The girl sat up slowly, still in yesterday’s clothes. Her body ached in places she couldn’t name, a dull, lingering throb that felt as if the pain had seeped into her bones.

  She glanced around, searching for any hint of the hour, but the walls betrayed nothing. No windows. No sky. Only the pale glow of runic lamps. Here, morning and night were the same. Time itself had been stripped from her, just another freedom the facility refused to grant.

  The girl steadied her breath, forcing her mind to hold onto the image of the obsidian-masked girl. That memory anchored her, a reminder to endure whatever this place would throw at her.

  She pushed herself to her feet. Then she noticed something else.

  High in the corner of the ceiling, almost blended with the stone, was a small circular object. It looked like a carved stone, no larger than a fist, with faint spiral patterns etched into its surface as if grown rather than shaped. At its center was a single polished indentation, deep black and glassy, like the pupil of an eye.

  It didn’t move. It didn’t glow. But it felt… aware.

  The girl stared at it for a long time, unmoving. Then she looked away and stood.

  She had woken early, as she always did. There was no sun to greet her, no shift in light to tell her it was morning, only the stillness of the room, and the soft rhythm of her own breath. She had no schedule, no bell, no footsteps at her door.

  No one came. She was not permitted to leave.

  So she turned to what she had.

  A small stack of books sat on the desk where they’d been left the day before. Their covers were plain, titles pressed into the leather with utilitarian clarity. She read the spines one by one.

  “Arcane Etiquette and Structure.”

  “Reading Magical Seals.”

  “The Basics of Element.”

  She reached for the last one.

  The cover was worn not from use, but from age. A beginner’s manual, clearly. The font was large, the language simple, and the diagrams were drawn with generous lines and patient margins.

  She opened to the first page.

  “All known forms of elemental magic stem from seven fundamental flows: fire, water, air, earth, lightning, darkness, and light. These are not merely substances, but expressions of energy and will. Fire burns, water adapts, air moves, earth endures. Lightning strikes without warning, darkness conceals, and light reveals.”

  She read slowly, lips unmoving. She turned the page.

  Further in, the book shifted from theory to instruction—carefully structured exercises meant to guide beginners in drawing out the elements.

  Each section began the same way:

  “Focus not on the element itself, but on its feeling. Do not summon fire—recall warmth. Do not demand water—remember the flow.”

  The girl read the first exercise on fire. She closed her eyes, focused, imagined heat.

  Nothing.

  She tried air next, envisioned a breeze, light and stirring.

  Still nothing.

  She moved to earth. She imagined the weight of stone, the stillness of the ground beneath bare feet. Her hand trembled slightly, but the stone floor remained unchanged.

  Then came water.

  She remembered the sensation—cold against her fingers, the taste of it from the orphanage’s old tin cup, the way it slipped through her hands and never fought back. She raised her palm, focused.

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  Then a shimmer. A drop. A faint ripple in the air, like the air was condensing. Water began to form.

  It trickled steadily from her hand, falling into the empty cup she had set beside her earlier. She watched in silence as it collected—clear, trembling, real.

  For a while, she didn’t think about the amount, only the act itself. The way it answered her call.

  Only when it began to slow did she glance inside. Half full. Her breath caught.

  This was different. At the orphanage, there had been no books like this. No real lessons—only whispered advice and broken rules, and the childish joy of making small things float for a moment before they fell again.

  She had never been taught to do this.

  How much could a proper mage make? A girl her age, with normal mana? A full glass? A bowl?

  She didn’t know. But still it was something. Not theory, not failure. Something real.

  She smiled a little, but something shifted quietly in her chest—a flicker of relief, cautious and small. Surprise, too. And a tight warmth that felt close to pride.

  It wasn’t much. But it was hers.

  She did it again. And again. Each time the water came a little more easily—never more than half a glass, never fast, but it came. The cup slowly filled and was emptied, over and over, as she practiced in silence.

  She didn’t know how long it had been when the door finally opened.

  A handler stepped in, pausing mid-step when she saw the girl already dressed and seated at the desk.

  “…You’re awake.”

  The girl stood. The handler said nothing else, only gestured with a nod. The girl followed her.

  They walked down a narrow corridor with smooth walls and a faint buzzing sound coming from magical runes inscribed in the walls.

  There were no windows showing outside the facility in this hall, but some test subject chambers had them.

  Eventually, they arrived at a tiled door—the facility’s showers.

  Inside, steam drifted in slow spirals above the rows of stalls. The space smelled faintly of stone, soap, and something sterile. The air was warmer here.

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  The girl glanced around as she followed the handler further in.

  A few other test subjects were already there—all girls, though none of them spoke. One had skin that shimmered faintly with patches of scale. Another’s pupils were long and narrow like a cat’s, glowing faintly in the damp air.

  Then she saw the other faintborn.

  She had just finished bathing, her thin frame wrapped in a towel. But what struck the girl was her face—or rather, the mask.

  White porcelain, smooth and unmarked, covered the lower half from her chin to just beneath her nose. Her nose and eyes remained visible. A narrow slit ran across the lips, just wide enough for breath or voice, though the girl said nothing.

  Moisture clung to the mask’s surface, catching the light. It had been worn the entire time.

  She passed without speaking, disappearing behind a partition.

  The girl wanted to speak—it was the first time she had seen someone with a condition similar to hers—but she lost her chance.

  She stepped into her own shower stall and closed the door behind her.

  The water was warm, the space clean. She moved quickly, without lingering. There was nothing to enjoy—only a routine to follow.

  When she emerged, the same handler was waiting.

  No words were exchanged.

  She dressed in silence, was handed a plain set of clothes, then escorted down another corridor. This one curved slightly, with polished floors and walls lined with sigils she didn’t recognize.

  Eventually, they arrived at a door of dark metal. It slid open without a sound.

  She was taken to a classroom.

  The room was quiet but orderly, lined with old wards and enchanted chalkboards that murmured faintly with residual magic. A few test subjects were already seated, including some of the stabilized experiment subjects she had glimpsed the day before.

  Then she noticed the masked girl from before.

  She sat near the windowless wall, silver hair damp at the ends, falling in loose waves down her back. Taller than the others. Straighter, too—her posture calm and composed, as if she’d already grown used to this place.

  There was something mature about her, even though her face was half-covered by that same porcelain mask.

  The girl glanced back. For a brief moment, their eyes met.

  Something shifted in the masked girl’s expression—not her face, but her gaze. A soft narrowing of the lids, a glimmer of light just behind the pupils. As if she were smiling.

  But the mask made it impossible to tell.

  She took a seat in the back, just like at the orphanage. Isolated. Distant.

  But to her surprise, no one avoided her. No one stared.

  Even more surprising, someone quietly sat beside her. No words. Just presence.

  And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel it—the pity, the quiet aversion, the invisible line that always set her apart.

  The classroom door opened again.

  A teacher stepped in—white robe hemmed in silver, eyes carrying the same distant gleam as the handlers. He raised one hand, and the buzzing of the enchanted chalkboard softened.

  "Before we begin," he said, voice measured and clear, "all test subjects will now recite the Loyalty Pledge."

  Chairs shifted. Hands straightened over hearts.

  The girl looked with surprise while also trying to follow them.

  The class—even the blank-eyed ones—spoke in unison:

  “By will and word, I pledge to the Magierkonklave.

  By hand and heart, I pledge to House Einhart.

  Let my mana serve, let my spirit endure.

  For the Reich, for order, for truth.”

  The girl tried to mimic them, but it was clear she couldn’t. Her lips moved, barely. But her voice did not rise.

  The teacher’s eyes passed over her briefly, then moved on.

  “Before all this,” the instructor began, tone steady and practiced, “Blanks and wizards lived together under a shared banner—a single realm, guided by the stewardship of wizardkind.”

  He turned to the board and wrote: STEWARDSHIP, underlined twice.

  “Not domination. Stewardship. Wizards, by nature, possess longer lifespans, higher levels of knowledge, and the discipline that mana demands. It was not arrogance that placed us in positions of leadership. It was necessity.”

  He glanced at the class, gaze sweeping across their blank stares.

  “And then came the Grace.”

  He let the word settle, disdain barely hidden behind the syllables.

  “Not mana. Not born of the world. But some unidentified outer force that gifted Blanks a crude echo of what we had trained our whole lives to master, and with it, they gained influence. Power. The ability to mimic magic.”

  The chalk moved again.

  “They began to demand more seats in governance. More voice in decisions they barely understood. It was said to be equality. But let me ask you this—”

  He turned fully to face the room.

  “Would you hand the wheel of a ship to someone who learned to swim yesterday?”

  The class was silent. Some looked below, others took notes, but some of them looked at the teacher with a fire behind their eyes, a belief that what the teacher said was true.

  “Their ambition outweighed their discipline. That is what made it dangerous. The Grace gave them power without understanding. And power without understanding does not uplift a nation. It corrodes it,” the teacher said while scanning the room.

  “Who knows what happened next?”

  No one raised a hand. Not because they didn’t know, but because no one wanted to be seen answering first.

  The silence stretched, heavy and expectant.

  The teacher sighed and picked up the attendance slate.

  “Subject Four?”

  The girl stood slowly. Her legs were steady, but her hands trembled just a little.

  “The duel happened, sir,” she said, voice soft. “A single combat between Archmage Alrik von Eibenstein and Santa Ysabel de la Rosa Carmesí.”

  The instructor nodded, “Very good. To recall not only the event, but the names of the combatants—rare.”

  He looked to the rest of the class.

  “Applaud her.”

  The test subjects obeyed, hands coming together with mechanical rhythm. It was not praise. It was protocol. But the instructor’s eyes lingered on her a moment longer.

  “You see, girl,” he said, tone softening just slightly—calculated, not kind. “We appreciate intellect here. No matter where it comes from.”

  He set the attendance slate down.

  “I know what they say outside. I know the looks people give when they see your kind.”

  A pause. Then he straightened.

  “But here, we don’t fear the unknown. We study it, cultivate it. House Einhart does not fund research for glory. Nor for cruelty,” he said, voice steady.

  His tone changed—it was as if he were saying this because he revered House Einhart. He glanced briefly at the rows of test subjects.

  “They believe as we all do in the value of every experiment we undertake. Every trial, every failure, every breakthrough. Not for ambition, but for the future of the Reich.”

  He paced slowly across the room.

  “Many of you may not know this, but what you receive here is rare. Education. Instruction. A desk. A personal chamber with books suited to your needs. Other duchies treat their subjects like livestock, discarded when their results are undesirable.

  But here? You are not livestock, not a defect or a toy to be used and discarded. You are our precious foundation, our next step in evolution.”

  A pause. Then, calmly:

  “We do not torture.”

  His gaze swept the room again.

  “We cultivate.”

  “The pain you endure is in the name of progress,” he continued. “The questions we ask, the conditions you face, the changes in your bodies—all of it serves a greater purpose. And if you endure it, if you learn, then one day, you may become more than what you were born.”

  His eyes passed over the girl. No emphasis. No gesture. Just a lingering moment before he moved on.

  Silence followed the instructor’s final words.

  Not the fearful kind that had filled the room earlier—this silence held something else.

  Most of the test subjects kept their heads down, their expressions unreadable. They had learned long ago that stillness was safest. That silence kept you invisible.

  But a few looked up.

  One boy in the second row sat straighter, his hands folded neatly over his desk. There was something almost reverent in his gaze, as if the teacher’s words had confirmed something he already believed.

  Another girl, older, nodded once—firm and subtle—before returning her eyes to the glowing script on the board.

  The girl noticed this. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. The speech had felt polished, practiced. And yet, the truth in it was hard to deny.

  She thought of the desk. The books. The warmth of the shower. The cup that had caught her water.

  It was more than she had ever been given.

  And yet, the word cultivate still clung to her mind like damp cloth.

  “After the duel happened, then—” The instructor stopped mid-sentence.

  A soft chime pulsed from the ceiling—not loud, but sharp enough to silence the room completely.

  A runic device above the board flared to life, its symbols glowing in sequence before a voice emerged, cool and mechanical:

  “Attention, all subjects. Assemble immediately at the meeting hall.”

  No further explanation followed. The glow dimmed, and the room fell into a hush even deeper than before. The instructor lowered his chalk.

  “Well,” he said dryly, “it seems the Reich has other plans for your morning.”

  He picked up a thin booklet from his desk and held it up briefly. “Continue your study of the history of the Reich from your assigned text. I am expecting a report by tomorrow.”

  He turned toward the door. “Line up. Quietly.”

  Chairs scraped against the floor as test subjects stood, forming an orderly line without complaint.

  The girl followed, her mind still trying to grasp what exactly this place was.