Magic and Muscle
Magic and Muscle
The Iston Academy of Magic. Early morning. Pale light filters through the stained-glass windows into the Reception Hall. The marble floor reflects the crystals floating beneath the ceiling. Along the walls stand stone statues of the great mages of the past; their faces are stern, their eyes fixed forward. The air smells of ink, parchment, and something else—a faint, elusive scent, like the smell of an approaching storm.
The line of newcomers stretches from the very doors. Everyone wears identical grey robes, everyone wears a tense expression. Someone nervously twists a button between their fingers; someone else surreptitiously brushes a hand against their cheek, checking their mark. The hum of voices merges into a continuous drone, but it falls silent at the registration desk—where Director Walberg Baigan sits. Tall, gaunt, with a long grey beard and a gaze that makes one want to hide. Before him lie a magical quill, a stack of papers, and a crystal ball within which a mist swirls.
— Next. Name. Mark. Magic level. Move it, we still have three hundred people to go.
He picks up the crystal ball and holds it forward. The mist inside begins to stir. Walberg glances at the artifact, then at the line. The hall grows quiet—so quiet that the tolling of the clock tower can be heard in the distance.
— Place your palm here. The artifact will read the mark and power level itself. If the mark is weak or non-existent, the Bureau of Magic will decide your fate. Do not dawdle.
A tall blond man with two bright marks on his face steps out of the line. His robe fits perfectly, and an arrogant smirk plays on his lips. This is Lance Crown. He stops nearby, crosses his arms over his chest, and looks at the orb with disdain.
— Don't tell me you're one of those... markless types too. Director, why waste your time? Send them to the general labor pool; let them learn how to scrub cauldrons.
Someone in the crowd snickers, but falls silent immediately. From the depths of the hall, a boy with black hair and a blank expression emerges. There isn't a single mark on his cheeks. In his hand is a massive cream puff, which he is methodically chewing. He radiates a heavy aura, as if the very air around him is becoming denser. This is Mash Burnedead.
— Magic is nonsense. Muscles are what matter. Don't listen to this four-eyes. If you can clench your fist, you're already stronger than half this room.
Walberg opens his mouth to respond, but doesn't get the chance. A bright voice rings out from the crowd, and a girl with long crimson hair and a single mark on her cheek weaves her way to the desk. She is smiling as if she has arrived at a festival. This is Lemon Irvine.
— Oh, Lance, why are you being so boring? Give the person a chance. Maybe they have a hidden talent? Director, can I take a look?
Walberg sighs heavily and taps his knuckles against the desk. The crystals beneath the ceiling flicker more rapidly. The clock tower tolls, and the chime echoes through the hall.
His voice cuts through the noise, laced with steel.
— Enough chatter. Place your palm. Or would you prefer I summon the guards?
Silence. The crystal ball pulses with a soft light. The quill freezes above the paper. All eyes—the Director's, Lance's, Mash's, Lemon's, and those of hundreds of newcomers—are fixed upon the artifact.