Two days had passed since Lucien's daring early-morning proposal to the Dread Mage Vellichor, and it had paid off handsomely, if not in certainty, then in social capital.
Word had spread. Carefully, of course. Lucien had only said enough to stir curiosity: a remark here, a subtle correction there. He'd been seen speaking with Vellichor. Offering materials.
The man had taken them. Had laughed at Lucien's dry remarks and wit.
It was enough to elevate Lucien's name several notches above the usual academic noise. For the first time in weeks, he hadn't had to start any conversation. Others came to him.
He spent the morning basking in it.
At breakfast, the lesser apprentices shifted at his approach to make room. A junior lecturer asked for his opinion on transmogrification pedagogy. Even a pair of high-bred second-years whispered excitedly as he passed, one of them turning pink when he nodded to them in exaggerated politeness.
He strolled through the lower courtyard beneath a freshly polished sun, letting his robes catch just enough breeze to create an elegant flare.
"This," he thought, "is what it feels like to walk in the direction the world is already bowing."
Then, the bell rang for midday.
At first, he thought nothing of it. Then came the messengers—runners from the Registrar's Wing, hurrying with scrolls underarm, tacking them to the notice pillars in each of the halls, gardens, and vestibules.
New class listings.
A murmuring ripple coursed through the courtyard as students gathered, pressing in around the boards like moths to a newly lit brazier.
Lucien smiled to himself, lingering in the shade a moment longer before approaching. He knew what would be written. He had heard theories from professors and glimpsed administrative whispers. Spoken Thaumaturgy. Cross-disciplinary usage of Dico. Perhaps even Entropic Channeling or Forbidden Rhetorics of the Mind.
He joined the edge of the gathering and scanned the fresh parchment, waiting for the reveal like a king awaiting tribute.
Then, he saw it.
In big, bold letters, it said:
NEW ELECTIVE COURSE - TERM IV
Instructor: Master Vellichor
Title: Applied Golemancy: Theory, Ethics, and Animative Practice
Lucien blinked. He looked again.
"Applied… Golemancy?" He thought. "There must be a mistake."
He looked, and no, there it was again. In official script. Under the crest. Signed with the registrar's seal.
Golemancy. Of all things.
His stomach flipped. His eyes darted to the rest of the board. No hidden second class. No elaborate alternate listing. Just the one offering.
"Golemancy?" Someone said, "That's… surprisingly pedestrian."
"Maybe he wants to rebuild the custodial corps," a smug voice added.
"I expected something darker. Something revolutionary," muttered another.
Boffety Levent's voice rose from somewhere behind Lucien, all smug syrup and fake bemusement. "Golems! Of course! It's practically foundational. We all have to start somewhere."
Laughter.
Lucien's vision narrowed.
The people who had just been looking at him as an oracle now stood around trading jokes about stone legs and clay heads. His glorious narrative, the private proposal, the early access, and the strategic insight were crumbling under the weight of a very mundane truth.
Golemancy.
Foundational magic.
Intermediate animative theory.
Practical ethics, with mandatory lab hours.
This wasn't obscure genius or hidden power.
This was workshop magic.
Lucien felt cold in his gut. But then he straightened.
"No. No. They still don't know what I know. I spoke to him. I gave him my work. I might still be on the inside."
And then, as if summoned by pride alone, a new voice cut through the din:
"They're limiting registration."
Every head turned. A clerk stood just outside the administrative arch, carrying a thin scroll case. "Due to instructor preference, class size will be restricted to thirty students. First-come, first-confirmed basis."
Thirty.
The crowd erupted.
There was no pushing or shouting yet, but students peeled away in waves, sprinting toward the northern hall, toward the signing desk. A blur of robes and spell-enhanced legs, each determined to be first.
Lucien remained where he was, utterly composed. Because while they fought over scraps, he knew something they didn't.
He turned slowly, folded his arms, and smiled faintly.
Because his name, surely, was already at the top.
Right?