The next morning dawned cold and brisk, with a pale sun limping over the towers of Magnus Hall. Lucien adjusted the fold of his robe as he walked the lesser-traveled paths that led toward the Automatons & Constructs Workshop, colloquially and derisively known among the student body as the Golem Shed.
It was an unfortunate name, but not wholly inaccurate.
Tucked into a disused wing near the eastern spires, the workshop bore all the signs of benign institutional neglect: ivy grown too thick along its stonework, glass panes yellowed with time, and iron hinges that wailed with every use.
It housed half-broken chassis of old teaching golems, long-discarded molds for elemental cores, and the faint scent of clay, grease, and rust that never quite left the air.
Few professors taught here anymore. Construct-crafting was considered dated, crude even, by the more fashionable branches of arcana.
Which made it all the more extraordinary and telling that Vellichor had chosen it for his first class.
Lucien knew why, or he thought he knew why.
Fewer eyes. Fewer distractions. A more contained space for something… dangerous.
He'd arrived early, of course. His name was on top of the student list.
But he wasn't only here to claim a front-row seat; he was also here to observe the shifting behavior of the students filing in.
Rumors had spread like wildfire overnight.
Most didn't know why Vellichor had chosen golemancy, but that didn't matter. He was the Dread Mage. And they were now his pupils.
The benches filled. A hundred students. Murmurs faded. Lucien's pulse beat a little quicker as the hour turned.
And then the heavy oak doors opened. They groaned, a long, pained sound.
Silence gripped the classroom as every head turned toward the entrance.
Vellichor entered slowly, the torchlight bending strangely along the folds of his black robe. It didn't shimmer, didn't gleam, but instead seemed to drink the light, turning every movement into a ripple of controlled darkness.
His eyes were red like rubies.
His staff was simple. Worn. Ordinary. Which made it more unsettling.
Lucien sat up straighter.
Vellichor stepped up to the cracked old lectern. An object no one had touched in years, and rested one hand lightly on its surface. His glowing eyes scanned the class, meeting several stares. He didn't intimidate them. He simply existed in a different register than everyone else.
Behind him trailed the young girl, his daughter, finding her own reserved seat among the chairs.
And then, Vellichor spoke.
"I apologize," Vellichor said, his voice calm and casual, "for the short notice. I know you have schedules and priorities. I'm thankful for your presence. I hope to earn it properly."
Lucien's heart gave a small, excited lurch.
"Polite. Unpretentious. Socially savvy. He's a much more dangerous man than I thought," he thought.
Vellichor continued, "Now. Before we begin… Do you have any questions?"
It was not the tone of someone who wanted to dominate. It was the tone of someone who already had enough of it.
At first, there was a long silence.
Then, a hand. Then another. A ripple of motion.
Vellichor pointed without comment.
The student who rose was lean and self-satisfied, his robes cut in a fashionable crescent-collar style from the dueling academies. Lucien recognized him.
Garrel Raymond, an upper-tier prodigy from one of the southern city-states. He was clever, but a provocateur.
"Master Vellichor," said Garrel, rising from the third row with the unmistakable stiffness of someone preparing to show off. His voice was clear and deliberate. "I've been studying transpersonal mana manipulation, the art of redirecting or reshaping mana inside another living being. It's delicate, dangerous work. Often causes disorientation, pain, and even psychological backlash. And ethically... well, let's say the volunteers are few."
Lucien exhaled quietly through his nose. "Oh, Garrel. Whatever it was, wrong moment, wrong man."
Garrel went on, oblivious to the shift in the room's air. "But in a battle, the technique has... uses. Strategic ones. So I have to ask: Have you ever used it? Without consent, I mean. Not theoretically. I mean in an actual combat setting."
Gasps. A few students turned in their seats. Some stared at Garrel as though he'd pulled a knife.
Lucien held his breath. "He's actually asking that? Out loud? In front of him?"
If Vellichor said no, if the stories were just smoke and poetry, then half the legends would collapse on the spot.
The Dread Mage stood still as a statue. No shift in posture. No flicker of expression. Then: "Yes."
One word: clear, flat, final.
Vellichor took a single step forward, slow and deliberate, like gravity was a choice he made second by second.
"I am proficient in transpersonal manipulation. Very proficient. Though not proud of it."
He stopped before the front row.
"In a war not many remember, a man tried to kill me with his own blood turned to flame. I reached inside him, through his spell, through his blood, and it boiled him alive. From the inside out."
Lucien swallowed. Around him, no one breathed. There was a dark pressure in the air.
Vellichor turned slightly. "Do you know how long it takes to die that way?"
Garrel didn't answer. His mouth was open, as if the words might flow out at any moment, but they never came.
"Less than three minutes, maybe four, if you're stubborn." Vellichor stepped away, the heaviness of the moment following behind him like a cape of smoke. "It's not a skill I practice now. But you asked. That was the answer."
Garrel sat down. Slowly. Quietly.
No one smirked. No one laughed.
Then, as if nothing had happened, Vellichor turned again to the lectern. His tone was lighter.
"Well then," he said, hands folded over his staff. "More questions?"
Nearly every hand rose.