Mornings at the Academy were always the same: noise, the smell of wet stone, the echo of footsteps in the corridors.

  But today, I felt as if I had returned to the same game—on a higher difficulty.

  When I entered our classroom, the first thing that caught my eye was Finn.

  He sat at his desk, chin resting on his hand, eyes dull, his expression like someone trying to figure out exactly how life had decided to hate him today.

  “Looks gloomy,” I muttered to myself.

  The rest of the swordsmen… honestly—nothing new.

  The loud group.

  The quiet group.

  And a couple who thought they were smarter than everyone else.

  “Yeah… not much changes in a week,” I thought as I walked past.

  The instructor entered energetically, as if the wind itself were pushing him forward.

  “Good morning! Today we continue with the element of wind.

  Your task is to understand how wind supports you in combat.

  Swordsmen—this means speed, evasion, dashes.

  Mages—control of attack movement, flows, and forms.”

  We went out to the training field.

  And that’s when it hit me.

  Everyone had been training this past week.

  Almost all of them were confidently forming air currents.

  Some boosted their steps with gusts of wind, others adjusted the angle of their strikes.

  A few even tried a “sliding dash” on a cushion of air.

  They could be called…

  Well, if not masters—then solid users of basic wind magic.

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  I stepped closer.

  Even the princess…

  Elinia moved as if she had been born inside the flow.

  Every step—light.

  Every strike—precise.

  Every form—perfect.

  She was trying.

  Trying hard.

  “Impressive,” I thought.

  Finn, on the other hand…

  Poor guy.

  He stood surrounded by fire… trying to combine wind with flame.

  The result was…

  Well… “somehow.”

  The fire kept getting blown upward, knocked sideways, or simply going out.

  He was swearing.

  Very expressively.

  I stood nearby, weighing my options:

  Should I help him?

  Let him figure it out himself?

  Or give a subtle hint?

  “Wind is an amplifier—if you guide it,” I said aloud, as if to myself.

  Finn jerked his head and glanced my way.

  He heard me.

  But didn’t react.

  Typical fire-element stubbornness.

  Back in my room, I finally decided to start the textbook for the Forest children.

  I thought about what to write:

  Algebra? Geometry? Physics? Chemistry? Alchemy?

  Or biology and geography?

  I started writing.

  About the simplest things:

  — human organs,

  — why blood exists,

  — what the liver does,

  — how muscles work,

  — what the brain is.

  Basic biology.

  People already had some foundations, but even those were vague—

  the heart was “something important everything revolves around,”

  the brain was “something unclear,”

  the liver was “kind of like a filter.”

  All blurry.

  I wrote slowly, trying to explain things simply—so even a child could understand.

  I tried drawing—failed so badly I almost got upset myself.

  “Better not draw. I should use magic instead…” I thought.

  A knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” I asked, not lifting my quill.

  “It’s me! Open up,” came a familiar voice.

  I sighed.

  Opened the door.

  The princess.

  Of course.

  She walked past me without waiting for an invitation, flopped onto my bed, and acted like this was the most natural place in the world.

  “So what do you want?” I asked.

  “I just… came by,” she said too quickly.

  “Yeah. Sure. Just came by.”

  I shrugged.

  “Sit, just don’t interfere.”

  And went back to writing.

  I must’ve written for two hours.

  Total focus.

  Ink-stained fingers.

  The room smelled of paper.

  And somewhere in the middle of a sentence…

  I remembered.

  The princess.

  In my room.

  Silence.

  Too quiet.

  I raised my head.

  “Elinia?”

  Silence.

  I looked around.

  Empty.

  She was gone.

  And worse…

  My notes were missing.

  The orb was gone.

  And part of the diagrams too.

  I froze.

  Then felt the cold gather inside me.

  “…Is she serious?” I whispered.

  Anger rose quietly—but steadily.

  Heavy.

  Direct.

  “That’s it.

  I need to have a serious talk with her,” I said aloud.

  But it was already late.

  The moon hung over the Academy.

  I sat down on the chair.

  Exhaled.

  “Tomorrow.”

  And turned off the light.