And Quen grinned, spinning in place once, arms wide.
"Class begins now."
Silence stretched across the floating platform.
Students shifted awkwardly, glancing around for direction, unsure whether they were supposed to start walking, casting spells, or bowing.
Ethan was about to ask a question—any question—when Quen paused mid-twirl, turned their head slightly, and blinked.
"Oh. Right." They chuckled softly, turning toward the center of the stone platform. "You're all still standing. My mistake."
They raised a single hand. The air shimmered. And with a burst of soft light, a wave of ornate chairs shimmered into existence—hovering just above the stone before gently lowering into place in perfect rows.
Chairs of all styles. No uniformity. One was shaped like a giant lily pad. Another looked like it was carved from ice. Ethan swore one of them was just... a cloud.
"Choose wisely," Quen said with a smirk. "Your posture says more about your spellcasting than your grades ever will."
The students hesitated for a beat, then started moving toward the seats, each selecting one like it might bite them.
Ethan picked a sturdy-looking one with deep blue cushioning that pulsed faintly under his hands. As he sat, the chair adjusted slightly to match the curve of his back. It felt... perfect.
Kai sat a few seats down, frowning at a throne-like thing that growled when he touched it before softening into a normal chair. Aiden just raised an eyebrow at his and sat without a word.
Quen clasped their hands behind their back again and floated just above the ground, pacing in front of the students like a cat deciding whether to nap or pounce.
"You'll be learning Anchoring Step soon enough," they said. "But first—mindsets."
A hand went up from the front row. A tall girl, serious posture, military-cut uniform pressed sharp.
"Professor," she began, "not to question the curriculum, but... isn't this kind of magic more aligned with support mages? I've trained in offense—combat-oriented casting. I just... I don't really see how this applies to me. With respect."
It wasn't asked rudely. It was said with precision, clarity—and a trace of honest doubt.
Quen didn't bristle. They simply lit up.
"Oh," they breathed, tilting their head like a delighted bird. "You just asked my favorite question."
They floated forward, folding their arms with a knowing smile. "Now tell me: what's the difference between a sword and a shield?"
The girl blinked. "...One defends. The other attacks?"
"Wrong." Quen grinned. "They're both tools. One's sharp. One's broad. Both are dangerous when used correctly."
They floated backward, tapping a crystal with the tip of their boot. It chimed softly.
"You're not wrong to think this spell seems like support magic," they said. "But I urge you—never judge magic by its category. Labels are for libraries. Not for mages."
A pause.
"Let me show you why."
They turned fully now, their tone shifting from playful to sincere.
"There was a time," Quen began, "when I thought I was the worst mage in the world."
The statement caught the whole class off guard.
They paced slowly between the rows of chairs, their gaze distant, like they were walking through memory.
"I couldn't throw a fireball without scorching my own shoes. Lightning fizzled before it left my fingers. Ice spells? Hah. Don't ask."
They looked down, their smile faint. "I failed every combat test I was handed. Professors told me I lacked the instincts for battle. That I was too slow, too hesitant, too 'safe.'"
A low murmur ran through the class.
Ethan leaned forward slightly, watching them. Quen's robes fluttered softly as they moved, starlight glinting across the fabric.
"I started to believe them," they continued. "Started thinking I wasn't meant to be a mage at all. That maybe I should... disappear quietly, save everyone the trouble."
Silence. Not even the breeze stirred.
"Then one night," Quen said, voice quieter, "I was walking through an unstable mana field. You've probably read about them—thin spots in reality where the rules get a little... fuzzy."
Ethan nodded instinctively.
"There was a break. A drop. One moment I was on solid ground. The next, I was falling."
A few students tensed. One even gasped.
"I had seconds," Quen continued. "Instinct kicked in. No time to cast a full spell. No runes. No incantation. Just raw mana. My hands hit the air. I screamed—and something in me... clicked."
They stopped walking. Faced the class fully.
"I didn't fly. I didn't blink. I stopped. I stuck to the air like it was stone, holding my breath, balancing on a thread of will."
A crystal floated past, catching the sun just right.
"That was Anchoring Step. Born not from power, but need. A moment of clarity. Of desperation."
They smiled again, brighter now.
"I spent the next six years mastering it. Layer by layer. Until I could teach it. Improve it. Build other techniques on top of it. You'd be surprised how many spells come from simply not wanting to die."
Laughter rippled—nervous but genuine.
Quen let it fade before continuing. "So no—this is not support magic. It's not combat magic. It's survival. It's control. And it may one day save your life before your fireball can."
They floated higher now, arms out once more.
"You may never teleport a classroom. You may never walk on lightning or shape the wind to your whims."
A beat.
"But you will learn to hold your ground, no matter where you stand. That's what this class is."
And finally, they landed gently again, robes settling around them.
"Now," they said lightly, "shall we begin?"
Ethan barely heard the murmurs of students around him.
His heart was pounding.
The story. The technique. The charisma. The philosophy.
None of it rang a bell.
There was no "Professor Quen" in any version of his drafts. No Anchoring Step in the original curriculum. Nothing about a floating classroom.
And yet... it all made sense. Felt right.
That was what scared him.
What else is different? he wondered. What else is new?
If the story could create something like Quen without him knowing—without his hand guiding it—what did that mean for his place in it?
What did it mean for the duel?
The one Lucien was supposed to win. The one where Darius—his new name, this body—was supposed to fall.
Could it be different now?
Or would it all play out the same... just dressed in new colors?
He looked up at Quen again, still watching the students with that mix of curiosity and mischief.
What are you really? he wondered.
But he didn't ask.