"Your shifts will be every other evening after dinner until bedtime, plus weekend afternoons. Your first shift starts tomorrow."
After a rudimentary literacy test, the petite librarian, Mrs. Linus, delivered the verdict.
"Understood."
"Next, I'll explain the borrowing and cataloging procedures. Pay close attention—unless you want complaints from picky patrons in the future."
"Yes, Mrs. Linus."
"Though the rules are posted on that wall, you won't have time to consult them mid-task. First…"
The night before, after some quick calculations, Lanen had resolved to secure steady employment. Relying on sporadic school tasks for credits or pocket money was too unreliable for proper academic planning. Exam-based rewards, meanwhile, required waiting—too slow, too risky.
Truthfully, first-years had minimal credit needs. What truly spurred Lanen's decision was his wallet—respectably branded yet alarmingly thin.
Per the Banneray family tradition (established solely by Lanen's grandparents and parents—further back? No public schools existed then), major expenses like tuition were covered, but discretionary funds were self-sourced. Even Lady Banneray had financed her own allowances as a student.
Thus, Lanen's luggage had been meticulously packed—except for cash reserves.
When two library assistants graduated simultaneously, vacancies arose. Lanen screened the bulletin board and pounced. The job met his criteria: stable income and a glorified study hall (albeit one with frequent interruptions).
The pay was subpar—a deterrent that conveniently thinned the competition. As the second applicant, Lanen secured the position effortlessly.
"...That covers everything."
His duties boiled down to three tasks: issuing library cards, processing loans/returns, and guiding patrons to shelves.
Library cards required a deposit and nominal fee. Borrowing still incurred small charges, funding acquisitions, maintenance, and periodical subscriptions.
The perk? Unlimited reading access—though aside from the periodical room's dedicated tables, patrons either sat on cold floors or took books elsewhere.
Thanks to magical advancements (as Mrs. Linus proudly noted), theft prevention had leapfrogged. Students now browsed freely, needing only to check out items before leaving. Previously, they'd had to submit requests for librarians to retrieve titles manually.
Mrs. Linus demonstrated: the instant she carried a book past the doorway, alarms shrieked and yellow lights flashed.
"Even half a page triggers this," she declared.
The first floor housed study halls and a conference room; the third, the school archives. The real library—stacks, periodicals, and storage—occupied the second floor.
Lanen's future workstation was a high counter by the stacks' entrance, bathed in excellent natural light. Adjacent to Mrs. Linus's office and the periodical room, it shared their cutting-edge anti-theft system. Realizing he could simultaneously peruse books and journals from his post, Lanen grew even fonder of the job.
A Sprint Through Academia
Bidding Mrs. Linus farewell, Lanen exited the library—its timeworn facade contrasting with the sun's glare off the drained marble fountain outside.
Situated midway between classrooms and cafeteria, with a path leading straight to the main gate, the library stood amid sprawling greenery—a tranquil oasis that always lifted spirits, like inhaling crisp, cool air.
Then Lanen ran.
The interview and orientation had devoured his lunch break. Now, he raced toward afternoon classes.
Morning had brought mathematics and astronomy—subjects where Lanen, a primary-school prodigy, coasted effortlessly. Both teachers opened with the customary hype about their discipline's supremacy, casually disparaging rival fields.
Yes, Lanen was now a top student.
Standard primary education spanned 4–6 years, with most graduating in years five or six. Lanen, however, had finished in four—his cohort's sole early graduate. Whether this isolation was fortunate remained debatable. As they say: destiny depends on more than personal effort.
Afternoon brought continental geography—reportedly the liveliest class. Hale had raved about the teacher's wit, claiming his lectures were laugh riots. Unofficial polls crowned him the school's most beloved instructor.
With class imminent, Lanen sprinted down tree-lined paths, through the vaulted school doors, up the elegant spiral staircase, and into the second-floor classroom—too winded to seek friends, he collapsed into the nearest seat and yanked his textbook out.
After a few steadying breaths, he finally registered his surroundings.
The teacher hadn't arrived. Whispered conversations filled the room. To Lanen's left sat a strikingly pretty girl—and beside her, an equally adorable companion. The pair seemed close.
Adolescent Lanen couldn't help but glance again.