The Next Morning
I was deep in sleep, adrift in dreams that quickly turned dark. My body shifted restlessly on the narrow bed, and in my dream—or perhaps a half-waking vision—I felt the heavy pressure of earth all around me. I was being buried alive. My limbs strained, trapped within the confines of a wooden box. My lungs burned for air.
I awoke with a start.
My heart pounded in my chest like a war drum. Sweat clung to my skin as if I had just emerged from battle. I sat upright, gasping, my breath shallow and sharp. My eyes darted across the dimly lit room, searching for something familiar, something real. It took a long moment before I remembered where I was: a train, gently rocking on the rails as it rolled into the Capital.
I buried my face in my hands and let out a long, ragged exhale.
It was just a dream. A nightmare, nothing more.
Still shaken, I rose from the bed and made my way to the washroom to steady myself. The splash of cold water on my face helped anchor me back in reality. I lingered for a moment, letting the chill soak into my skin. Then, with deliberate motions, I began to dress.
A white shirt. A charcoal waistcoat. A muted gray tie. Jacket, glasses, hat. Finally, I draped my heavy overcoat over my shoulders. The rhythm of dressing always brought me a small sense of order.
The train had arrived. We were in Arkona.
The Capital City.
A name that carried centuries of mystery and power. Not much was known about Arkona's origins. Historians had traced its roots back to the time of the Fallen Civilization, a long-lost era that predated modern magic. Archaeologists had devoted decades attempting to unearth its secrets—ancient ruins, shattered devices, fragments of what they called "technology."
According to their findings, the Fallen Civilization had survived not through spellwork, but through curious instruments powered by something called electricity—a raw energy, much like lightning magic, but strangely unbound by incantations or mana. No rituals. No runes. Just a force captured and directed with wires, coils, and strange glass bulbs.
Primitive? In some ways, yes. But it fascinated me.
Someday, I told myself, I would delve deeper into their mysteries.
But not today.
Today, I craved hot chocolate.
I stepped off the train and onto the platform. Arkona greeted me with a cold breeze and a dazzling array of towering buildings. Crystalline windows glittered in the morning sun, and the air hummed with distant spellwork. Carriages floated by, powered by levitation magic. Stone-paved roads wove through the city like veins of a living, breathing creature.
Compared to the countryside where I had spent most of my life, Arkona felt like another world altogether.
I wandered the streets for a short while until the scent of roasted cocoa and warm bread drew me to a small café tucked between a library and an elixir shop. It was a quaint little place, but charming—lamps with soft enchantments glowed inside, and the air smelled of cinnamon and hearthwood.
I ordered a hot chocolate—my favourite—and decided to try something unfamiliar: a golden, crescent-shaped bread called a croissant. It was light, flaky, and buttery, melting almost instantly in my mouth. The pronunciation seemed uncertain, but the flavour spoke for itself.
As I sat there sipping my drink, a wave of warmth spread through me. I was reminded of my grandfather. He used to make hot chocolate for me on winter nights or whenever I stayed up studying late. He had a habit of humming old songs while stirring the pot. The memory caught me off guard, and for a brief moment, a familiar melancholy crept in. I let it pass.
Outside, the city buzzed with life. Children in uniforms hurried past with spellbooks under their arms, merchants shouted from floating carts, and arcane symbols glowed faintly on the sides of taxis and trams. I spotted a city map near a lamppost and walked over to examine it.
The Magic Academy was located in the western quarter—grand towers and wards encircling its grounds. I asked a nearby officer how to get there. He suggested taking either a tram or a taxi, both powered by magical mechanisms adapted from the findings of the Fallen Civilization. They were operated by lower-tier magicians—individuals with just enough mana to keep the old enchantments running.
I opted for a taxi.
Fifteen minutes later, I regretted that decision.
The ride was rough, full of sudden jerks and dips that left my stomach twisting. The interior was oddly warm and smelled faintly of burnt copper. I gripped the seat tightly, my knuckles pale by the time we arrived.
When I finally reached the academy gates, I climbed out feeling dizzy and disoriented. The academy rose before me—an intricate blend of gothic architecture and arcane design. The twin towers shimmered faintly under protection wards, and statues of long-forgotten mages lined the path like silent watchers.
I made my way to the teachers' dormitory and entered the main hall. A warm fireplace crackled near the reception desk, where a young man with well-combed hair and a polished smile stood waiting. He was dressed in the academy's formal black and gold livery.
"Good morning," I said, adjusting my hat. "I believe I'm expected. Professor Lucian, new faculty member."
He looked up from the registry and smiled.
"Ah, yes, Professor Lucian. Welcome to the Oasis School of Sorcery. We've been expecting you. One moment, please". He scanned the logbook, then retrieved a key from a drawer behind the desk. "Room 3-C, east wing. Quiet side of the building—most professors prefer it."
"I appreciate that," I replied.
"Would you like assistance with your luggage, Professor?"
I hesitated, slightly surprised. "If it's not too much trouble."
"Not at all. It's protocol, in fact. Faculty are held in high regard here. Please, allow me."He walked around the desk, lifting the trunk with a soft grunt but steady grip.
As we walked, he glanced at me curiously. "Your journey—was it smooth?"
"I wouldn't say that," I said with a tired smile. "The taxi ride nearly cost me my breakfast."
He chuckled. "Yes, those still need refining. The engineers are working on it. We've only recently begun integrating technology from the Fallen Civilization."
"Fascinating," I said, though my tone was too worn to match my curiosity.
We reached the room. He unlocked the door and stepped aside, allowing me to enter.
It was modest: a bed with a dark woolen blanket, a study desk, a bookshelf with a few starter tomes, a lamp softly glowing with minor enchantment. Functional. Clean.
"Not quite like the train," I murmured.
The receptionist smiled. "But better than the countryside barns, yes?"
I blinked, surprised he'd guessed, then laughed. "You're not wrong."
He set my trunk down gently near the wardrobe. "If you need anything, my name is Liran. The desk is staffed day and night. And your orientation materials will be delivered this evening."
"Thank you, Liran."
With a polite bow, he left, closing the door quietly behind him.
After he left, I changed into more comfortable clothes and lay down, intending only to rest for a short while.
I woke up to daylight. Morning had returned.
I must've slept the entire day—and night. A Newspaper sat folded neatly on my desk. Likely the Liran had left it while I slept. I sat in the armchair and unfolded the Newspaper, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
The headline hit me like a spell to the chest:
"TWENTY DEAD FOUND IN LUGGAGE CARRIAGE—ONE ASSASSIN SUSPECTED."
I stared at the print for a moment, reading and rereading it.
It was the very train I had arrived on.
According to the report, twenty individuals—dressed in unfamiliar, almost ceremonial garments—had been discovered dead in one of the empty luggage carriages toward the rear. That carriage had been locked and unoccupied during the journey, typically used to store travelers' larger belongings.
Each body had been stabbed precisely through the heart. Deep lacerations covered their torsos and limbs. Blood pooled beneath their robes. Experts on the scene concluded that the wounds had all been inflicted by the same weapon, perhaps even the same hand.
The report speculated—almost absurdly—that the murders had been committed by a single assassin.
One assassin? Against twenty?
Ridiculous. And yet…
As I lowered the paper, a strange sensation settled into my bones. A chill—not physical, not even magical, but something more primal. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a sliver of memory stirred. Something cold. A pressure in the air. The metallic scent of—
No. I shook my head. Just nerves.
I stood and made my way to the washroom, splashing cold water on my face until the haze began to clear. There was a ceremony to attend—the welcoming of the first-year students. I had nearly forgotten.
I rose, stretched, and made my way to the washroom to freshen up. The water ran warm, and I lingered beneath it, letting it wake my limbs from their sleep-heavy stiffness. After drying mysellf, I opened the suitcase to get dressed.
This time, I dressed with more intention.
A crisp, high-collared white shirt. Dark grey trousers, pressed neatly. A tailored long coat in deep charcoal, lined subtly with navy. I fastened a dark vest over the shirt, then pinned my Academy identification sigil—a small brass crest shaped like an open book—just beneath the left lapel. I tied a modest silk cravat in place of a loud tie, tucked neatly under the vest. My well-worn leather shoes shone faintly in the morning light.
I adjusted my wire-framed spectacles and gave my reflection a long, steady look in the wall mirror. Professional. Presentable. Scholarly, I hoped.
As I reached for my handkerchief to place in my coat pocket, I noticed something odd.
A faint reddish-brown stain along the corner of the fabric.
I paused.
I didn't remember using it. Not recently.
Frowning, I set it aside and retrieved a fresh one from my suitcase, folding it squarely before sliding it into the inner pocket of my coat.
I stepped out of my room and locked the door behind me. The corridor of the East Wing was quiet, the polished floorboards creaking gently beneath my boots. Outside the window, I could see the early morning students gathering in the courtyard below—young faces, hopeful and wide-eyed, dressed in black robes marked by colored bands of magical disciplines.
The sky above Arkona was still gray, not yet fully golden.
The day of the welcoming ceremony had arrived.
This would be an interesting life indeed.
To be Continued...