[Time]: Day 30 of Enrollment, 07:45 AM[Location]: Yggdrasil Academy · Dormitory [Golden Bough] · Room 302
The morning sun filtered through the colossal, emerald leaves of the World Tree, casting dappled, golden patterns across the wooden floor.
Hathaway stood before the full-length wardrobe on four hours of sleep, most of it spent watching the inside of her own eyelids run the same clip: Cecilia's gentle smile, the Saint calling her a Quiet Lion, and the cold arriving on schedule about a second afterward.
I am a gambler, she thought, looking at her pale reflection. I used a terrifying entity who rewrites reality as a poker chip to get myself a tutor. And the tutor trusted me enough to open her family's door.
She touched the cold glass of the mirror. Fear and debt were heavy things, and heavy things, to a Ludwig, even a counterfeit one, were fuel.
"I can't undo the bluff," she told the empty room. "I can't tell her the truth yet."
Her hand closed into a fist.
"So I bought my way in with counterfeit coins. Fine. I pay her back in the only currency this school accepts."
She shoved the sensible grey vests aside and reached for the heavy garment bag at the back, because today was a Coronation, and Coronations have a dress code.
The Crimson Velvet Military Coat. Loud, aggressive, the exact color of fresh arterial blood and warning signage, pure gold buttons carved into roaring lions, "Ludwig" embroidered along the cuffs in cursive silver, in case anyone in the examination hall failed to identify her by sound alone.
She slipped it on. The velvet settled across her shoulders with the weight of armor, and she fastened the buttons one at a time. Click. Click. Click. Like loading a gun, if guns cost eight hundred Solars and had to be dry-cleaned.
She brushed her silver hair until it shone like spun moonlight, tied it back with a black velvet ribbon, and leaned in close to the mirror.
The girl looking back was a Young General preparing to march into hell to collect on a receivable, crimson eyes lit with a cold, borrowed arrogance.
Thirty days. Thirty days of splitting her mind, thirty days of Victoria dissecting her logic in that voice. First installment comes due this morning.
"120 points," she hissed at the reflection. Fifty was a pass for a normal student. For a Transfer Student, 120 out of 130 was the only number that kept her out of the repeat year.
"I will not just pass. I will dominate."
[Time]: 08:00 AM[Location]: Dining Room (First Floor)
Hathaway walked down the spiral staircase, boots clicking on dark polished wood, out of the sunny botanical warmth of the upper floors and into Victoria's Domain.
The first floor had been designed for Atmosphere, and sunlight had lost the contract: heavy velvet curtains, black mahogany upholstered in blood-red silk, tall candelabras burning with cool blue magical flame. Less student dormitory, more the dining hall of a Vampire Countess with strong opinions about drapery.
Victoria was already there, seated at the head of the long obsidian table, her figure swallowed by the high-backed throne of a chair. A copy of The Witch Daily floated beside her ear, glowing faintly, a dry disembodied voice whispering the headlines.
"...Breaking News: A Class-4 Spatial Rift opened above The Lunar Thorn Academy this morning. A swarm of Prime Dragons has infested the campus..."
"...The Student Council has declared an immediate holiday. The cafeteria staff is currently capturing the dragons. Tonight's menu will be 'All-You-Can-Eat Dragon BBQ'..."
While the paper reported the delightful disaster, a silver knife floated up and buttered a scone with the precision of something that could see the table better than the table could see itself.
Victoria kept her face forward when Hathaway entered.
"Your heart rate is 78 beats per minute," Victoria said, her voice cutting through the whispering newspaper. "Elevated. But acceptable."
Hathaway stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked at the silver-haired girl in the gloom.
"Good morning, Teacher."
She pulled out a heavy wooden chair and sat. Her Crimson Coat matched the gothic upholstery closely enough that the two of them looked like a pair of conspirators who had coordinated in advance, which was somehow worse.
A silver teapot floated over and poured a cup of Earl Grey for her.
"I trust you are ready?" Victoria asked. She waved her hand, and the whispering newspaper fell silent, folding itself neatly on the table.
Hathaway picked up her fork and held it without using it.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
"I am ready," she said. "You spent thirty days on me. You gave me your notes. You gave me your time."
Her grip on the fork tightened. "I am not letting that turn into a bad debt. I am getting the 120."
Victoria's blurry blue eyes settled somewhere near Hathaway's collarbone, and stayed there a moment longer than a blind woman needed.
Her lips curved. "Good."
They ate for a few minutes without talking, a comfortable heavy quiet in which the gloom made the silver cutlery shine brighter. It felt like breakfast between a mob boss and her favorite hitman.
Finally, Victoria wiped her mouth with a napkin.
"I will not be accompanying you to the Examination Institute," she stated calmly.
Hathaway nodded, slicing a piece of bacon. "I assumed as much. It is just a basic qualification exam."
"Precisely." Victoria leaned back, her fingers drumming on the armrest. "For the average Witch, today is a milestone. Parents will cry, flowers will be given. It is touching."
She let out a soft scoff.
"But for you? It is merely a bureaucratic hurdle to fix your attendance record. If you cannot score 120 on a test designed for teenagers, Hathaway, then my tutoring was a waste of time. And I do not like wasting time."
She turned her face toward Hathaway, and the unfocused eyes landed with the full tonnage anyway.
"Go. Get the score. Secure your credits. If you pass with Distinction, we will celebrate with a bottle of 1882 Star-Dust Wine."
Victoria paused, her smile turning polite and terrifying in the candlelight.
"If you fail to get 120... and get held back a year..."
She left the sentence there and picked up her tea, the steam swirling around her pale face.
Hathaway stood, and the gold lion buttons caught what little light the room allowed.
"I will get the score," Hathaway said, her voice steady. "I won't let you down."
"See that you don't." Victoria dismissed her with a wave of her hand, and the newspaper floated back up, resuming its whispering about the BBQ sauce recipe for the dragons. "Now go. Do not let the door hit you on the way out."
[Time]: 08:20 AM[Location]: The Balcony
Hathaway stepped out onto the wide balcony. The air was crisp and sweet, carrying the scent of the millions of flowers blooming across the district.
"Transport," she muttered.
She walked to the railing and looked down at the street level far below.
Griffin Carriages, gold and white chariots pulled by majestic beasts. Fast, because Griffins are predators, but the ride was stiff, formal, and pompous: a parade float with a fare meter.
A Dragon Bus glided past on Route 66. It was an exquisite Triangular-Sail Skiff, pulled smoothly by a Medium-sized Wind Dragon. Inside the open cabin, she could see students lounging in velvet booths, reading books while alchemy robotic arms poured them unlimited refills of iced lemon tea.
Comfortable. Civilized. The perfect place to listen to a waltz and take a restful nap on the way to the rest of her life.
Hathaway looked at her gloved hands and wanted wind in her face and the roar of an engine. Her eyes drifted to the corner of the balcony, where a long, slender object had been leaning against the wall for a month, wrapped in protective velvet. It was the original Hathaway's personal broom, a birthday gift from her mothers that had barely been touched before the soul swap.
Hathaway walked over and pulled the velvet cloth away.
Swish.
The sunlight hit the object, and it gleamed with a predatory, aggressive shine. Subtlety had been considered and rejected. Deep, lustrous Candy-Apple Red, the handle carved from a single piece of polished Elven Forest mahogany, smooth as glass and warm to the touch. Gold filigree traced wind-runes along the shaft, pulsing faintly with latent power. The tail twigs sat in perfect alignment, bound with genuine Griffin leather that smelled of expensive adventure.
[The Scarlet-Valkyrie GT]
A luxury touring sports model. High-torque mana engine. Anti-gravity stabilizers. The kind of broom that screamed, "I am rich, I am fast, and I regard speed limits as mere suggestions."
Hathaway ran her hand along the shaft. A thrill, electric and primal, shot up her arm.
For a month, she had been buried in books. She had been a scholar, a prisoner of logic. But today? Today she needed speed.
She mounted the broom. It hummed between her legs, vibrating with a low, throaty purr. It felt alive. It felt like a wild animal waiting for the leash to snap.
"Let's see what you can do," Hathaway whispered.
She kicked off the railing.
"Fly."
BOOM.
The Scarlet-Valkyrie GT declined to fly. It rejected the concept of gravity.
In a heartbeat, the balcony was gone. The dormitory was a speck behind her.
"Whoaaaa!" Hathaway let out a sound that was half-scream, half-laughter.
The wind roared, and the broom’s passive [Aegis Shield] came up, forming an invisible tear-drop bubble around her. The gale that should have ripped her clothes off was transformed into a gentle, refreshing breeze that merely ruffled her silver hair.
She leaned forward, merging her silhouette with the crimson broom, and tore a line through the sky. Below her, the White City unfolded like a dream. She saw the familiar floating islands, but at this speed, they were just blurs of white marble and green foliage. She blasted past a Griffin Carriage, leaving the startled beasts squawking in her wake as a red streak overtook them.
She looked up, and the sky was alive.
Countless streaks of light crisscrossed the azure void. Witches. Thousands of them.
She saw them soaring in the distance, tiny specks of light against the blue. Some flew on standard-issue academy brooms, moving in orderly lines like schools of fish. Some drifted on flying carpets, sipping coffee as they commuted. Some flew on nothing but themselves, the powerful ones, their bodies wrapped in glowing auras of violet, gold, and azure, tearing through the clouds like comets.
Something went through Hathaway that ran well past excitement and came out the other side as Belonging.
On Earth, she had been alone: a grey figure in a grey subway car, surrounded by tired faces. A hundred meters off her wing, a girl with green hair rode a giant floating leaf. The girl noticed Hathaway, grinned, and waved, and Hathaway waved back.
I am one of them, she thought, the realization hitting her harder than the wind. I am not an impostor anymore. I am a sister of the sky. I am a godling in a city of gods, soaring through the heavens at Mach 2 on a stick of enchanted wood.
This world was more magnificent than any game texture, more vibrant than any fantasy she had ever dreamed of in her cubicle. And it was real. And it was hers.
She banked hard to the left, diving through a cloud bank, feeling the cool mist kiss her cheeks, then pulled up sharply, soaring towards the massive structure dominating the center of the district.
The Central Examination Institute.
It loomed ahead, a massive Silver Inverted Pyramid floating three kilometers above the main island, turning on its axis, refracting the cold sunlight into prismatic rainbows over the waiting area below.
Hathaway slowed, her heart still pounding with the rhythm of the flight, and brought the [Scarlet-Valkyrie] to a halt inches above the marble plaza.
She dismounted, smoothed her skirt, and put her face back into its mask of calm indifference. Her hands were still trembling. Not from fear.
From the sheer joy of existence.