Monthly Short Story for October: A Middling Perspective

Hello Commissioned Pioneers! :D As promised as always, in accordance with the results of last month's poll, I present to you the Bonus Story of the Month! There were a total of four choices once again, with a majority voting for Wearing Power Armor to a Magic School Side Story 21.

We jump into another known character’s POV this time around, and a rather unexpected one too, as I was planning to introduce this bonus story around the same time as our first long form interaction with Etholin in the main story! :D 

I wanted to give you guys a glimpse into the ferret’s history, his life, and his attitudes and personal beliefs!

I also wanted to show you guys how some other realms differently perceive their obligations in sending nobles to the Nexus! As we’ve already seen how Thalmin’s people see it as a sacrificial obligation, whilst Ilunor saw it more so as an opportunity! 

Etholin’s perspective lies somewhere different along the sliding scales of these extremes, as we’ll see in this chapter! :D 

Let's jump right into it then! :D I'd like to proudly present, Wearing Power Armor to a Magic School's twentieth side story! :D

Also, it would seem as if Patreon finally fixed the double space formatting issue, neat! :D

A Middling Perspective

Family Study Room. West Wing. The Esila Family Estate. Esila Riverlands. Rantolisrealm. 

5 Months Prior to the induction of new students at the Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts. 

Late Afternoon.

Etholin

Unremarkable.

That was the greatest compliment our house could have ever received.

To be remarkable was to be forced to play the games of noble-intent with which our wealth and resources would be siphoned into a furnace which knew no end.

To be noteworthy would be tantamount to declaring one’s route of passage amidst an ocean of brigands and opportunists. 

To be exemplary… was to embody the dragonrider’s gambit. For he who has the willpower to stay atop of a dragon’s back may indeed possess its power, but should he ever falter and fall, he may quickly find himself the dragon’s next meal. 

To be unremarkable was to invest in the greatest form of security of all — safety through obscurity. 

Or more specifically, by being overlooked as a potential target. 

However, unremarkableness should never be conflated with abnegation or complacency.

For it was one thing to purposely obfuscate oneself through a veneer of mediocrity. It is another thing entirely to allow yourself to be seen as destitute or weak.

The distinction between these two states was the difference which could determine the continuity of a grand house, or the dissolution of a house into petty stakeholders and landlords. 

This lesson… was easily taught, but difficult to execute.

For the life of a remarkably unremarkable house was rife with risks not from the outside, but from within.

As extraneous risks are instead replaced by risks stemming from one’s own discipline.

A discipline to maintain an appearance of mediocrity, whilst hiding beneath it a power capable of so much more. 

“Now do you understand?” Our uncle questioned sharply, his lecture rod slamming against the blackboard of this five-person classroom. 

“Yes, uncle.” I nodded, my eyes fixed firmly forwards, towards the red oak and green fern wall cladding that framed much of the otherwise blue-brick room. 

“Then provide me with the wisdom garnered from this lesson. Explain to me what you believe to be most important.” He promptly challenged, not once abandoning his larger than life posture, even after the hours of self-inflicted standing.

Given the plush green desk chair that sat longingly behind him, I had to admire the lengths to which he remained committed to this exterior of discipline. 

“The importance of maintaining an unassuming position in the greater games.” I began. “To maintain wealth and power, but eschewing pride and prestige, for the sake of long term relevance and survival.” 

Uncle Brescht nodded only once, which could only mean—

“Good. That is the heart and core of the lesson. But tell me, what is the most important thing that lies beneath the letter of this lecture? What must a true leader of House Esila intrinsically take away from this lesson?”

The entire room went silent, as all eyes landed on me. 

The answer, thankfully, was obvious enough.

“Discipline, uncle.” I answered simply. 

This garnered a raise of one of his nonexistent brows, through the wrinkly ridge of fur above it was more than enough to get that elvish expression across. 

“Go on?”

“A discipline to walk the middle path.” I announced confidently. “For it is easy for a weak ruler to fall into the trap of complacency — of becoming accustomed to the story he weaves — eventually, becoming lost within his own narrative. To act as a middling house of unremarkable worth is difficult, but to become a middling house of unremarkable worth… is exceptionally easy. It is a far easier path to accept the facade you’ve built, especially when that facade is easier to maintain than the truth that dwells beneath it. This effect is exacerbated doubly-so by the reinforcement of such a narrative by the world around you. The effect is desirable… for those disciplined enough to resist the lull of complacency. But to the weak — It is a vicious cycle, one that a weak-willed ruler might slowly but surely fall into the trap of accepting.”

Uncle Brescht nodded calmly all throughout, his eyes closed in deep thought as if assessing each and every word for both their accuracy and intent.

“So you are saying that a strong ruler is then necessary to maintain our ways?” He questioned simply… too simply.

A trap which I knew better than to fall into.

But one which my sister was seemingly so eager to dive head first into.

“Correct, uncle!” She announced, her eyes brimming with excitement.

“Sister—”

“Brother Etholin, please. Allow me to interject.” Larscilia urged, prompting me to acquiesce with a nod.

“Thank you brother~” She spoke in her signature sing-song voice, one which made me stiffened inwardly, if only because of the ramifications of this waltz into doom.

“Uncle, I believe the answer you seek is a resounding yes~” She proclaimed proudly.

Uncle Brescht’s eyes however, did not seem to complement my sister’s cocksure expression.

A fact confirmed by a sigh that came soon after, and a gesture of his lecture-stick towards the front of the classroom.

This reaction took Larscillia by surprise, her features darkening almost immediately as she attempted to clarify herself. “But Uncle! A strong leader would mean stronger self-discipline!” 

“And was Arnstring the Terrible a strong leader?” He shot back sternly.

“N-no, I mean, y-yes, I mean, he was, he’s—”

“Contractions, girl. Watch your contractions.” Uncle Brescht warned, prompting a quick reaction from Larscilia. “You risk speaking like a learned commoner.” 

“Apologies, uncle.”

“Good. Now, onto the topic at hand since I am not your manners instructor — was Arnstring the Terrible a strong leader?”

“Yes, uncle.” She nodded firmly.

“And was he disciplined?” He shot back immediately.

“I…” Larscilia attempted to avoid eye contact at that, garnering a sharp SLAM of Uncle Brescht’s lecture-rod as it struck the blackboard in front of us. “Yes or no, Larscilia?”

“No.” She answered dourly, standing up and then walking to the front of the classroom.

Thankfully, there was no corporal punishment.

At least not today.

“Etholin, describe the fallacy your sister has fallen into.”

It was my turn to seize up, my eyes locking with Larscilia’s if only for a moment, as I attempted to convey my condolences at partaking in her moment of academic discipline.

“It is the Fallacy of Strength, Uncle Brescht.” I answered as quickly, emotionlessly, and plainly as I could — to make sure Larscilia understood that this answer was purely academic, and without personal intent.

“Good.” The man nodded, before turning to the rest of the class. “The fallacy of strength — the belief that the traits of a ‘strong ruler’ are inherently inclusive of positive personal attributes such as self-discipline. While strong rulers may be able to bring about power and prosperity for a house or kingdom, they may still hold personal faults which are inherently antithetical to the ruling philosophies of our house. Now, Etholin, please answer my prior question. Is a strong leader necessary to maintain our ways, considering how a weak leader is unable to live up to the task?”

“No, uncle.”

“Explain.”

“Strength in one’s own resolve is a powerful trait. That is a fact which is undeniable. However, strength in one’s own resolve, can easily lead to pride. And pride is a dangerous unknown variable in the maintenance of our ways. This is not to say that a ruler with pride cannot maintain our unremarkableness. However, too much pride, as is often seen in these ‘strong’ rulers, can be the downfall of our philosophies. This is because instead of falling into complacency like in the case of weak rulers, they instead become restless in their perceived mediocrity. They conflate the family’s social position with their own sense of self worth. Following which, they will risk elevating the family’s perceived standing into levels unsustainable with unremarkableness.” 

“They risk elevating us out of the perceived narrative we have painstakingly built, thus pushing us out of safe waters and into shark-infested depths.” Uncle Brescht summarized succinctly. 

“Yes, Uncle.” I nodded. 

“Let this be the second truth of today’s class.” Uncle Brescht leveled his eyes carefully at all five of us present, making a point to maintain a longer gaze upon Larscilia. “For House Esila to achieve Status Eternia, we must elevate ourselves above the petty politics which plague short-sighted houses. Families such as House Arnstring, House Folris, House Camntila, and House Urek, all great houses that have once assumed the throne — now lie in ruins at the foot of their former bannermen. All fallen from grace as a result of brash tactics and foolhardy endeavors. Only House Esila remains to remember their former legacy, and only House Esila continues to maintain the ties to a legacy that stretches back to even before the Nexian Reformations.” The man paused, clearly leading up to the final call to arms before the conclusion of the day’s lessons. 

We all stood up following this cue, plush armchairs and wooden seats alike rolling silently upon their enchanted legs; keeping the hardwood floors of the study-room unblemished.

“Here I stand.” Uncle Brescht proclaimed proudly.

“And here we remain!” We all responded with a stomp of our feet, hands clenched by our sides, our eyes focused on the crest above the blackboard. 

The crest displayed those very words enchanted in Nexian gold, set beneath a shield bearing perpetually-bound artifacts including a red-rock yellow flower, a pencil, an inkwell, and a hammer. All of which were flanked by two streams, interspersed with ships too small to be perceived at  this distance.

“Dismissed!” Uncle Brescht exclaimed, prompting all of us to bow in unison, the man leaving without speaking another word… save for the few screams he directed at a poor servant immediately outside the door. 

“Watch your path, girl!” He seethed, before stomping up and down the hall towards the grand staircase.

We all held our breaths for what seemed like entire minutes, before letting out an exhale as soon as the servant in question entered the room.

“He’s gone m’lords and ladies.” Servant Chey spoke softly.

A collective exhale was had, as each and every one of us practically melted into our seats, except for Larscilia who immediately jumped onto uncle’s chair, taking full advantage of its plush upholstery.

“And that’s why he’s not the patriarch!” The youngest in the room spoke, his voice barely having broken through into adulthood. 

“Indeed, Arsoni, He embodies all that he claims to dislike in a leader.” Larscilia agreed without question, crossing her legs as she began lying horizontally on a chair most certainly not designed for such a maneuver. 

“Which begs the question… who amongst us do you think great-grandmother has chosen?” Arsoni asked innocently, his tone of voice clearly indicating how this wasn’t a political challenge, but merely a conversational talking point — one born of pure curiosity. 

All eyes, expectedly, leveled on me. 

Larscilia in particular crossing her arms at the expected outcome. 

“Brother Etholin… hmm… perhaps. Perhaps…” Larscilia responded nonchalantly. “I will say, you straddle the middle path quite well. Though perhaps… a bit too well.” She added with a sly timbre. 

“What are you implying, sister?” I responded as politely as I could.

“What I’m implying is that you seem too rigid in your adherence to the family code.” She stated plainly. “Rigidity is good… but only in a classroom, brother. You know the theory, you’ve studied the tomes, but you’ve never truly had to prove yourself in the field of magic.” 

This tangent caught me off guard, my brow raising immediately in response. “I do not see how magic fits into this equation.” I stated plainly. “I have garnered first hand experience in the realm of commerce, I have personally overseen at least ten independent licenses issued to prospective commoner enterprises, and I have investigated and removed two long-standing commoner houses that have soured over the generations — granted, they were investigations conducted under father’s oversight — but I digress. Magic is a utilitarian tool, an apparatus for the facilitation of things, it is a secondary affair when it comes to the realm of administration and politics; only important for contract-binding and so on and so forth.” 

“Oh brother, you truly are narrow-sighted.” Larscilia announced with a light-hearted sigh only a sibling could muster, shaking her head in the process. 

“What do you—”

“I mean this with no disrespect, but you do understand that magic belies our very nobility, no?” 

“Yes, but smart governing and clever politics is what elevates us from our bannermen and vassals. They provide us with the numbers and utility needed to maintain our place within this Kingdom, we in turn focus on maintaining this balance through the division of labor.” 

“And should they one day rise up? Should we be forced to defend ourselves from those more skilled in the magical arts?”

I looked at Larscilia blankly, cocking my head as I did so. “Sister… we live in a civilized realm. Now, I am not claiming that Rantolisrealm is in any way comparable to the likes of Baralonrealm, Anurarealm, or even Rantolisrealm…” 

“But what Brother Etholin is trying to say is that direct violence as a tool for power is already unacceptable. Is that right, Brother Etholin?” Arsoni offered, prompting me to nod once in response.

“That is correct, little brother.” I smiled brightly. “We lack the chaos or the question of legitimacy that underpins the rule-through-strength realities of realms such as Havenbrockrealm. We lack the corruption and indecisive leadership that creates tension between great houses as is seen from the likes of Shatorealm, and perhaps to a lesser extent, Aetheronrealm. We live in a realm blessed with the light of civilized rule. Magic is thus relegated to a tool of benign use. For what  reason is there to focus on learning the advanced magical arts, when we have so much in the way of management that must be studied and executed?”

“And exactly where does this stability stem from, brother?” Larscilia shot back simply.

“The sovereign.” I replied just as plainly.

“And the sovereign derives his strength from what, precisely?”

“Well that’s a very complex question—”

“If an usurper were to reach the gates of the Spring, Summer, Autumn or Winter palaces… what entity does the King call upon to reassert his legitimacy?” 

“You are creating an impossible scenario, sister.”

“I am simply trying to prove a point.”

“Well, in that case… I’d assume it’d be the Nexus that he calls upon.”

“Precisely.” Larscilia nodded.

“I do not see what you are attempting to—”

“Strength through magic, is the basis for the most basic of political power, Brother Etholin; that is how the Nexus continues to project its prominence beneath the veneer of civility. There will be a time where push comes to shove and we may find ourselves standing without aid. Perhaps it is merely a momentary lapse of a few minutes in between guard shifts. Or perhaps it might be decades should the apocalypse arrive. In any eventuality, magic is what you lack capacity in, and magic is what you must hone if you are to become the Patriarch of House Esila.” There was a pause, as Larscilia took a moment to regard me with genuine kindness. “I am not saying this to intimidate you, brother. I want you to take the family throne. I would much rather live my own life free from the burdens of this… prison of a life. And that is why I want you to have the best chance not just at ruling, but at succeeding in your rule.”

I took a moment to ponder Larscilia’s statements, going through my own life and regarding every step I took with her critiques in mind.

It was true that my lack of magical acumen was something of a liability. 

Especially if a challenge came that might put me in the shoes of a ‘weak’ leader not by personal will, but instead, by the ability to enforce that will unto others without the constant aid of knights and bannermen.

“You are right, Larscilia.” I acknowledged. “You truly aren’t fit to lead.” I began with a small jab of my own, causing an incredulous pout to form on the Pattenor’s features. “All this talk about apocalypses would most certainly be unbecoming of a family Matriarch. In all seriousness however, you do pose an honest and sincere critique which I must address.”

“I heard through the grapevine that enrollment for a Nexian magical institute is due relatively soon.” Arsoni added helpfully.

“Transgracia?” Larscilia asked.

“Yes! I believe so!” 

“Hmm.” I acknowledged. “I wasn’t considering something that would require such investment.” 

“It requires barely any monetary—”

“I meant investment as in time spent, Larscilia.” I interjected. “I was considering magical tutors rather than an entire half decade spent learning the magical arts.”

“Well… no offense brother, but considering how competitive Transgracian enrollment tends to be, I doubt sending in your name into the flaming goblet would result in you of all nobles being chosen.” Larscilia shot back.

“An astute observation, Larscilia.” I nodded. “In any case, attending the flaming goblet ceremony should serve to be important all the same. I shall offer my name, if anything it should prove to be a rather enriching experience.” I smiled, before getting up and ushering everyone out of the room. “Should I be chosen, this may prove to be an excellent opportunity to strike up relations between realms.”

“Be careful brother… overstepping middling ambitions is rather unbecoming of you.” Larscilia jabbed back with a teasing smile. 

=====

Platinum Jubilee Ballroom. The Winter Palace. Rura Peninsula. Rantolisrealm. 

1 Month Prior to the induction of new students at the Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts. 

Etholin

Tasteful music.

Exquisite food.

And gentile chatter.

The holy triumvirate of polite society.

No gala or ball would be complete without any one of these key virtues.

Just as no battlefield would be complete without magic, weapons, and ‘fresh bodies’. 

The latter being a rather uncouth manner of describing those who would sacrifice themselves in the name of their lords.

Yet uncouth as it may be, there are oftentimes where I find myself incapable of addressing such social transgressions, even if it is socially acceptable. For there were exceptions for those who dare push the boundaries of civil conversation — exceptions based on rank and seniority.

“—wouldn’t you agree, Lord Etholin Esila?” The prince pulled me out of my reverie, his passionate gaze prompting me to respond immediately.

“Naturally, your highness.” I instinctively acknowledged, bowing my head down in the process. 

I could have rebutted. 

There was a precedent for it.

However, it was clear the violation of social conventions was a challenge. 

A challenge that any would-be social climber would take, to stake a claim in the grand game of noble politics.

It was an invitation to a social duel.

But it was an invitation I politely declined through acquiescence. 

No more exchanges were had following that brief acknowledgement of my existence. 

I had done my part for the night, having taken the time and effort to arrive at the gala, providing my ceremonial display of fealty to the Rantolisrealm crown by my presence and acquiescence alone.

The rest of the night would be spent awaiting any further social cues, and to perhaps mingle amongst those who might find themselves willing to readjust their trade commitments to our house.

Though the chances of something so dry occurring were scarce, it was better than merely existing as the party progressed around me.

I allowed my mind to rest until the sun’s departure, my eyes wandering across the ballroom’s ancient parquet flooring, enchanted to radiate a soft golden glow, complete with specks of what seemed to be platinum flakes breaking through the false cracks along the blue oak baseboard that ran the perimeter of the ovoid room. 

As expected, many took the opportunity to dance to the tune of an orchestral accompaniment, the royal orchestra having clearly committed to this season’s practice, as if their lives depended on it. 

Though alongside the familiar faces of the entirety of Rantolisrealm’s upper crust, there were a few… new faces that appeared to be mingling with the members of the royal family. Elves in particular, alongside a Vunerian, all dressed in magely robes decorated with unique embroidery I immediately recognized. 

They weren’t just from the Mages of the Ministry, they were academics. I thought to myself with excitement.

Tonight was the night they’d make their call. 

Or perhaps, this was yet another open-secret correspondence I was simply not privy to. 

Whatever the case may be, these Nexians managed to spark many a curious gaze, as dancing couples and hobnobbing friends alike all stopped to at least observe the privacy screen that had formed between these most esteemed of honored guests and the royals of our realm. 

Curious whispers erupted almost immediately.

Though much of it consisted of baseless claims, typical for these types of vapid conversations. 

I, on the other hand, decided to observe silently; tackling any stray would-be conversations as they came and went.

This trend went on, deep into the night, right as the final addressment commenced, and yet another announcement was made.

Though unlike previous announcements, this one elicited my attention.

“Lords, Ladies, and my fellow royal siblings, on behalf of the Mages of the Ministry and the Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts, it is my pleasure to introduce you all to the chosen amongst our ranks to be sent into the heart of civilization.” Prince Rontalia announced warmly up on the blue oak stage, his silken robes and ropes of jewelry so heavily enchanted that it was at times somewhat overwhelming to look at. 

Though admittedly, it was somewhat warranted, especially considering how the man had so much jewelry on that without enchantments… he’d more than likely be unable to even stand. 

A series of claps soon followed, my eyes now leveling off in their mild interest at the stage.

This was despite my heart racing, and my whole body tensing. 

“My lord, if you would be so kind?” The prince bowed slightly towards the rather unassuming looking elf who stood several heads higher than him, prompting the elf to take to the stage with a kind and polite smile.

“Esteemed fellows, as Vice Dean of the Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts, I am honored to announce our selection for this cycle’s pupil.” The man spoke, as I struggled to put a name to his face. 

This was quickly remedied however, as a quick mingling and polite chatter amongst a few of my ‘fellow’ houses quickly produced a name which I immediately recognized from my dabblings into Transgracia’s current administration — Vanavan. 

However, as with any Nexian function, this announcement wouldn’t be so straightforward.

This was because the man began transitioning into a preamble listing the various formal and informal treaties, agreements, ties, and legal settlements as a part of the official busybodying that was expected in these sorts of official visits. 

The rule of civilized law was, after all, sacrosanct and immutable. 

This was promptly followed by pleasantries, in the form of an hour long recital of a long, long roster of Rantolisrealm alumni who have in some way shape or form contributed to both Rantolisrealm itself and the values of the Eternal Regime.

…

Their accomplishments were listed as well, one… by… one.

I struggled at times to remain focused, taking the occasional ‘break’ to sample the hors d'oeuvres from the continuously-cycling squires, servants, and attendants meticulously weaving about the still crowd. 

Whispers were rare and few and far in between. 

This was primarily due to the presence of the members of the Mages of the Ministry standing in various states of attentiveness throughout the room. 

They were attaches of a sort, consisting almost entirely of secondary Nexian races, but Nexians all the same. 

They honored us with their presence.

And it was only socially acceptable for us to reciprocate through our attentiveness at these functions of civilized decorum.

Even if it took hours to accomplish.

The light at the end of the tunnel eventually did arrive, however. 

Quite literally as well, given the flaming goblet with which the professor was due to pull out the scroll of names.

Just in time for my hands to be occupied by two platefuls of canapés. 

“It is thus my privilege and honor to bestow upon Lord Rinsis Rensina the title of pupil of the Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts for the class of 29,019!” Vanavan spoke with a vigor I hadn’t expected from the man. 

However, just before any claps could commence, Lord Rensina’s sister — Lady Itulia — marched up towards the stage with a somber expression.

“Permission to interject, Lord Vanavan?”

“The floor is temporarily yours.” The man acknowledged, and as was tradition, withholding from honorifics in this particular social junction. 

“I am Lady Itulia of House Rensina. And if you would spare me the dishonor of being the bearer of disquieting news, I must announce my brother’s voluntary withdrawal from such an honor.” She announced respectfully, yet still managed to garner the expected gasps, whispers, and disappointed ‘awws’. 

“Under what grounds does Lord Rinsis Rensina claim voluntary resignation?” The elf responded tactfully, yet it was difficult not to feel a threatening aura when it came to their kind.

“Personal health, my lord. He is indisposed, stricken with a sudden illness which would hamper his representation of our realm within the Nexus.” 

The elf nodded slowly at this, before sliding his finger across the enchanted parchment. “Very well. In the following circumstances, the runner-up to the prime’s consideration shall be selected in his place.” The man cleared his throat once more, and then thankfully, getting right to the point. “It is my privilege and honor to bestow upon Lady Amit Ulriay the title of pupil of the Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts for the class of 29,019!” 

A series of claps soon followed… yet like the first, another figure immediately came in to prematurely stifle the celebrations. 

“What is the meaning of this second intrusion?” The elf’s eyes leveled with quiet discontent at this second interloper.

Quite bafflingly, the same song and dance quickly followed.

“Two formal declines in succession. What a peculiar turn of events.” Came a few murmurs from the crowd.

Which was of course, warranted, especially considering the circumstances.

To decline an Academy acceptance was a faux pas on the part of the house and individual, and while perhaps not as extreme as it would be to a lesser realm, the weight behind such a decision is still not insignificant in a realm as middling as Rantolis.

Vanavan’s gaze once again shifted to his parchment, before leveling his eyes back towards the ballroom floor. 

“Ahem. I sincerely hope that this trend does not follow us into the third amongst the primes.” The man began. “It is my privilege and honor to bestow upon Lord Etholin Esila the title of pupil of the Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts for the class of 29,019!”

I all but dropped my canapés as those words reverberated throughout the room.

My eyes filled with shock, excitement, and dread in rapid succession.

My mind went through everything but acceptance of the reality of the situation.

Though it was difficult to really ignore the facts when the eyes of an entire room were suddenly now focused on me. 

Seconds turned into what felt like minutes as I was confronted with a non-decision.

The former two nobles, either through careful planning or happenstance, now pushed me into a position where I had no choice.

“I humbly and graciously accept this newfound responsibility with honor and dignity, my lord.” I dipped my head low with a polite and cordial smile.

Though what lurked beneath it… was nothing short of panic-filled dread. 

=====

The Grand Reception Hall. Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts. 

Orientation Day.

Etholin

Only a few hours had passed since my arrival.

And already I felt as if everything I’ve studied and prepared for paled in comparison to the inter-realm machinations of the Academy.

Choosing peer groups within the span of a mere few hours was an undertaking that would’ve otherwise taken me days if not weeks to perform back home, as such a commitment wasn’t something to be taken lightly.

Moreover, the rumors and whispers of a newrealmer was something which brought as much confusion and complications as it did excitement.

To be in a yeargroup with a newrealmer was an opportunity few these days had.

It served as a unique opportunity, one of both commerce and diplomacy.

I had to temper myself however, as approaching the newrealmer who had already so clearly found herself at the whims of a prospective steward could easily be seen as a challenge to the Nexian’s ambitions — the Vunerian seeming to have acquired himself a party of far lesser-realmers with which he could lord over.

The addition of the newrealmer was almost akin to icing on the man’s proverbial cake.

As not only could he potentially seek acclaim or a worthy legacy as a Mage of the Ministry, but he could likewise now become a steward of a completely unknown realm.

Regardless, I couldn’t help but to raise my brow at the newrealmer as the orientation progressed, this knight in blue armor, this commoner, defying so many conventions just based on her appearance alone.

Her armor was… in all honesty — a work of art.

Whatever forge or blacksmith had constructed it, was more than likely one which could challenge even the greatest amongst middling realms.

To that end, the reddened lenses which sat atop of the newrealmer’s eyes beckoned a form of mastery over glassworking which was commendable for a newrealm.

Everything about her seemed to stand antithetical to the typical notion of a backwards newrealm.

And I was desperate to hear the conversations beneath the privacy screen deftly cast by one of the members of that group.

However, little did I know that my initial observations would only be the tip of the iceberg.

As after the second terrible yearbook binding was over, the newrealmer became poised to become the third.

However, instead of immediately acquiesing as she arrived on stage, the newrealmer chose defiance. 

Her well-articulated words rang loudly throughout the room, a part of me feeling as if I’d been transported to some storybook detailing the fates of those who would dare defy Status Eternia. 

Needless to say, the fate that awaited such strong willed fools was never appealing. 

I held my breath for the unfortunate fate of this knight in blue armor, hoping for a miracle if only for her sake.

This miracle… was eventually granted.

And not in the form of some mercy granted by the Nexians on stage, no.

But instead… by some form of terrible magic.

My manafields tensed as the magic from the yearbook flooded the room.

My whole body felt as if it would be pushed back by the sheer force of the manastreams alone. 

My mind struggled to process the immense disruption blanketing the stage in a violent display of disruptive magic.

All of which culminated in a simple signing of the yearbook… with the newrealmer seemingly forcing herself through the binding ritual not through an artifact of dispelling, or even light magic… but by simply resisting the magic of the yearbook.

I struggled to believe my conclusions however.

Because such a feat… should have been impossible for a newrealmer.

The rest of the evening continued as if nothing had happened.

The tainted avinor’s reactions to the binding ritual was one that would’ve given me shivers, but in light of the newrealmer, only served to be a passing distraction.

Dinner arrived, and yet as I ate, I could think of nothing but the newrealmer.

I had to learn more. 

I had to figure out what exactly was the truth behind the mysteries of the newrealmer.