"Truth number three," Fizz said, pacing the front of the hall like a tiny professor who had misplaced his patience but not his sparkle. "Visualization is not pretending. It is hospitality."

He raised a paw, and the air trembled faintly around it, like it was leaning closer to listen. He continued again, "Do not tell fire what you want. Fire hates being bossed around — it has opinions, and it will make you regret every order. Instead, ask the air to remember heat. Do not order earth to rise — it has a bad back and no sense of humor. Ask your feet to make room for a small sky. And do not bully water." He gave the word bully extra weight, squinting at a row of students who looked guilty without knowing why. "Invite it to stay still long enough to see its own face."

The hall had gone utterly still. Dozens of young mages leaned forward in their seats, some grinning, some frowning, all trying not to breathe too loud in case they broke the spell.

Fizz let the silence stretch until the quiet itself seemed to hum. Then he said softer, "Most of you felt something today. That is enough. If you didn't, do not make drama with your soul. Some doors open slowly on purpose."

He began pacing again, tapping the slate with a bit of chalk like a conductor keeping time. "Your homework —yes, I assign homework; I am a benevolent tyrant— is a journal. Each day, fifteen breaths speaking politely to a second element. Nothing more. You will write what it felt like. Not whether you succeeded. What. It. Felt. Like. If you write 'nothing,' that is truth, and truth earns more from me than flattery."

A hand rose among the older students. "Master —uh, Lord Fizz," the boy said, correcting himself fast when Fizz's eyes narrowed. "Can a water mage truly make fire?"

Fizz tilted his head like a curious cat, then smiled kindly. "A water mage can boil a kettle. With practice, one might raise a small camp flame in a pinch, because heat is a cousin of motion, and you are excellent at motion. But you will never paint a battlefield with wildfire like a true fire mage — and that is fine. You are not auditioning to be someone else. You are learning to be a better version of you."

Another hand shot up. "How many can safely carry two elements?"

Fizz held up his paws as if balancing invisible scales. "Nine out of ten can do it. But safely," he wagged a paw, "does not mean quickly. A year for most. A decade for a few. And if anyone here decides they must collect three—" his tail twitched dangerously "—you'll do it under supervision and with a headache that could humble the gods. Don't chase medals you can't wear. Chase the work."

Snickers rippled through the hall, quickly shushed.

Then an upper-year, one of the ones with too much smirk on his face, called out, "If I can feel lightning but can't make it crack, what's the point?"

Fizz's expression softened, and his voice dropped low enough that the silence had to stretch to catch it. "You'll know when to walk away from a copper fence in a storm. You'll know when your partner is about to ruin a circle. You'll be able to stand next to a lightning mage and not be a hazard. Feeling is not nothing. Feeling," he tapped his chest lightly, "is the road."

The smirk vanished like a blown candle. The boy sank a little lower on his bench.

In the middle rows, Ray Flame had leaned forward so far he might've fallen. For once his face carried no grin, no theater, just raw curiosity. His usual swagger had gone missing, replaced by that quiet hunger that all mages wore when someone said something true. When he accidentally caught John's gaze, he didn't sneer. For a flicker of a second, he even looked like he understood. John gave him the smallest nod — the kind that said, Learn the good parts. We can fight later.

At the very back, by the door where the light didn't quite reach, a shadow moved. Snake stood there, pipe smoke curling like thoughts around him, face half in dark, half in approval.

Fizz's voice brightened. "All right! Bragging time. Who managed to feel a new guest at their table?"

Hands shot up like fireworks. Fizz clapped his paws together, thrilled. "Who felt nothing and told the truth?"

A smaller, braver set of hands rose. Fizz grinned wider. "You will do very well. The world listens to honest people."

He flipped the slate, revealing a half-finished diagram that looked suspiciously like a teapot trying to be a sun. "Summary!" he declared, pacing again. "Anchor. Shape. Feed. Listen. Anchor your native element so it does not panic. Shape uncarved mana with a memory. Feed gently, not like a barbarian stuffing a goose. Listen for the new guest. Stop when you are proud, not when you are flashy. And repeat — until it becomes boring. Because boring, my brilliant disasters, is the door to mastery."

Then, with a flourish, he snapped the chopstick like a conductor ending a symphony. "Class dismissed. Lord Fizz has spoken! Practice and practice until you learn it."

The hall erupted. Chairs scraped, laughter rang, energy flooded back into the air like birds freed from a cage. First-years chattered about what they'd felt, upper-years pretended they hadn't learned anything while secretly mouthing anchor, shape, feed, and listening under their breath.

John stayed a little longer. Fizz was immediately swallowed by a tide of students — half showering him with praise, half proposing marriage, all talking at once. He accepted every compliment with theatrical humility and declined every proposal with solemn tragedy. "I cannot marry all of you," he said gravely. "I lack the ring storage."

By the time he darted back to John, still glowing with mischief and pride, John could only shake his head. "You're impossible."

"I'm educational," Fizz corrected, shoving his crooked spectacles up his nose. "Did you see Orne's face? He made tea with his hand. I should be crowned."

"You'd eat the crown," John said.

"Only the gems," Fizz replied. "For the minerals."

Across the room, Rhea Flame stood with a pair of upper-years, her ribbon bright as fire over calm water. For a second her gaze flicked toward John. It was thoughtful, uncertain and then away before it could become a line connecting them.

Fartray was the last to leave, his smile sharp enough to cut, eyes narrowing like he was filing away every word for later use. Snake had already slipped out, leaving behind only the faintest curl of smoke and the sense that something important had been witnessed.

When the bell rang again, the benches were empty. The room held only dust motes and quiet, and on the board, the words remained like an old promise:

"Anchor. Shape. Feed. Listen."

By the time the evening bell rolled across the academy roofs, the place glowed like a city learning how to whisper light. Windows burned soft gold. The fountains mumbled secrets to each other. Students drifted between halls like tired fireflies, some laughing too loudly, others walking as if the air itself was homework.

John and Fizz followed the colonnade toward the dining hall, their steps echoing off the long stone ribs. The scent of soup and fresh bread rolled through the courtyard like a spell designed by grandmothers.

"So," John said at last, glancing sideways at the orange comet floating by his ear. "Professor Fizz!!"

Fizz puffed out his chest and adjusted the spectacles that suddenly became real because his ego demanded props. "Yes. Lord Professor Fizz, Keeper of Kettles, Master of Diagrams, Bringer of Wisdom, and Slightly Burnt Toast."

John raised an eyebrow. "You could have told me."

Fizz's tail swished like a smug metronome. "And ruin the surprise? Never. I wanted to see your face — it made a beautiful wobble between outrage and pride. Truly artistic. Ten out of ten wobbles."

"You ambushed me with a job."

Fizz shrugged, absolutely unrepentant. "It was a gift! Surprise is a ribbon. You looked like you needed a ribbon."

"A ribbon of panic," John muttered.

Fizz ignored him, spinning once midair. "Come now, it was perfect! The students love me. The teachers fear me. Even the chalk respected me — it squeaked only once, and then apologized."

John shook his head, though his mouth betrayed a small smile. "You nearly set the board on fire when you tried to show off."

"That was an artistic interpretation!" Fizz declared. "Besides, the class was getting sleepy. A little danger keeps the mind awake and the eyebrows crisp."

They reached the dining hall steps. Laughter and clinking dishes drifted out, glowing warm against the cooling blue outside.

Fizz slowed, hovering at John's shoulder like a candle deciding whether to join a feast. "You know," he said more softly, "teaching isn't just noise and jokes. It's… strange. They look at you like you know the way, and suddenly you realize you might actually know a little."

John looked down at him, surprised by the tone. "You did well," he said. "They listened."

Fizz beamed, eyes bright as embers. "Of course they did! I'm adorable and wise. A dangerous mix."

Then his stomach growled loud enough to echo down the steps. "And starving. Teaching burns calories and the brain sparkles. Let's eat everything edible and some things debatable."

John laughed under his breath. "Fine. But you're not stealing dessert trays again."

Fizz gasped. "I was liberating them. For educational purposes!"

"Right."

John elbowed him lightly. "Behave."

Fizz grinned, already plotting ten ways not to. "Fine, fine. But if someone offers pie, I'm defecting to their table."

After a while, John said, "So… Lord Professor Fizz."

Fizz looked up, crumbs dusting his whiskers. "Yes, humble student John?"

"What happens next?"

Fizz leaned back, paws behind his head, eyes glittering. "Next? We conquer knowledge. We pass all the exams. We survive cafeteria soup. And maybe," he added with a mischievous grin, "we make one or two friends who deserve it."

John smirked. "That's optimistic."

Fizz nodded sagely. "Optimism is cheaper than bandages."

Inside the dining hall, laughter rose, spoons clattered, and Fizz declared to no one in particular, "Teaching is hungry work. But I am even hungrier. Let's go in."

John just shook his head, smiling, and let the warmth of the day settle over them both like a second kind of light.

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