Elias all but burst from the classroom, his steps light with excitement.
Waiting just outside the door, arms crossed and grinning, was Kiran. "Took you long enough," he teased.
Elias scoffed. "Sorry, I was busy learning that my final grade depends on me being creative instead of just throwing fire at my problems."
Kiran laughed as they fell into step, walking down the hallway toward the wing that supposedly housed the workshops.
"So?" Kiran nudged him. "First impressions? What do you think so far?"
Elias considered for a moment. "Honestly?" He exhaled, shaking his head. "It's a lot. The school, the expectations… this Final Exam thing—" He made air quotes. "It's not what I expected at all."
"Yeah," Kiran agreed. "And now we apparently have to build something? Feels weird."
"Not just build," Elias corrected. "Make it a reflection of our magic."
Kiran made a show of narrowing his eyes. "So… are you planning on burning this one down, too?"
Elias grinned. "I don't think I could if I tried." He flexed his fingers, the mana-restricting armband pressing snugly against his forearm. "Besides, with this thing on, my fire's barely more than candlelight."
They passed through the halls freely, the anticipation buzzing around them. Other students—some chatting, others walking alone—were all making their way toward their assigned workshops, just as eager to see their new workspaces.
Soon, they arrived at a wide stone corridor housing multiple evenly spaced doors, each marked with a glowing number and letter designation. The numbers started from 101-F and stretched down the corridor in sequential order.
Kiran scanned the doors. "I'm at 131-F," he noted, pointing further down the hall. "But since they're all supposed to be the same, I might as well check out yours first."
Elias shrugged. "Sure. 104-F should be right…" He trailed off as his eyes landed on his assigned door.
Something was off.
Right in the center of the wooden surface, a strange sigil was etched into the material. At first glance, it blended into the design, but upon closer inspection, the carving seemed far too precise—like it had been burned into the wood by something other than normal craftsmanship.
Kiran, standing beside him, furrowed his brows. "Is that… supposed to be there?"
Elias stepped closer, running a finger along the grooves. "Dunno. But look—" He gestured down the corridor. "Every door has it."
They both turned their heads, scanning the line of workshop doors. Sure enough, each one bore the exact same sigil.
Kiran scratched his chin. "Weird. Wonder what it means."
Elias shrugged, deciding to worry about it later. "Only one way to find out."
He grabbed the handle and pushed the door open.
The workshop was exactly as expected—a simple, minimalist space, identical to the one Hallie had shown them during class.
The wooden furniture was basic but sturdy, lined neatly against the walls. Various tools—both magical and mundane—were arranged on racks and shelves. The floor was smooth stone, and the ceiling was arched, giving the space a slightly larger feel despite its modest size.
And, of course, at the heart of the room, positioned on a raised circular platform, was the glass orb.
Elias exhaled slowly. "Welp. Here it is."
Kiran folded his arms, stepping inside after him. "Huh." He looked around, his gaze lingering on the bare walls and empty surfaces. "It's… simple."
Elias nodded. "Yeah. Really simple."
They stood there for a moment, taking it all in. The space wasn't bad—but after seeing the massive, sprawling workshops in Hallie's demonstration, it was hard to imagine how this tiny room could ever become something like that.
Kiran muttered what both of them were thinking.
"How the hell do you turn this into that?"
Elias let out a short laugh. "Guess that's the whole point of the exam."
Kiran sighed, shaking his head. "I dunno, man. I'm good at a lot of things, but crafting a whole environment out of nothing? Not exactly my specialty."
Elias grinned. "Yeah, well. I do like making things."
"You like burning things," Kiran corrected.
"Same difference."
Kiran chuckled, then turned to face the one thing in the room that actually stood out—the glass orb.
Elias followed his gaze. It sat in the center of the space, completely still. Unlike the training halls, where similar objects glowed faintly with stored magic, this one was dormant—a waiting presence, almost expectant.
The two gravitated toward it naturally, coming to a stop just a foot away.
Kiran squinted. "So what do you think this thing actually does?"
Elias tilted his head, staring at the faint reflections on its smooth, mirrored surface.
"I think," he said slowly, reaching a hand forward, "we're about to find out."
With that, he touched the glass.
The world shifted.
At first, it was barely noticeable—the room around him faded, blurred at the edges, like ink bleeding across a page. Then, it stretched—widened—until the walls ceased to exist altogether.
Where the workshop had been, there was now only white.
A blank expanse.
A place without sound.
A place without time.
The stillness was familiar.
Because he longed for it.
Because he could not be without it.
Because he was made from it.
So he sought to return.
It had been like this before.
Once.
Or perhaps a thousand times.
He did not know which.
So he reached out.
The first attempt was wrong.
He built an empty space, seamless and pale, a void crafted by his own hand. He stepped inside, and for a moment, it felt true. The stillness, the vastness—it was close.
But the silence was not deep enough.
He could still hear his own breath, feel the weight of his own body. Presence.
That was the failure.
The second attempt was wrong.
He expanded the space, removed its edges, let it stretch until it had no walls, no boundaries.
The world beyond should have faded—should have ceased.
But when he reached forward, the world pushed back.
There was resistance. The spell wove a shape, a pattern. He had created something built to be nothing, but it had still been built.
The third attempt was wrong.
He stripped it further, unmade it down to its very core, hollowing out every trace of matter, leaving only the idea of absence.
But even absence had a shape.
Even nothing had a name.
Failure.
He reset.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Every time, his hands moved as if remembering something lost. As if reaching for a thing that had never truly been held.
Every time, the void rejected him.
Because he was not Him.
Because He was not here.
Because the void only existed when He was looking back.
He stood in his latest imitation, the shape of something that should not have a shape. A world that could not be made by hands, only given.
He reached out one last time.
The void did not reach back.
Failure.
He reset.