Walking into the classroom without a mask was a strategic mistake. I had somehow completely put it out of my mind—apparently, the night of jumping through mirrors and architectural espionage had finally killed my attentiveness.

  Now I felt like a fish in an aquarium. Dozens of eyes were staring at me from all sides. Some whispered, some pointed fingers, some just froze with their mouths open. I sat in my seat, trying to blend in with the furniture, but with my eyes, that was a hopeless endeavor.

  The teacher walked in. Today's schedule said "Magical Concepts." He stepped briskly toward the podium, but upon noticing my face, tripped on flat ground. For a second, he stared at me as if he'd seen his grandfather's ghost, and then jerked convulsively, coming back to his senses.

  He slammed his palm hard against the desk. "QUIET!" he barked, even though there was already a dead silence in the classroom.

  He cleared his throat and began the lecture: "The topic of today's lesson is Healing. Over centuries of magical practice, humanity has invented thousands of ways to patch up its carcasses: from enchanted scrolls to foul-smelling magical elixirs."

  He swept his gaze over the class again. "I SAID QUIET!" even though the only thing making noise was his own thoughts.

  "All the basics of healing lie in nature itself—in regeneration. Different creatures recover at different speeds. Elves heal faster than humans, trolls faster than elves. But remember the axiom: no living creature is capable of regenerating instantly without direct magical intervention. It is biologically impossible."

  I propped my chin on my hand. "Biologically impossible," yeah right. But I kept quiet. Trying to change teachers' minds is a task for those who don't value their time.

  "There are several approaches," he continued, drawing diagrams on the board. "You can create a layer of pure mana and 'close' the wound from the outside. You can, conversely, pour energy inside, forcing the organism to work at its limit. And then there is the highest mastery—spells. But that requires colossal power and perfect execution."

  He raised a finger. "When casting a healing spell, three things are important. First: you must have enough mana not to run out of breath mid-sentence. Second: emotions. The spell requires a specific mindset—you must sincerely want to help, not just mumble the text. And third: concentration. You must clearly see the result in your mind. You can't just read and hope for a miracle. Magic is not a lottery. It is will."

  I listened to him and barely suppressed a yawn. Concentration, emotions... So many unnecessary movements. For me, healing had always been simple... You tell the flesh to "heal," and it obeys. Without any weeping over the wound or visualizing rainbows.

  "I SAID QUIET AGAIN!" the teacher yelled once more, even though the fly in the corner was flying at a whisper.

  The teacher handed everyone heavy tomes titled "The Testament of Healing." "Open to page four. It describes the spell and the emotional state you must evoke within yourselves. Without the right feeling, the magic will not react."

  We were handed test frogs and given tiny cuts. "Begin," the teacher commanded.

  The class plunged into a strange state. Some tried to squeeze out sincere pity, turning red from the strain, but nothing worked. Some, conversely, sobbed so hard over the poor amphibian that the mana simply dissipated from an excess of emotion. For the most capable ones, the wound began to close after about ten minutes, and even then—the spell only weakly coagulated the blood, nothing more.

  I didn't open the book. I just waved my hand over my frog. Zing. The cut vanished instantly. The frog croaked indignantly and tried to jump up my sleeve. I lazily pushed it aside.

  The entire lesson turned into tedious repetition: every thirty minutes—a new cut, new attempts by the class to squeeze out a catharsis. Boredom.

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  The next class was in the Fifth Building. I pulled out my "unique" map, which I had spent all night drawing, and was just about to check my route when I noticed a student walking by holding the exact same sheet of paper. And the dots on it were moving the exact same way. And the floors...

  I froze. My eyes went wide. I grabbed the guy by the shoulder and literally peered into his paper. "WHAT?!" I yelled so loud that the students around me flinched. "WHERE DID YOU GET THIS MAP?!"

  The guy recoiled in fright, clutching the paper to his chest. "Uhh... well, I bought it?" "What do you mean—bought it?!" I felt my eye starting to twitch. "Where?" "Well, at the shop by the Academy gates... Paid seven silver, I think. The seller said it's a standard kit for first-years."

  I stood rooted to the spot. Seven silver. Seven. And I spent all night levitating over an abyss, carving monoliths, jumping across roofs, and risking my neck to create something that is sold on every corner.

  A mocking laugh rang out from behind. Alastia. She wasn't even trying to hide—just standing there, bent double with laughter.

  Before I had time to tell her everything I thought about her sense of humor, someone poked me in the shoulder. I turned around. Standing there was a girl of about sixteen. Pretty, if you like that type.

  "My name is Orla," she said, looking straight into my eyes—the black one and the purple one. I gave her a look that said, "What do you want?"

  "Sorry for the direct question," she shyly tucked her hair. "But are you engaged? Married? Or do you have a girlfriend?" "No," I said.

  And then a collective squeal shattered the air. Dozens of girls in the corridor, who had apparently been eavesdropping this whole time, started jumping enthusiastically and shouting something.

  "Got it. Time to bail," I muttered. I didn't wait for the interview to continue. I stepped toward the nearest mirror, which, according to my map (damn it to hell!), led to the Fifth Building, and dove into it. There are definitely too many people and too little logic in this world.

  The Fifth Building welcomed me with its signature madness. No one bothered with the floor here—everyone walked on the walls. I jumped up, caught onto a doorframe, and literally tumbled into the right classroom.

  Alexia and Lianel were already there. Sitting as if nothing was wrong, ignoring the slant of the building. "Greg?" Alexia immediately raised her eyebrows. "Where is your mask?"

  I was just about to mumble something incoherent when I felt a movement behind me. Someone had sneaked up silently. Someone's arms wrapped around my neck, and warm breath brushed my ear. "Missed me already?" a voice whispered.

  Instinct kicked in faster than my brain. I didn't bother finding out who it was. A sharp jump backward—I simply collapsed my entire weight onto the uninvited guest, breaking the hold. I rolled and jumped up, ready to fight.

  "WHAT KIND OF ATTACK IS THIS?!" I protested, dusting off my uniform.

  The girl stood up, rubbing her side, and smiled broadly. "Have you forgotten me already? It's me, Orla." "What? What Orla?" I frowned. "Oh, the one in the corridor... Listen, I don't have space for you in my memory, don't count on long-term data storage."

  She took a step forward, proudly straightening her back. "I forgot to introduce myself officially. My father is on the Council of Thirteen." She said it with such grandeur, as if after those words I should immediately fall prostrate and offer her the keys to my heart.

  "So what?" I was genuinely surprised. "There could be three hundred people on the Council, what difference does it make to me?"

  Orla froze, her smile faltering slightly. "What do you mean—'so what'? Oh, right... you're not from around here. I forgive you this foolishness. Ignorance of the law does not exempt you from... my charm."

  "Greg," Alexia interrupted her, and ice rang in her voice. "Are you going to adjust your gravity, or are you just going to hang on the wall like a defective painting?"

  I stepped toward the floor. The world swayed. Gravity reluctantly realigned to my soles, but because of the forty-five-degree slant, I had to stand crookedly, straining my muscles. Orla tried to step closer, but I held up a hand, establishing distance. "Halt. Closer than three meters is the kill zone."

  "Why are you so prickly, Greg?" the "daughter of the Council" pouted.

  At that moment, Alexia simply reached out, grabbed me by the sleeve, and with one imperious yank, sat me down next to her. She wrapped her arms around my neck again, pulling me so close that I could smell her hair.

  "What's wrong, Greg?" she whispered right into my ear. "Are you lacking attention? Decided to collect a harem of local aristocrats?" Her breath scorched my skin. My heart, against my will, began to beat out a rhythm.

  "No... no... I just..." I mumbled, feeling my will melting away.

  Alexia wasn't listening. She buried her nose in my hair and inhaled deeply. Her fingers on my neck suddenly tightened—hard, almost to the point of pain. "Hmm... Greg. You smell like someone's perfume. Not mine. And not ours."

  I froze. Alastia's damn camouflage. Or her scent from the roof...

  "Greg?" Alexia hissed, peering into my eyes. "You are my little lapdog, right?" "Probably..." I croaked, barely suppressing the urge to close my eyes and surrender.

  She instantly thawed. That same victorious smile bloomed on her face again. "Good. Then go to your seat. Class is starting."

  She let go of me, and I staggered to my desk. The scent of manipulation and the faint aroma of silver hair still lingered in my head.