Spring in the north didn’t arrive—it hit.

  “In a week the snow crust will set hard enough to walk on without skis,” Re said, tossing another log into the hearth. The fire licked the dry wood like it had been hungry for it.

  Harlan sat across from him, rubbing a shoulder that ached after a full day of work.

  “Re, by the way… you still never told me,” he started. Re looked up, waiting. “Why are you here? Alone. Without the Academy backing you?”

  Re gave a nasty little snort.

  “Oh, that.” He waved it off while pouring boiling water into mugs. “Me and the… bureaucrats… had a disagreement about teaching methods.”

  “Teaching methods?” Harlan echoed. “You made them run the mountains with rocks?”

  “If only.” Re set the kettle down with a clang. “They just care more about influence and money than real science.”

  He turned sharply toward Harlan. Something dark flashed in his eyes.

  “You know why the Academy only takes the ‘special’ ones? Because it’s profitable. If kids were taught resonance from age five—the same way they're taught reading and writing—then by ten, a lot of them… hell, every other kid would be a mage. And if they got a proper school curriculum, we’d have five times as many scientists, too.”

  Re began pacing. The floorboards creaked under his heavy steps.

  “But we’re on a mining planet, I told you that already. They don’t need thinkers. They need labor. So they put on robes, invented fancy Latin terms for simple processes, and locked knowledge behind high walls.”

  Harlan froze with the mug near his lips. In a year and a half, he had never seen the old man’s hands shake like that.

  Re exhaled. His shoulders dropped. He became just an exhausted old man again.

  “That’s more or less how the conversation went when I left,” he said. A crooked smile cut across his face. “I told them their curriculum was a crime against progress.” He snorted. “And I don’t regret a word.”

  He lifted his mug, sipped the scalding herbal brew, and looked at his student more gently.

  “But to be fair… the Academy has good things, too. The library is the one place in the world I actually miss. A thousand years of texts. And a couple professors haven’t gone senile yet. It’ll do you good, Roen.”

  “And you?”

  “And I’m an old man with nothing to do there,” Re cut in. "There's nothing new or important I'll learn in those halls. We’ve done more here in the last three years than the entire Academy has done in fifty.”

  He walked over to the crocodile sleeping peacefully in the corner and patted its scaled head.

  "Grab your tea and get moving. Training time."

  Later, when Harlan went to sleep—drained from practice—Re sat at his massive desk.

  The room smelled of old paper and ink, scents that woke phantom pains from another life. He pulled a sheet of heavy, crested stationery from a drawer—paper he’d kept for half a century—and an envelope with a seal. For most people, that seal would’ve been the peak of ambition. For him, it had become a brand of exile.

  He dipped his pen into the inkwell.

  *The boy’s a sponge. And his grasp is excellent. Where students need semesters of grinding, Har… Roen finds the short path on instinct, cutting corners. He does have talent.*

  Re lowered the pen to the page. His handwriting came out sharp and fast, pressed hard.

  To the Central Academy of the Field

  To the Rector and Head of the Council of Senior Mages

  Personally—into your hands

  Dear Artis,

  You likely choked on your morning coffee when you saw this name on the envelope. I have not written to you in fifty years, and by the Field, I planned for my next correspondence to be restrained praise in your obituary. But the universe enjoys irony. I am writing on business.

  Not long ago, I took a student. His name is Roen. He is a talented young man, and I believe he deserves formal recognition of his education. Therefore I am sending him to the Academy, and soon enough he will knock on your gates. Consider this letter my personal—if unofficial—recommendation. The other, formal one for the admissions office, he will bring himself.

  I have called your students a herd of talentless cattle more than once, and I do not retract those words. But this boy is different. He is an anomaly. He learns faster than anyone I have met in one hundred and thirty years of life. And he is genuinely a gifted mage.

  I am confident he will surprise you, and admitting him will repay the effort. If fortune favors him—he will surpass everyone you know, including your vaunted lecturers. If not—he will still become stronger than most of those you proudly call graduates. Not that it is a grand achievement—to outpace mediocrities rotting in lecture halls, memorizing formulas without understanding their essence.

  I am sending him to you not because I respect your system, but because he needs “fodder”—your books, your archives, and whatever crumbs of real knowledge still remain inside the Academy’s walls.

  So, Artis, I believe that even in your institution—where talent chokes on boredom and bureaucracy more often than it blooms—Roen will not degrade. It is in your interest to help him. Otherwise, one day he may be the one who brings those walls down by sneezing in the wrong key.

  If Roen reaches the capital—do not let him slip away.

  With no respect for your titles, but remembering an old friendship,

  Re, former professor of the Applied Field Department (and still Proxima’s best theoretician).

  He set the final period so hard the nib nearly tore the paper.

  For a minute he sat listening to the wind batter the shutters with doubled force. Spring was taking its rights—breaking ice and breaking fates. Re folded the letter carefully and sealed it with wax, without using magic.

  Some things had to be done by hand.

  “Well then, Artis,” he whispered into the empty room. “Try to digest him.”

  On the other side of the world, in a warm, luxurious bedroom, another old man was preparing for sleep—when, for no clear reason, he sneezed loudly and rubbed his nose.

  ?

  Some time later

  The Capital — Central Academy of the Field

  Rector’s Office

  “Forgive me, Rector Vallor… but you need to see this immediately.”

  Artis Vallor, head of the Council of Senior Mages and rector of the Central Academy, looked up from quarterly reports on crystal-bearing extraction. His personal secretary stood before the massive red-wood desk, pale as if he’d seen a ghost, an envelope clutched in his hands.

  The paper was old, yellowed by time. The wax seal on it was perfect. A personal crest these walls hadn’t seen in fifty years.

  “Is this a joke?” Artis’s voice stayed level, but the fingers holding his pen whitened.

  “No, sir. The seal is authentic. The courier said the letter came through the northern post office in Proxima. The stamps match as well…”

  A heavy, ringing silence settled in the office. Artis extended his hand slowly and took the envelope with care, as if it might be poisoned. The assistant had already opened it, so there was no seal to break.

  He read slowly. With each line, his perfectly calibrated “political” eyebrows climbed higher.

  “He’s… still alive. And he took a student?” Artis leaned back in his high leather chair and let out a short, barking laugh. “Re? That old misanthrope who called the very idea of mentorship ‘the reproduction of mediocrity’?”

  The rector rose and crossed the soft carpet to the panoramic window, where the capital’s lights shimmered below.

  “Incredible,” he murmured, holding the letter up to the light. “I thought we’d lost him for good. The best theoretician of the last two hundred years rotting in the wilderness…” His smile sharpened. “I remember how he left. A performance. He stood right here and shouted that we were ‘a collection of pompous fools killing the essence of magic for grants.’ And his last words—I’ve remembered them all my life: ‘I’d rather teach stones to fly than waste time on your students.’”

  He turned on the secretary. A predatory spark lit his eyes.

  “And now he writes to me. Asking a favor. What broke his pride? Age? Or this boy… what’s his name… Roen?”

  “He calls him an ‘anomaly,’ sir,” the secretary said carefully. “And he says the boy is talented. From what I’ve read in Re Ganzingun’s record, he never used words like that lightly. Not even when describing the Council’s current members.”

  “True.” Artis tapped the letter against his palm. “If Re writes that a boy has talent, then the boy has talent.”

  The rector on a second thought calculated, arranging vectors in his head. In politics, as in the Field, force mattered—where you applied it.

  “Here are my orders. First: tell our observers on the northern borders and at transport hubs. They will look for a young man named Roen. If he shows papers or displays ability—no obstacles. On the contrary, give him a clear corridor straight to me.”

  “At once. Shall I check the aristocratic lists?”

  “Absolutely. Check every bastard, every unrecorded child of the major clans. ‘Roen’ may be an alias.”

  Artis returned to his desk and tossed the letter on top of the reports.

  “And second…” He smiled. “If old Re asks a favor, it would be sinful not to use the opportunity. He wants us to take his protégé outside the rules? Fine. Everything has a price.”

  “You want to refuse?”

  “Oh, no. Why would I?” Artis’s smile widened. “Prepare a draft reply. We’ll send it back north by the same courier. Write that the Academy will consider Roen’s candidacy. But in exchange for admitting his student, Professor Re must return to the public sphere.”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Artis began counting on his fingers.

  “First: a public article in the Science Bulletin under his name, under the Academy’s banner. He’s bound to have something worthwhile after all these years. It will raise our standing. Second: he accepts the title of Honorary Professor. Third: he commits to at least ten open lectures every five years. Personally. Here. In the Academy.”

  “Excellent, Rector,” the secretary said, writing quickly. “But do you truly think he’ll agree? After everything he said?”

  “For himself—never.” Artis nodded at Re’s letter. “But for this boy, he broke fifty years of silence. So he might. Write it. I’ll adjust it, and we’ll send it.”

  “May I go?”

  “Go.”

  When the heavy oak door closed behind the secretary, Artis lifted the yellowed sheet again. He reread the line: *Otherwise, one day he may be the one who brings those walls down…*

  “Re called you ‘different,’” the rector said softly to the empty office. “I’m interested to see you, Mister Roen.”

  ?

  “Roen!”

  Harlan didn’t turn. He stood in the middle of the kitchen. In front of him lay a thawed carcass he was cutting down for the menagerie, methodically stripping meat and trimming sinew.

  “Roen, are you deaf?!”

  A cork from a decanter struck his shoulder. Not hard. Still insulting.

  Harlan flinched and turned. Re stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. As usual he looked displeased—but strange sparks danced in his eyes.

  “Oh. That was for me?” Harlan gestured at the carcass. “Can’t you see I’m cutting sinew? Forgot how the Seventh almost choked out on a tendon?” He rubbed the spot. “Next time I’ll throw it back. Cut it out.”

  “Hah. Still wet behind the ears and you’re talking about throwing things at me,” Re snorted. “And you answer elders the first time.”

  “I’m busy. And I’m still getting used to the name. Almost thirty years as Harlan, and now this.”

  “Twenty-seven… or twenty-eight,” Re corrected automatically. “Doesn’t matter. Get used to it faster. If the smugglers you so nobly rescued start digging, they might reach here. And Roen—not Patrick, not Harlan…” He paused, tasting the name. “Nobody knows Roen. Roen has a clean past.”

  “And a foggy future,” Harlan muttered, turning back to the meat. “You still haven’t said what we do if they show up here.”

  “We do nothing,” Re said flatly. “Because you won’t be here.”

  The knife stopped in Harlan’s hand. He set it down slowly and faced the old man.

  “What do you mean, I won’t? I’ve got a contract. Another couple months, last I checked. You said I’m not going anywhere until I work off that healing.”

  “Contract’s terminated,” Re said, waving it away like a fly. “Early. Due to… let’s call it ‘restructuring.’”

  “You’re kicking me out?” Harlan straightened, then frowned. Something pinched in his chest. In the time he’d been here, the stone house—reeking of chemicals and earth—had become home.

  “Dismissed for professional unsuitability,” Re snorted, walking to the table and dropping into his favorite chair.

  “How’s that?” Harlan snapped, wiping his hands on a rag. “What am I suddenly not handling, in your opinion?”

  “Opposite,” Re said, examining his nails as if that mattered. “Now you’re overqualified. We need someone to cook porridge and clean cages. And you’re a mage with combat skills. So you’re no longer a fit.”

  “Old man, have you lost your mind? First—who’s ‘we’?” Harlan’s eyes flashed. “Second—I was a fit for almost three years. Now I’m not?”

  “Well, the labor market shifts,” Re said, still playing employer. “We do have one opening for junior research staff. But you don’t qualify. No diploma.”

  He drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

  “So you’re going to the Academy. Like we discussed.”

  “And they’ll take me?” Harlan asked. “It’s all rich kids there.”

  “I told you a long time ago—on my recommendation, yes.” Re’s tone stayed casual. “The rector already knows. I sent a note through the mail owls and got formal approval. Pack your things.”

  Re pulled an envelope from inside his vest. Thick, with a wax seal Harlan had seen only once—on old documents in Re’s study.

  He flicked it onto the clear part of the table. It slid and stopped right in front of Harlan.

  “Another recommendation letter. Formal. On letterhead. You’ll need it for paperwork.”

  Harlan picked up the envelope. It felt heavy, like there wasn’t paper inside but a chunk of lead.

  “Why’s it so heavy?” he asked, watching the old man.

  “Recommendation and assessment.” Re shrugged. “Wish they spent this much paper on actual research. Bureaucrats.”

  Harlan stood there with the envelope in his hand.

  Free. That was what he’d wanted once.

  But—

  "Of course you can stay if you want," Re said more softly, as if he'd read the hesitation. "I can use the help, and you've become damn useful. But…" He lifted his eyes. "Burying talent like that—I don't have the right. You need to go forward. Study, marry, come back."

  He turned to the window, hiding his face.

  Harlan swallowed. It sounded like a future. A real one—something he hadn’t allowed himself to think about since the day he’d nearly died in the snow.

  “And what about you?” he asked.

  “I’ll manage. Somehow I managed for a hundred and thirty-five years,” Re said, rough again. “Pack up. You leave at dawn. In a week you’ll walk to Snownorth. Deal with Garret there—if he hasn’t drunk himself dead or gotten eaten. Then from there you take a trade caravan to the train and on to New Proxima.”

  “Understood,” Harlan said quietly.

  “Go,” Re grunted. “You’ve got half a day, and you still haven’t dusted the living room. Could’ve tried, at least, before you leave.”

  Harlan smiled. For once, he didn’t want to argue.

  “All right, Re. Thank you.”

  “Can’t spread ‘thank you’ on bread,” Re muttered, but in the window’s reflection Harlan saw him smiling. “Go, Roen. Go show them what real academic education looks like.”

  ?

  Packing didn’t take long. In a year and a half, Harlan hadn’t gathered much more than he’d arrived with—half-dead, on Garret’s sled.

  He packed his clothes, cleaned and mended. He stacked his notebooks—his own and the ones Re allowed him to take. *Physics for Zero-Day Mages* went into the pack too, like a talisman.

  Two revolvers. Ammunition. A knife. And a new name.

  That evening he went into the living room to say goodbye.

  Pinky lay on his blanket by the fire, warm and slow, lazily digesting his meal. When he saw Harlan, he let out a greeting *fr-fr* and lifted his head.

  “Well, boss,” Harlan said, squatting in front of him. “Looks like I’m quitting.”

  The crocodile blinked a yellow eye.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I’d stay, honestly. But the old man says the position’s closed. ‘Go get married,’ he says. Just like that.” Harlan winked. “How’s it going with your girlfriend from Cage Fourteen?”

  Pinky declined to answer. He yawned, showing an impressive row of teeth, and set his head back down.

  “I’ll miss you, teeth,” Harlan murmured, scratching the furrodyle behind what would’ve been an ear. The hide was tough and warm.

  Pinky didn’t bite. He only snuffled, content.

  “Take care of the old man,” Harlan whispered. “He acts tough, but without supervision he’ll fall apart.”

  ?

  Morning came clear. As if saying goodbye, the land showed its gentle face: snow glittered in the sunrise so bright it hurt to look at.

  Re stood on the porch, wrapped in a fur vest.

  “I put money in your bag,” he said briskly. “Not much, but it’ll carry you in the capital. And cover the ticket. If that prospector doesn’t cheat you, you’ll have enough for the rest of your life anyway.”

  “I’ll pay the debt back,” Harlan promised.

  “Of course you will. With interest.” Re’s eyes narrowed slyly. “You come back in a couple years and bring real tea. I’m starting to get stomach aches from plain herbs.”

  “Deal.”

  They stood in awkward silence. Goodbyes were hard.

  "Roen." Re's voice turned serious. "Remember one thing. In the Academy they'll teach you complicated schemes, rituals, five-page formulas. But magic isn't ritual. It's understanding. Don't let them stuff your head with garbage."

  “The foundation matters,” Harlan nodded.

  “Exactly. And…” Re hesitated, then reached into his pocket and produced something in his palm. “Here.”

  He tossed it to Harlan. Harlan caught it.

  The same wooden cube. Worn, dented from falls. The very first one.

  “So you don’t forget where you started,” Re grunted, then turned away at once. “That’s it. Get out. Work’s piled up, no time for you…”

  Harlan closed his fist around the cube.

  “See you, mentor.”

  He took the sled and pulled it after him, not looking back until the house nearly vanished around the bend. When he finally turned one last time, Re still stood on the porch and raised a hand.

  Harlan raised his in return, then set his jaw and moved on.

  A long road waited to the south. Toward warmth, people, the Academy. Toward a new life where he was no longer Harlan the miner.

  But first, he had to find Garret.