See HERE for the first part of this story!

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Been wanting to write a longer piece for a while now, and I guess this is the proverbial 'first step'. Not a lot of macro/micro themes in this one, but I promise you'll see more as time goes on. This is more 'exposition' than anything else. Credit to  idunnow for writing the original piece that the setting comes from. Hopefully I've done it justice.

Anways, about the story itself; I've always wanted to write something that plays with the traditional "Young, Rightful King returns to overthrow the usurper and slay the dragon, bringing peace and prosperity to the realm' narrative that you see in a lot of older fantasy novels. I worry that this particular chapter was a bit to slow, and I'm sure there's a few errors in there; my track-record as someone who isn't very good at proof-reading continues. If you see any, let me know. I'll correct them.

Also, I'd recommend downloading the file from FA, instead of just reading from the description, if possible. There's some weird formatting issues, though (knock on wood) they won't be too distracting.

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Auspicium Melioris Ævi

Elma rifled through the sheafs of paper on the Archmage’s desk. The months since the attempted coup that had shaken the kingdom to its core were, needless to say, hectic. Before then, she had been the president of the Mage’s Guild in Ostermor; a large city, to be sure, but still… It was hard to believe that she had gone from mere president to Archmage without having even visited the capital before. It was something she had always dreamed about, but never dared hope for. And yet, here she sat, rustling through the old Archmage’s papers and sitting at his desk.

The tigress sighed, exhausted, and bundled the documents back together, before sliding them back into their appropriate nooks. It was too much at once to try and deal with, especially as she still hadn’t quite habituated herself into her new role. The coup was still fresh in everyone’s mind, and she was sure that they had yet to see the last of the would-be usurper Emoril. He had managed to escape the city before capture. The events had happened so quickly then, that the news didn’t even have time to spread to other cities before it ended. If the reactionary elements among the nobility had truly planned for a revolution, it seemed unlikely that they would’ve only had a small contingent in the capital. Any sane person would’ve realized that the it wouldn’t have been enough to take the throne. More likely, the coup leaders had had other tricks up their sleeves whose use had to be… postponed.

Elma smiled to herself. The fly in the ointment. Or rather, the Dragon. The news that the Court Mage’s Apprentice had managed to transform himself into a great and powerful dragon was just as shocking as the news of the Coup itself. Transmutation magic was one of the lesser-practiced arts, usually seen as less practical than merely throwing a few fireballs, and less graceful that illusions. Not to mention that it required a great amount of Mana and concentration. Still, it was hard to argue with the efficacy of it in the face of the fact that he had managed to decimate the Guild’s upper ranks. Some of the brightest magical minds in the kingdom, not to mention the former Archmage himself, had been overpowered by the young parvenu. Reports indicated that he had been all-but-immune to the other mage’s spells, which implied that he hadn’t merely adopted a dragon’s physiognomy, but that he had become a True Dragon; something that was epistemologically interesting, if nothing else.

She had seen him before she had even seen the capital, as it happened. It was at a distance, and he was flying some several-hundred feet above, but still, she had caught a glimpse of him on the road some time after she had received the letter informing her that she had been appointed the new Archmage of the Guild. It was a truly incredible sight to see; grey and white scales shimmering the sunlight far above, leathery wings splayed out like a canvas over a light blue field, and a long, serpentine tail trailing behind like a kite to a bird. It was like something out of a history book, or perhaps a fairy tale. Only a few dragons were known to still exist, and none of them would’ve been so bold as to fly out in the open, where any mortal could see them. Centuries ago, however, dragons were a common sight in the skies and elsewhere. The histories said that they had ruled kingdoms as far afield Hyrcania and Huaxia, and that all Kith had once been under their domain. It wasn’t until the Motus, the Upheaval, that the myriad Kith races managed to assert their personhood and drive the dragons to near-extinction…

Ironic, then, that the first ‘new’ dragon (even if he was only a dragon on a technicality) should throw his lot behind progress and the dissolution of the old order, rather than the reactionary forces that had arrayed themselves against the queen. If anything should be considered a augur of a mythical ‘better age’, it would be one of the great, tyrannical beasts that once ruled the world with iron fists. Er, claws.

Elma’s ears perked up as she heard the feint sound of footsteps climbing the Archmage’s tower. Carry a club when thinking of wolves, she thought, musing on the old idiom her mother had taught her. She had been the one to call him here in the first place, of course, though she expected him a bit later. She sat, listening attentively as the footsteps spiraled upwards, getting louder and louder until, at last, she heard them stop outside the wooden door to her chambers. She sat in silence, waiting for a knock, or for a door to open, before sighing and merely willing the door open herself with the barest puff of magic.

The young fox standing on the other side of the doorway stood awkwardly, hand balled in a fist preparing to knock on the empty air now in front of him. He cleared his throat and gave the new Archmage a small curtsey and saying, “You, er, asked to see me, ma’am?”

She squirmed in her chair a bit, feeling like a professor chastising a student. Even as a Guild president, she hadn’t spent quite as much time speaking to Guild members from the other side of a desk. It felt patronizing and distancing. The air of authority that her new office expected her to command didn’t suit her well. She was a people person: she preferred to discuss matters and come to an equitable solution, rather than to simply dictate to others. Sadly, that was simply unfeasible for every situation, given the sheer amount of work funneled through the Archmage’s office.

The fox standing the doorway was odd. This was the first time she had gotten a look at him when he wasn’t several hundred feet tall and gliding over the horizon. Seeing him now, certain things began to click. She had assumed the name ‘Yoiryu’ had merely been some odd, dialect name from somewhere in the north counties, or a name conjured up by a family getting ‘creative’ with the naming laws. Looking at him now, though, the fact that he was foreign was only more clear. His salt-and-pepper fur was an oddity in foxes this far south, not to mention the many tails, which was a trait far more common among the Huli and Kitsune in and around Huaxia.
“Come in, please, sit down,” she said, telekinetically moving one of the chairs that sat against the walls opposite her. She watched as he carefully made his way across the room and sat, crossing his legs as he did so. He began to fidget with his robes almost immediately and averted his gaze, as if he was expecting chastisement. All stories about him aside, it was easy to forget that he was still just a young apprentice. The Court Apprentice, sure, but an apprentice all the same.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” she said, putting on her friendliest smile. Before he even had time to respond, she continued. “Tell me, where are you from? What did your parents do?”

The younger mage put his hand on the back of his neck and flashed her a weak smile. “I’m from here in the capital. My parents are from Ezo, though. My father was a fisherman and my mother was a laborer. They came here on pilgrimage, but couldn’t afford passage back home, and got stranded.” he said, his voice growing more confident as he spoke.

She nodded. Little wonder he remained loyal to the Queen. Elma was not, as a rule, overly interested in politics, save for where the topic was unavoidable. Unlike most of her peers in the Guild, she had been born much lower on the social ladder. Her mother had been an impoverished noblewoman, a baroness who had married a local burgher. Most Guild members were born to the same 7-or-8 families going back generations, and the guild had always been careful to ensure that Novus Homo and Nova Femina, candidates from the less magically-inclined families, were always lesser in number than themselves. It was the best way to ensure an absolute voting majority on the Guild Council. Some of the Guild Members had gone into absolute conniptions when the law permitting persons of non-noble blood to join the Guild had passed.

Ageron was not, technically, the first common-born person to become a member of the Guild; traditionally, the Court Wizard for the kingdom was a member of the guild by default, and, since there were no laws governing the appointment, several Kholisian monarchs had appointed Hedge Wizards like Ageron. As far as she could tell, Yoiryu was the first commoner in history to join the guild through traditional means. And if the reactionary elements among the Magocracy had their way, he’d likely be the last. The Queen could pass whatever laws she liked, but the decisions regarding who got to join the guild still went through the High Council.

“Did Old Man Oellon ever run a blood test on you? I looked through the files and I couldn’t find any mention of yours. It’s would’ve been unusual if he had, of course, but you are and unusual candidate,” she mused.

“He did,” he said, flatly. “He never let me get a look at it though. He’s still down in the dungeons if you want to ask him where it’s at,” he shrugged.

“I’ll pass on that, thank you,” she said, just the barest hint of a smile on her lips. “The less I see of him, the better. If I can’t find it, we can just run another one.” She looked up at the young apprentice and sighed internally. “You joined the guild a year ago, correct? How old are you now?”

“Eighteen,” he said. “I’ll be Nineteen next month.” Based on his appearance, that seemed right; not to mention his apparently easy-going and mischievous personality, which she knew of through reputation. A bit cocksure, maybe, though it was clear that at least some of his confidence was well-earned. “You know, most aspiring mages begin their apprenticeships at age 8 or 9, and stay there for 15 or more years. To have started yours at 17 is unusual, to say the least, though not unheard-of. And yet, you’ve managed to outperform most wizards far above your station and age. Did you receive any training before you joined the guild?”

The kitsune shook his head. “I’m self-taught, Ma’am. Although, when I was younger, I did manage to grab a few books on magical theory when I was younger. I used them to try and figure out the basics,” he said. He had pronounced ‘figure’ as ‘figger’, though she doubted that he had even noticed.

“And by ‘grabbed’, you mean stole, right?” She asked. She didn’t really care, but it was fun to see him completely blanche for a second, before he gave him a playful smirk. “Kidding, kidding. Still, you’re quite talented for an autodidact. Are you sure you’re not related to any nobility? Even the ones back in Ezo?”

He shrugged. “They don’t really have nobles in Ezochi, except on the western part of the Island, where there’s a few cities founded by Yamo settlers. And they’ve only been there for a hundred years or so. Nobody in my family can use magic either, so I’m just as confused as you are as to where it comes from.”

Elma knew well enough that magic was an incredibly rare gift. An entire genre of dangerous and horrifying words had developed just to describe the various maladies and deformities caused by generations of inbreeding. Being born nose-less or with skin sloughing off was a small risk when compared to the potential of a child with great magical talent. A single, powerful mage was worth an entire army. An image of Guild High Councilors learning that the most powerful mage in Kholis, perhaps one of the most powerful mages in a millennium, was not only born to a peasant family, but a foreign peasant family, danced in Elma’s head. She was practically giddy with the idea. She put the thought away for now, promising herself that she’d revisit it later in her daydreams, and looked back down at Yoiryu. She had to admit that it was odd that he had no magical ancestry, but, then again, it did happen sometimes. Not usually to this degree, of course, but every now-and-then, a young farmer’s son or alderman’s daughter would find themselves with magical talent, despite having no magical ancestry of their own. New bloodlines were rare, but they tended to pick up speed with successive generations, before eventually dying out. It was possible to stave off the erosion for some time by having children with other mages (which explained the high levels of inbreeding among the Guild Council), but eventually, entropy would take everything.

Elma stood up. “Well, while I appreciate the frank answers, I didn’t bring you all the way up here just to interrogate you on your family history. I’m afraid I’ve got good news and bad news.”
The kitsune practically sank into his chair. “Can I get the bad news first?”

She shook her head. “It’s just one piece of news, actually. It just so happens to be a mixed bag,” she said, giving him a gentle smile. “I’m promoting you to the rank of Journeyman Mage,” she said, and watched his reaction. He seemed shocked, at first, before breaking out into a wide grin, before his brow furrowed and his mouth curved downward in a frown. He looked distraught to say the least. He really was as quick as the others said. Still, she decided to explain anyways, just in case there was anything he might’ve missed on his 10-second journey from emotional Peak to Valley.

“You have the right to charge money for magical services rendered, so long as you continue to pay Guild dues, and you may prepend the titles of ‘Mage’ and ‘Wizard’ to your name in official documentation, as well as use guild symbols on personal affects and property you own to signify your official status. More importantly, you now have the right to attend the University of Naporia, and to enroll in the College of Magic,” she said. “You’ll also be eligible to submit a Masterpiece for review in four years, though, I can assure you that your Draconic Transfiguration spell is more than sufficient enough as-is,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

“Er, actually,” Yoiryu interrupted, his voice quiet. “I was meaning to tell you,” he swallowed. “I, uh, can’t replicate the spell,” he said, as sheepish as the Queen herself.

Her eyebrows shot up. “Really? That’s… unusual,” she said, as carefully as she could, trying, and failing, to downplay her shock. “You were the one who cast the spell in the first place, aren’t you? You cast it under duress before, so I’m not sure why you’d struggle to cast it under more ideal conditions.”

Yoiryu’s face was a mix of agitation and worry. “But that’s just it! I didn’t intend to cast the spell! It just sort of- came out of me. I hadn’t even practiced it before!” he said, gesturing wildly to try and explain.

“An accidental casting?” She asked, her voice an incredulous laugh. “That’s absurd. Accidental fluxes like that can only happen with incredibly minor spells,” she mused. “It seems far more likely that you simply forgot. Memory is a tricky thing,” she said. “The week was traumatizing, and I know for a fact that transmogrification spells tend to have odd effect on the brain. Don’t fret too much about it, the knowledge will probably come back to you, and if it doesn’t, well, it’ll be a good exercise for you to work on.”

Yoiryu nodded, and said nothing else. Something clearly disquieted him, though Elma figured it was best not to press the issue. The poor boy had already gone through plenty. “And I suppose, being a Journeyman now, that my apprenticeship-”

“Is over now, correct,” Elma finished for him. “I’m afraid that’s that ‘Bad’ side of the news token. I’ve already spoken to Ageron about it, and he agrees with me that there’s little more that he can teach you. I won’t disparage the man, he’s clearly a competent mage; half of the Guild High Council couldn’t hold a candle to him, and for those that can, it’s quite close. But a good mage does not a good teacher make. He’s done all he can, and it is my belief that you would benefit from a University Education. Most apprentices go on to attend University, and those that don’t typically remain Journeymen in perpetuity. I’d like to say that I want you to go because I want to see a bright young man like you succeed. But I’m afraid that the truth is much baser than that,” she sighed. “You’re far too valuable a resource to let slip through our fingers. I can see it. Ageron can see it. Hell, even a blue-blooded reactionary like Oellon could see it. I’d hate to see your potential wasted away as a simple wizard eking out a living in the sticks.”

“And you think that attending the university is my best option?” He asked.

“The place is a den of wolves,” she said, leaning in, her voice conspiratorial. “The students are sick, rapacious, and cruel, at best.” She sighed, her own memories of attending suddenly felt very cold down her spine. “But the real problem is the staff. They’re as reactionary a group as could possibly be found anywhere in Kholis. That’d be bad enough in peaceful times, what with you being common-born, and all. Now, it’d practically be a death sentence.”

The Kitsune shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. “So… what? Should I or should I not attend the university? From my perspective, it seems like there aren’t many options available to me,” he said, wearily.

The tigress leaned back in the archmage’s chair and tented her fingers, a mischievous smile crossing over her face. “You know, most of the nobility may not be very fond of Her Highness, but there are still a few reform-minded types among the aristocracy who would be happy to see the Old Guard among the Mage’s Guild kicked down a peg. I have… solutions, if you’re willing to hear them” she said, smirking, before leaning in and asking, “How good is your Languedolian?”

---

The young ‘King’ Emoril idly bounced his tennis ball against the side of one of the trees at the edge of the clearing. It hit the bark, bounced off the ground, and then returned to his hand. He threw it again, and it returned with the same graceful ease. He threw it again, and then again. The ball had long-ago made a divot in the tree, and it was now covered with a thin layer of sap-covered bark. His eyes turned back to the nobles who were gathered at the center of the clearing. His ‘loyalists’, as they called themselves. Emoril was hardly one for politicking; Until the old King’s death, he hadn’t even considered himself a contender to the throne. His uncle had been in perfect health and, controversial as his marriage had been, one of the benefits of marrying for love had always been that an heir was all but guaranteed. Emoril’s status as ‘legally dead’ only made any ‘royal ambitions’ he might’ve had that much more unattainable.

Of course, nobody had expected the King to succumb Typhus so quickly. The death had been so sudden and so ill-timed, that it had thrown the kingdom into a state of pure chaos, and the ascension of the Queen had only made things worse. Unlike the rest of the noble houses in the kingdom, Ancient Law stated that the King’s consort ascended to the throne if there were no living children. It might’ve been fine had the Queen been a woman of good birth and standing, but the fact was that she was a banker’s daughter sent half of nobility into fits, and the other half into bouts of occasional grumbling, at best.

This discontent among the nobility was why Emoril now sat, bored out of his mind, in the middle of a forest clearing in the middle of nowhere. His ascension from ‘Dead King’s Bastard Nephew’ to ‘Pretender to the Throne’ had happened almost completely without his knowledge. The phantom sound of metal against stone rang in his ear as visions of troops marching up to his chamber flashed in his head, and he shuddered.

His ‘Loyalists’ in the center of the clearing were clearly having a time of it, not quite sure how to handle the deluge of new information coming in each day. He could hear snippets of conversation, enough to give him a sense of what had happened, but not the whole picture. The words ‘repulsed, arrested, interrogation’, seemed to indicate that the first push of the coup had failed. But the words ‘levy, strategic, reassess’ implied that it hadn’t been a total wash. The words ‘peasant, dragon, witch’ were also clearly linked, though Emoril wasn’t quite sure how to piece them together. Had one of the mages in the Guild managed to summon a dragon somehow? He was almost disappointed that he hadn’t got to see it.

He saw them flash a few glances in his direction, while he continued to feign obliviousness. It was clear that the topic of conversation had shifted to him, and the words ‘risky, dangerous, safety’ floated in his direction, followed by the phrase ‘hunting for him’. The conversation then fell to a quiet, conspiratorial whisper, before one of the older nobles stood up straight and said something that seemed to stop the conversation altogether. Emoril caught only the phrase ‘in plain sight’, which didn’t exactly engender in him with confidence.

Agreements were passed around, and eventually, the less-important nobles began to disperse, grouping up with their knights and retainers just outside the clearing’s edge, and departing quickly and quietly. Only the Three remained.

Emoril had grown accustomed to calling them ‘the Three’. In the weeks since the beginning of this conspiracy of the Queen, Emoril had been passed between a variety of different sympathetic nobles and lords, but these three had been one of the few constants in this tumultuous time. While it was rare for all three of them to be together, at least one of them had been nearby everywhere he went, which was a rare constancy that he’d been sorely missing since this whole thing had begun.

The tallest of the Three, a large badger woman dressed in ornate ceremonial armor, gave him a deep bow. She said, “Your Grace,” and for a moment, he almost believed her. “We are ashamed to report that our troops-” one of the others, a short rabbit woman dressed in roguish leathers, gave her a swift kick in the leg. “Sorry, your troops,” she corrected. “They were routed during the battle in the capital. While their number remains strong, those in the Loyalist Council have decided that it would be best to… recuperate.” She finished, carefully.

“They want us to hang back, lick our wounds, and wait for a better time to strike,” clarified the third of the Three, a medium-height ermine wearing a magister’s cloak and a severe expression. “They want to keep you in hiding for a while,” he said, easily.

“In hiding?” Emoril asked, only somewhat surprised. “I suspect the Queen’s men will be investigating every noble house from here to the highlands,” he said, incredulous. “Where do you intend to hide me?” He asked.

“The University of Naporia,” said the rabbit woman, tersely.

“The-” Emoril began, looking at the Three as if they were insane. “That’s only a few miles away from the capital! Are you quite mad!?” He yelled; He said it with such strength and venom that it surprised even him. Bastard though he was, royal blood still flowed through him, it seemed. His leonine mouth briefly turned into a sneer before returning to his typically collected demeanor.

“The university is one of the few places that values privacy over the Monarch’s authority,” the rabbit explained. “It hosts students from all over the continent, and some even from beyond. Any attempt to investigate a student without good cause is bound to cause a diplomatic incident, and the benefits of the college are greater to the country than any threat of espionage. You could easily pass for a commoner while there, and the Queen and her lackeys would be none-the-wiser.”

“A commoner?” Asked Emoril, raising an eyebrow. “Do you expect me to roll around in the mud as well?” He said, clearly unhappy.

“If his Highness has any better ideas, I’m sure the Loyalist Council would be glad to take them into consideration,” said the ermine. Realizing that he had put his foot in his mouth, Emoril chose to remain silent. For all that they called him a ‘would-be King’, it was clear that he wasn’t going to be anywhere near any kind of ‘decision making’ any time soon. The ermine continued, “Like the rest of the royal family, you have no magical talent. You could not attend the mage’s college in any event, and there are no other lion families that you could plausibly claim descent from. I’m afraid that this is your best option,” he said, bluntly. Emoril had always appreciated the ermine’s plain speech. He sighed, he pinched the bridge of his nose, he squinted his eyes in frustration, and he even considered complaining. Ultimately, figuring it was easier to give in, he nodded his head.

“Fine. If you think it’s best,” he said, defeated.

The tallest of the three brought her hands together with a decisive clap. “Excellent. In that case, I’ll contact the headmaster. We may not be able to follow you, but I assure you that he’s a better guarantor of your safety than we could ever hope to be,” she elaborated, paying no mind to his (clearly frustrated) reaction. Resigning himself to his fate, Emoril sat on the nearby tree stump and tossed the tennis ball at the tree again. Hitting the bark, the ball practically exploded outward, the tightly wound strands of hair bursting from the ball as it landed with a quiet ‘plop’ on the dirt below. It took every ounce of willpower in Emoril’s body not to swear.

---

The roof of the archway made a quiet ‘thud’ as Yoiryu’s antlers bounced against it.

No, he thought, ducking his head down as he entered the chapel. Not Yoiryu. Arséne Ramure. Recently-legitimized bastard son of the Comte de Elige. The Comte had apparently found the whole idea funny, and agreed readily; Languedolian nobility was apparently much more liberal about that kind of thing. Though clearly, Kholisian nobles were no stranger to the concept either, if the the pretender-king was anything to go by. Better a King’s bastard than a commoner woman, apparently.

He felt a little awkward in his new body. He was still a bit of a neophyte, when it came to transmutation magic, though he felt his new form was a good-enough facsimile. At the very least, it was easier to maintain than a glamor, since it didn’t require constant concentration, though it did mean that ‘transforming back’ would be an extra ordeal all on it’s own. He hadn’t met many deer before, but then, he hadn’t met many Languedolians either, and nobody had challenged him on it yet.

The older mole woman at the front of the chapel practically beamed as he entered. He had never seen her before, but it was clear that she was expecting him. Approaching carefully and quietly, he bowed his head respectfully and removed his hat, clutching it tightly in front of his chest. “Hello, Reverend Mother,” he said, politely. “It’s nice to meet you. My name’s Y-” he abruptly stopped himself. “Arséne”, he corrected himself. “Guildmaster Elma told me to introduce myself to you once I got here,” he said. His accent was still a little imperfect, but it was enough to fool most Kholisians, at least.

“Keep your chin up, dear,” said the kindly abbess, a sly twinkle in her eye. “Remember, you’re no peasant here. If you go about with your shoulders hunched and your eyes at your feet, people will realize something’s amiss,” she said, placing her hand on the bottom of his chin and forcing his head up. “And don’t slouch. It’s bad for your posture,” she said. ‘Arséne’ idly wondered if this was how all nuns acted, or if this was some kind of bit. A prank pulled by clergywomen as a collective group to make everyone who enters a chapel feel awkward. It had happened so often to him that he felt it could only be the latter.

“Now then, how was your journey here to the university?” she asked, genially. “I hope the road didn’t give you too much trouble?”

“No, Reverend Mother,” he said, trying on a more ‘confident’ sounding voice. “I made it here without issue. It was only about two days walk.”

“And how’s Elma?” she asked, suddenly. The conversation was moving so quickly that ‘Arséne’ was having a hard time keeping up. “I was chaplain here even when she attended,” she said, a proud twinkle in her eye.
“She’s doing well, considering. She’s done a fine job of being Archmage, I think, thought it’s still a bit early.”
Nodding, the abbess put the aspergillum she had been polishing aside and smiled. “Glad to hear it. She always a good head on her shoulders. Good to see it hasn’t gone to waste.” ‘Arséne’ idly wondered how well the two had known each other. Archmage Elma had told him that he could trust her, and that a letter had already been sent in advance to inform her, but it was clear that the two had had some kind of close relationship at one point, though the exact nature of it eluded the young fox-turned-stag.

“I wanted to thank you for you help,” he said, politely, practically shrinking down in deference. “I’m aware of the great risk you take, and I hope I haven’t impose too much upon you.”

“Not at all!” She said, enthusiastically. “I’ll admit, I’m not being totally selfless here,” she said, a impish smirk on her lips. “I’m quite lowborn myself; making sure that the queen stays on the throne to pass more of those ‘reforms’ is well within the interests of me and mine,” she said with a verbal shrug. “Making sure that someone like you is capable enough to scare the opposition into submission naturally follows,” she said.

Part of ‘Arséne’ was glad that she was getting something out of it. He hated feeling indebted to someone if he could avoid it, and this meant that, at the very least, she wasn’t putting herself in harm’s way purely for his sake. Still, the idea that he was there to ‘bring the queen’s would-be adversary’s to heel’ sat uneasily in his stomach. On an intellectual level, he knew that was what he was meant to do, though it hardly improved the taste in his mouth.

“Now, get along now,” said the Reverend Mother, practically ushering him out. “You’ll want to get settled in as soon as possible. And besides, I’ve got other work to do. You come back and talk to me if you need to,” she said, the ‘and not before!’ evident in her tone.

Bowing politely, ‘Arséne’ gave a quick “Of course, Reverend Mother,” before turning to depart. Turning right, he felt the sun hit his skin as he crossed the threshold back into the university’s courtyard-

And swiftly fell ass-over-teakettle as his antlers hit the top of the archway.

Disoriented, he tried to stand back up, only to fall back down, still reeling from hitting his head on the ground. He could hear the snickers of the other few students in the courtyard and tried to regain his composure.
Before the world had even stopped spinning, he felt a pair of furry hands grab his right arm and lift him to his feet. As his vision began to unblur, he briefly looked down to the face of his would-be rescuer; a young-ish lion man, dressed in the clothes of a local merchant. “Y’alright?” He asked, concern in his voice. “Make sure to watch where your going, those archways really sneak up on you,” he remarked, a playful, teasing tone in his voice.

As ‘Arséne’s’ vision began to return, he took a deep breath and returned a quiet “thank you,” before realizing his mistake and saying again, this time louder, and with an accent, “thank you, kind sir,” and gave a genteel smile. “I suppose I must get used to the doorways being lower than I am used to.” His accent came out smooth and slow, as if the words felt unusual on his lips. “I call myself Arséne,” he said, “A pleasure to meet you.” He had to keep himself from smiling to broadly. He’d been told that it was something the nobility ‘just didn’t do’. It was difficult, given his naturally sociable nature, but he managed to haggle it down from a ‘grin’ to a ‘quiet smile’.

“Just fine,” said the lion. “I’m Cassian,” he said, smirking a bit. “Here to study astronomy and all that. I guess you’re here for the college of magic?” He asked, giving ‘Arséne’s’ outfit a quick scan.

‘Arséne’ blushed. He’d felt a bit stupid wearing it; the robe was a bit too short for him, leaving his ankles exposed to the cold, and the pointed hat fit unevenly on his head, with him having to position it awkwardly between his antlers. He nodded.

“Good on ya’,” Cassian said, patting him gently on the shoulder. “I’m here for the college of natural philosophy and all that,” he explained, waving an idle hand. “Can’t do magic myself, and I’m not a noble besides, but at least I’m learning something.” ‘Arséne’ couldn’t help but shake that there was something familiar about the Lion. He squinted his eyes for a few seconds, before he realized what it was.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like the Old King?” He asked, suddenly. “The resemblance is… striking,” he said, almost to himself. Cassian stiffed up, as if surprised, and waved the question away.

“I appreciate the flattery, but no, you’re the first to mention it,” he said, he voice ever-so-slightly strained. “Not all lions look alike, you know,” he said, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder. “Anyways, I’m heading to my wing of the university to get set in. See you around?” He asked, turning to leave. ‘Arséne’ gave him a polite nod, and watched as departed with a friendly wave. Hefting his bag on his shoulder, he crossed the triangular field to the Arcane Wing of the University.

Separated by the university’s courtyard, two minds thought the same thought. “Perhaps it won’t be so bad…”