Hal tugged at Lanen's sleeve, and the group rose to investigate the commotion.
Sheets of crimson parchment bore gleaming silver script:
"The Academy proudly congratulates first-year students Lanen Banneret, Scott Silvermoon, and Jennifer Silvermoon for achieving exceptional scores on their graduation examinations!"
Before the posting attendant could retreat, the bulletin board became the epicenter of a swelling crowd—as if proximity might confer some fraction of academic brilliance.
Most spectators were upperclassmen. Murmurs rippled through the throng:
"...Incredible luck..."
"...Luck? That's transcendent talent..."
"...Elven aptitude is legendary, but this exceeds..."
"...They're in my lectures!..."
"...Banneret—the kidnapper catcher? I thought he was just brawn..."
"...Preposterous! True mages transcend physique..."
"...Wait—isn't that Lanen himself?..."
The trio found themselves besieged by wide-eyed peers until, with considerable effort, they extricated themselves from the adulatory mob—a sensation eerily reminiscent of their post-heroics fame.
Every faculty member they subsequently encountered delivered congratulatory shoulder claps with exaggerated nonchalance, as if to say "Fine work, though I shan't dignify it with words." Only the Magical Zoology professor broke protocol with verbal praise.
"Why are all our instructors out today?" Hal wondered as they navigated the corridor.
"Judging by their trajectory," Lanen observed, "likely summoned to the Headmaster's emergency meeting."
Simultaneously, Royal Capital – Mage Association Branch
Several robed figures set down identical reports in perfect synchronization.
"Gray Soth grows more insufferable," growled a hooded elder, his beard quivering above the document. "Using emergency channels for his provincial bragging?"
The offending parchment—Lorenth Branch's examination summary—bore a glaring scarlet postscript:
"Of particular note: Three Lorenth first-years achieved exceptional graduation results. This unequivocally validates our revolutionary pedagogical investments. Recommend all branches adopt Lorenth's model henceforth."
"That formatting was my mistake," muttered a crimson-bearded mage, massaging his temples. "I never thought he'd weaponize the style guide."
"Shameless," drawled a colleague stargazing from his reclined position.
The branch chief frowned. "The statistics are objectively impressive. Had Soth employed tact..."
"Then he wouldn't be Soth," the stargazer interjected without shifting his gaze.
A grudging silence fell.
"Truthfully," Crimson-Beard admitted, "were these my students, I'd have broadcasted it via fireworks."
"Your capital cohort hasn't produced such talent in decades," the stargazer noted mildly.
"Elven excellence is expected," said the chief suddenly. "But this Banneret... we'll monitor him."
No objections surfaced.
"Excellent! I'll draft a report for headquarters immediately—via emergency channel, of course!" the chief declared with sudden vigor.
The collective mental sigh practically vibrated the crystal chandeliers.
Blissfully unaware of his burgeoning reputation, Lanen wrestled with his Advanced Studies Application Form.
What should have been a simple procedure became an ordeal.
Since receiving the parchment, he'd been besieged by influencers, proxies, and outright spies—all demanding his "careful consideration" despite his repeated declarations to continue at Lorenth's Atlan Intermediate Arcane School. His eventual solution: Completing the Institution Preference section first, then wordlessly presenting it to each new interrogator.
Peace, at last.
He wondered how the elf siblings were faring.
"I expect great things, child." Mrs. Lynas accepted his returned librarian badge with misty eyes. "Your parents would marvel at you."
Emerging from the library, Lanen was intercepted by a messenger: The grocer awaited him at the western gate.
Little Abel dispensed with pleasantries. "Congratulations on single-year graduation, Mr. Banneret."
News traveled fast in West Street. "...Appreciated."
"Business," Abel said briskly. "We've secured a transnational distributor in the capital. Requires in-person negotiations. As partners, your presence is requested."
"Timing?"
"Twenty-five days hence."
"Meeting point?"
"Tombs Inn by the station. Day twenty-four. Early arrivals leave word with the keeper."
Lanen nodded. In this age of cumbersome communication, the plan was sound.
White steam billowed as the iron serpent shuddered to life.
"Write often!" Elina and Sophia's voices barely carried over the screeching wheels.
Pressed against the grimy window, Lanen and Hal waved until the platform dissolved into the horizon.
As the carriage settled into rhythm, Lanen turned to his companion: "Visit me at No. 1 Olive Tree Street sometime."
Hal's answering nod held the weight of a blood oath.