"I am not certain of what she saw, but I showed a fragment. I showed her the top student of the school: Eulalia Fortunatorum, the girl whom the young Forsaken has been with. The girl who disappeared many years ago, the one who is suspected to be the first victim."
"Why did you show her Eulalia?" The king asks. "Sheila."
"I believe she is her master." Sheila says in a voice filled with certainty. "The Council believes that Eulalia is dead, but no. I do not. Jonathan—that Forsaken, I believe that such treasure is far too important for him to lose."
"Eulalia Fortunatorum. A woman... I forgot how she even looked. But praises about her outstanding performance reached even the castle."
"Everyone knew Eulalia. At least the scholars, and the Council, who will always set her example as the first victim. To set a meaningless campaign of never-ending wordsays regarding the capture of that Warlock." Sheila says, as if to recollect bitter memories, her voice laced with annoyance.
The king sat motionless, like an unmoving paint: tethered and glued. His gaze wandered into nothing, mind lost in deep thought. "Nightmare," he exclaims softly, "the disease—or rather—the curse he inflicted, or no, the curse inflicted by the Ancient Warlock."
"The Nightmare of Zuerst." Sheila says; a mutter to only herself. "The Nightmare... a Heilen... I wonder,"
**
Faustina found herself trying to understand and study various contexts and concepts that have been nothing but foreign matters that perhaps out of her reach—things that she never thought she'd have to learn, or experience back when she was at Eula's care. She sat by the chair, her elbow prompting over the table as she studies. Pile of books were at the side, stacked up neatly by her schedule for the week. A thick book of theology, philosophy, and history were arranged next to each other, whilst books like biology, literature and of course—magic—was opened in front of her.
It was raining outside, and the night was at its peak. The soft sounds of raindrops trickling down the leaves and vines enveloping the castle walls outside her windows let out a murmuring rustle. The crickets whispered along with winds cooing her into comfort.
She stopped studying for a while, and pulled her journal from the bottom of the books. She wrote in a beautiful, intricate way—like telling something tentatively over someone—similar to writing a very thoughtful letter; she wrote in cursive:
"Eula," She writes, a bit of a pain in her chest as she writes to her dead master.
"It has been a month ever since I started 'training' as I wish to call it. It composed of things such as Etiquette, Philosophy, Theology, and of course... Magic. Yes, I have been learning magic. All of these were taught in basics, mostly spent in lectures, of course. I also learnt a bit of Literature and Music, but learning has been a bit rushed. I need to study even in weekends, day to night to keep up.
"And will you be proud if I tell you that I actually enjoy it? Learning something new, and of course being aware that it is for the betterment of my future. The teachers that the king picked for me were really nice."
"The teacher for theology was Sheila. She was a good instructor; clear, precise, and very detailed when teaching. But somehow she was very cold. I remember a quote from Holy Bachmernof, "darkness grows strong when light rules." I can remember how I failed to interpret how it meant, and how she sighed in annoyance and exasperation. Her demeanor towards me did not improve over the course of weeks we have been together. I want to be friends with her, if that is possible."
"I have learnt so much from Mrs. Lovellia, my teacher for Etiquette, about socializing more with people, how I need to be good and prompt as a noble lady, well of course IF I was one. But even if I am not, I have taken her words at heart as well. She was a strict instructor, yet very fun and charming."
"That being said, my magic teacher was somebody different. A man named Orwell, a scholar at the Academy. He was also my instructor for History and Philosophy. These subjects were by far the most enjoyable ones. Mr. Orwell has been the one with the closest age to me, and so communicating with him was rather easier compared to talking to the priestess or anyone else. Peculiarly, he was not that inquisitive. Perhaps, he respected my personal space."
---
Faustina smiled as she closed the leather of her journal. She adjusted the dimly-lit lamp and then repositioning her book in front of her, she slowly turned it to the next page, revealing a certain picture embedded on the book.
A dragonfly emblem.
The book was the property of Orwell, a book from the academy that he managed to sneak out. She scanned its contents.
𝕸𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖉𝖙.
𝖕𝖆𝖌𝖊 1102. 𝖛𝖔𝖑𝖚𝖒𝖊 9. 𝕾𝕮𝕳𝕺𝕺𝕷 𝕺𝕱 𝕸𝕬𝕲𝕴𝕮.
Magierstadt, page 1102, volume 9; SCHOOL OF MAGIC.
Faustina read it carefully. It summed up into how it is a school for magicians from Zuerst and Zweite alike—and most importantly, how it shall give the highest form of education for the 'blessed' and 'chosen ones'. Faustina found herself engrossed in reading, not noticing the knock in her door.
The next page was a picture of a beautiful man, hair of silver and eyes... eyes a beautiful color of purple. The distinct color of the highest form of magic, as Orwell said.
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖈𝖍𝖔𝖔𝖑𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗.
The schoolmaster. It was a picture dating back into year 409, where the academy was founded. It was the year 1000 now. The image was preserved through magic and replicated to many books. Faustina stared in sheer fascination, that she noticed little of the man behind her.
"Studying so late?" The king asks.
"Noah?"