned merrily in the corner, sending up a plume of black smoke that overwhelmed the ceiling vent.

  Darla ran out of the room with an indignant squeal just as a strange sucking sensation filled the air. Wind began raging through the halls with enough force to flatten my hair against my skull. The smoke cleared instantly, and the burning table went out with a disappointed hiss.

  I coughed as the air slammed back into the hallway with a vengeance, filling my lungs almost forcibly with the taste of ozone and extinguished flames.

  "What the hell was that?" I gasped.

  Darla snorted, shaking soot from her bristly hide. "Fire suppression system we had installed after the tournament. Thea's gonna be pissed—it costs gold mana coins to operate every time it goes off."

  Malcolm pulled out a stack of gold coins like he was buying coffee. "We can try again now that Ben's here."

  Laughing, we made our way back into the lab while Malcolm dragged the charred table out into the hallway. The room still smelled like a campfire, but at least nothing was actively burning.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "We're clearly missing something," he said, motioning toward a set of chalkboards covered in runes. Each diagram showed Illumination from a different angle, the symbols gradually morphing into something that resembled concentrated sunlight.

  "Malcolm, you said you were creating a ball of fire?" I asked, raising an eyebrow as I studied the work.

  "Just a small one. Why, you see what went wrong?"

  "Yeah, a little bit." I examined the diagrams more closely, listening to Dawn's expertise whisper through my thoughts. "The spell is called Aurora, I think. It needs spirituality—this approach is too... clinical. It's hard to explain, but I think you basically created a miniature sun."

  "At this point, I'm pretty sure Darla doesn't even believe you can actually do it," Malcolm said with a grin. "Think you can show her?"

  Malcolm made a circular mudra, and a steady ball of illumination appeared in his palm, casting a harsh white light across the lab.

  I stared at the light, thinking about the concept of Aurora again—the dance of energy across the sky, the marriage of light and spirit. Stretching my hand toward the spell, I felt... nothing. But then Dawn stepped in, briefly sending me exactly what I needed.

  I shoved mana into Valor and ignited the deepest mana burn I could manage, feeling my reserves drain like someone had pulled a plug. Without warning, Valor seemed to take over completely, and the concepts of the spell flooded my mind in a blue wave of energy that flowed toward Malcolm's illumination.

  I cut the mana burn, baffled by how much energy that had just cost me, only to immediately feel the rejuvenating white light spread over my skin like warm honey.

  "I guess Valor needs a ton of mana to make it work," I said with a shrug. "But there it is, Darla."

  No answer came. I craned my neck to see the enormous pig staring up at the transformed ball of energy with what I could only assume was wonder. The harsh white light had become something alive—ribbons of green, blue, and gold that danced and swirled like captured northern lights.

  "It's beautiful," Darla whispered, approaching the floating aurora with careful steps. "And the way you combined magical effects... I haven't seen it done like this before. Normally someone just exerts one spell on another, but this is... perfect harmony. Like you've elevated whatever Malcolm created."

  "It also heals slowly and generates a bit of mana," I added.

  "Now that's proper fucking magic," Malcolm said with an appreciative nod. "Think we can diagram this out now that he's shown us?"

  Darla nodded enthusiastically. "Get chalk. Get all the chalk."

  Looking at what I'd learned about alchemy, I figured I'd better find something at Sylvarus that didn't make me want to tear my hair out. Red padded alongside me through the alabaster halls, his nose working overtime as he searched for his next meal. The dog had become a master at locating the kitchens from anywhere in the school, but today something else had caught his attention.

  Metal. Hot metal. Food? Red's thoughts brushed against mine through our bond, tinged with curiosity more than hunger.

  "Not food, buddy," I said, scratching behind his ears. "But let's check it out anyway."

  Red led me down one of the many corridors I hadn't explored yet, past a series of empty classrooms that smelled of dust and old parchment. The scent of coal smoke and heated metal grew stronger with each step, mixing with something else—the sharp tang of quenching oil and the earthy smell of leather. We rounded a corner and stood before a set of heavy double doors, one propped open to let the heat escape.

  The smithy beyond was mostly empty, a stark contrast to the crowded alchemy lab. Anvils stood at regular intervals, each with its own forge nearby. Tools hung from the walls in neat rows—hammers of every size and shape, tongs, files, and instruments I couldn't even name. At the far end, a single figure worked at an anvil, the rhythmic ring of hammer on metal creating a hypnotic percussion.

  The man was built as if someone had made a person entirely out of cable and sinew. Black hair tied back in a simple knot, sweat glistening on stark white skin marked with intricate red runes that covered his arms and traced up his neck to his face. Each strike of his hammer made the runes pulse faintly, like embers breathing in a forge. He worked shirtless, and I could see the play of muscle beneath skin with each measured blow.

  He definitely sensed Valor because he paused mid-swing, setting the hammer down with deliberate care before turning to face us.

  "A visitor," he said, his voice slow and measured, each word placed with the same precision as his hammer strikes. "How refreshing. I am Brandon Tombs."

  "Ben Crawford," I replied, stepping into the smithy properly. Red followed, immediately investigating a pile of metal shavings in the corner. "Sorry for interrupting."

  "Not at all." Brandon wiped his hands on a leather apron that had seen better decades. "Do you have an interest in metallurgy?"

  I hadn't really thought about it before. My mind went to the armor I'd been meaning to look into—proper plate armor befitting a paladin. The stuff wasn't cheap, and ordering through Maris's merchants was both going to clean me out and take months.

  "Actually, yeah," I said, warming to the idea. "I'm pretty sure I'm a Guardian or close enough, and I've been meaning to get some plate armor made. But maybe... maybe learning to make it myself would be better? Or at least understanding how it's done?"

  Brandon's face split into a grin that transformed his severe features into something almost boyish. "A Guardian who wishes to understand his own protection? How novel. Most simply throw gold at craftsmen and demand results."

  "Can't be harder than alchemy," I said with a shrug.

  Brandon laughed—a rich, rolling sound that filled the empty smithy. "Ah. Alchemy is for those who create only using their minds. Smithing?" He picked up his hammer again, feeling its weight. "Smithing is for those who create with their soul. Each blow shapes not just metal, but intent. Each quench transforms not just steel, but purpose."

  I couldn't argue with that philosophy, especially after my spectacular failure with useless measurements and stupid ingredient names.

  "I should clarify," Brandon continued, hanging his hammer on a nearby rack, "I am not an instructor, per se. Sylvarus has little interest in the crude art of putting hammer to metal. Most here prefer their magic clean and conceptual. I have this place to myself most days, making items for the school to enchant and sell."

  "So you're saying I'd get private lessons?"

  "If you're willing to learn." He gestured to a rack of hammers. "Choose one that calls to you."

  I ran my hand along the handles, feeling the worn wood and leather wrappings. One near the middle felt right—not too heavy, not too light, with a grip that fit my hand perfectly.

  "Good choice," Brandon said, leading me to an anvil. "Now, before we shape metal, we must understand the hammer itself. The bounce."

  For the next hour, Brandon taught me what he called the fundamentals. How to let the hammer's weight do the work. How to control the bounce off the anvil's face, using that energy to lift for the next strike. How to find a rhythm that became almost meditative. Red had long since given up on finding food and curled up near one of the cold forges, occasionally opening one eye to check on my progress.

  "You have natural rhythm," Brandon observed as I worked through another set of exercises, bouncing the hammer in steady beats. "Many struggle with this for days."

  "Used to help my Dad with building projects," I said between strikes. "A lot of repetitive motion."

  "Ah, then you understand the satisfaction of creation through deliberate effort." He moved to a wall covered in samples of different metals, each labeled with neat script. "Come, let me introduce you to the materials of our craft."

  He pulled down an orange bar that gleamed with an inner light. "Spirit Steel, which I'm sure you know already. Excellent for weapons that must cut through mana reinforcement. Horrible to work with for novices, though."

  Next came a bar with a dull brass color that seemed to shift in the light. "Phantom Brass. Quite common for armor among the Legion. It does a great job absorbing force, but isn't the most useful against manifested magic produced by Arcanists."

  "I have a scale set of it. I know all too well what its weaknesses are," I said.

  Then he lifted a tiny bar that seemed to shine unnaturally, with an almost liquid mercury surface. "And this... is Adamantine."

  "Holy shit," I breathed, reaching out to touch it before pulling my hand back. "That's actually Adamantine?"

  "You know it? Sourcing it is remarkably difficult, but it's commonly used to create tools. What better way to shape mana-infused metals than with something unyielding?" Brandon hefted the ingot with obvious respect. "This small piece could buy a respectable house in the Empire."

  "Has anyone made armor from it?"

  Brandon laughed again, setting the ingot back carefully. "That would be staggeringly expensive. Perhaps royalty or the Emperor himself could afford such luxury. But shaping Adamantine involves tremendous work—each piece must be folded hundreds of times, heated to temperatures that would vaporize lesser metals. Making an entire suit of plate armor?" He shook his head. "That is not something I have the skills for, nor the wealth."

  My eye caught a stack of pale blue bars on a high shelf, almost glowing in the forge-light. "What about those?"

  Brandon's eyes lit up. "Ah, you have good instincts. Skysilver." He retrieved one bar, and I was shocked when he tossed it to me. I hadn't even been paying attention with Valor, and it flew at me way too fast. It weighed almost nothing—like holding a bar of aluminum foam.

  "Extremely lightweight," he explained as I marveled at the metal. "While expensive, it's typically used for projectiles and weapons that require speed. A Skysilver sword can slice through air faster than any other blade, though it lacks the mass to be effective against heavily armored opponents or mana severing like Spirit Steel."

  "What about armor?" I asked, already seeing the possibilities. "If it's this light..."

  "The Guards of Virexus in the Greatwood use it exclusively," Brandon said, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "With the right skill set, Skysilver armor allows them to glide considerable distances after a long jump. Some say the best can achieve true flight through the Greatwood for short periods."

  The image hit me like one of Brandon's hammer strikes. Flying through the Greatwood. Gliding between massive trees. The sheer freedom of it.

  "Yep, this," I said, holding up the Skysilver bar. "This is what I want my armor made from."

  Brandon nodded slowly, as if he'd expected this answer. "An expensive choice, but a wise one for a young Guardian. The armor would need to be designed differently than traditional plate. Less coverage perhaps, but strategic placement. Maximum protection for minimum weight."

  "When can we start?"

  "Eager, are we?" Brandon chuckled. "First, you must learn to shape common iron. Then perhaps bronze, then steel. Only when you understand how metal moves, how it thinks, how it wants to be shaped—only then can we consider working with Skysilver."

  Red chose that moment to stand and shake himself, sending metal shavings flying.

  "I should probably feed the beast before he gnaws on the forge," I said, setting the Skysilver down reluctantly. "But I'll be back tomorrow if that's okay?"

  "I'll be here," Brandon said, returning to his anvil. "Six in the morning. Bring water and a willingness to sweat."

  As Red and I left the smithy, the sound of Brandon's hammer resumed its steady rhythm. I flexed my hands, still feeling the phantom weight of the hammer, the promise of Skysilver armor dancing in my mind.

  Besides cooking, I'd finally found something at Sylvarus that made actual goddamn sense.