The first night in his new quarters was not quite what Kharg had hoped. The bed was far from comfortable, a bit lumpy and hard. And the bed cloth, while clean, still smelled a bit of mold. But he had slept throughout the night anyway. When the first light of dawn showed, Kharg was already stirring, well-rested and alert—eager for his first full day at the Academy. He dressed quickly, donning his new dark gray Academy tunic. Though not yet custom-fitted, it now felt like a part of his identity within the Academy.
Fafne lounged on his shoulder, the faerie dragon’s tiny silvery scales catching flickers of morning light as Kharg crossed the grounds toward the dining hall. The hall itself stood proud and spacious, alive with the early stir of students and faculty moving through its wide doors and long corridors.
The dining hall was split cleanly in two, with one side reserved for students and journeymen, and the other for mages of higher rank. Kharg made his way into the student half, where two long tables stretched from wall to wall. The room was already filling, journeymen and new arrivals crowding the benches with the low murmur of early conversations. Some traded names, others were already deep in talk of spellwork and theory. The food was simple but hearty, with thick slices of warm bread and steaming bowls of broth or grain-brew. Nothing elaborate, but enough to start the day.
Fafne attracted immediate attention. As Kharg moved through the hall collecting his breakfast, the faerie dragon’s unique presence drew curious glances and whispered conversations. His unique familiar marked Kharg as someone of interest which set him apart from the other new faces.
Carrying his selection of bread and a bowl of warm soup on a tray, Kharg found an open spot at one of the long tables. He sat down and absorbed the bustling energy around him, of students discussing the day’s upcoming classes, exchanging notes or talking about various teachers. Kharg felt a little annoyed at the covert glances directed at Fafne. He didn’t realize that more than one of those glances, particularly from a pair of girls across the table, had been meant for him. Fortunately, most of the students were soon distracted by their own conversations, allowing him to savor the simple comfort of breakfast in relative anonymity. The warmth of his soup and the gentle buzz of camaraderie in the dining hall provided a reassuring sense of belonging.
Kharg wanted to spend the early morning exploring the University building so he would find his way around during the somewhat short breaks, given his schedule, in between courses. Fafne accompanied him, alert and attentive, observing their surroundings closely.
As he climbed the front steps later that morning, Kharg’s gaze wandered up toward the ornate carvings above. Up close, the marblework revealed creatures he hadn’t seen from the yard—mythical beasts half-shrouded in shadowed alcoves. A gryphon stood frozen mid-leap, wings half-spread, while a wyvern clung to its pedestal with claws curled tight. They gave the impression of watchers, guardians of the knowledge within.
He slowed for a moment, imagining how many students had passed beneath those stony gazes, just as uncertain, just as eager. Then he stepped through the grand entrance and found himself in the University's central foyer, a vast, cathedral-like space that resonated with the discussions and laughter of students from influential backgrounds. Farad had explained a bit about the University, indicating that it would be a great opportunity to form connections with the sons of wealthy merchants and nobles alike. It was here they gathered under the pretense of academic pursuit but primarily relished the freedom and social pleasures of university life.
The foyer’s high, arched ceiling rose far above him, drawing his gaze to the painting overhead. It showed a stormy sea, its waves crashing against a jagged shoreline. Natural light poured in, catching on the intricate carvings of mythological beasts that lined the upper walls. These guardian figures, small but finely detailed, seemed to watch from above with eyes full of ancient judgment.
Fafne’s presence on Kharg’s shoulder quickly became the focus of attention. Students exchanged glances, and murmurs followed in his wake. Some leaned in with open curiosity, while others kept a cautious distance. Reactions varied from fascination to subtle unease, reflecting both wonder and uncertainty, as though none were quite sure what to make of such a creature in their midst.
Kharg took in the scene with composed curiosity as he understood that Fafne's rarity caused a ripple among students accustomed to more common sights. Determined to find his history lecture, he strode across the polished floor toward one of the marble staircases flanking the grand aula.
Kharg passed students lingering on the landings on his way up, their muted conversations blending with distant echoes of footsteps against stone. Each step upward brought him nearer to the scholarly heart of the University, toward the smaller lecture halls nested within the upper floors.
He eventually found the lecture hall on the second floor, its heavy wooden doors standing open in quiet welcome. Inside, students were beginning to gather, an assorted group of future nobles and magistrates, merchants and scholars, prepared, at least for now, to trade leisure for learning.
The hall itself resembled a small amphitheater, but lacked the cold stone austerity of other academic wings. Here, the tiered rows were crafted from polished oak, each bench smooth with passing of the last decades. Carved panels lined the walls, their edges darkened with age, while high arched windows let in the afternoon light, softened by thin curtains. The air carried the scent of waxed wood and old parchment. Everything in the room, from its warm acoustics to the gentle creak of floorboards and the worn brass fittings, seemed designed not just for study, but for debate.
It was a place meant for argument, persuasion, and the shaping of minds, where the past was not merely taught but questioned.
The morning hours were filled with lessons that felt far removed from magic yet deeply tied to power. In history, the lecturer spoke of ancient wars whose outcomes still shaped trade and politics. Heraldry followed, a dizzying tapestry of banners and lineages that hinted at alliances and rivalries among the Nine Cities. Finally came natural sciences, where a gray-bearded master discussed how wind affected water and how waves were built up. He also touched upon how waves seemed to curve around peninsulas, their energy bending with the coastline. As Kharg listened, he realized how much of this knowledge could sharpen his own magic at sea, giving him a deeper understanding of the forces he so often commanded without thought. Ernold’s words echoed in Kharg’s mind—power belonged to those who understood more than magic alone. He listened intently, determined to excel in every field.
By midday, Kharg welcomed the break, sharing a simple lunch in the sunlit courtyard with a few other new students who were too polite, or too intimidated, to ask questions about Fafne. The meal was brief, but the respite was enough to clear his thoughts before the more demanding magical studies that awaited him. When the gong at the Spire sounded twice, he headed back into the University and the class on Necrology: Undead and Spirits of the Dead.
After the class Kharg thought it had been rather interesting, but now it was time for the lecture on magical circles. Of all the day’s lessons, that was what he anticipated most. The subject promised a glimpse into the structured magic of Varakar, a discipline far removed from the intuitive shamanic magic he had learned in the north. With the sun rising higher in the sky, casting warm light across the campus, Kharg made his way toward the left wing of the Academy. The building mirrored the right wing in both architecture and aura, its white stone fa?ade and black-tiled roof standing as a testament to the Academy’s grandeur and symmetry.
As he crossed the courtyard, Kharg thought about the hours still ahead of him. The magical circles lecture was only the highlight of his afternoon, not the end of it. Later he would return to the main building for a session on the study of arcane relics and enchanted artifacts, followed by a lecture devoted to the lore of dragons and their ancient history. It was a demanding schedule, yet Kharg found himself eager for every lesson. Ernold’s words about making the most of his time here lingered in his mind, and Kharg resolved to meet the Academy’s high standards not just in magic, but in every discipline offered to him.
When he reached the entrance, the gryphon statues awaited him once again. Their sculpted wings stretched wide, eyes fixed in watchful calm. Something about their presence felt less like ornament and more like warning. With Fafne poised quietly on his shoulder, Kharg slowed, studying the gryphons anew. They looked as if they could stir to life at a moment’s notice, stone shells hiding some deeper will, slumbering until called. If they were indeed golems, they would not be idle sentries. They would make formidable guardians indeed.
The clerk at the entrance, responsible for verifying students’ access, greeted him at once, having already been informed about him by Argus. Despite Kharg not yet wearing the badge typically required for access to the left wing, the clerk nodded in acknowledgment.
“You must be Kharg,” the clerk said, offering a respectful smile. “I was informed you'd be joining the lectures on magical circles. Your familiar,” acknowledging Fafne with a quick, appreciative glance, “makes you rather easy to identify.”
Kharg returned the smile, quietly relieved at how smoothly he’d been let through. There was something telling in the clerk’s easy manner. The Academy, it seemed, knew when to enforce rules and when to look the other way. He was beginning to appreciate this balance of things.
The lecture hall lay just past the main corridor. Its layout reminded him of the rooms in the opposite wing. Rows of benches rose toward the back, all angled toward a broad chalkboard and low podium. Someone had already drawn a series of arcane circles on the board, their precise lines filled with sigils and patternwork that hinted at hidden logic and deeper meaning.
As more students filtered in, Kharg took a seat near the middle, close enough to see clearly without drawing attention. Fafne curled quietly beside him, his violet eyes flicking from face to face, just as alert as Kharg was. There was a shared sense of anticipation between them.
Then the instructor arrived. Indra Kithin, head of the Department of Magical Circles, stepped through the door, and a hush fell almost immediately. She looked far younger than Kharg had expected, perhaps no older than her late twenties, but there was nothing uncertain in her step. She carried herself with easy confidence, not the dusty air of an academic but the poise of someone used to being listened to. And she looked absolutely stunning, dark hair swept into a high, deliberate coil that revealed the fine structure of her cheekbones and the silver sigil pendant resting at her throat. Her robes, finely cut and traced with faint geometric patterns, shimmered subtly in the light. It wasn’t ornament, but active enchantments too complex for Kharg to decipher.
Her reputation as a brilliant lecturer who commanded three prestigious seats within the Academy spoke volumes of her influence and mastery. Her voice, when she greeted the class, was low and clear, and even the most distracted students turned toward her. Kharg could see why she had the reputation she did. She didn’t just teach magic, she drew people in.
“Today,” she began in a melodious yet authoritative voice, “we'll delve into the intricacies of Protection Circles.” She scanned the students across the amphitheater before pausing thoughtfully on Kharg and Fafne. She cocked her head slightly, visibly intrigued by the faerie dragon’s unexpected presence. Then she continued after a brief considering pause. “But first we’ll do a quick recap of the foundational aspects of circle magic, ensuring that everyone has grasped the basic principles.”
Turning to the large blackboard, she picked up a piece of chalk and said, “Protection circles are designed to radiate outwards, serving as a barrier against otherworldly entities. Precision is key, though at lower circles you have some leeway. Each symbol should be placed with consideration to the neighboring ones for optimal effect.”
“The Thaumaturgic Circle, our starting point…” she swiftly drew a perfect circle in free hand and added an equilateral triangle, each point resting against the circle’s edge. “… is enough to hold the lower grades of entities, up to second circle with a good dose of confidence. Between this circle and the triangle’s sides, we inscribe the runes of power and symbols that repel specific types of entities.”
Kharg watched intently as she inscribed the triangle within the circle. The precision of each mark struck him. It was nothing like the intuitive shaping of shamanic magic—this was scientific and measured, a discipline that left little to chance. A discipline very much to his taste, thank you very much.
As she moved on to the more complex Pentagram, her explanations unfolded the connection between geometric harmony and magical efficacy. The circle now contained a five-point star, each line imbued with its own significance and protective symbolism.
“The Ultimate,” Indra said, introducing the most advanced protection circle, “builds on the pentagram but incorporates an inner circle within the pentagram which touches the inner pentagon formed by the star.” She paused to emphasize the meticulous addition of elements, horseshoes directed outward and silver cups filled with holy water.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Throughout the lecture, Indra maintained high engagement with her audience, occasionally locking eyes with students to ensure comprehension. Her ability to make even the most complex protections seem accessible kept students attentive and intrigued.
As the lecture concluded, Indra opened the floor for questions, her teaching genuine in its encouragement of understanding and curiosity. Once she had addressed several inquiries, focusing on both theoretical and practical aspects of circle magic, she glanced at Kharg again, with a slight smile toward the small, winged faerie dragon.
Fafne caught her gaze and stretched luxuriously across Kharg’s shoulder, clearly pleased with the attention. Indra’s eyes flicked to Kharg. “A bond with a faerie like that points to a strong affinity with the ethereal and outer planes,” she said thoughtfully. “Such qualities align well with the nature of circle magic.”
Kharg gave a slight nod in response, taking quiet encouragement from her words. The idea of summoning entities from distant planes, whether elemental, fey, or otherwise, gripped him more than he expected. But a disturbing voice in the back of his mind reminded him of all the dangers of summoning entities like that. Around them, chairs scraped and robes rustled as the other students began packing up. The session, it seemed, was over.
As the other students filtered out, Kharg gathered his notes, Fafne hopping lightly to his shoulder once more. There was little time to dwell on what he had learned—his next lectures on arcane relics and draconic lore still awaited him back in the main building. The day was far from over, and Kharg felt a spark of excitement at the thought of what else he might uncover before nightfall.
* * *
In the weeks that followed, Kharg’s days blurred into long hours of study. Argus had given him a schedule that left little room for idleness, though Kharg found himself drawn in by the breadth of what he was learning. Mornings often began with history and heraldry, where he followed the tangled alliances and feuds of the Nine Cities. On other days, he worked through the natural sciences with their ties to mathematics, piecing together how spells had to work together with the forces of the natural world instead of against it.
Afternoons brought the more specialized studies for which he had come to Varakar. Twice a week he attended the intricate lectures on magical circles, where the exact placement of glyphs and sigils could mean the difference between safety and disaster. On other days, he delved into subjects that were entirely new to him. He sat through lectures on arcane relics and enchanted artifacts, studied bestiaries that detailed the dark folk and their strange societies, and learned of the perils posed by demons and devils. Several evenings each week were spent in laboratories or small classrooms where he learned how to identify minerals, metals, and gemstones while instructors explained their hidden properties.
By the end of the first month, he realized just how much knowledge he had already absorbed. He could now name metals and stones he had never heard of before, describe the properties of rare toxins and venoms, and inscribe the foundational protection circles against both demons and devils. Their designs shared much of the same structure, but the warding glyphs diverged in crucial places, the devil-binding circle required symbols of purity and sacrifice, while the demon ward relied more heavily on glyphs of containment and willpower. He was fascinated by the small differences, suspecting that each variation revealed something about the creatures the wards were designed to keep at bay.
The knowledge settled in quickly, even more so than before. Memorization, which had never been difficult for him, now came with unusual ease, as if his mind had grown sharper. Though he never said it aloud, Kharg suspected Fafne’s presence played a part. The little dragon’s influence felt subtle yet undeniable, and his thoughts seemed clearer, his memory surer, and even the most complex glyphs fixed themselves in his mind after only a few repetitions.
By the end of the month, Argus quietly added opportunities to Kharg’s schedule as new openings became available. One such addition caught Kharg’s immediate interest, evening classes in alchemy held twice per week in the Academy’s left wing. It was a welcome change of pace from the unbroken stream of lectures on law, history, heraldry, and theory. Though these subjects fascinated him, the prospect of brewing potions sparked a sense of anticipation he hadn’t felt since his lessons with Hrafun in the North.
The first session was held just after dinner in one of the amphitheater rooms on the first floor of the left wing. The space was tiered and brightly lit, its curved benches angled toward a low demonstration table laden with strange vials and polished instruments. As Kharg entered, Fafne perched on his shoulder with his usual quiet pride, earning a wave of murmurs from several students already seated. A few of the younger novices whispered to one another, wide-eyed at the sight of the faerie dragon, while a pair of apprentices glanced his way before quickly looking back to their notes.
Glancing at their novice badges, Kharg recalled that alchemy was one of the few exceptions to the usual rule barring juniors from the left wing. Those hoping to become alchemists didn’t even take the standard affinity test, they had their own examinations.
At the front of the room stood Master Elboren, a somewhat portly, pock?marked man whose slate?gray robes contrasted with the dark precision of his neatly trimmed beard. Every line of his appearance seemed deliberate, almost as though he practiced the same meticulous care on himself that he did in alchemy. When his sharp eyes settled briefly on Kharg and Fafne, he merely inclined his head, neither surprised nor impressed, before turning back to arrange his glassware.
Without preamble, Elboren tapped the chalkboard behind him, where a neatly written list of ingredients and measurements awaited the class. “Tonight,” he said in a deep, carrying voice, “we prepare the foundation of all healing remedies: the Lesser Healing Potion. By now, you should all be familiar with its components and the theory behind its properties. What matters today is execution. The wrong balance of copper to bloodroot will weaken the potency, and too much salt will disrupt the bonding of the essences, and overheated wine will ruin the distillation.”
He gestured toward the table before him, where each ingredient was already laid out in small glass bowls: red clover, bloodroot, powdered copper, crushed bloodstone along with coal, garlic, sea salt, bits of seashell, red wine, and a small vial of spider webs glistening faintly with dew.
Elboren reviewed the order of preparation. He explained when to grind, when to mix the powders, how long to heat the solution before adding the clover, and the exact moment to introduce the crushed seashells. Kharg leaned forward slightly, taking in every word. It was obvious that this was not the first lecture on the subject. Several apprentices nodded along with practiced familiarity, and a pair of novices whispered quietly to each other as they copied the recipe on the board.
Yet to Kharg, the process did not feel overly complex. The quantities and steps fixed themselves in his mind almost as soon as he read them, each ratio and instruction committing themselves to memory with ease.
Elboren moved on, his tone firm but instructive. “Alchemy,” he said, “is a discipline of precision. Every measure, every reagent, every movement is deliberate. Nothing is guessed.”
Listening, Kharg could not help but compare it to what Hrafun had taught him. In the north, their equipment had been crude at best. They used clay vessels fired in open flames, bone?carved ladles, bundles of herbs tied with sinew, and no scale more precise than the feel of a practiced hand. The process had been as much art as science, half intuition and half trial and error, with Hrafun guiding him by smell, taste, and the feel of a substance rather than by exact weights.
Compared to that intuitive, trial-and-error style, Kharg found he preferred this southern approach. With such refined tools and measured methods, he could focus on the interplay of essences instead of relying on instinct and guesswork. The lectures explored not only the known properties of ingredients but also their latent effects, their affinities, and how they might behave in unexpected combinations. He was fascinated to learn how metals could act as alchemical conductors, how salt preserved potency, and how certain reagents revealed their true nature only when exposed to rare solvents or accompanying rituals. That level of analysis was new to him. Hrafun had shown him how to draw out a plant’s core essence, but the Academy delved into side effects, potential instabilities, and how even a stabilizing agent could influence the potion’s effect.
Yet it wasn't all one-sided. Hrafun’s methods, though lacking in polish, had often been more efficient. The old shaman could draw four doses' worth of potency from what southern alchemists considered enough for three. He understood the spirit within the substance, something that seemed absent in Varakarian Academy.
The lecture continued for nearly an hour, branching into the basic properties of several common reagents and how their essences could be stabilized or disrupted by other substances. When Elboren finally set down the chalk, he gestured toward the door. “Upstairs, to the laboratory. Theory is nothing without practice.”
Kharg glanced at the board one last time, already certain he could recall every measure and step without error. The students rose, filing toward the stairwell that led to the alchemical laboratories on the floor above. Kharg followed with quiet anticipation, Fafne shifting his weight slightly on his shoulder as though curious about what awaited them.
The students filed upstairs, their footsteps echoing in the stone stairwell as they ascended to the second floor. The laboratory was a broad, airy room lit by tall windows, with several long oaken tables arranged in neat rows. Each table was divided into two workstations, each equipped with its own brazier, alembic, and a small array of tools. The polished brass and gleaming glass reflected the lamplight, giving the room an almost clinical brightness that felt worlds apart from Hrafun’s dim, firelit hut.
Fafne gave a soft trill and launched himself from Kharg’s shoulder, wings fluttering in the still air as he glided to a thick wooden beam running across the ceiling. There, he curled up, head resting on his forelegs, violet eyes lazily watching the students gather at their stations.
Kharg’s workstation gleamed with southern luxury. A tiered alembic of polished glass sat at its center, secured by silver?latching frames that looked more like fine clockwork than laboratory equipment. Beside it stood several glass bowls and narrow?necked pitchers, a finely crafted set of brass scales complete with a full array of neatly ordered weights, and rune?marked measuring spoons. A brazier rested nearby, its flame leaping to life at the barest touch. Kharg shook his head faintly at the absurd convenience of it all, recalling how in the North even finding a vessel that did not crack from heat had been an achievement.
Along the far wall stood a multi?tiered shelving rack stacked with labeled jars, cloth?wrapped bundles, and stoppered vials. These held today’s ingredients, though Kharg immediately noticed there were far more items present than the recipe required. The unnecessary additions, sprigs of rosemary, powdered obsidian, and dried toadstools, were clearly meant to trip up anyone who had not paid attention during the lecture.
Master Elboren marched into the room with brisk steps, his slate?gray robes swaying with each movement. He clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the class with a critical eye, his expression a mixture of authority and skepticism. His pock?marked face was stern, the neatly trimmed beard framing a mouth set in habitual disapproval.
“Well,” he said at last, his tone clipped. “Let us see how well theory survives contact with reality. You know your recipe. Fetch what you need, and begin. The brazier flame is already primed.”
As Kharg moved toward the shelves, Elboren’s gaze followed him, one brow arching ever so slightly. “So,” the master said in a tone just shy of condescending, “you are the student who decided to join us halfway through the term. I’ve heard from other lecturers that you show promise, but brewing is less forgiving than reciting facts. I wonder if you’ll manage the finer steps without having sat through the groundwork.”
Kharg ignored the jab and began selecting his ingredients, his focus absolute. He retrieved the bloodroot, powdered copper, crushed bloodstone, sea salt, and a small vial of dew?damp spider webs. Returning to his station, he sliced the bloodroot lengthwise, placing the exposed core into a glass bowl of warm red wine. The tannins would coax out the root’s regenerative essence. While the root soaked, he mixed the crushed bloodstone with powdered copper and a pinch of sea salt in a secondary dish. The reaction fizzed faintly, releasing a sharp metallic scent that stung the nose.
Elboren paused behind him for a moment, silently watching as Kharg worked with steady hands, the motions practiced and sure despite the master’s doubts.
Next came the red clover, gently pressed to release its oils, then placed in the alembic alongside the soaked bloodroot. Kharg adjusted the flame beneath to a steady, low burn and channeled a subtle thread of mana into the chamber. The solution shimmered faintly. Beads of condensed essence began to form along the inner spiral of the alembic’s coil, dripping into the receiving vessel with slow, rhythmic taps.
He let the extraction continue as he prepared the third stage, mixing garlic, crushed coal, and the still-wet spider webs. The garlic was minced finely and added to a crucible with the coal, then thinned with a few drops of seawater. The webbing dissolved almost completely, acting as a subtle carrier that bound the components together. The resulting mixture was viscous and pungent, but effective, it stimulated circulation and carried the infused magic quickly through the bloodstream.
Once the root and clover extract had finished condensing, Kharg combined the resulting liquid with the mineral base. He stirred them together slowly in a flask before adding the final mixture of garlic and coal. A swirl of crimson bloomed through the pale mixture, coalescing into a muted ruby-red. He added a few pinches of crushed seashells, the final stabilizer, and sealed the flask with a cork and a thin layer of melted beeswax.
The potion pulsed faintly with warmth in his hands. Healing magic, bound into liquid form. Crude by higher standards, perhaps, but real. Kharg labeled the vial carefully and set it aside for inspection, suppressing a satisfied smile.
Around him, other students were still fumbling through their steps. A girl two benches over muttered a curse as her alembic hissed too sharply, too much heat. On the far end, a blond-haired boy stared helplessly at a soupy gray mixture that clearly wasn’t stabilizing, tapping his flask as if willing it to separate properly. The chamber buzzed with quiet murmurs, occasional sighs, and the soft clinking of glass on metal.
Kharg glanced at his workbench once more, everything clean, the vial corked and warm with residual magic. He folded his hands behind his back and waited.
A voice broke through the murmur. “Well then,” came the measured tone of Master Elboren, their alchemy lecturer, as he approached Kharg’s table. The portly, pock?marked instructor regarded the gleaming vial with a skeptical eye, his slate?gray robes shifting as he folded his hands behind his back. “Either you’re remarkably quick to learn, or this isn’t your first time brewing a Lesser Healing Draught.”
Kharg inclined his head slightly. “I’ve had some training prior to this class, Master,” he said simply.
Elboren raised a brow but didn’t press further. Instead, he picked up Kharg’s vial, turning it gently in the light. “Color is sound, binding appears stable… Mmh. You’ve even tempered the warmth. An excellent finish.” He placed the vial back down with a quiet nod. His tone lost its earlier condescension, replaced by measured approval. “I had my doubts when I heard you’d joined the class late, but this is clean work.”
Setting the vial back down, he gave Kharg a short nod, his expression more neutral now. “Whatever you were taught before, it has served you well. Keep working like this, and you’ll have no trouble keeping pace.”
Kharg offered a polite nod in return, but inwardly he felt a flicker of pride, not for the praise but the subtle shift in Elboren’s demeanor. Hrafun’s lessons, guided by firelight and instinct, still held value even here in the heart of southern learning.
