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(Chapter Ten — The First semester)

Three hours later…

Late morning came with the soft kind of blue that makes stone look gentle. East House breathed like a big, sleepy animal. John woke up fast. He always did. Fizz woke slowly, as if he had to gather his glow from different shelves.

They ate in the first-year hall: bread, porridge, two eggs that tasted like the kitchen had decided to be kind today. Fizz tried to organize the jam jars by color, then gave up and organized them by which one he liked best.

"Today," Fizz said, chewing, "we do classes. We do glory. We also do snacks. The order might change."

John took his slate schedule from his inside pocket and ran a finger down the lines.

Basic Magic Theory — third bell, Hall of Chalk (all first-years)

Basic Combat Technique — fourth bell, South Yard ring

Mana Control — fifth bell, East Practice Rooms

Three blocks. Three bells. Three chances to collect knowledge rather than lose them.

Fizz leaned over the slate like a tiny dean. "You will pass each one with grace. I will heckle with care. I am polite now. I am a cute buddy who also has a secret identity."

John snorted. "Be quieter than your title."

They crossed the yard. Pipes clinked somewhere. Banners moved a little because the morning wind liked to touch fabric. As they went up the steps to the Hall of Chalk, Fizz tugged John's ear with a paw and whispered hot:

"Look there. Left side. Row four. The pretty one from the orientation. She is wearing a red ribbon today."

John looked because Fizz would not stop until he did. He saw her at once. The ribbon made it easy.

She sat straight, not stiff. A red strip tied over dark hair, knotted to one side, a small bow that tried to be shy and failed. It pulled the eye the way a candle pulls a moth. She had the Flame family look — warm skin, quick eyes, that flicker of heat in the corner of the mouth when something pleases them and they try to hide it.

Her uniform sat right on her. Boots clean, not fussy. A small packet of something wrapped in oil paper on her desk. Fizz went glassy with hunger. "There are snacks on her," he breathed. "Good snacks. Cinnamon. Butter. Perhaps sugar. Perhaps the best ones. Let's go and be friends with her."

"Sit," John said. "We are not doing that."

Fizz sighed… "You are no fun."

They sat. The hall filled fully in a breath. It always did. First-years pack rooms like birds on a wire. Fizz settled on the top edge of John's desk, tail curled, eyes bright.

The door at the front opened. Master Venn stepped in with a slate and a stub of chalk like he was about to duel a dragon and would win by drawing on it until it gave up.

He did not shout for a while. He had never needed to.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning," the hall answered, because the hall had already learned who in this place made you answer.

"Basic Magic Theory," Venn said. He put the words on the board like he was pinning something that liked to wander. "All of you take it. Not because I enjoy making people suffer. Because you cannot hold power with clean hands if your mind is a sieve."

He drew a circle on the board. He drew a line through it. He drew a small square. He did not label any of them because he liked to make your brain do the lifting.

Fizz leaned close to John's ear. "Today he looks like a man who argues with chalk and wins."

John's mouth moved. "He might."

Venn turned. Chalk dust lived on his fingers the way other men wore rings. "Points based exam," he said, and the whole room sat another inch straighter. "Four months. You need eighty-five points to pass the term. We will give you chances. Many small ones. Some middle ones. And a few big ones. You earn between zero and five points for tasks that you can complete. You also earn negative points for making mistakes and my day worse. If you talk while someone else is talking, minus one. If you lie to me, minus three. If you cheat, you will only wish that points were the things that got taken. Be careful about what you do."

One student asked, "How do we count the points? Who keeps tabs on them?"

"Good question," Venn replied. "Your academy batch counts them. When you are given a point or taken it will show in the badge. Total number will be shown to. All you need to do is pour some mana. There are other fiction functions too. You can learn them in time or ask some senior students or teachers. Both will cost points. So…"

A few minutes later….

He tapped the circle on the board. "Mana is not water. Stop saying 'flow' like it makes you sound wise. Mana is a promise. It wants to keep that promise with certain things and break it with others. We call the promise affinity. We call the habit of the promise aspect. If you know what things a promise likes, you can ask it to keep a better one."

He walked, spoke, and drew. His chalk built a small village: circle, glyph, arrow, mark. Then he pointed at the sea of faces and began the real work. "You. Define containment in a circle when the circle is wet. You. Explain why a glyph you carve drunk breaks sober. You. Tell me why chalk from the wrong quarry lies to you. You. Tell me why iron hates a bag spell but loves a good one while forging."

Students tried. Students failed. Students tried again. When someone bluffed, Venn smiled with one corner of his mouth in a way that made it feel very silly to bluff.

John listened the way he scrubbed: steady, careful, willing to redo a line that had gone wrong in his head. He could feel Venn's questions like hooks to pull his mind through work. When Venn pointed at him, John did not jump. He answered as he would write on a form you are not allowed to blot.

"Containment in a wet circle depends on surface tension," John said. "If the wet breaks, the promise breaks. So you chill the room. Or you change the spell to like wet. Or you use oil chalk."

Venn nodded once. "Good points for knowing oil chalk is not a lie."

A chalk dot appeared near John's name on the big list by the door. The boy with the list had quick hands. He also had big ears. Fizz liked him on sight.

On John's left, not far, a voice he had heard for many years in another house, a house that was his but wasn't, slid into the air like a knife you forgot you owned.

"Oil and chalk," the voice whispered to a friend. "Country tricks."

John's spine knew the voice before his brain agreed to let it through. His spine jolted. His body shivved in something. Maybe anger… Maybe fear… Maybe hate… he doesn't know yet.

He turned his head a fraction, slow enough to make it feel like he owned the motion. He saw the face it belonged to. The face had not changed as much as he had. Fair skin, sharp jaw, the look men from White House had when they grew up on polished floors and thought the shine was part of their bones. Hair cut to rules taught by tutors. Mouth that loved to say the word "servant, commoner, lowly bustard," the way other boys say "best friend."

'Ned White. His Fifth half brother.' The smallest among the five bullies. The quick tongue that he used and the physical suffering he caused to John. The one who liked to step on John, when nobody wasn't looking, then help him up then pushed him down for the fun. He was fifteen years old when John left that house. Eighteen now. The same cruel eyes. It hasn't changed a bit. But John had changed. His look had changed. His situation had changed. Now he can defend himself or take his sweet revenge.

Ned did not see him for years. When he saw him, he couldn't identify that it's John. For him John looked like a commoner student. He looked across John the way people look across a table at a spill. He whispered again, "Huh, fucking commoners."

Master Venn did not raise his voice. He did not need to. "The boy in the sixth row with the fine collar," Venn said. "If you would like to teach, you may apply for a teacher position. For now, minus one for speaking while I am, and please keep your very important breath until it is your turn."

The hall gave the look it gives when it is grateful someone else is in trouble. Ned's anger is shown to the ears. He looked for a place to throw his eyes. For a blink they touched John's face again. They did not know it. They moved on.

John's hands did not shake. The line inside his chest stayed straight. He did not forgive. He did not roar. He put the anger and hate in the place where he kept things he could not use yet. He would visit it later and count it and pay them back with interest.

Fizz did not talk. He saw the stillness on John's face and knew what kind it was. John is angry for a reason. He only leaned closer and put his paw on John's wrist once, as if taking his pulse and telling it: good. Steady.

Class moved on. Venn threw a small quiz test at the end — a drop of wine around a chalk square without letting it touch the chalk and put it back on the glass. They need to use mana to move the drop.

Thirty pairs of hands failed fast. Ten pairs failed slowly. Five did it well. Rest barely made it. The first class ended.

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