The morning after Lucien's maneuver in the registration office dawned crisp and amber-gold, sunlight pooling like honey through the windows of Magnus Hall.
The air was still damp with dew, and the bell for first meditation had not yet tolled.
Lucien had risen before the sun.
Not because he was scheduled for any early lecture; those, frankly, were for over-eager first-years and the penitent. He always rose so early. It was necessary for a successful young mage to make the most of his time.
And he had learned long ago that knowledge was not always found in libraries. Sometimes it gathered in the margins, in stairwells, behind columns, or, as was the case this morning, in the cloistered garden between the Faculty Tower and the Hall of Theory.
Cloaked in an unassuming charcoal-gray robe and holding a book he had no intention of reading, not yet anyway, Lucien settled behind a trellis of blooming vine with white petals, an original creation of the sept of druids of the Halls of Magnus, just as voices began to carry across the flagstones.
Three professors strolled out into the garden courtyard: Master Agnel of Astral Topography, always too loud; Mistress Louvart of Thaumaturgic Dynamics, perpetually sharp; and old Professor Mercanton, whose walking staff clicked in rhythm to his wheezing breath.
Lucien kept still.
"Have you heard?" Agnel began, not bothering to lower his voice. "Vellichor's arrival is causing a complete panic in Scheduling."
Louvart scoffed. "What did they think would happen? We invite the most infamous mage alive to drop by and teach, and somehow the class structure survives untouched?"
"I don't think he's even decided what he wants to teach," Mercanton muttered, squinting up at a shaft of morning light. "That's the real trouble. The man could teach anything. Battlecraft. Metaphysics. Metamorphic revisionism. Some think he'll start with Invocation; others think Applied Cataclysmics."
"Applied Cataclysmics? That's not even an active department anymore, not for years and years."
"Well, maybe it will be again."
Lucien's heart beat faster. Applied Cataclysmics?
"That's what's so maddening," Louvart added. "He's too qualified. There's no framework for it. If he teaches a single class, it will distort the entire enrollment pattern. If he teaches more, gods help us, we'll have riots from fourth-years demanding placements."
"He's not even a licensed professor!" Agnel huffed. "He's bypassing all accreditation protocols!"
Louvart gave him a dry look. "He's the Dread Mage. If he wants to teach language comprehension via interpretive silence, they'll build a department for it."
Mercanton chuckled. "He may not even teach a spellcasting class. The principal mentioned something about perspective. That he might want to teach a theoretical. Something like… 'The Ethics of Power' or 'Mage Sovereignty and the State.'"
"Or he could teach Dico," Agnel muttered.
"Dico?"
"Supposedly, the school of magic that he's the best in."
Louvart snorted. "It's not even a recognized discipline."
"It's powerful and terrifies everyone."
Lucien leaned slightly forward, his pulse a quiet storm beneath his skin.
"If I knew what he was leaning toward, I could shape my enrollment path before anyone else. Maybe even prepare a thesis pitch… or offer assistance..." His thoughts wandered.
The professors turned, continuing their slow walk past the fountain, unaware of the young man crouched behind the blooming vine, taking mental notes like a tactician drawing battle lines.
"I suppose we'll find out in the faculty assembly tomorrow," Mercanton wheezed. "If he shows."
"He'll show," Elvera said flatly. "Vellichor may be famous and powerful, but he's not arrogant and above it all."
Lucien waited until their footsteps had receded and the soft rush of fountain water filled the quiet again.
Then he stood, adjusted his robe, and walked off down the path, briskly, eyes alight, already composing three separate contingency plans in his head. If Vellichor chose Invocation, he'd need to pull favors from the Arcane Archives department. If it was Ethics or Theory, he'd need to call in another favor.
And if it was Dico…
Lucien smiled to himself.
"Then I'll be the first student in history to write a dissertation on something no one else dares speak aloud."