Lucien entered the solarium, a place for the students of the Magnus Halls to gather, with the poise of a man already admired, already applauded, just waiting for the audience to catch up.
It was abuzz with low laughter, enchanted strings humming faintly in the corners, and the scent of spiced wine curling beneath the rafters. Students lounged across velvet benches and carved marble seats, where daylight pooled like liquid gold through the great crystalline glass dome above.
Here, discussion was theater, and ego was currency.
He spotted them instantly.
Boffety Levent, perched like a cocky parrot on the edge of a chaise, surrounded by his usual orbit. A few fourth-years who mistook proximity for influence. A clutch of aspiring alchemists who hung on every misquoted text. Two young women—beautiful in a way that always made Lucien suspect they'd never cracked open a sigil volume in their lives—leaned in close to Boffety's shoulders, laughing too often, too loudly.
Lucien sighed inwardly.
Boffety was wearing his "thinking robe" today—forest green, with brass-buckled sleeves, as if he were about to rewrite the foundational laws of transmutation while posing for a portrait. His hands moved animatedly as he spoke.
"…and when you account for elemental repulsion at the substructure, you'll see that water itself holds memory. Not just energy, mind you, but memory. Which explains why ritual purity has so much historical weight. It's stored in the fluid lattice itself—"
Lucien's eyebrow twitched.
Natural philosophy.
Gods preserve him, he was talking about natural philosophy again.
The group around him nodded as though he'd said something revolutionary and not just repeated a theory disproven by any half-awake third-year with a cold flask and an enchantment primer.
Lucien let the silence after Boffety's latest proclamation bloom for one breath longer than comfortable.
Then he stepped forward.
"Fascinating," Lucien drawled, his voice effortlessly clear over the chamber's soft noise. "So you're saying a puddle could pass the entrance exams if left alone long enough?"
Several heads turned. Boffety's grin faltered for half a second. The girls tittered.
Lucien offered a smooth, neutral smile. "Ah, Boffety. I didn't realize the discussion had turned to memory resonance in hydrological lattices. Again."
"Lucien," Boffety replied, shifting just slightly. "Some of us still believe in grounding magic in natural law."
"Yes, of course. There's always a place for quaint optimism." Lucien leaned against a column, casually adjusting his cuffs. "Still, it's refreshing to hear that the puddle in the courtyard may one day recite The Nine Forms of Binding backwards. I do hope I live to see it."
A few snickers rippled through the circle. The alchemy students pretended to cough.
Lucien waited a beat longer—then, with the grace of an experienced performer, dropped the bait.
"Speaking of surprises," he said, "did any of you happen to see who arrived this morning?"
There was a general murmur of confusion.
Lucien continued, with all the theatrical subtlety of a born orator who believed himself very modest: "Well, I wouldn't expect you to know. Most of the staff didn't. But I happened to be near the west archive stairs when he arrived."
A pause. Suspense.
"Vellichor."
Someone gasped.
Boffety blinked. Just like Lucien's mind had raced, so did his. "The Dread Mage? Here?"
Lucien nodded slowly, his smile deepening. "Here. In person. Not just for consultation either. I heard the principal himself offer him any position he liked. Apparently, Vellichor is considering teaching."
The reaction was immediate. One of the women gasped. A lower-ranked enchantment student dropped a fig.
Lucien relished it.
"And—most intriguing of all—he didn't come alone." Lucien let the words settle before continuing, his voice smooth and just loud enough to command attention. "He brought a girl with him. His daughter. Quite direct, charming in a blunt sort of way. They spoke with me briefly before meeting the principal—wanted a sense of the student body, I suppose. I must've made a strong impression."
He smiled modestly, though it was anything but.
"She's already been granted access to the faculty wing, of course. Not just a guest. She'll be staying."
Boffety, uncharacteristically quiet, opened his mouth to question him—
But Lucien swept in faster, already sharpening the blade. "Oh, I wouldn't expect you to know, Boffety. You were probably busy lecturing your adoring puddle on the emotional trauma of shallow water. Easy to miss important developments when you're wading through the murk of obsolete theory."
A ripple of laughter broke through the circle. One of the girls covered her mouth, trying to muffle a giggle. One of the younger students snorted aloud.
Lucien's tone was still light, almost friendly, but his words were carved with the precision of a scalpel.
Boffety managed a tight smile. "Well, I suppose some of us pay attention to theory while others chase after court gossip."
"Oh, dear Boffety," Lucien said, placing a hand lightly on his rival's shoulder, his smile gleaming with polished charm. "When court gossip is about the Vellichor, the Dread Mage himself, it stops being gossip and becomes the axis of relevance. Imagine the implications—working alongside a living legend. Entire schools of thought could be rewritten. Who knows, Boffety? Perhaps he'll choose you to help redefine the very foundations of magical theory. But seeing your lack of interest, I guess Vellichor has to choose someone better."
A mocking statement.
He turned away then, leaving the final word to ring in the air like a chime.
As Lucien strode toward the exit, he could already hear whispers building behind him. Questions. Speculations. He made sure not to look back—but the smirk on his face said everything.
He had just directed the conversations for the entire day in the solarium.