At precisely six o'clock the next morning, Rose stood at the base of a twisted stone tower that looked like it had been designed by a drunk spider with a grudge against geometry.
"Are we sure this is safe?" she asked, eyeing the door. It growled at her.
Nimbus hovered just above her head, dripping a single rain droplet for dramatic effect. "If we wanted safe, we'd have opened a tea shop."
The door groaned open by itself—begrudgingly—and Rose stepped inside. The tower smelled like burnt parchment and melancholy. A narrow spiral staircase stretched upward, the steps uneven and whispering complaints with each footfall.
At the top, she entered a dusty chamber filled with floating quills, bottled thoughts, and a suspiciously sentient chalkboard muttering something about the futility of life.
At the center of it all stood Professor Glimwort, a towering figure with a crooked hat, beetle-black eyes, and a beard that seemed to be slowly inching away from his face.
"You're late," he snapped, though Rose was five minutes early.
"No, sir," she said, blinking. "I was early—"
"Exactly. That's late for chaos." He turned on a heel and stalked to a table overflowing with magical debris. "Lesson one: Control is a lie. Magic doesn't want to behave. It wants to express itself. Like art. Violent, unpredictable art."
"Like a toddler with glitter and a vendetta?" Nimbus offered.
Glimwort blinked. "Who let the weather in?"
"He's my familiar."
"I thought clouds weren't sentient."
"I'm exceptional," Nimbus said with a tiny rumble of thunder.
Glimwort sighed. "Fine. But if it rains in my scrolls again, I'll bottle him."
He handed Rose a wand that looked like it had seen war. "Channel your intent. No incantation. Just... feel it."
Rose held the wand. She focused. Her heart buzzed.
A gentle puff of magic emitted from the tip.
Then the table exploded.
Quills flew. Bottled thoughts screamed. A flaming potato danced across the floor shouting, "Vengeance is starchy!"
Glimwort, covered in soot, didn't flinch. "Acceptable."
Rose blinked. "I blew up your desk."
"You turned intent into expression. I didn't say aim mattered. Lesson two: You'll never control magic by force. You bargain with it. Like a cat."
She stared at her smoking wand. "What's lesson three?"
Glimwort's eyes narrowed. "There is no lesson three. Only lesson zero."
He snapped his fingers. A rune flared on the floor. Suddenly, Rose was falling—straight through the stone.
She landed with a thud in the courtyard. Nimbus floated down after her, unimpressed.
"Well," the storm cloud muttered. "At least we're not bored."
Rose groaned, brushing dirt from her coat. "I think I'm starting to like it here."
Above, Glimwort's laughter echoed from the tower.