Academy Whispers

A few days later, the lecture hall at the Academy was a symphony of muted chatter and the soft scratch of quills against parchment. The stone floor retained the chill of morning, creeping up through her shoes, grounding her more than the lesson ever could. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, painting long lines across the tables like invisible warding lines of its own.

Students filed into their seats, some exchanging whispers, others reviewing notes in preparation for the lesson. Delphia settled into her usual spot near the middle of the room, her notebook open and her quill poised. She preferred to blend into the background, observing rather than participating, though today's class promised to test that resolve.

The day's lesson was on the intricacies of magical wards and their historical use in protecting noble estates. Professor Marlow, an imposing man with salt-and-pepper hair and a penchant for dramatic pauses, stood at the front of the room. He tapped the chalkboard with his chalk, and a diagram of interlocking ward symbols appeared in glowing lines. Delphia's hand moved steadily across the page, copying what was on the board, but her mind occasionally drifted—to the Tower, to his voice in the quiet, to the strange vulnerability of that night. The memory refused to fade, like the faint heat that still lingered in her chest when she thought of him.

"Now, class," Professor Marlow began, his voice deep and resonant, "the creation and maintenance of magical wards is as much an art as it is a science. A poorly constructed ward is a vulnerability—a breach waiting to happen. But a well-crafted one can withstand even the most determined assault. Can anyone tell me the primary element necessary to anchor a ward's energy?"

A pause followed as the students exchanged uncertain glances. Delphia, engrossed in copying the diagram, hesitated before raising her hand. When no one else volunteered, the professor's sharp gaze landed on her. "Lady Vosswell, please enlighten us," he said, his tone expectant.

There was a time she would've wilted under Marlow's attention, stumbling through an answer or hiding behind another's shoulder. Now, the silence of the room only sharpened her resolve.

Delphia set her quill down, meeting his gaze with calm composure. "The primary element depends on the ward's intended purpose, Professor. For defensive wards, earth magic is often used as an anchor for its stability and resistance. For detection or alarm wards, air magic is ideal due to its sensitivity to disturbances. The choice of element must align with the ward's function to ensure efficiency."

Professor Marlow nodded, clearly pleased. "Excellent. You've not only answered the question but elaborated with precision. Well done, Lady Vosswell."

A faint ripple of whispers spread through the room. Delphia caught snippets as she returned to her notes.

"She's answering questions now?" A soft voice asked.

"Since when is she so… competent?" Another voice, distinctly male, returned.

"Do you think this has something to do with the Tower?" An even softer voice asked, that was left unanswered.

Delphia's lips twitched faintly, though she kept her expression neutral.

Beneath her detailed notes on ward structures, she jotted down her own observations on the class atmosphere: Speculation about Zypher continues. Increased scrutiny due to participation.

The lesson continued, with Professor Marlow delving into the layered complexities of ward reinforcement. Delphia focused on the lecture, but her sharp ears picked up on the scattered conversations around her. Calista's name surfaced more than once.

"Did you see Lady Faremont at the gathering last night?" A girl whispered to her friend a few rows ahead. "She was radiant. Everyone's talking about her charm."

"Of course she's radiant," the friend replied. "She's got the Crown Prince practically wrapped around her finger."

Delphia made a note: Calista—further social rise tied to Alaric. Rumors of charm spreading.

Further down the row, another voice chimed in, softer but no less cutting. "I heard Sybil Mooresbane tried to overshadow her during the last gathering. Backfired spectacularly."

"It always does," someone else added with a quiet laugh. "Sybil's losing her touch. Everyone's tired of her antics."

Sybil—declining influence, public patience waning, Delphia scribbled. The corners of her mouth lifted slightly at the irony of Sybil's descent. The other woman had unwittingly taken on the role of antagonist in this narrative, a role Delphia had no interest in reclaiming.

The professor's voice pulled her attention back to the front. "Now, imagine you're designing a ward for an estate that houses Mages of multiple elemental affinities. How would you account for the differing mana flows? Anyone?" The class fell silent once again. Delphia's quill hovered over her page, and when it became clear no one else would answer, she raised her hand.

"Yes, Lady Vosswell?" Professor Marlow prompted.

"You'd need to create a central stabilizing node within the ward," Delphia began. "This node would act as a mediator, harmonizing the mana flows from different elements. You'd also need to use runes specifically designed to accommodate mana diversity, ensuring the ward doesn't become overloaded or unstable."

Professor Marlow nodded, a glimmer of approval in his eyes. "Another thorough response. I must say, Lady Vosswell, your recent dedication to these studies is evident. Keep it up."

More whispers erupted as Delphia resumed her note-taking. She ignored them outwardly, though inwardly she cataloged every murmured word.

"Didn't she used to fail half her classes?" A male voice muttered, not bothering to hide his ridicule. "She's like a completely different person. It's unnerving."

The last comment lingered in her mind longer than she liked.

As the lecture wound down, Professor Marlow assigned a reading on historical ward failures and dismissed the class. Delphia gathered her belongings methodically, her movements unhurried. Around her, students filed out in groups, their conversations fading into the hallway.

Before leaving, Delphia glanced at her personal notes, a small smile tugging at her lips. The whispers she'd heard today were pieces of a puzzle, fragments of a larger picture she was beginning to see more clearly. Calista's rise, Sybil's fall, and the persistent speculation about her connection to Zypher—all of it painted a landscape of shifting dynamics within the Academy and the Kingdom at large.

She closed her notebook with a quiet snap and stood, smoothing her skirts. For now, she would remain an observer, gathering threads of information and weaving them into something tangible. The game was unfolding, and Delphia was content to play her part—calm, composed, and always one step ahead.

*

Later that day, the Academy's dining hall was a sprawling space of polished marble floors, long wooden tables, and arched windows that let in streams of golden afternoon light. It was a place of unspoken hierarchies, where every table was claimed by unspoken alliances, and seating arrangements were as much a display of power as the lectures themselves.

Delphia sat alone near the windows, a plate of half-eaten food before her. She didn't mind the solitude—it gave her time to observe.

Across the hall, at the most crowded table, Calista Faremont held court. She sat beside Crown Prince Alaric, effortlessly commanding the attention of everyone around her. A flick of her wrist, a well-timed laugh, a perfectly placed compliment—she made it look effortless. The nobles at her table hung onto every word, eager to remain in her favor. Even Alaric, who had once been the singular focus of the original Delphia's world, seemed captivated by her presence.

Delphia studied the way Calista moved, how she shifted conversations to keep herself at the center, how she glanced at certain people at just the right moment to make them feel noticed. It was an art. One Delphia could appreciate, even if she found it tiring.

In contrast, at a table tucked into the farthest corner, Sybil Mooresbane sat stiffly, her posture tense as she picked at her meal. A few lesser nobles sat nearby, but none engaged her in conversation. Her fingers tapped impatiently against the table, irritation flickering in her eyes as she occasionally glanced toward Calista's gathering.

A sharp fall from grace. Delphia noted it, storing the observation away.

Another table caught her attention—Seraphina and Lucian. Seraphina was speaking animatedly, her words accompanied by expressive gestures and sharp smirks. Lucian, however, looked wholly uninterested. He leaned against the bench, his gaze scanning the hall as if searching for someone else to talk to.

Delphia exhaled quietly, turning her gaze back to her own table.

It had not escaped her notice that more eyes were straying in her direction lately. Some curious, others wary. Word had spread—of her studies at the Magic Tower, of her unexpected competence in class, of the Archmage's favor. She could feel the weight of the speculation. However, she tuned it all out.

Speaking of Zypher, she thought. I miss being around him.

She paused, surprised by how easily the thought had surfaced. A week ago, she wouldn't have admitted such a thing to herself. But now, after all that had happened—after the tension, the confessions, the raw vulnerability—his absence echoed more sharply.

She reached for her tea, the cup warm between her fingers. In the distance, Calista's laughter rang again, high and melodic. Delphia didn't flinch, didn't shrink. She merely observed, took another sip, and let herself linger in the moment.

She didn't plan on doing this much from the start, but she knew that she wasn't going to succumb to the original Delphia's fate. She wanted to live, damn it. She knew the pieces were moving, and for the first time since being here, Delphia felt like this was becoming more like her story and less like someone else's.