The classroom was unlike anything Cane had ever seen. A shallow pool, no deeper than an armspan, rippled across the marble floor. Slender stone walkways curved through the water, leading to small seating platforms that hovered inches above the surface.
Cane arrived early, using the map tucked into his uniform's welcome packet to find his way. His boots were still worn, but cleaned. He walked the curved stone carefully, trying not to slip, and found an empty platform near the back. He set his satchel down and waited, unsure what to expect.
The silence settled—broken only by the slow lapping of water against stone and the faint trickle of an unseen fountain.
His first day.
He'd woken early and consumed the last of the leftovers from the meal Sofie had packed him the night before. Still warm, it had been simple fare—roasted root vegetables, a thick stew, and a roll that still smelled like her hands had shaped it. The memory brought a small, private smile to his lips. He'd offered to finish splitting the next day's firewood too, but Sofie waved him off, warning that if he kept showing off, she'd start making special requests.
He wasn't sure if it was a joke—or a warning.
From behind a curtained archway, she appeared.
Professor Selene Morva glided into the room, her white robes trimmed in seafoam green. Her movements were fluid, effortless—she didn't walk so much as drift. Her dark hair, streaked with a faint oceanic blue, shimmered like wet silk, and her pale skin seemed luminous in the dim light of the scry-lamps overhead.
"Welcome," she said, her voice soft but unmistakably clear, "to Currents of the Mind. Here, we do not control water. We listen to it."
Cane straightened in his seat. Something about her voice stirred something in him—an echo of the sea, of a certain memory already fading.
A figure stepped forward from the shadows near the wall: a tall, sharp-featured man with fiery red eyes and robes edged in burnt orange.
"This is Assistant Instructor Arven Sol," Selene continued. "He comes to us from the Department of Fire per the request of Arch-Mage Telamon. He will be observing our progress."
Arven offered a curt nod. His gaze swept the room, pausing on Selene a moment too long. Then it landed on Cane—and stayed there.
Recognition flickered.
His expression shifted to something cooler. Not quite hostile—but certainly unsettled.
Selene either didn't notice—or chose not to.
"As part of your curriculum," she continued, "you were instructed to bring an item of personal significance—something that binds you to water. We begin with demonstration."
A tall girl with silver cuffs stood and stepped onto the central platform. She inhaled, then raised her arms. Water spiraled around her like a moving sculpture before settling gently.
"Well executed," Selene said. "Precision without force."
The next student bounded onto the platform with a wide grin. She was taller than most and carried herself with unabashed confidence. Her wild, curly red hair bounced as she moved, and her freckled face was lit up by a mischievous smile. She showed off a pair of leather-bound sandals with small blue crystals embedded in the soles.
"Watch this!" she announced, stepping onto the water.
To the amazement of the class, she began walking atop the surface—one step, two, three. Then, mid-stride, she waved too energetically.
"Bit tricky to balance when you're—whoa!"
The charm failed. She plunged into the shallow pool with a splash, resurfacing with her hair plastered to her forehead.
Without missing a beat, she threw her arms wide and grinned. "Still counts!"
Laughter echoed through the room. Even Selene gave a small nod of appreciation.
Dhalia raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Form over function," she murmured.
"Very good, Clara. A fine attempt. The charm is reactive—focus is key."
Then her gaze found Cane.
"You. What have you brought?"
Cane stood slowly and pulled something wrapped in cloth from his satchel. He stepped onto the center platform and unwrapped it: a dented, worn metal cup.
"It's nothing fancy," he said. "I forged this with a rusted nail, in the dark hold of a slaver ship."
That earned silence. Even Arven tilted his head.
Cane continued. "A mermaid was dying. She needed salt water. I used blood as a medium, chanted what little I knew of rune-casting, and… made this. It conjures seawater when she breathes into it."
He handed it to Selene. She turned it over in her hands, running her fingers across the etched lines. They glowed faintly in her touch.
"You created a functioning hydrosource converter," she said softly, "in pitch darkness, with improvised materials, and only partial rune knowledge?"
She paused, then asked more gently, "What was her name?"
Cane hesitated. "Neri," he said.
Selene's expression changed—subtle but unmistakable. For a moment, she looked stunned—then unreadable. Her eyes searched his.
"Neri'Lysandril… of the Azure Court?"
Cane gave a shrug. "I think she was just a pirate."
A shadow passed behind Selene's eyes—grief, perhaps, or memory.
Selene lifted the cup to her lips and exhaled softly into it. The surface shimmered. Then, on impulse, she took a small sip.
Her eyes closed, and she paused. A subtle reaction flickered across her face—surprise, followed by the unmistakable expression of someone tasting something unexpectedly pleasing. She swallowed slowly, as if savoring the flavor.
Then her expression shifted again—still, then distant. Her eyes unfocused for just a second too long.
"What is it?" Arven asked, watching her closely.
She lowered the cup, her voice quieter. "I saw… a structure. Pillars of coral. Stained glass made of shell. A temple beneath the sea. Ancient. Forgotten."
A silence fell across the class.
Selene looked up. "The sea does not forget kindness."
Then, almost as if involuntarily, she touched Cane's wrist. Her expression flickered—recognition, familiarity.
"Very well," she said. "Take your seat, Mr. Cane."
Cane stepped back to his platform. Arven remained frozen, his jaw tight.
Selene's gaze swept the class. "Water," she said, "responds best not to command—but to connection."
She raised her hand, and with a gentle gesture, a metal cylinder surfaced in the shallow pool, about the length of a forearm. It floated upright, perfectly still, with no visible markings.
"For your first exercise," she said, "I want each of you to place your hand in the water—palms open, fingers relaxed. Don't attempt to move the cylinder. Don't try to open it. Simply ask the water to show you what it knows."
A ripple of uncertain glances passed among the students.
"It may respond. It may not. But if it does, it will be quiet. Gentle. Don't push. Listen."
One by one, students approached the edge of their platforms and lowered their hands into the water.
The tall girl with silver cuffs was the first to speak. "There's something... alive," she said. Her brow furrowed. "Small fish, maybe. Darting around inside."
Selene gave a small nod. "Well done, Dhalia. Does anyone disagree?"
The room was silent, thoughtful.
Selene's glance rested briefly on Cane, but he didn't respond.
She turned back to the class. "Very well. There are small fish inside. Who else can add to that?"
A few hands raised. One boy offered, "There are six. I think. They're quick."
Another girl echoed, "Definitely six. One of them bumped the wall just now."
Selene tilted her head, pleased. "Interesting. Can anyone identify the type?"
Clara leaned forward with a confident grin, her red curls bobbing as she dipped her hand back into the water. She closed her eyes for a moment.
"Golden dart fish," she said, eyes still closed. "Tiny, fast, a little territorial. Native to the coast near Serin's Bluff."
When she opened her eyes, a few classmates looked impressed.
Selene smiled. "Very good, Clara. You've encountered them before?"
"Caught one in a teacup when I was seven," Clara said with a shrug. "Kept it in the bath. Mum was not amused."
A ripple of laughter moved through the room.
Selene allowed the smile to linger. "Excellent work, all of you. Remember—details are not pulled from memory. They are offered. When the water trusts you, it speaks."
Her gaze swept the group one last time and settled on Cane.
"Connection, not control," she said softly. Then, with a pause: "Cane... do you wish to add something?"
He gave a small nod and stepped forward again, lowering his hand once more into the water. A quiet passed through the room as he focused—not with effort, but with presence.
"Five of the six fish are male," he said. "The female is scared. She's ready to lay her eggs... but she's waiting. She wants to find someplace safe."
The silence that followed was deeper than before. No one laughed. No one spoke.
Selene moved without a word. She stepped down from her platform, knelt at the pool's edge, and placed her hand in the water. Her eyes closed, lashes fluttering slightly.
A long breath passed.
Then she opened her eyes, rose to her feet, and said gently, "Full marks, Cane. I will ensure she is placed in a more suitable environment."
There was something in her voice—an edge of respect, or quiet understanding.
She flicked her fingers, and the cylinder sank gently back beneath the surface, vanishing without a trace.
"Record your impressions in your logbooks before your next class," she said. "The purpose of today's exercise is not accuracy—it's attention
She inclined her head. "Class dismissed."
Chairs scraped gently as students gathered their things and filtered out. Clara cast Cane a sideways look and a crooked grin. Dhalia said nothing but studied him more closely than before.
Arven remained where he stood, his jaw tight.
As Cane stepped past him, Arven's voice followed. "How could he possibly know that?"
Selene didn't flinch. She remained near the pool, her expression unreadable.
"A guess, most likely," she said.
Arven didn't look convinced. He glanced once more at Cane, as if trying to place a puzzle piece that refused to fit. Then he followed the last of the students out, his robes swaying behind him.
Selene lingered for a moment, her gaze resting on the ripples where the cylinder had vanished.
She knew it hadn't been a guess.
Not at all.
Merfolk Empathy. A rare attunement. Rare—and telling.
She would keep an eye on him.
As Cane stepped into the hall, the air cooler and drier outside the classroom, he found a few students lingering.
Clara was wringing out her curls with a towel she'd conjured from somewhere, her sandals slung over one shoulder. She spotted him and flashed a grin. "You've got a knack for dramatic finishes, blacksmith."
"Just Cane," he said with a small nod. "And you're the one who walked on water."
"Briefly." She held up a thumb and forefinger a breath apart. "But I've decided style counts more than duration."
Dhalia approached next, her tone more measured. "You listened well. Most of us were trying too hard to impress the water."
"I wasn't trying anything," Cane said honestly.
"That might be the point," she replied, then added, "See you in History of Magic. We're in the same cohort."
"History of Magic?" he echoed.
Clara chimed in, "Everyone's stuck with it first year. Though rumor is the professor collects talking skulls and won't take questions unless you offer a gift."
Cane raised a brow.
She laughed. "You'll see."
Dhalia gave Clara a side glance, not quite disapproving—but not impressed either. "He also teaches the value of restraint," she said quietly.
Clara smirked. "Oh, come on, you love my restraint."
"I tolerate your restraint," Dhalia replied, her tone dry as sea salt. Then she gave Cane a nod and turned to go.
Clara lingered a moment longer.
"So, what's your study track?"
"Water Element, Basic Metallurgy, and HOM."
Clara let out a low whistle. "Elemental focus and metallurgy? That's rare." She narrowed her eyes playfully. "You must be the special the Archmage pushed through."
Cane raised an eyebrow. "Is that what they're saying?"
"Not officially. But word spreads. Most of us spent weeks prepping for evaluations. You show up with a letter and skip the line? Yeah, people noticed."
Cane had no response for that, so he changed the subject. "What's your study track?"
"Mostly the same as yours, except switch out metallurgy for wood element. She fell into step beside him as they walked. "You've got three classes a week—one a day, spread across five days. That gives you time to recover, study, or screw around depending on how ambitious you are."
"And how long do they last?"
"Three months per cycle," Clara said. "There's an evaluation every thirty days—practical and written, depending on the subject. Assuming you pass, the final month is spent doing field work in the areas you chose."
Cane nodded thoughtfully. "What kind of field work does History of Magic require?"
Clara rolled her eyes. "Research papers. Long, boring, and orally presented to the entire first-year assembly. It's a form of torture disguised as tradition."
"And after field work?"
"You start over. Three new classes. You can stick with what you were learning—go deeper—or try something else. Some people specialize early. Others bounce around for a while."
They walked in silence for a few steps. Cane took in the architecture, the soft hum of enchantments, the press of something vast and unseen that made up the Academy's atmosphere.
Clara gave him a sidelong glance. "You're taking it all pretty well. Most people are overwhelmed by week one."
"I've been through worse," Cane said simply.
She nodded, as if she understood.
"Still," she added, grinning again, "if you ever need a guide—or a distraction—I'm usually somewhere I shouldn't be."
Cane chuckled. "I'll keep that in mind."