By midmorning, Lucien's private chamber looked like a conjuration spell gone wrong.
Scrolls lay unfurled in arcs across the desk and floor. Several texts, two on metamagic extrapolation, one on advanced mnemonic shielding, and a rare treatise on magical paradoxes in closed systems, had been torn from their shelves and now hovered in midair, suspended by a light levitation ward.
Quills scribbled furiously in three directions at once, recording fragments of thought, half-drafted hypotheses, and ambitious footnotes in Lucien's fastidious hand.
At the center of the storm stood Lucien himself, arms folded behind his back, gaze alight with obsessive purpose.
"If I can secure an audience with him before the assembly, just a few minutes—no, even sixty seconds—I might plant the seed. Make myself the natural choice for student liaison, assistant, hells, even co-researcher if he's eccentric enough to allow it."
He glanced down at the parchment titled "A Modest Framework for the Structuring of Silence: Proposals Toward a Formal Lexicon of Dico Magic."
He wasn't sure if the paper was brilliant or presumptuous, but then again, if Vellichor was half the mage the stories described, he would prefer boldness and directness to flattery.
Lucien rolled up the document, fastened it with a silver-threaded ribbon, and tucked it under his arm. He checked his reflection in the polished mirror by the door.
Hair smooth, collar crisp, expression thoughtful but not rehearsed.
"Now. Where would a man like Vellichor go when the world expects him to be at the top of the ladder?"
He left the chamber at a brisk pace, ignoring the still-hovering books and a rogue quill that was busy spelling out a stray thought of Lucien's.
"I am a genius" was left on the margin of his notes.
The east wing of Magnus Hall, particularly the outer cloisters near the faculty towers, remained unusually quiet.
Most of the student body had not yet grasped the significance of the day, or they were still reeling from the prior evening's whispers about Dread Mage's arrival.
Lucien knew he had only a narrow window of opportunity. Once the bell rang for second passage, the halls would fill with chatter and chaos. And Vellichor, once engulfed in the faculty apparatus, would become much harder to reach.
He rounded a corner, slowing his steps when he neared the cafeteria, and he caught sight of his prey by one of the many empty tables.
There he was.
Vellichor sat, speaking in a low voice with the girl, his daughter, though her expression held more cold detachment than familial warmth.
She sat next to him, listening, but not deferentially. Her expression was hard to read, as her milky eyes and posture didn't reveal much to Lucien.
As before, she wore no uniform, no badge or crest, but her dress was more of what Lucien had expected for a mage, even just an apprentice, to wear at the Magnus Halls.
There was a wildness to her, and Lucien couldn't decide whether she was being groomed for greatness or was simply… brought along.
"Unusual dynamic," Lucien thought. "Interesting."
He stepped forward.
"Pardon me, Master Vellichor," Lucien said, projecting just enough humility to be respectful, not groveling. "I don't mean to intrude, but might I borrow a moment?"
Vellichor turned toward him, expression unreadable but not unfriendly.
"Lucien Brunet," Vellichor said with a great smile. "We spoke yesterday."
"Yes, sir. I… I was honored by that. And encouraged, as well." Lucien extended the scroll. "I prepared this proposal on the chance that you might be considering a class on non-traditional spell forms. Particularly Dico Magic."
Vellichor accepted the scroll, brow raising slightly. "You've already written a proposal?"
Lucien's smile was modest. "A preliminary structure. Of course, it's speculative. But should you consider a class on the subject, I believe I could offer insight from the student body's perspective. I would be deeply honored to assist in any way."
Vellichor untied the ribbon and glanced through the first few lines. His face remained impassive.
The girl gave a look. It was that of small admiration, if Lucien had to guess.
"You seem to be working a lot; finding enough time to write an entire scroll while still having to learn?" she said.
Lucien heard it but kept his expression composed, though in a strange way, he found himself charmed.
Then, Vellichor looked up.
"You move quickly, Lucien."
"Opportunity doesn't wait, sir."
A long silence stretched between them. Lucien held his breath.
Finally, Vellichor gave a slight nod.
"I haven't decided on my curriculum yet. But I appreciate initiative. Especially when it comes without groveling." His eyes narrowed, faintly amused. "You're not trying to flatter me, are you?"
"No, sir. Not flattery. I just want to put in the work to become a great mage."
Vellichor chuckled, actually chuckled, and it nearly fried Lucien's mind at the possibilities that sprang to life. He could already imagine telling anyone who'd listen: he'd made the Dread Mage laugh.
"Very well," Vellichor said. "I'll read it—but later. Right now, I just want to eat."
"Thank you," Lucien said, inclining his head.
He turned and made his way out of the cafeteria and back down the hall, not rushing, not swaggering, but walking with that particular precision that comes from knowing you'd just stepped a little closer to power.