TO&FQ: Book 2 - Chapter 31 (RAW)

Chapter 31 - A Wizard’s Staff

“We live, in fact, in a world starved for solitude, silence, and private: and therefore starved for meditation and true friendship.” 

– C.S. Lewis

Dawn speared through the cracks in Seraphina’s velvet drapes, lazily stabbing at the darkness behind her eyelids. A dull throb pulsed between her temples, and her tongue felt as though it had been traded for cotton.

Fragments of last night glittered in her mind: a dizzying whirl of dances, more than one handsome stranger’s smile, Desdemona’s teasing laughter, and far too many crystal goblets refilled with deceptively mild wine—no doubt diluted by the wary faculty to keep the ball from descending into riotous chaos. She even recalled dragging a laughing Desdemona and Hughes onto the floor for one last waltz as the warm buzz settled over her.

Across the room, Eloise snored softly in the opposite bed, the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders proof that Sir Gravens had returned them both safely after the revels. At least Seraphina had not done anything irrevocably scandalous—she hoped.

She chewed a few of mint‑sharp Payana leaf—this world’s equivalent of all‑in‑one dental care. Payana was ubiquitous across the continent, growing just about everywhere. The young girl then scrubbed her teeth with a soft-bristled brush at the porcelain sink. Clear water gushed from the tap; that this “fantasy” world had made such advancements in plumbing still amused her. Amused, but more importantly, she was grateful for. The thought of using a primitive toilet and bathroom facilities horrified her. 

In the mirror, a flushed but undeniably lovely girl stared back: no cosmetics, yet beauty clung to her like morning dew on rose petals. Had she looked so fresh at sixteen in her previous life? The thought vanished with a splash of cold water.

Though officially a holiday, Seraphina saw the day for what it truly was: precious, uncut time. She slipped into a light shift, cinched a loose robe around her. Taking a bunch of her latest correspondence and letters with her, she padded to the dormitory’s common room—her private kingdom now that, save for her small circle, most students were too awed or wary to intrude.

The headache pressed on, a petty tyrant demanding tribute. Enough. She gathered the golden threads of magic, whispered the litany of the Heal spell, and felt the spell cascade through muscle and sinew. Knots eased, the ache dissolved, and even the grit in her joints melted away. Any Temple Priest witnessing such casual use of a miracle on such a mundane problem would have dropped dead of apoplexy, she ruefully thought.

The young girl only smiled, stretching like a cat. She did not care in the least what the Priests would think. And, right now, she felt right as rain and ready to tackle the world. Hopefully, before the rest world decided to tackle her.

A satisfied smile curved her lips—the latest reports from one of her ventures were overwhelmingly positive. A sizeable band of dwarves, both young and old, had trekked from Bronzegate Hold, enticed by promises of riches hidden beneath the Sarien Duchy’s hills, close to the forest held by the Fae. With some help from her mother, they had already begun exploring and prospecting those slopes.

The younger dwarves, however, harbored a pronounced dislike for their ancestral language of Runes—an ideogrammatic language designed for exclusion and elitism rather than inclusion and egalitarianism. Mastery of Runes marked one’s education and status; the most fluent in Runes occupied the loftiest posts in Dwarven society. Conservative by nature, dwarves placed tremendous value on words, especially the written kind.

That tradition now faced an unexpected challenge. The new generation of Dwarves had embraced Trade—the continent’s lingua franca—as a simpler alternative. Their mountain strongholds could no longer remain sealed off; relevance demanded engagement with the wider world. And so, for better or worse, every contract written in Trade chipped away at ages‑old isolationism.

For Seraphina, the immediate effect was welcome: all correspondence with the Dwarven explorers arrived in contemporary, if somewhat blockish, Trade instead of antiquated Runes—a net positive in her view as it meant she did not need to hire a permanent translator.

Idly twirling the feather of her quill, she debated whether the moment was ripe to drop a hint about potential Mithril deposits in the Fae forest—“Saint’s Silver,” as common folk called the rare and most precious metal. Fae magic had polluted the very soil, seeping into the local soil and transforming ordinary bauxite into an ore that could be refined into enchanted aluminum, Mithril. In her former world, she would have killed to hold its patent.

Ultimately, she decided to tell the Dwarves about “a few rocks” she had spotted in the river meandering through the forest—just enough to stir their greed and set their picks swinging. If they still proved hesitant, she could always buy shares in a new mining venture and send them to prospect there herself.

Perhaps she would even provide the dwarves with a few human “apprentices” drawn from her orphanages; the idle children eating her out of house and home could use real work experience. That idea, however, was for another day.

She folded the missive, slipped it into a scented envelope, and sealed it with wax. Later, she would ask Miriam to dispatch the letters—formal documents would travel overland, while more urgent and critical notes and instructions would leave by bird in coded form.

***

A week drifted by without incident—save for one delicious morsel of gossip. According to Seraphina’s contacts in Camellia Class, Este Lize had remained cloistered in her room for seven full days, pleading sickness. Seraphina smiled; it served the little hussy right for reaching above her station.

Within her own circle, Ibn enjoyed a welcome break from bookwork, taking a few tentative steps down the adventurer’s path at Seraphina’s insistence. Brushes with genuine danger, she reasoned, would stiffen the boy’s spine. And, more practically, it would furnish Eloise with fresh reagents for her Alchemical experiments.

Frest, meanwhile, had truly slipped comfortably into his new teaching post, instructing second and third‑year students at the Academy. Yet his habit of spending every spare moment with Seraphina’s mild‑mannered homeroom tutor, Miss Templeton, was beginning to grate. He could chase all the skirts he liked, but did he have to drool so openly over that dormouse of a teacher? It was, in her estimation at least, rather embarrassing. Perhaps Seraphina should find something suitable to keep Sir Ferdiad Frest properly occupied.

Eloise, for her part, seemed to be thriving in Academy life. When she was not buried in magical theory, she was flitting from tea‑party to tea‑party, and she and Sir Gravens were often spotted having a turn about the Academy gardens.

As for the less human members, Cornelia was growing at an alarming rate. This was not helped by the Academy staff insisting on giving her the vast amount of leftovers from the kitchens. A white snake is considered a divine messenger, a herald of great fortune; the bigger the serpent, the richer and greater the blessing. With vermin all but vanished from the Academy grounds, Cornelia’s prestige only climbed. It was almost a pity, then, that Cornelia was not a snake at all.

Miriam, as usual, was struggling with classes despite keeping her grades above a pass. Really, was running a company, managing a charity, attending full‑time courses, and serving as Seraphina’s maid so very arduous? Seraphina had done as much in her previous life while maintaining a thriving music career. If she could manage, why couldn’t Miriam? Ever helpful, Seraphina was always ready to correct her maid’s every misstep, surely making the useless girl’s duties far easier.

Love, too, seemed to hover about her bespectacled maid: lately Miriam had fended off an impressive queue of would‑be suitors—every one of whom she had, of course, refused.

With a wistful sigh, Seraphina admitted she would very much like to fall in love herself. Oh, how wonderful it would be to simply abandon caution and drift with the current. Yet such surrender would mean death, or worse, a life of obscurity and mediocrity—outcomes she would never, never tolerate.

These and a dozen other thoughts swirled through her mind as the blonde girl half‑listened to Magister Belfrost expound on the virtues of a mage crafting his or her own staff. She wished Eloise’s schedule would have allowed her to join her in this class, for then at least she would have someone to share this torture with.

“With a staff at hand, you can summon and focus your arcane much faster, shaping your will with far finer precision,” Magister Belfrost intoned, sweeping his hands with a dramatic motion. “That is why the material you choose is of paramount importance. You must—”

A hand shot up. Seraphina’s classmate Fleur, cheeks pink with nerves, cleared her throat.

“Yes, Fleur?” The Magister’s smile was a razor. “Your question must be pressing indeed if you feel compelled to interrupt.”

“M‑must we really craft a staff?” she ventured. “I heard it takes part of your soul. Imbuing … a piece of your soul into an object sounds rather like witchcraft.”

Belfrost snorted. “How predictably provincial. That is the sort of peasant superstition choking true progress in the Arcane. I suppose the Church’s grip is still iron out in the countryside, so perhaps you are not entirely to blame.”

A haughty chuckle rippled through the class—until Seraphina de Sariens’s voice cut through, silken yet commanding. “Actually, Magister, though she could have perhaps used a different turn of phrase, Fleur’s concern is valid. You’ve listed the benefits of a staff, but what of its drawbacks? After all, I myself have seen more than a few Mages without a staff. They are hardly unheard‑of.”

She already knew the answer, of course. But watching a classmate spoken down to by this pompous oaf irked her noble pride; every student in Wisteria, in her view, were her subjects and she their gracious queen.

Belfrost’s jaw tightened. “Very well. A staff accelerates casting, but it also channels your growth down a narrower path.” He laced his fingers and began pacing. “Rely on it too much and you may master only a single branch of your repertoire—much as a Seal does, though a Seal is far cruder, a temporary crutch.”

A boy at the back, a member of Carnation, raised a tentative hand. “But, sir Magister, surely Seals burn out or become inert after one cast, don’t they?”

Belfrost skewered him with a glare. “I was getting to that. Seals, as you know, are paper talismans inked with a novice’s elemental essence. They teach you how the weave feels—training tools, nothing more. A staff, however, endures and can cast far beyond the rudiments.”

Seals were arcane shortcuts—training wheels of sorts for fledgling mages. New Mages upon their Path would inscribe their spells onto them and rely on their power until they could weave magic unaided. Beyond that purpose, they were useless: each Seal could conjure only the most basic of spells, and only its creator could cast magic from the Seal.

Seraphina allowed herself a small, knowing smile. She had vaulted past the Seal stage entirely; manifesting Crystalline magic had become child’s play for her.

“Now, back to disadvantages,” the Magister continued. “There persists a superstition: pour part of your soul into the staff, lose or break the staff, and you’re crippled—a mage hollowed out.”

“And that,” Seraphina supplied sweetly, “is why most of us may craft only one staff in a lifetime.”

Belfrost gave a grudging nod. “That was the old theory, yes. However, a second staff is possible, but crafting it is exponentially harder—an ordeal few care to attempt.” His voice dipped, half‑muttering the admission.

“I believe I shall forgo staff‑making, Magister,” Seraphina announced, her green eyes determined.

The Magister’s eyebrows shot up, exasperation warring with resignation. “Very well, Lady de Sariens. It is a personal decision—but mark me, your growth may suffer. I expect you to keep pace despite this… and your earlier unorthodox choice of magic.”

Seraphina put forth the full power of her monstrously high Charisma attribute into her response. Her smile blossomed, radiant and disarming. “Your warning is duly noted. Yet perhaps the staff is merely another crutch—one I intend to outgrow. You yourself, Magister Belfrost, do not use one.”

For a heartbeat, Belfrost simply inclined his head, conceding nothing yet forced to yield.

“Now,” he barked, spinning toward the rear of the hall, “those willing to forge a Wizard’s Staff, attend!” With a flourish, he whisked the velvet cover from a long table.

A collective gasp escaped the students. Ironwood polished to a wine‑dark sheen lay beside rods of bronze, bars of meteoric iron veined in silver, lengths of living bamboo, gleaming hickory, even hollow cylinders of rune‑stitched marble. The assortment looked less like mere materials than relics looted from half a dozen forgotten empires.

“None of these is universally ‘best,’” Belfrost declared, eyes glittering. “The right choice is the one that resonates with you and your Element. Instinct must be honed to a razor’s edge—so first, clear your minds.”

A chorus of groans. They had practiced the Zen-like meditation drill until it bled into their dreams.

Seraphina, however, fluttered her long lashes in private amusement. When you were the center of the universe and the axis of existence on which everything spun, shutting out the world it turned out was rather effortless.