The questions continued for another ten minutes, hesitant but more respectful. A few were even thoughtful.
Vellichor answered each with precision, never condescending.
He deflected praise. He didn't offer anecdotes unless asked.
But somehow, everything he said felt like it mattered.
When the last hand lowered, he nodded and turned back to the lectern. He rested both hands on it, leaning forward just slightly.
"Let's begin," he said.
He cleaned the dusty blackboard behind him.
"Construct-crafting, or golemancy, or whatever else it's identified as, is one of the oldest forms of structured spellbinding," Vellichor began. "Long before codified schools of thought around evocation, enchantment, transmutation, or the like, people shaped things. They made servants. Tools. Guardians. Often with more intuition than understanding."
He took a piece of chalk and began sketching as he spoke.
The drawings were rough diagrams of ancient and simple-looking golems, stone torsos, and clay cores.
"In early eras, golems were powered by soul fragments. Or, worse, borrowed spirits bound in unwilling servitude. Some of you will know that this practice is outlawed in all civilized dominions, and yet it is still replicated by lesser mages who wish to cut corners and discard ethics. This class will not teach shortcuts. It will teach patience. Theory. Precision. You will craft your golem by hand, and it will be dirty work. If you are not interested in such things, you are welcome to leave."
Of course, no one left.
He nodded, as if satisfied. "Golemancy sits at the intersection of four core disciplines-" He crossed his arms in a gesture, "alchemical bonding, glyph carving, mana tethering, and elemental resonance. If you are poor at even one of these, your construct will collapse. Or worse: misinterpret."
There was nothing flashy about this.
And yet…
The class leaned in.
Even those who had dismissed the art as obsolete, who thought themselves above sweat- and mud-stained workshops and manual spellwork, were silent now. Listening.
Because their teacher cared about the art. Not with sentiment, but with a kind of obsessive clarity. Like the craft itself had once saved his life, and he had never quite forgiven it.
He's not just versed. He's fluent. And he's not bored by it. He loves this.
Lucien, silently watching, found himself surprised by how interested he was.
He imagined the Dread Mage had once fought with golems at his side long ago. An army of them at his beck and call.
A striking image, as likely as anything else Lucien had heard.
"This will be your first assignment," Vellichor said, drawing a basic shape on the blackboard. "You will craft a body, a functional shell. It must not fall apart. And you can make it as ugly as you want."
A ripple of nervous laughter passed through the class.
"Your materials are limited," he went on. "No transmuted alloys, no sentient cores, no blood-ink. Just clay or mud. If you can't build something under those conditions, you cannot build anything at all."