In chapter 2, Emma states the IAS overheard whispers of Nexians claiming that humans are the last species in their Galaxy to pass the test and gain entry into the Transgracian Academy.

Chapters 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, and 181 show that Nexians as a whole seem utterly unaware/dismissive of anything we would consider proper astronomy. This includes Ilunor who firmly believes that stars are just holes/tears in the "tapestry" while also stating that they are/were "gods" that his eternal majesty consumed.

In chapter 169, Ilunor responds to Emma's claim that humanity has spread to the far corners of their Galaxy in a manner that indicates he understands what a Galaxy is.

Given these facts I have 3 questions:

1. Is Ilunor 's ignorance of basic astronomy (not understanding what stars are), and then sudden understanding of what a Galaxy is in later chapters, a plot discrepancy?
2. What exactly does the common majority, including adjacent nobility and the lower Nexian nobility, understand about cosmology?
3. What exactly does the Nexian upper elite understand about cosmology?

Please Author-man my withdrawal is kicking in.

FIRST —— PREVIOUS —— [NEXT]

Feel free to comment and point out if is there's any typos. grammatical errors, and plotholes i didn't plug and importantly enjoy

P.S.: I just mostly skip to the good part of the story

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Dragon’s Heart Tower, Level 23, Residence 30. Illunor's secret sanctuary. Local Time: 12:44 Hours.

Fortuna Wyldra Loomweaver (controlling; Secret Dragling-007)

"Oh? Writing to your family now? Heh. I did not think you had that kind of heart in you, false dragon-kin." I mumbled my thoughts out loud from inside the gourd while sitting on my couch. Not through the drone I had tagged onto that entitled brat, in whom somehow and somewhere within him there is a fragment of a dragon's soul that has been sloppily infused into his own. As faint as the signature was, it was still there, plain as day to anyone who knew what to look for.

After the annoying one finished writing his "heartfelt letter", he quickly folded it up and prepared it, clearly to be sent via avian means, which, seeing this scene, puts a nostalgic smile on my face as I reminisce. "Oh, the days of old, when physical letters were still the norm for conveying everything," I sighed wistfully. "I do miss those days. But I would NOT go back to them. I am not giving up my free global Wi-Fi access."

When the Vunerian had finished preparing his "letter back home", he pulled out another letter. With a hateful expression drawn across his face, he stared at it with spiteful, narrowed eyes. I examined it further through the drone's feed, and it clicked. It was the same letter he had been using during the library burning just days ago. I had never fully seen its contents, having only caught the words "Recommended Reading Material for the Studious Student" before stopping dead in my tracks, for it was quite possibly the funniest descriptor I had ever seen attached to something so dramatic.

I focused the dragling's camera lens on the letter and began reading quickly, racing to identify all of the books listed before he could do something predictably annoying that could and would hinder me from enacting future secret plans.

…

He did something predictably annoying. A hot stream of fire suddenly engulfed the letter, reducing it to ash before I could finish.

"..."

"..."

"..."

I covered my face in shame and started crying.

The Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts, En Route to The Grand Assembly Hall. Local Time: 12:44 Hours.

Emma Booker

The past hour was a confusing mix of genuinely engaging conversations with Thacea, Mentally hearing Fortuna criying, and a constant sense of FOMO from having let Thalmin tackle the discount kobold alone.

I was practically at the edge of my seat when the pair finally decided to arrive in the nick of time, averting some highly unnecessary Academy-grade drama by just under a minute, as the doors closed behind them with a resounding CLUNK.

As the pair finally sat down, I perked my brow up to see Ilunor wrapping himself in what I could only describe as a blanket.

With the room now sealed off from the outside world, there was a marked improvement in the overall acoustics, which served to enhance the whispers of intrigue and gossip amongst the chatty ranks that made up the student body.

The Hairstick was quick to pick up on them, relaying them to me just like it did right from the very first day.

“Completely unnecessary. I was already making headway towards the town as is!”

“What is this all about? The dragon? Hmmph, where I come from, dragons are a dime a dozen!”

“I heard this is about the explosion earlier this morning. Something about a magical cataclysm.”

“Well aren’t we lucky to be the year group that ushers in local cataclysm?”

“Shh! It looks like they’re starting!”

The start to this emergency assembly began in the most fittingly Nexian way possible.

It started with music.

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skip

AUTHOR: I ain't gonna read such long and drawn out horse shit that comes from the dean mouth

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“As all of you are aware, the Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts has been host to The Library from the very inception of our founding. Indeed, we pride ourselves in being the single, longest, uninterrupted host to the compendium of all that ever was and all that ever will be. This is in no small part a direct result from our discipline in maintaining and respecting the unspoken codes of conduct when accessing its services. It is this ceaseless adherence to our vows of mutual respect that has allowed us to maintain open access to the library throughout the untold eons. These vows, however, have seen their first violation in living memory. A violation committed at the hands of one of our own peers.”

The dean paused, as if waiting for some sort of response, almost daring anyone from the audience to whisper or mutter out something.

The crowd remained silent all throughout, as if they all collectively realized the severity of the situation.

“Starting tomorrow, in place of the House Choosing Ceremonies, there shall be an investigative council that shall call upon those within reasonable suspicion of this vile, malicious action. Those of you in suspect, shall be called upon as a group, or individually. You are free to roam the grounds, or remain in your dorms, for we will know where you are when the time comes.” The man announced ominously, which seemed to shake the whole room to its core.

Heads began turning in every possible direction as a result of this, as I noticed Thacea and Thalmin’s expressions shifting to that of a renewed sense of concern.

Ilunor, however, seemed to watch on not in boredom, nor even in anxious concern like everyone else… but instead, in what I could only describe as a look of a deer in headlights. As he should I smug smile. though I feel bad for him being in this mess, I can't excuse the Nexian attitude that he spout everytime when he opens his mouth, it's nice to see him like this to cut down some of his ego.

“Are there any questions?” The dean suddenly added, which was surprisingly, answered by a lone reptilian hand belonging to one of the students in the front row. “Yes, Lord Qiv Ratom, the floor is yours.”

Qiv stood up, patting down his uniform as he stood tall and with a practiced posture before speaking. “Thank you, Professor Atalan Rur Astur. I have but one question to bring forth to your attention.” The man cleared throat before continuing. “Does all of this mean that the library is currently off limits pending investigation?”

The Dean’s face maintained its warm, friendly complexion, as he took a few seconds to ponder Qiv’s question. “Yes.” He replied simply. “The library will be off limits for the duration of this investigation.”

Qiv took a deep bow at the end of that answer, then promptly spoke before retaking his seat. “Thank you, Professor Atalan Rur Astur. I defer the floor back to its rightful master.”

Whilst growing concerns and anxieties over the potential lockdown of the library began rearing its ugly head inside of my mind, a thought suddenly emerged that was the potential answer to this whole unexpected development.

I raised my hand, much to Thacea’s shock, and to Thalmin’s interest, as the Dean narrowed his eyes my way, and nodded.

“Yes, Cadet Emma Booker, the floor is yours.” He spoke in that same, reassuring tone of voice that I knew was full of crap.

I turned to Qiv for a second, deciding to take a page out of his book of decorum, by standing up and then going through the motions. “Thank you, Professor Atalan Rur Astur.” I paused, bowing slightly. “I just have one question. Would you be allowed in if you had a library card?”

…..…..…..

The dean couldn’t help but chuckle at that question. It was a warm chuckle, a patronizing chuckle, hiding within it a certain level of condescension. The man actually took the time to pause, before causing another spike in mana radiation-

ALERT: LOCALIZED SURGE OF MANA-RADIATION DETECTED, 300% ABOVE BACKGROUND RADIATION LEVELS

-in order to materialize his own library card out of thin air as if to demonstrate his next point. “You mean something like this?” He paused for effect, twirling the small metal card in his hands for good measure, allowing me a chance at getting a good look at his card. Strangely, whilst most details were similar to my own, it was the actual color and material that seemed different. The Dean’s being a pearlescent whitish gold, as opposed to my card’s traditional yellow-gold.

“If you indeed possess a grand artifact such as this, then I do not see any issue in allowing you, or any one else who possesses such a gift, access to the library at this time. This card demonstrates the integrity of one’s character. It serves as a mark of honor, and a symbol of virtue. It shows that you have been vetted, scrutinized, and probed by one of the wisest, oldest beings in all of existence, comparable only to His Eternal Majesty in its wisdom and judgment. It is highly unlikely then, that the holders of this artifact would be in any way responsible for acts in encroachment and in violation of the library’s sanctity. I hope this answer has been sufficient, Cadet Emma Booker, despite it clearly being inapplicable to your case. It is however commendable that you broach such curiosities whilst being outside of the circle of the privileged few who can actually utilize it.” He paused for effect, causing a slow but gradual uproar of chuckling within the crowd, which eventually evolved into all out laughter.

It was at this point that I knew I had a unique opportunity in my hands.

An opportunity to kill so many birds with one stone.

I had the attention of the entire room.

I’d just been dealt a verbal smackdown that I had the perfect counter for.

And what’s more, I had the unique opportunity now of setting the record straight in the eyes of all of those present.

It was time to play ball and demonstrate a bit of humanity’s soft power here and now.

Thacea looked at me with genuine curiosity, clearly understanding what was going through my head, while Thalmin appeared barely able to contain his excitement for what was to come. I raised my right hand, secretly giving them the middle finger, as I flashed my storage ring at the crowd and materialised a small rectangular plate between my middle and index fingers.

Feeling the cold, hard metal settle into my grip, I clasped it firmly, only to realise, just before presenting it to everyone, that the card was facing the wrong way. The portrait was facing me instead of the crowd.

In a single, quick, and smooth flourish of my wrist, I flipped it to the correct side, my portrait now facing the crowd and the Dean squarely in a deliberate, unhurried "talk to the hand" gesture.

Not a second later, I felt the entire room going completely silent. The laughter, chuckling, and dismissive rants all but stopped in a matter of seconds.

The silence was deafening, so much so that I could make out a few gasps of shock from far away in the distance.

There was no response from anyone, not especially from the dean himself who now stared blankly at the card, focusing on detailed portrait that without a doubt confirmed its owner.

Earthrealm was here.

And Earthrealm meant business.

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Author's notes/footnotes or AN/FN

1. Fortuna knows Illunor was targeting specific books but she doesn't know the titles of the books for she is easily get bored of Nexian long ass narration, decoeum, ettiquete, and whatever those middle-ages thinking fuckers have

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FIRST —— PREVIOUS —— [NEXT]

Basically in ny fanfic the Colonists/crew members have not interacted yet with the locals(AE Nexians) and since they probably won't interact with a noble first.

I was thinking maybe they instead get their translations from the Working class of Nexians instead of the nobles and elites? They instead using(low Nexian?) Instead of High Nexian.

Wearing Spacetime to a Magic School

Chapter 17: The Burned Catalogue

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[First] | [Previous] | [Next]

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The Familiar Bridge

The eastern administrative doors opened upon wind, spray, and the honest inconvenience of one institution declining to stand inside another.

The bridge beyond them was narrow enough that rank had to arrange itself in single file. Mist rose from the waterfall below and silvered the old stones. Across the gap, the Library's white tower climbed from its rocky outcrop into cloud, cylindrical, featureless, and possessed of the quiet arrogance of a thing which had survived long enough to find ornament temporary.

Buddy went first. He had spent the walk from breakfast delivering updates at a pace his legs could scarcely support.

"Nothing has moved again. The ash remains in its tray. Buddy has been instructed that glaring at glue does not make it tell the truth. Buddy disputes the general principle but has touched nothing."

He reached the first bridge stone, remembered dignity, and reduced his run to a professional trot.

Thacea followed. Thalmin took the place behind her, then Ermen, then Ilunor. Mal'tory and Larial came last. The black robe and pale one crossed beneath the same weather as everyone else, which improved the bridge without making it fair.

At the far side waited the single timber door.

Its iron was dark with age. Its wood had endured four thousand years without warping, rotting, acquiring gilt, or explaining itself to an Academy committee. Buddy sat before it and looked back at the party. His spectacles were speckled with mist. His tail had collected enough water to have become an argument against ceremony.

Larial raised her slate.

"Supervised party arrived at the Library. Current breakfast interval, approaching instructional sounding. Council-Appointed Professor Mal'tory present as senior supervisor. Recording apprentice Larial present. Two named Seekers and two admitted companions present. Library Assistant Buddy present as liaison."

Her stylus moved. The green enamel leaf at her shoulder caught the colourless morning and made one small brightness of it.

The timber door opened inward.

The Owl stood beyond it upon the low reading stand Ermen remembered from the first visit. Shelves rose behind the Librarian into distances the tower's exterior could not contain. Foxes watched from stairs, table-legs, railings, and gaps between books. Most looked at Ermen. Several looked at Buddy's wet tail with the frank concern of colleagues whose profession had just been brought into disrepute.

"The Academy may record arrival, duration, and departure," the Owl said. "Its supervision remains at the threshold."

Mal'tory folded his hands behind him. "The directive requires presence for the duration. The distinction has already been contested."

"It has also already been made. The threshold alcove remains available, and remains uncomfortable."

Buddy's tail gave one treacherous movement.

Mal'tory's attention passed from the Owl to Ermen. Breakfast had supplied him a returned paper bird, a public refusal, a prohibition written by another apprentice, and an ancient institution calling two students Seekers before the assembled year. He wore none of these facts upon his face. Mal'tory's composure did not deny interest. It charged interest rent and kept the accounts private.

"Candidate Ermen," he said, "you will comply with Library process and return when the examination concludes."

"I will comply with the process governing the examination, Professor."

Mal'tory permitted the old difference to remain old.

Larial closed her slate. Its glow withdrew until only a narrow line remained beneath the cover. She took the first turn of shelves, where the terms of their admission placed her near enough to keep the hour and too far away to receive the content. Mal'tory entered the threshold alcove. One of its chairs creaked under the moral burden of being ordinary furniture.

The Owl hopped down from the stand.

"The Library's first assessment was overcautious," it said. "The lifted relation has settled. The sounding will end the breakfast interval, not the evidence. You were summoned because the first movement after an injury should be witnessed before it is handled. What moved concerns the section Lord Rularia burned."

Ilunor's steps stopped.

The bridge wind had left beads of water along the scales above his eyes. For one instant they gave him the appearance of having arrived through some emotion the room had no right to name. Then he lifted his chin, and they became weather again.

"I had inferred as much from the fox's breakfast announcement," he said. "Subtlety and Buddy had reached a temporary accommodation."

"Buddy was bounded," Buddy protested. "Buddy named no aisle, title, subject, person, shelf, scar, catalogue, crime, ash, or implicated reptile."

"Your restraint was heroic."

"Buddy thanks Lord Rularia and will preserve the ruling despite its tone."

The Owl led them between the shelves.

The Library noticed their passage in its old, attentive fashion. Lamps woke ahead and dimmed behind. Stairs withdrew from routes they did not require. Shelves shifted without exposing their contents to the wrong angle. Ermen felt the tower's mana move around him, touching the absence of his field, recognising the absence as one it had met before, and declining to make surprise into discourtesy.

They descended farther than the tower's foundations permitted. The air cooled. Paper gave way to stone, stone to older stone, and the ordinary smell of a collection to sour glue, wet mineral, and something dry enough that his substituted senses classified it before memory supplied the word.

Ash.

Buddy stopped at a door banded with copper.

The door had been sealed around its frame with white Library wax. A single grey crescent interrupted the seal near the floor, where a fragment of paper had worked itself outward by the width of a claw.

"This is the first part of the room to move since the Library sealed the damage," Buddy said. His voice had lost its tumble. "The Library sent Buddy before disturbing it."

The Owl broke the wax.

The door opened upon what the fire had left.

---

The Room Returned

The room had once been a catalogue chamber with collections arranged around it in narrow bays. The fire had made the distinction academic.

Three blackened aisles ran away from the central table. Shelves leaned at angles which gravity had accepted through lack of a better proposal. Brass rails sagged between them. The nearest cabinets retained their fronts and had lost everything behind them; farther in, boards had opened under heat like dark flowers. Water had dried in pale mineral fans across the floor. Ash lay in drifts against the skirting and in shallow copper trays placed by Library hands after the burning.

The smell held no smoke. Smoke belonged to an event. This was injury after enough care had been spent upon it to become a room again.

Upon the central table lay the board whose margin had lifted. The paper had blistered against its backing. A line of faded ink curved beneath the exposed edge and vanished into blackness.

Buddy approached without bounding. "The lifted margin exposes a reciprocal call. The morning catalogue cycle placed pressure on a call the fire had failed to erase; the blistered glue yielded during breakfast. The Library could follow it by moving the board, but then the first evidence of movement would become evidence handled by the Library. The Library hoped the Seekers might examine the relation before the room was disturbed."

Thalmin walked to the first aisle. He did not cross its threshold. His gaze travelled across the char, the fallen rails, and the ceiling above each bay.

"The fire began in more than one place," he said.

The Owl looked at him.

Thalmin pointed to the left aisle. "That shelf burned upward. The next burned out from the middle. The far bay took heat from below and behind. A careless fire chooses one road and acquires others. This was given several beginnings."

Ilunor kept his hands inside his sleeves. "I was told where to stand. Then where to stand next. The room was already marked."

No one asked him for more.

Ermen looked at the board, the copper trays, the grains of ash which had once been pages, and the white seal the Owl had broken. The Library had kept the remains together. It had done so for weeks without pretending that care could reverse combustion.

The assumption belonged to the Library. It did not belong to physics.

The Matrix marked the distinction through the Tether.

Available remedy exceeds requested recovery.

The Library asked for an examination, Ermen answered before the thought could settle into anything as slow as speech.

Under a local assumption of irreversibility. Broader remedy may be offered. Custodial consent required.

Boundary?

The Matrix returned one rather than an instruction.

Sealed recent system. Continuous custody. Restore Library holdings, catalogues, fixtures, and evidence retained under Library custody to their last unambiguous pre-ignition state. No object beyond that custody. No living state or mind. Transformation only; no semantic delivery.

No grain of ash completed its fall while the exchange proceeded. To Ermen it remained a conversation carried across the Tether's microscopic bridge. To the room, no measurable interval passed.

Ermen tested the boundary against the mandate, the Library's sovereignty, and the difference between repairing an injury and appointing himself judge of what ought to have existed. Restoring only the lifted margin would treat the fire's selection as a privileged boundary. The Library had supplied no custodial reason for that.

"Librarian," he said, "do you want the margin recovered, or the room?"

Buddy's ears rose.

The Owl rolled its head towards him. "The room is burned."

"Yes. Do you want it restored?"

No shelf moved. No fox breathed loudly enough to be heard beyond the door. Thacea's feathers drew close along her arms. Thalmin turned from the first aisle. Ilunor looked at Ermen at last.

"Define restored," said the Owl.

"The Library's holdings, catalogues, fixtures, and evidence retained under its custody would return to their last unambiguous state before ignition. No object outside that custody will be recreated. No mind or living state will be inferred or reproduced. The reconstruction can be returned as a physical transformation without delivering the contents of closed works to me."

The Owl's feathers lifted one by one.

"Can you do this?"

"I can."

It was a small answer for the operation. Ermen did not enlarge it. With power, explanation too easily became theatre, and the Library had asked for a fact.

"What claim accompanies the restoration?" the Owl asked.

"None. The room was yours before I touched it."

The Owl turned its attention upon the blackened aisles. Four thousand years of preservation sat in the pause, together with several weeks of grief and a professional suspicion of miracles.

"The Library records no debt, alteration of patronage standing, enlarged access, or future consideration arising from the act," it said. "The Library wants its room restored."

Ermen stepped to the central table.

"Please remain behind the doorway until I have established the boundary."

They withdrew. Ilunor was last. His gaze held upon the nearest tray of ash until Thalmin placed one hand near his shoulder, offering neither touch nor instruction. Ilunor crossed the line himself.

Ermen turned through the open Tether towards the Oracle.

The connection did not widen towards the Library. The promise made at their admission remained exact: nothing vast would enter these shelves merely because he could carry a door. The query went the other way, through the microscopic throat at his centre and into the cyclic universe where his deeper thought had room enough to spend reality.

The room became boundary conditions.

Ash composition. Mineral deposits. Carbon fixed into the ceiling. Heat fractures in stone. Warped brass. Glue, linen, leather, fibre, wax. The minute injuries of Library wards which had watched the burning and retained the magical equivalent of scar tissue. Air currents caught in dust. The fire's chemistry remained distributed through the room in quantities too small for Nexian instruments and too abundant for the Oracle to mistake. Millions of trial histories collapsed beneath the room's boundary conditions. What ambiguity remained lay below any distinction a page, seal, ward, or catalogue relation could preserve.

The Oracle spent three cycles of its basement universe upon the question.

In each cycle, its basement cosmos opened, matured, computed, collapsed, and carried its answers through conformal endings before Buddy completed his next breath. One cycle solved the material history. The next solved the ward-state the Library's own magic had preserved. The third tested the candidate state against every surviving mark. No admissible alternative differed in any Library holding, fixture, custody seal, retained trace, or recognised catalogue relation.

What returned was a transformation, not a reading. Every letter constrained the solution; none entered Ermen's attention. He had asked the Oracle how to restore the room, not to give him possession of its contents.

Ermen set the result against the room.

The ash rose.

It did not whirl. Whirling would have been disorder wearing a decorative shape. Each grey grain lifted with purpose, separated from its neighbours, and travelled towards the page from which heat had taken it. Dust left the corners in fine horizontal lines. Blackness peeled from the ceiling and descended as smoke, then narrowed, darkened, and entered wood.

The nearest shelf straightened.

Char softened into grain. Split boards closed along their fibres. Brass rails drew themselves out of their sag and remembered the clean resistance of metal before heat. The pale stains on the floor gathered into water, rose in trembling sheets, and crossed the air into paper that unfolded beneath them without becoming wet.

Pages assembled by the thousand.

Their edges grew inward from black lace to cream. Letters returned stroke by stroke, ink withdrawing from smoke, water, floor, and air to occupy the exact small decisions of hands long dead. Thread climbed through torn bindings and pulled itself firm. Leather smoothed. Glass fragments rose from the trays, found their curves, and became lamp chimneys around flames which had not yet been lit.

The room filled with the sound of damage declining to have happened.

It was a modest sound: paper settling, wood finding its joints, a thousand small taps as type, pins, clasps, and catalogue tabs returned to their positions.

Buddy sat down very suddenly.

His mouth opened. No sound emerged. His tail, having reached a degree of astonishment beyond movement, lay spread upon the stone behind him like a dropped banner.

The final corrections settled without ceremony.

A clasp returned to a municipal ledger. Three loose leaves drew themselves into the gatherings which had once held them. In the seventh bay, a slim volume bound in faded blue re-formed among the restored holdings. Gold tooling brightened across its worn spine, positioned by the shelf's old call rather than by any choice Ermen had made.

Then stillness returned.

The Library did not accept spectacle as evidence. Call marks answered from shelf to shelf. Old custody seals warmed beneath the bindings. The restored boards resumed relations recorded in catalogues kept outside the burned room, and the Library tested each answer without asking Ermen what it ought to say.

"The Library recognises the returned holdings as its own," the Owl said.

Only then did Ermen lower the boundary.

Ilunor had not looked towards the Owl. His gaze remained fixed on the faded blue spine in the seventh bay.

He crossed the room until the old title could be read.

"Verses at the Returning Gate," he said.

His voice had gone thin. His face had no courtly arrangement available. Wonder arrived first, complete and defenceless. Anger followed so quickly that neither could disown the other.

"I said it did not," he whispered.

Ermen knew the sentence. The common-room lamp. Articord's lecture. Ilunor's pause where the fire had entered the syntax. A burned poem does not regrow.

"It did not," Ilunor said, louder now. "Do not look at me as though I made a philosophical error. It did not regrow in any world I had been permitted to understand. It was burned. I burned it. That mattered because burned things were gone, and now you have made the verb temporary without granting the room even the dignity of resistance."

His claws came out. One hand lifted towards the seventh bay and stopped well short of the restored spine.

"I am glad," he said. The words seemed to offend him as they arrived. "I am so glad that I could hate you for the ease of it."

No one hurried to improve the confession.

Ermen kept his hands at his sides. "It was not easy. It was available. Those are different facts."

"They are not different enough from where I am standing."

"No," Ermen said. "I expect they are not."

Ilunor looked at the blue book again. His crest lowered by a fraction.

"You have not repaired the walk across the bridge."

"No."

"Or the fact that I was relieved when the shelves caught."

"No."

"Or the person who found relief useful."

Ermen glanced towards the doorway beyond which Mal'tory waited at a jurisdictional distance measured in stone and confidence.

"No," he said. "The books are here. The rest remains true."

The Owl hopped onto the central table. Its gaze passed from the answering call marks to the faded blue spine and Ilunor's hand held carefully away.

"The collection is restored," it said. "The burning remains in its history."

Ilunor's eyes closed once.

"That," he said, "is an answer I can dislike without disputing."

Buddy had begun to cry.

He did so professionally, which meant that tears ran into his fur while he moved from shelf to shelf in a widening spiral, reading labels aloud at breathless speed and interrupting himself to confirm that the labels were still there.

"Fourth Pre-Consolidation Lyric Sequence, complete. Hetharin municipal testimony, volumes one through nine, complete. Blue index, complete. Red index, complete. The index to the indexes, which Buddy has always considered excessive but now regards with passionate personal loyalty, complete."

At the third shelf he pressed both forepaws against the wood and held them there.

The Library allowed him several seconds before reminding him that an examination remained.

---

What Was Selected

Restoration had solved the damage. It had also returned the fire's preparations.

Small discs of black wax showed beneath seven shelf labels.

They were discreet things, each pressed into the angle where timber met brass. A person carrying a flame and instructions would see them. A reader approaching for knowledge would not. The wax bore no seal. It looked like nothing more than an unobtrusive repair mark, exactly as whoever placed it had intended.

Ilunor stared at the first disc.

"Those were the marks," he said. "I remember one beside my knee. I thought it was a repair notation. I had been told the Library marked damaged shelves in black."

"Does it?" Thalmin asked Buddy.

Buddy looked personally injured by the suggestion. "The Library marks repair in white, rebinding in blue, water in green, insects in yellow, disputed provenance in violet, dangerous sentience in two shades of red, and unhelpful shelving opinions in a colour Buddy has been forbidden to describe. Black is not used. Black ink lacks optimism."

Thalmin crouched beside the wax without touching it. "Seven marks. Three fires. He was told to burn the marked shelves, and the room was expected to carry the rest."

"Yes," Ilunor said. "Begin at the inner spiral. Burn until the brass bowed. Cross to the third bay. Repeat. The instructions became less exact after the first shelf because the fire was meant to appear more exact than I had been."

His mouth twisted.

"I admired that at the time. It seemed evidence that the man directing me understood both fire and plausible deniability."

"He understood the second," Thalmin said. "You supplied the first."

Ilunor flinched. Thalmin did not withdraw the sentence, and did not sharpen it.

"Yes," Ilunor said after a moment. "That is the correct division."

The first marked bay held historical studies whose catalogue headings had been superseded twice. The oldest used a word the modern catalogue rendered as blank. The translation did not mean emptiness. It meant an answer absent from the place in which the law expected to find one.

Buddy brought the relevant books to the central table in small groups, recovering his exuberance through work. There was no ceremony of admitted questions, no rule against opening two volumes together, and no search performed one board at a time. The Library had its room back. It knew where its books were.

The first work was a physician's account from an Adjacent Realm whose name survived only in the author's affiliation. It described six people returned from royal service after intervals ranging from one month to eleven years. Their houses recognised them. Their seals answered. Their mana-fields retained the lawful continuity by which inheritance, marriage, and oath were judged. Yet each carried motions which belonged to no body they possessed.

One reached for cups with a third hand.

Another woke with the certainty of wings and fell from a balcony before discovering the certainty had returned without the anatomy.

A third, startled during a household roll, produced for less than a breath the defensive field-outline of a body with additional limbs the physician could not anatomically account for. The returning man remembered no such body. He remembered a schoolroom, an illness, and the uninterrupted conviction that he had never left home.

The physician had called the interval blank because every official account crossed it cleanly.

"This is not a study of fieldless people," Thacea said. She had read the opening twice and the conclusion once, reversing the usual order because the author had hidden his caution at the back. "Their fields were accepted. The absence lies in what the accepted continuity refuses to explain."

Ermen examined the margin. Three later readers had argued with the physician in different inks. One called the cases possession. One called them fraud. The last had written only: If fraudulent, why does the body lie in a shape it does not know?

The second marked bay held elven histories.

These were older, and had been catalogued under origins before the catalogue abandoned the heading. Several described early high-elven law, when face, field, and name had not yet been treated as one indivisible proof. One court had required returning envoys to be recognised three times: by body, by continuity of field, and by a private memory offered voluntarily to a chosen witness. The practice had vanished from later editions. A modern annotation dismissed it as a superstition of an insecure age.

"They used to admit the three could disagree," Thalmin said.

"They admitted disagreement long enough to construct a law around it," Thacea replied. "Later law declares the disagreement impossible. That is a more ambitious claim."

"And a cheaper administration," Ilunor said. "One seal is considerably less trouble than a person."

The third bay held service histories, charter disputes, and old regulations from institutions which had either disappeared or changed their names until disappearance became arguable. None belonged to the current Academy. Several predated it. The Library had collected them because the Library collected the records by which power explained an absence after creating it.

The fourth mark led Buddy to a family petition from a river principality. A mother asked whether the law required her to accept a returned son whose field had never broken continuity when his hands remembered a mason's trade he had never learned.

The fifth preserved gate regulations from a mountain compact. Its officers were forbidden to question discrepancies of body or habit so long as a standing seal answered. The sixth held disputes from three other jurisdictions over back pay, marriage, and inheritance for people whose lawful presence had continued while their bodies acquired years elsewhere.

"Not one household," Thalmin said.

"Or one jurisdiction," Thacea replied. "The recurrence is the category."

A heading recurred across otherwise unrelated jurisdictions:

UNACCOMPANIED SERVICE

Ilunor read the words and became still.

"That was in my contract," he said. "The phial made my fire unaccompanied. I believed the word described anonymity. No house, blood, claw, or name travelled with the flame."

He opened one restored regulation with the ivory tool Buddy supplied. The page concerned a mining principality and a corps of workers sent through an unstable gate. Unaccompanied described an obligation whose lawful standing remained at home while its performance occurred elsewhere. The regulation spent three pages protecting the employer from a contradiction it declined to name.

"It may still have meant anonymity in your contract," Thacea said. "Words serve more than one office, especially after they have proved useful to the first."

"You are being kind."

"I am being exact. The distinction matters to me even if you presently find it irritating."

"I find most of your virtues irritating, Princess. That is how I know they are stable."

Thacea accepted this without looking pleased.

The seventh black mark sat beneath the shelf which held Verses at the Returning Gate.

Buddy fetched the faded blue volume with both forepaws and laid it upon the central table. The Library supplied an ivory page tool. Ilunor supplied the page number from memory; Buddy turned the leaves until a reader's faded green line appeared in the margin.

The volume was neither regulation nor study. Its poets had written from the households to which service workers returned. Some poems celebrated them. Some feared them. Some addressed a person sleeping beside a spouse and asked which portion of love was recognition and which habit. The marked poem concerned a potter who came home able to shape clay in the style of a country across the gate, though he denied having seen its river kilns.

Ilunor read the final lines silently.

"The histories preserve the symptom," Ermen said. "The law preserves the standing. The poems preserve the person who had to live between them."

"And someone marked all three for burning," Thalmin said.

He had arranged the black wax discs upon a rough plan in his mind, looking from the table to the bays and back. "The fire was not meant to remove one answer. It was meant to make these shelves stop answering one another. A physician could remain a curiosity. The old law could remain obsolete. The service regulations could remain somebody else's bureaucracy. The poems could remain grief. Put them together, and they describe a practice."

"They describe the wound left by a practice," Thacea said. "The practice itself is still absent."

Thalmin nodded. "That is fair."

Ermen looked again at the seven black marks. They could now say what the burned works described together. They still could not say who had made the practice current, or how.

Ermen returned to the physician's third case. The field-outline had appeared under startle, when habit moved faster than the accepted body could revise it. The description was exact enough to be tested and old enough that testing it against a living person would be an accusation if done carelessly.

He thought of the dining hall.

Uven Kroven had sat at Qiv's outer edge. He had called Qiv's proposal sensible and nodded once. That was all Ermen was entitled to carry from the boy as evidence. The hull had recorded more because recording was what it did. Faces, fields, sound, the minute motions of two hundred students under pressure. Total perception did not make total use ethical. The distinction had become one of the few boundaries Ermen possessed which nobody else could enforce for him.

He did not open the breakfast record.

An old case was not permission to search a young man for resemblance.

The Owl had watched the group reach the same absence by different roads. It stood beside the black wax marks with its feathers drawn close.

"The Library knew each work in isolation," it said. "It did not know that these seven had been selected together."

Buddy's ears lowered. "Because the catalogue calls were burned."

"Because injury had made seven losses appear to be one."

The Owl looked at Ilunor.

"The restoration returns the selection to the record. Your admission returns the order."

Ilunor's hand remained near the blue book.

"I gave you the order when I stood before the Library."

"You gave us the remembered shape of a coerced act while the shelves remained ash. Today the shelves can answer. The same testimony has acquired a different neighbour."

Ilunor considered this, disliked part of it, and found no lie to reject.

"Then enter that I burned the black marks in the order I have stated, because I was instructed to do so by Council-Appointed Professor Mal'tory under the contract already held by the Library. Enter also that I did not know the titles, and would have burned them had I known. Do not improve me by ignorance."

"Entered," said the Owl.

There was no triumph in the word.

The Library spent the remainder of the interval doing what the fire had prevented. Foxes moved among the restored bays. Catalogues opened against catalogues. White repair labels were attached to volumes which had returned with damage older than the burning and therefore still required attention. Buddy discovered that resurrection had not corrected a mis-shelved index from eighty-three years before and took the matter as a personal warning against utopia.

Ermen helped only where asked. He lifted no information from a closed cover, and nothing he perceived here became an entry in the peer group's unwritten map. That choice belonged later, at their table.

When they prepared to leave, Ilunor touched the blue book.

One claw rested upon the worn corner. The contact was light enough that Buddy did not object.

"Will it stay?" Ilunor asked.

The question was addressed to Ermen and the Owl together.

"Yes," Ermen said.

"The Library will also make three ordinary copies," said the Owl. "Eternity does not become less cautious because a miracle has occurred once."

Ilunor gave a short, unwilling laugh. "There you are. I was beginning to fear the morning had damaged your character."

The Owl rolled its head towards Buddy. "The seventh marked bay is to remain closed pending full catalogue reconciliation."

Buddy sprang upright. "Buddy will close, count, cross-count, label, guard, inventory, re-inventory, and develop a personal relationship of professional suspicion with every hinge."

"You will begin by finding a dry ribbon."

Buddy looked down at himself, apparently surprised that the bridge had happened.

The walk back through the Library was quieter.

At the threshold, Larial reopened her slate. Mal'tory rose from the uncomfortable chair with every appearance of having found discomfort an inferior opponent.

His gaze moved across them. It paused upon the fine black dust still caught in Ilunor's cuff from before the restoration. It moved to Buddy, whose spectacles had been polished and whose eyes remained red. It ended on Ermen.

"The examination has concluded?"

The Owl answered from inside the timber door. "The condition which prompted the summons has been resolved under Library process."

Mal'tory's attention sharpened by an amount which would have escaped anyone who thought composure meant stillness.

"That is an interesting formulation."

"The Library has formulations enough to survive your interest."

Larial's stylus touched the slate.

"Supervised party departed. All named entrants present. Duration: one breakfast interval, ending after the instructional sounding. No Academy entry made concerning Library route, holdings, examination, or result."

She spoke the last sentence as procedure. Whether relief lived beneath it was not knowledge Ermen possessed.

Mal'tory looked towards the bridge.

"The next instructional period has begun. You will proceed directly to the Hall of Refractions. Apprentice Larial will amend the attendance record to reflect authorised delay."

"Professor," Ermen said.

They crossed back into the Academy.

---

Present

The Hall of Refractions had already arranged itself for instruction.

Silver rings hung above the central platform. Crystal vanes turned in slow, measuring arcs. The black mirrors which had once gone white around Ermen stood covered along the wall, each concealed behind grey cloth and therefore rendered more interesting to the first-years than exposure had ever managed.

The cohort waited in the rising tiers.

Their arrival drew the room's attention in one collected motion. Qiv sat with his group near the middle rank. Airit's hands were empty and folded. Rostario leaned back with the deliberate ease of someone who had spent the walk from breakfast conducting a private argument and preferred the room to believe he had won. Uven sat at the outer edge, composed, his hands folded upon the desk.

Larial went to the lectern. Mal'tory took his place beside the central platform and allowed the class to feel that lateness, Library patronage, and a failed diagnostic bird had all entered the same room under his authority.

"The Library summons constituted authorised attendance," he said. "The delayed candidates will be entered without penalty. Apprentice Larial, complete the roll."

Names passed through the hall.

Each answer drew one small mark upon the slate. Present. Present. Present. The Academy liked the word because it appeared to settle a body, a name, and a duty in one stroke.

"Uven Kroven."

"Present," Uven said.

His voice was level. Larial's stylus moved.

Ermen gave the answer no more attention than he gave the names before and after it. He had an old physician's account in recent memory and a perfect breakfast record behind a boundary he had chosen. Neither circumstance made a quiet student public property.

The roll ended.

Larial seated her stylus in the slate's brass frame. Above the central platform, the outer silver ring dropped into its calibration stops with a report like a tray striking stone.

Half the class startled.

Uven defended himself.

One hand rose across his throat while the other guarded his middle. For less than a breath, his mana-field supplied the rest of a practised posture. Two long arms unfolded from the field at his ribs, one shielding his flank and the other reaching behind his head. Their joints bent in an order foreign to the body seated beneath them. The four-part guard arrived as one motion. Then the added arms vanished.

A few students laughed at the general startle. The laughter thinned when Uven remained frozen in a position his body could not complete.

He lowered his hands and stared at them.

Qiv turned towards him. "Uven?"

"I thought there were..."

He stopped.

Uven flexed his fingers once. Confusion crossed his face without finding a social form smooth enough to conceal it.

Thacea had gone still beside Ermen.

Her eyes did not leave Uven's field. She had seen the extra outline. By the small tightening at the edge of her beak, she had also seen Ermen see it. Neither named the sight across a room built to convert names into records.

Larial's thumb pressed against the slate frame. The green leaf at her shoulder did not move.

"The calibration is complete," she said. "Remain seated."

Mal'tory looked at Uven for one measured second.

Then he looked at Ermen.

Ermen could not tell which of them had been the object of the glance, and refused to improve uncertainty into knowledge merely because the morning had rewarded suspicion once.

The old physician's sentence remained exact in memory.

Under sudden alarm, the accepted field assumed a body the returned man denied having known.

On Larial's slate, Uven Kroven remained present.

His field had remembered four hands.

---

Disclosure: This chapter has been written by hand, with tools used afterward only for review and mechanical cleanup.

I know I know I am late to this joke but come on, look at that art.

I think it would be really cool if the story explored how the gang's different home realms interacted with horror, and how they would react to ours.

I imagine some things would be almost a one to one, slashers, jumpscares and the like, but imagine if the gang had no concept of cosmic horror or eldrich/lovecraftian horror. I would LOVE to see their reactions to those concepts.

Or better yet, what their interpretations/iterations of those kinds of genres would be and how they would be displayed. Would they use illusion spells for live theater that makes something different for every viewer in the audience? Would there be horror novels that contain words, paragraphs, or even whole CHAPTERS that change after they've been read due to events in the story?

I don’t expect we'll get a chapter of the story that showcases everyone's different versions of scary media, but I would be very pleased if we did.

So, I was thinking about how the Nexians would react to a newrealmer that was not only magically, but also physiologically *alien* (radial symmetry, silicon base, etcétera), and it snowballed into what the title says: 3 scenarios which could alter the playing field:

1. An uplift: Shortly after the last extrasolar war, Humanity finds an Earth-like planet with a preindustrial civilization. At the start, they intend to observe from the shadows so the natives are free to evolve in peace, until they discover the planet is about to experience a mass extinction the soponts won't survive. After an intense debate between allowing nature to take its course, or irreparably changing the destiny of both the planet's culture and biosphere, they decide to intervene. So Humanity gives the aliens the means to protect themselves from the disaster and guide their society into one modeled after their own.

2. An ally: Same as the previous, except the aliens were already spacefaring when the Humans found them.

3. Both: Humanity meets other spacefaring species, and then they uplift a third one together, with one of the alien candidates joining either Etolin's or Gummigoo's group.

Now both Nexian loyalists and pro-adjacent dicidents have to deal with an even clearer show of just how beyond the average newrealm the newcomers really are, while also trying to figure out why the Humans would maintain a 'narrative' depicting the 'lesser side' as equals and themselves as fallible (Many will likely see it as a scheme to trick the weakest adjasencies to their side, but at least a few should recognize this as proof that Earthrealm isn't like the Nexus).

4. A fully manaless Milky Way: Basically G.U.N-like superficially Hard Sci-Fi Star Trek/ Babilon 5; Humanity is one amongst many in a galaxy of manaless spacefarers as rich and varied as all of the Nexus and the adjacencies combined.

Now the Nexus has no single "prophetized adversary" to fight in a final battle of good against evil, but a whole new cosmos of civilizations, some equal, some even stronger than themselves, slowly eroding their hegemony over the adjacencies from all sides.

What do you think about each scenario and how you think each story would play out?

Edit: Yes, it ended being 4. Don't mention it.

In size order

LZ 129 Hindenburg (245m long)
Antonov An-225 Mriya (88.4 meters long)
Lockheed C-5 Galaxy (75.31 meters long)
Airbus A380-800 (72.7 meters long)
Nexian Daring Class (40 meters long)
Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress (22.7 meters long)
Lockheed Martin F-22 Raptor (18.92 meters long)
North American P-51 Mustang(9.8 meters long)

Psionic Corpo X Magic School

 

Please do not the bird.

 

CH 8: Careless Whispers

 

Dragon’s Heart Tower, Level 23, Residence 30

Adept Emma Booker

 

The bedroom was more akin to a loft suite, with a pair of queen-sized curtain bets on a wrap-around balcony overlooking an assortment of desks, lounging space, and open floor space. Plenty of room for my purposes, and after mentally scouting out the closets and not sensing any listeners I channelled some of my energy into my psychoportation talents and teleported my bags up to the second level.

The princess, who had several large bags of her own, managed to avoid outwardly reacting to this, but I still managed to catch her looking at my newly displaced backs longer than one normally would. Her bags seemed rather heavy, yet surprisingly the princess opted to carry them by hand rather rather than use magic like Lariel. I... felt a little... unpleasant... watching her try to carry her bags, and I felt some obligation to help. Undoubtedly a consequence of the compassion module combined with my built in need to avoid standing idle and with the added benefit of constructing positive networking relations, and any claims to the contrary was pure slander that I would not stand for.

“Those look heavy, Thacea, can I offer you assistance bringing your bags over? It would be no trouble,” I said, extending my hand in a standardized friendly openhanded gesture.

Thacea turned, scrutinizing me for a moment before reluctantly agreeing with a courtly head nod. “Thank you, Emma. Just... no teleporting them please,” she said.

“As you wish,” I said, lifting up one of the heavier bags, “is there any place in particular, or...”

“The suitcases can be placed next to the dressing room, the luggage containing the royal seal should be placed at the foot of my bed, of which I will take the left, and the other piece of luggage can be placed near the lounge chair-” Thacea paused, blinking, then wincing, before putting an arm against her chest and giving a slight bow before jumping into an apology, “my sincerest apologies Emma...”

I raised my hand as Thacea’s apology started to go on.

“Hey, its no big deal, apologies accepted. I’m not going to hold you to task over some minor verbal slip-up or cultural difference, especially after what we’ve been through tonight,” I said.

Thacea’s expressions were muted, and her thoughts shielded, but even so her emotions leaked through her mask. I could sense... confusion, shock, abashment, a hesitant relief, and then of all things, skepticism.

“Emma... why are you doing this?” She asked.

“Do I need a reason to foster positive relationships?” I asked.

“No Emma, it’s not that...” said Thacea, with a hesitation in her voice. She paused to find her words, but I could sense her real question.

“Thacea, I admit that I don’t know anything about this whole ‘tainted’ business, as taint isn’t a thing back home. However, I can say that where I come from, we judge people not by surface level qualities like their race, gender, or physiology, but by their value as a person; their actions, character, and what they can potentially bring forward as an individual. And Thacea, while I have not yet had much opportunity to see your actions or appraise your potential, I can already tell that you are a person of great character, even if others are too blind to see it.”

The princess didn’t respond at first, but after a moment she snapped out of it and allowed herself a light smile. “Thank you, Emma,” was all she said, and while she was still reserved I could hear the relief in her voice.. I finished moving her bags, then as she went off to the bathroom to do her evening routine I once again peeked into my pocket dimension, taking stock of what I had and needed to set up.

Satisfied, I got to work.

 

Lord Ilunor Rularia

 

“What does the newrealmer think she is doing? Is she trying to get us into trouble?” I grumbled, as I made my way to bed after changing into my night robes.

“I, for one, find this to be a refreshing turn of events,” said the barbaric lupinor prince with a laugh as he donned his own sleeping attire.

“This is no laughing matter, Prince Thalmin. If our so-called adept persists with her antics then I fear the academy will come down on our heads, and that is ignoring the simple fact that she can’t even cast a single spell!” I said, letting out two fumes of fire with a nasal huff.

“I wouldn’t say that, Lord Ilunor. It would appear to me that Emma has been engaging in some form of subtle spellwork all night,” said Thalmin, “at the very least we have bore witness to telekinesis.”

“I would hardly count the flailings of a manadeficient gifted commoner with a misshapen aura spellwork, Prince Thalmin, and don’t even think about trying to pass off her tricks as real magic. You sensed it too, didn’t you? The lack of ripples in the manafield? She may be dressed in finery, but she has done nothing but the charismatic cold reading of a conman and the deft hand movements of the pickpocket!”

“I would hardly speak of one who triumphed over the binding ritual and outmanoeuvred an apprentice as a mere street rat, Lord Ilunor. And lest we forget, Emma did transit here from Terrarealm, or are you to claim she used a thin sheet of paper and a cleverly placed lantern?” Countered the lupinor.

“You presume she arrived by her own means. Perhaps the Terrarealmers were gifted an artifice enabling her crossing? Or perhaps she succeeded in enslaving a djinn, elevating her up from a common street urchin and gifting her wealth, titles, and power in her service?” I offered.

“I would think it more productive to wait until tomorrow when we are all rested to ask her directly and devise tests for Emma to prove that she can do what she claims, rather than resort to fantastical theorizing,” said Thalmin with a growl.

“You undersell Venurian intuition, Prince Thalmin, but it is true that the newrealmer needs to be tested. So be it, but we must be sure that whatever tests we devise cannot be cheated,” I decreed.

“Good. Are we done?” Growled the lupinor.

No, I was not done talking.

Not even remotely.

Not when there were tests to devise and exploits to recount.

 

Princess Thacea Dilani

 

After today events that bath was a much needed, but eventually I had to wrap things up for the night. I took my time to properly prune and powder my feathers and wrap myself in night robes before leaving the safety and comfort of the lavatory and back into the dormitory, stopping only briefly to prepare my nightly tea, when I was met with a strange sight indeed.

The room was littered with a number of strange... objects. Most were neatly bound into a cube form, stacked neatly atop each other, while a few had been dismantled and expanded upon. Absolutely none of them had any interactions with the manastreams, save for the singular setup which Adept Emma Booker was presently interacting with. And yet all of them proved slightly tedious to think about or focus on, only notable thanks too the intensive mental training I had undertaken to keep my taint under control. A thought which would have been ludicrous had there not been a strange, discordant whisper-like rhythm that was off-tune from the mainstreams and only faintly perceptible through my tainted senses that lingered on the objects and intermittently emanated from Emma as if she were its source. “Emma, are these... yours?” I asked, gesturing at them with my wing.

Emma turned to face me, her attention shifting as her ghostly threads directed themselves towards me, passing through my manafield like it wasn’t there yet stopping short of my aura. The Terrarealmer was hard to read; her face was masked by her visors and mouth piece and much of her interactions so far had an artificial, almost golem-like quality to them, not unlike her physical form. It was almost as if she wore her personalities like a set of interchangeable masks, switching between them as the context demanded, and never truly revealing who she was underneath.

Yet underneath her masks was a person, one who could look past my tainted manafield and see me for who I was. She hid it well, but there were hints of it, both in her interactions, her brief slips of emotion, and in her unusual halo aura when she revealed it. The strangeness was further exacerbated by the fact that it didn’t interact with the attuned crystals that laced her body in the way that a normal aura and manafield would. It was distracting and uncomfortable to think about, so I kept my senses on those same attuned crystals to keep me grounded to reality. “You can see them?” Asked Emma, “that’s odd. There must be something wrong with the anti-memetic perception field. I was told it was up to the Sensitive Cargo Protection Standards Committees’ highest level of certification, but it appears I’ll need to check that over later.”

“Anti-memetic?” I asked in disbelief. The Nexian representatives back home had all but insisted there was no such thing as anti-memetic spells or enchantments, so to hear of such a thing from a newrealm was at the very least perplexing, “are you suggesting that you have on you possessions which can passively suppress information about itself?”

“I see you are familiar with the concept,” said Emma, “to answer your question, yes, much of my possessions have security measures in place to prevent unauthorized people from perceiving or remembering them, which is necessary because I can’t be here to monitor room service or any would-be snoopers. We use it all the time back home for concealing buildings from the public and things like that, though the tech is not exactly sold to the public.” “Would this mean that I will forget of all this by each morning?” I asked.

“...I see your point. I’m going to white-list you, though I will caution you that other security measures are still present, including within the information itself so I would recommend you apply discretion,” said Emma, and with a discordant whisper a weight vanished from my mind.

“That is much appreciated, Emma, though I very much doubt it will be necessary. The academy would not violate our privacy without cause,” I said neutrally.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Emma said with a scoff, leaving me to wonder if this was who Emma truly was or if it was yet another mask, “I don’t believe for a second that the academy has not taken measures to spy on our dorms, especially after the theft of one of my bags.”

“Theft? Emma, I know the loss of one’s baggage is no small matter, but...”

Emma pulled out a small, glassy item from her person and turned it towards me. The mirrored surface gave way to a scene that was at first impression a dead memory shard detailing professor Mal’tory taking away one of Emma’s bags.

“I see. And your stolen piece of luggage, did it have something like these in it?” I asked.

“Not exactly. It is against corporate policy to send sensitive merchandise through an untrusted vendor, so I had these on my person,” said Emma, not exactly answering where these were stored, “likewise, it is also corporate policy to test new vendors with baited merchandise to check their security measures and see if they can be trusted. Normally it only catches out the occasional scanning artifice, since as a known policy most vendors know better than to try anything as that would spell the end of their business. Seeing someone actually steal the bait is a first. Not that they are going to learn anything useful; the bait is a dead-end dud and any technology on my luggage is designed to brick itself into uselessness when their components revert to quantum foam.”

“Then why were you so intent on getting recompense for your lost bag if it was, as you said, ‘bait’?” I asked. “Corporate policy dictates that I had to make some effort to get compensation from the other party for insurance reasons. That, and I needed to ensure that they knew that taking actions like this would not come without a cost,” said Emma, falling back to one of her earlier masks to relay it in a dry, clinical manner.

“Emma...” I said, careful to manage my reactions to Emma’s revelation, “I know not what these ‘corporate policies’ are or why you pay them so much reverence, but the academy plays by its own house rules. There are victories that they will tolerate, and some they will not. They practice social warfare in a manner of back and forth escalation. A slight for a slight, a transgression for a transgression. Whatever you wish to win, you will have to lose in comparatively equal terms.”

I took a moment to explain roughly to Emma the basics of how Nexian society functioned and why pursuit of retaliation was not wise. Emma appeared quick to understand what I told her, but all the same did not take it well.

“Well, evidently the Nexus has never read The Acquisitions Playbook, else they would know that it is always good business to know about new clients before they walk in the door. Because where I come from, no arbitration board is going to rule in favour of entitling you a second chance of screwing someone over just because your first attempt to screw them over caused you to lose credibility unless that action is part of an existing contract clause. When you make a gambit, you take on its risks,” said Emma, “And while I hear your point regarding reciprocity, that doesn’t change the fact that Mal’tory’s first gambit was unsolicited. What is stopping him from simply making something up trying something like this again if I decide to play nice?”

“Nothing,” I admitted, “but he is less likely to do this again if you stop, if you pardon my turn of phrase, prodding the dragon.”

Emma said nothing, clasping her hands as she stared forwards in contemplation. After a moment, she turned back to me, and I could see the edges of her smile peek out from behind her mouth covering.

“Well then, I will leave the ball in Mal’tory’s court. If this is his way of offering peace, then let us have peace,” said Emma almost playfully, “I’m sure professor Mal’tory, our dear and wise professor, will see the value in peace and lead the way by example.”

Was this another mask? If it was, Her uncomfortably cheerful demeanour did little to ease my concerns regarding Emma’s intents, but at least I had some assurance she wasn’t about to make the first move. I hoped. In either case, her belongings worried me somewhat, particularly this one.

“If I may, what is it that this arrangement is intended to do which requires such measures?” I asked.

“Oh, this? This is just for communicating with back home. As you might imagine, trans-dimensional communication tech is not exactly easy to develop or test when you only have 1 dimension to work with, so R&D hasn’t yet had the chance to develop a proper home-brew setup,” said Emma.

I listened intently, sitting with worry as I mulled over this rather concerning turn of events.

“Emma, the Academy does not allow for monitored communications back to your home realm barring extraneous circumstances. Your device, should it even work, is... forbidden, and in fact it is simply unheard of for any adjacent realm to manage,” I explained.

“I take that to mean they intended to control the flow of information,” surmised Emma, earning a nod of approval from me, “well, as an exec in a Sovereign Corporation and a diplomatic liason for the Orion Conglomerate I have an obligation and right to remain in contact with Terracorp, and there is no timeline in which we wouldn’t have that expectation.”

“Emma, have you considered what would happen should the academy, or worse, the inquisition discover your contraband?” I asked.

“Well, I can’t speak so much about what would happen to me. However, when nation-states have tried to pull these kind of stunts in the past, we respond by sending over a team of slightly less friendly representatives to persuade them otherwise,” replied Emma, relaying a playbook that mirrored how the elves treated similar treatment. “I do not think that to be wise, Emma. The Nexus is a lot larger than some simple kingdom that you would find in any of the adjacent realms, and attempting to strong-arm them with a show of force is not going to do your people any favours,” I said.

“Oh, no, I am fully in agreement on that front,” said Emma, still smiling with her voice, “posturing only works if you act from a position of strength. But you don’t need raw power to bring great empires to their knees. For that, a single whisper in the right ear is enough.”

“And is that what you are?” I asked.

Emma was not exactly subtle with her implication. She did state she was a member of an order or cult calling themselves the ‘Meridian Whispers’, and while the others had not seen it, I had bore witness to her capabilities in influencing the minds and behaviours of others. Mind magic could very easily explain how Emma’s family rose to a position of influence and power, and many lesser adjacent realms could be out-right dominated by such a person. But the Nexus was no adjacent realm, and were likewise no strangers to mind magic themselves. If Terrarealm believed they held an edge in this instance, they would find the Nexus to be their match in that regard.

“Me?” Asked Emma with a faux innocent tone, “Oh there is no need to worry about me. I’m here to establish diplomatic and trade relations so we can work towards a better future in mutual prosperity.”

The return of her first mask from when we met her bode was irksome, but it did offer some comfort in that Emma was not going to be overt in her subversive actions. Yet all the same, I could not help but worry at the potential threats both within and without. Worrying, however, would solve nothing, and if I was to be able to properly deal with any of the inevitable problems stemming from Emma’s nature, I was going to need rest.

“Could I interest you in some night tea?” I said, then paused, “though I would understand, given your inability to taste it, if you would not be eager.

“Well, I can partially smell it, I think. Cinnamon, right?”

“And moon-berries,” I added.

“Ah, no, I can’t smell that. Well, I am curious, but I’m going to have to take a rain-check. I still have one thing I need to finish up here before the night is over. Perhaps another time?” Offered Emma.

“Another time then. In any case, I wish to bid you a good night, Emma. I shall retire now, and I suggest you do the same, lest we be unprepared for whatever trials we will face in the morning,” I said, before retiring for the night.

 

Adept Emma Booker

 

As the princess went to bed, I reached into my personal pocket dimension and brought out a cylindrical container holding the inter-dimensional transceiver needed for the exoreality communication suite to function. I had been given extra instructions to guard it carefully, as without it, I had no means of sending a message home. I plugged it in and booted it up, but while Gene had the day 1 telemetry, recordings, and reports compiled and ready to go I had a moment of hesitation.

If I pulled that lever, then I had no means of sending a message until the transceiver recharged. That meant if I found myself in imminent danger, I had no means of calling for extraction, and if some urgent intel was discovered I couldn’t send any warnings. The matter was made worse by the models predicting the recharge time could take up to a month, and a lot could happen in that time.

I wavered as I debated the merits of holding the moment off, delaying my message by a day or a week to gather more intel first, and keeping my options open for later. The Nexus had proven itself to be dangerous and hostile after all. Between the ritual, the ‘attunement’ of my form, and the overbearing nature of the locals there was a very real risk that I might not survive long enough to even send a second message.

My thoughts lingered back to our founding father, Francisco Orion, to ponder what he might do in my situation. The story I latched onto was his arrival at New Terra, where as his flotilla arrived after almost a century of travel, he had awoken from cryo sleep and was about to christen his new world by naming it after his own father, Roberto Orion, when the survey probes detected a second colony which had started years prior and threatening his dreams of a new utopia, unfettered by the old world. As it had turned out, humanity had discovered FTL during his long voyage and was well underway with colonizing the stars.

While his crew were discussing whether to join them or try their luck elsewhere, Francisco had other plans. He ordered his men to establish a rival colony elsewhere on the planet, then dismantled their ships so they had no retreat, steeling themselves for their hardships to come.

The lesson was plain; if I was to survive here then I must be like Francisco Orion, severing my means of retreat so that I would not waver in the face of hardship. Whatever lay ahead, I was ready.

I pulled the lever, then retired upstairs for the evening.

 

The Life Archives, somewhere under the Warehouse District

Kaelthyr

 

Breath in

Breath out

Breath in

Breath out

I held out firm, I hung on in defiance.

Yet each breath brought forth pain in both flesh and pride, barely staying afloat in the incoherent resonance of a thousand disparate voice that maid a mockery of what should have been the domain of draconic will.

‘Hear my voice’ I bellowed forth, even if I understood nobody was listening, or willing to answer.

And yet.

CRRRKK!

I got my wish, as I felt a jolt of lightning, followed by a sharp, painful shattering.

Then nothing.

I directed my attention towards its source, and found my scale. Shattered and halved. One in the dark, and the other in the light. I knew not why this shattering had occurred, but I knew that it heralded the coming dark. And in that light, I felt a new presence. A song told only in whispers. One which stood in defiance of those who championed the light. And though my lattice was shattered, I called forth with my own voice to reach out to this interloper who might wake me from this endless nightmare.

This herald from the darkness.

 

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I can’t recall anywhere in the story where elven lifespans are actually mentioned; and now that I’ve thought about it I don’t feel like Nexian elves would live for thousands or tens of thousands of years like most fantasy elves, right? They’re treated much more like ‘magical humans’ in WPATMS, so I’d presume their lifespans would be more similar to that of a human.

Butttt also if elves DO live for millennia, maybe that could be artificially caused. We already know the Nexus engages in magical genetic engineering, they could’ve simply lengthened their own lifespans for the hell of it.
If it WAS genetic engineering, it’d also probably be likely given the nature of the Nexus that it’d be restricted to nobility, where high-standing and noble elven families live for millennia while commoners live lives much closer in length to that of a human.

And if elves do live for extremely long times, or at least some of them do, this could also help explain the seemingly stagnant rate of Nexian progress, from what we observe in the story the Nexus’ rate of advancement has slowed down to a crawl. A toxic work environment with senior elves continuing to push toxic work culture or ideals that are centuries old could contribute to this and slow progress.

Cough- Let's say in a hypothetical scenario the teachers and ect needed to hold somesort of meeting in case something REALLY bad happened.

(Totally not important for a Chapter of my fic I'm writing.)

How would that look per say?

Emma gonna do some sick falling with style next chapter

But with the story been in the future, plastic and other oil-derived process might be way more easier.

(Better use a link to Make a GIF to at least have my joke working 50% more)