Inside the Stellarin residence, the bookshelves overflowed with an eclectic mix: bardic fiction and adventurers’ journals that aunt Lyra occasionally enjoyed, alongside the more objectively useful beginner books on arcane theory available to the general public. Syndra had learned early how fiercely mages guarded their published work against the unlearned masses.

  It was through these introductory texts that she first learned about spellbooks—the very tomes her mother and Caelum always carried close. On one daring occasion, she had caught a glimpse of her mother’s spellbook, silently inscribing the first few pages’ arcane runes to memory before nearly being caught. In that moment—at the tender age of six—she had almost instinctively tapped into the Arcane sea, feeling its magical current course through her as she cast her first spell.

  The sensation left her breathless, exhilarated—like she had opened a door to a secret world that had been waiting just for her. With both her parents being spellcasters, she had expected to have the gift as well, but now she was sure of it.

  But these glimpses were not enough for her to learn magic properly. She would have to find a better mean to learn—tailing her parents.

  Syndra had long imprinted her parents’ schedules into her mind, and with that knowledge, she set out to survey her playing field from afar. Peering through the tall windows of her multistoried residence, she noted with practiced ease how frequently guardsmen patrolled the streets. Their constant presence was hardly surprising—the recent war was still fresh in everyone’s memories, from the months-long period of endless night to the hushed whispers of spies even echoing within the High Palace’s chambers.

  Yet, her home being in the Palace District complicated her plans. As the ever?present voice in her head had explained, this district was considered far more important than the rest of the city; its affluent inhabitants commanded the full extent of Lunaris’ best security. And Syndra had every reason to believe that the student’s quadrant—home to the magical academy—was guarded with similar vigilance.

  Her father’s daily path to work was peculiar; he preferred traversing the less crowded alleyways that skirted the various temples. For Syndra, this meant fewer patrols and a rare opportunity to go unnoticed.

  Despite the adults’ attempts to stifle her true potential—and despite the voice’s repeated suggestions to act with more “tact”—Syndra resolved to embark on her very first adventure. Having observed diminutive races such as halflings and gnomes at the High Palace, her first instinct was to conceal her own features beneath a heavy cloak, exploiting her similar stature to pose as one of them.

  Her cunning strategy worked on the first couple of forays. Syndra managed to prowl unnoticed beyond the Palace District, venturing into the adjacent marketplace before stealthily returning home. Yet to the voice’s chagrin, many of the landmarks she gleaned on these escapades were temples dedicated to various benevolent deities—a subject the voice detested. Then, on her third such expedition, Syndra finally caught sight of the famed Silverbridge: a near-incorporeal road of magical force arching gracefully toward the city’s northern quarter, where the student’s quadrant was said to reside.

  It was on that very third attempt that Syndra encountered her first real obstacle.

  Lagmar, a dwarven knight and an occasional family acquaintance from a house dinner long past, intercepted her path. His keen eyes took in the pale, alabaster skin and striking red eyes that set her apart. There was an unsettling familiarity in his gaze, as if he recognized her defiant spark. His tone was gentle when he called her name, and in that instant, Syndra realized she had been caught. Even the ever?present voice in her head doubted Syndra wouuld be able to get through the dwarf.

  In that moment of crisis, a surge of thoughts and strategies flooded her mind. This setback, she decided, could be turned into a boon. She still did not know where the Chosen's Academy lay, and this very moment confirmed it was only a matter of time before her escapades reached her parents. With a calculated risk, Syndra resolved to explain her actions. She briefly considered fabricating a tale—a lie about being sent with a message—but dismissed it. Servants could deliver such falsehoods; she would tell the truth instead. She genuinely longed to see the school her mother spoke of so often, and she had sneaked out with the promise of returning home afterward.

  And if he refused to cooperate and grant her this favor—well, perhaps a loud scream and a scene would force him to relent. After all, adults despise being embroiled in a child’s outburst, Syndra knew.

  After her explanations and her request though, Lagmar, still towered over her, shook his head slowly. Unsurprisingly, he explained that even if he wished to help, gaining entry to the Chosen's Academy was no simple task; someone her age would never be allowed within its guarded grounds. The best he could offer was a glimpse of the building’s exterior. He even added, with a note of reluctant familiarity, that he knew her parents and would ask her mother to go easy on her.

  Still determined, Syndra tried to adopt the guise of a cute, obedient child. She offered, in a tone meant to melt even the hardest guard’s heart, that she would be content just to see the building from outside—that she would be a good girl thereafter.

  At that moment, the voice in her head sounded embarrassed, commenting about the notoriously stubborn nature of dwarven guards, adding wryly that, despite the apparent futility of her cause, her youthful appearance might yet compel mercy.

  But it also remarked that, perhaps when she grows a bit older, such maneuvers will work more smoothly.

  The dwarf smiled dismissively and, shrugging off her feigned innocence, called over one of his companions to keep watch so he could go contact her household.

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  Syndra’s heart pounded with a mix of frustration and defiance. The taste of defeat ignited something deep within her—a primal urge to retaliate against those who denied her ambition. A frenzied energy overtook her, a desire to wreak havoc on the guards who dared to restrain her dreams.

  She was not about to admit defeat. Anger flared—she felt torn between the urge to lash out physically and the desperate need to achieve what she wanted.

  Syndra thought she could scream, but the guard was probably deaf to that kind of attacks. She knew she could not truly hurt him physically either; she lacked the power to do so. That was the very reason she was going on her escapades. She needed power—the kind that would never let her be dismissed or ignored.

  Fueled by that desire, she screamed, and before Lagmar set of for her household, started running to leap off the bridge into the churning river below. She knew she might need rescuing, but it did not matter. The punition they would receive for letting a young girl like her risk her life in the river would be worth this very risk.

  Her screams soon attracted the attention of nearby onlookers. Then, as if to reassert control, the voice in her head barked an order to cease this foolishness immediately. But Syndra’s mind, clouded by adrenaline and rage, did not heed the command.

  Yet her small, diminutive form proved ill-equipped to outrun the well trained guards. Lagmar’s companions grabbed onto her. She kicked and screamed, creating as much of a spectacle as possible. But despite her outburst, passersby dismissed the scene as nothing more than a childish tantrum. Before she could reach the edge of the bridge, she was overpowered—carried and restrained by the guards. Lagmar repeatedly urged her to keep calm before hurrying off to inform her family.

  Eventually, her throat dried out, her limbs ached from relentless flailing, and her breath came in ragged gasps. For the first time, Syndra felt the true limitations of her human body—its vulnerability and its propensity to tire.

  Within minutes, a visible rift in space shimmered into existence, and her mother materialized as if summoned from the ether. Syndra stared in wonder, for the first time truly grasping the extent of her mother’s abilities. With raw fervor, her mother yelled at the guard to release her at once—so intensely that Syndra happily thought the man was about to be blasted to oblivion.

  The poor guard obeyed instantly, letting her fall to the ground. Her mother, still clad in her Magister uniform, gathered Syndra into a tight embrace, repeatedly asking if she was fine.

  Moments later, a similarly frantic Lagmar dashed back to the scene, panting as he caught his breath, and wasted no time detailing Syndra’s misdeeds to Syril.

  A tinge of satisfaction flickered within Syndra as she observed the guards being rebuked. She glared at Lagmar and then buttered up her mother, insisting that she had only been trying to visit the school her mother so admired—and that the guards had nearly arrested and imprisoned her for it.

  Unfortunately, her mother was too engrossed in conversation with the other adults to fully heed Syndra’s claims. In a state of shock, Syndra listened as her mother dismissed the incident with a promise to keep a closer eye on her. Gently, her mother grabbed her hand and urged her to follow home. As the voice had predicted, her mother was lenient, forgiving even as she lectured Syndra about the dangers of venturing out alone near the borders of the Palace District. Time and again, Syril emphasized that she was not angry, only deeply concerned for Syndra’s safety.

  Strangely, the voice remained silent at this juncture—missing the perfect opportunity to take cynical jabs at Syril’s softness.

  The remainder of the afternoon was spent in earnest discussion about Syndra’s desire to attend the Chosen's Academy, and the impossibility of doing so without the necessary documents and qualifications—qualifications she was too young to possess. Still, her mother promised to take her sightseeing around the Student’s Quadrant soon.

  Later, her father returned home earlier than usual—apparently having heard of the incident from a colleague. His intense gaze bored into her, as if searching the depths of her soul, before he casually dismissed it as normal behavior for a child her age.

  Before long, her mother made her promise never to sneak out of the house again—in exchange for a small gift.

  That day marked a turning point in Syndra’s ambitions. All her schemes had been driven by a desperate need to gain power—a power she believed would one day protect her family if the city were attacked again. Yet, witnessing her mother’s sudden, almost miraculous intervention made her wonder: Could her mother have done that during the siege? Why had she not? Had she acquired this power only recently? If her mother could wield such might, perhaps she could have saved them.

  But more importantly, Syndra’s desire for power wasn’t merely about survival anymore. It was about pride, about never again feeling powerless or ignored. She was willing to promise obedience, to respect her word, if only she were given the means to satisfy that burning pride. She needed clear terms. In a moment of determination, she asked for a manual to practice magic, though she suspected her mother would refuse—unsure about letting her practice unsupervised. And she had a counter-offer ready: a steady schedule of magical lessons, daily or semi?weekly.

  As expected, her mother hesitated upon hearing the request. Fully aware of Syndra’s high intellect for someone her age—and perhaps still reeling from her earlier petulant display—she hesitated. Just then, to both Syndra’s and Syril’s surprise, Lucretius emerged, and in his characteristically laconic manner, he expressed his support for granting Syndra a beginner’s guide to arcana.

  With that, her mother was instantly persuaded to grant Syndra’s wish.

  That night, Syndra went to bed, assured and elated that everything had worked out in her favor. As she drifted off, her inner confidant re-emerged, this time with a disappointed tone, chastising her for her savage display. It was not befitting a proper lady of superior intellect, it claimed, likening her outburst to that of an animal.

  She needed to keep her primal urges in check, or she would only draw unnecessary attention.

  Yet, the voice would not sour her victory. In her mind, she declared that she would get her book and learn magic like her mother. She reasoned that her wild actions had been a calculated subterfuge—a means to play on the emotions of her parents. She claimed that although her tantrum had appeared as a savage display, it was an elaborate plot that a normal child would have failed to execute. The truth was a bit different, as she had not been acting purely out of her logic, though she would never admit that, even to herself.

  But with its chastising remarks about her behavior, Syndra began to understand that the voice was not merely an extension of her own will; it harbored its own desires and motivations. Never having inquired about its identity before, she now felt compelled to know. And so, she started questioning the voice about personal matters—its name, its true desires, its age, and peppered it with inquiries about its preferences in various trivial matters—its favorite color, whether he liked cactus lemon cake…

  Ignoring the questions about its tastes, the voice seemed almost impressed—relieved, even—that Syndra had finally begun to question its motives. And so it offered a formal introduction...