8:12 p.m. CET — Forum of the Arcane, Second tower, Third floor, Castle Resonare of the Academy of Advanced Arts, Baggio district
The room was an architectural triumph, a grand chamber with a domed ceiling shimmering faintly with intricate constellations etched in gold. At the center, a circular table gleamed beneath the soft glow of hovering orbs, surrounded by eight imposing chairs, each uniquely carved to represent its respective department. There, the council sat in heated debate, draped in white uniforms embroidered with gold rings at their collars and cuffs.
Gran Prof. Vivian Giordano leaned forward, her sharp eyes glimmering with intensity. At 62, she was a woman of commanding presence, with her silver hair twisted into a neat bun, her features both delicate and resolute. "We cannot let past actions of alumni, or the shadows of familial ties dictate our choices," she began, her voice steady yet filled with purpose. "The academy must be a place of rebirth, not punishment."
She paused, her gaze sweeping across the room, making sure her words landed. "I have personally mentored students from challenging backgrounds—one from a notorious family and another with a record of misdemeanors—and they both rose to greatness here. We must look at the future and not be haunted by the past."
Gran Prof. Montemagnos was quick to retort. His stance was physical, almost predatory, as he shifted his weight and crossed his arms. At 45, his athletic build was still imposing. "But we cannot ignore the damage a single misguided student can bring. Two years ago, we admitted Nikolai and Sasha—both with questionable backgrounds. One nearly caused a public scandal and the other incited violence, nearly injuring half our Firo players." His voice was calm, but every word held an edge. "Accepting troubled students isn't about redemption; it's about risk."
"We have six applicants in review, all of them tied to controversial circumstances," added Gran Prof. Moretti, his sharp eyes scanning the room. At 54, his well-worn face and slicked-back silver hair reflected his experience. "The admissions deadline is fast approaching; we need to make a decision soon."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Gran Prof. Nia Asante, head of the Ancient Arts Department, nodded thoughtfully. Her striking Ghanaian features were tempered by her calm demeanor. "I agree with Prof. Moretti, these ongoing discussions have distracted us from more pressing matters, such as graduation preparations. We cannot remain bogged down by endless debates over one or two troubled individuals."
Gran Prof. Kai Nakamura, head of the Living Arts Department, leaned in, his expression serious. At 40, his Japanese roots lent him a quiet, centered presence. His pristine uniform and swept-back dark hair framed his angular face. "I think we're all in agreement that it's time to make a decision. Let's put it to a vote and settle this."
The room fell silent as everyone considered his words. After a brief pause, each department head nodded in agreement. The vote was set to happen.
"Alright," said Gran Prof. Andromeda Al-Jawhari, head of the Celestial Arts Department. A Lebanese woman in her early 50s, her voice was calm but firm. "Let's keep it simple. Green for yes to admit these students, red for no."
The professors activated the voting system, each placing a hand against the glowing orbs floating before them. The orbs flared erratically, their shifting hues a chaotic reflection of the tension in the room. Then, in a blur of motion, the orbs streaked toward the center of the table, merging and stacking into a gleaming column of light.
The colors twisted together before dissolving into darkness, a final burst of red light signaling the result.
Gran Prof. Alessandro Singh, head of the Mental (Neuro) Arts Department, leaned forward, his composed face betraying a flicker of disappointment. "The votes are in: five against, three for acceptance. The students will not be admitted." His tone was steady, though his words hung heavy in the chamber.
Gran Prof. Giordano rose abruptly, her dark eyes burned with indignation. "This is a sad day," she said, her voice cutting through the silence. "We're meant to cultivate children, not judge them by their pasts. You're condemning potential without a second thought."
Gran Prof. Montemagnos leaned back, a cool smirk tugging at his lips. "We're protecting the academy," he said, his calm tone carrying a pointed edge. "Not all of us have had the luxury of watching from the sidelines, Grandioso Giordano. Some of us have actually felt the cost of trusting the wrong students."
Vivian's glare was like a blade. Without another word, she turned on her heel, her footsteps echoing as she stormed out of the Forum.
8:12 p.m. CET — Student Service Hall, Second Tower, Second Floor, Castle Resonare of the University of Advanced Arts, Baggio District
The hall was quieter here, a stark contrast to the bustling nexus they had left behind. The warm, ambient glow of sconces illuminated the smooth stone tiles, and the faint hum of distant conversations echoed softly against the high, arched ceilings. Loconda walked beside High Prof. Bellavita, her fingers absently stroking Renata's fur, as though soothing the cat might steady her own racing thoughts.
Ahead, the familiar figure of Otto, Gran Prof. Giordano's stoic bodyguard, loomed like a silent sentinel in front of the Admissions Office. His broad shoulders and sharp gaze gave him an air of quiet authority. Beside him stood David Callan, Giordano's production assistant, a well-poised young man with a lean frame and an easy smile that didn't quite reach his eyes tonight.
Loconda's heart fluttered with a mix of emotions. Relief surfaced at seeing two familiar faces—the first since her arrival in Milan—but anxiety quickly crept in. Their connection to Gran Prof. Giordano likely meant serious news.
"Miss Toussaint," David smiled, stepping forward, his British accent soft and precise. "Welcome to Milan. It's good to see you again."
"Thank you," Loconda replied, her voice faltering slightly under his piercing gaze.
David turned to High Prof. Bellavita, his expression shifting to something far more serious. "High Professor," he began, his tone measured but heavy, "the council has made its decision. Miss Toussaint's application was denied."
Bellavita slowed her stride, the hem of her emerald coat flaring as she stopped. "I was assured we'd have time to present our case," she said, her voice calm but edged with frustration.
David shook his head, glancing briefly at Otto, who stood silent and unyielding, a statue of stoic vigilance. "Mrs. Gior anticipated this outcome. The purpose of bringing Miss Toussaint to Student Services was never about academy enrollment—it's to enroll her in the Havocacy Program."
"Brilliant," High Prof. Bellavita replied, a sharp edge in her voice. "Now that she's been denied, she meets all the qualifications to train as a Havocant."
"Exactly," David said with a faint smirk, turning to Loconda. "I'm sure you have questions, but we're racing against time. Tonight is the application deadline."
"Understood," High Prof. Bellavita interrupted. "May I speak with Miss Toussaint privately?"
David nodded. "Of course, but please keep it brief." With that, he and Otto stepped into the Admissions Office, leaving the two women alone in the hallway.
High Prof. Bellavita knelt to meet Loconda at eye level, her tone softening. "The Havocacy Program is the Catholic Church's way of giving resonate-sensitive kids with complicated pasts a second chance. Over the summer, you'll face rigorous tests and challenges designed to instill discipline and moral clarity. Pass, and you'll gain immunity from the council's ruling. Fail, and the Church will block your ability to manipulate resonance—permanently."
Loconda blinked. "I've never manipulated anything in my life."
"You will, soon enough," High Prof. Bellavita replied smoothly. "Like your aunt, you're highly sensitive to resonance—it's in your nature."
"But doesn't a permanent block seem... a bit harsh?"
"The stakes are high because the risks are higher. This program ensures that rejected students won't misuse resonance or succumb to the dark arts. So, knowing this, Loconda, are you ready to take the risk?"
Loconda glanced down at Renata, stroking the cat's fur for reassurance. After a beat, she looked back up, her expression steady. "I am."
High Prof. Bellavita smiled faintly, extending her hand. "Then let's go."
Loconda took it, and together, they entered the Admissions Office, hand in hand.
813 miles Southeast, April 26th, 7:00 a.m. CET — Piazza Sant'Antonino, Castelmola, City of Messina, Sicilia, Italia
The village of Castelmola, perched high upon a hill, was still bathed in the soft, early light of dawn. Its narrow streets wound like veins through the stone and whitewashed buildings, leading up to a tranquil plaza. From this vantage point, the village seemed to sit quietly between earth and sky, a quiet sentinel overseeing the world below. The view, stretching out over the Ionian Sea and the distant Mount Etna, was framed by an expanse of terracotta rooftops and the lush greenery of the surrounding hills.
At the heart of the plaza, two elderly men sat side by side, their backs hunched but their eyes sharp, as they stared at the rising sun. The table beneath them was small, wooden, and simple, its surface cool and polished by the morning dew. An umbrella cast a narrow shadow, sheltering the two men from the faint heat of the early sun. Black-and-white checkered tiles covered the ground beneath their feet, adding to the antique charm of the square.
Their dark suits were tailored but faded from years of wear, the edges of their collars slightly frayed. Their faces were weathered with age, their expressions hard but thoughtful. Don Giovanni "Il Lupo" Malatesta, at 76, was a towering figure with piercing green eyes and a rugged jaw, his thick silver hair swept back from his forehead. Sitting next to him was his longtime associate, Don Aldo "Il Serpente" Vacca, a man in his early 80s whose sharp features were hidden behind dark shades, hiding a gaze that still burned with secrets and ambition.
The morning's stillness was broken by the soft footfalls of a young waiter, a local boy, who approached with a tray of steaming tea. His movements were careful, almost reverent, as if the two men before him demanded both respect and fear. Don Giovanni acknowledged the boy with a brief nod, while Don Aldo muttered under his breath, his fingers curling around a thin black box between them. Sleek and simple, the box had once promised power, but now it seemed to carry only pain and regret. Aldo's knuckles whitened as he gripped it, his torment evident in every motion.
"You don't understand, Gio," he murmured, each word carrying the weight of his suffering. "This tie... it's destroyed everything. It was supposed to give me control—to make them all bow before me. But it's done the opposite. My men, my family—they're all falling apart. They kill each other just to gain my favor. They go mad Gio, mad!"
Aldo's voice faltered, and behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, tears threatened to spill. Don Giovanni said nothing, his sharp gaze fixed on his old friend, caught between understanding and unease. Don Aldo had never dared to wear the cursed tie in Don Giovanni's presence, and until now, he had dismissed the stories as exaggerated whispers. But the mounting death toll and chaos within the Vacca family and its operations were undeniable—too much to attribute to mere coincidence.
"I've lost everything," Don Aldo murmured, his voice thin and broken. "The witch who created this cursed tie—she's vanished, Gio. Gone without a trace. And now... I can't undo this wretched curse."
Don Giovanni leaned forward, his voice calm yet commanding. "Take solace, mio amico—for we've made progress. My men have located the strega's niece." He let the weight of his words linger before continuing, "We'll use her to draw the witch out of hiding and finally put an end to this cursed We'll use her to draw the witch out of hiding and finally put an end to this tormento."
Don Aldo nodded, the tears finally spilling under his shades, the weight of his regrets etched into every line of his weathered face. The sun continued its climb, casting long shadows over the plaza, as the two old men sat in heavy, unbroken silence.
750 miles Northwest, 7:27 a.m. CET — 8th Floor, Gior Flagship Store, Quadrilatero della Moda, Milan Fashion District, Italia
The guest bedroom was a vision of old-world opulence, a large, lavish space adorned with antique furnishings and intricate detailing. The walls, painted a soft eggshell white, were framed with gold-leaf moldings, and a crystal chandelier hung elegantly from the high ceiling, scattering sunlight across the room like shards of glass.
A grand four-poster bed with ornate carvings stood in the center, its quilted silk bedding and plush pillows in deep, jewel-toned hues creating a striking contrast against the antique oak frame. Renata sauntered across the bed's surface with an air of regal indifference, her tail swaying lazily. She settled next to Loconda's face, her piercing gold eyes studying her intently before she lifted a paw and delivered a quick slap across Loconda's face.
Loconda jolted awake, her breath catching as her eyes darted around the unfamiliar surroundings. Disoriented, she blinked against the sunlight, trying to piece together where she was. Then it came back to her—the hurried departure from the university, the journey with David, and their arrival at the Gior flagship store.
She sat up slowly, her Dior silk pajama set shimmering faintly in the morning light. Her hair bundled neatly inside a silk bonnet as she noticed Renata perched beside an empty bowl, staring at her expectantly. Loconda sighed, slipping out of bed and into two white Gior fur slippers that rested neatly on a long Persian rug.
Crossing the room, she approached a polished mahogany dresser where a metal tray covered by a dome lid waited. Beside it sat a tall glass of water, the condensation glinting in the light. She lifted the lid to reveal a beautifully arranged breakfast—fluffy scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, delicate pastries, and a sliver of smoked salmon.
With a delicate touch, Loconda tore off a piece of salmon and placed it in Renata's bowl. She poured a small amount of water into the second dish, earning a grateful, soft purr from the feline. Just as she turned to take a sip of water for herself, a firm knock sounded at the door, followed by a woman's unfamiliar voice.
"Buongiorno, Miss Toussaint. Are you awake? May I come in?"
Loconda's brows furrowed slightly as she set the glass back on the tray. She straightened her posture, smoothing the silk of her pajama top, and responded, her voice calm yet wary. "Yes, I'm awake. You may enter."
A young woman stepped into the room, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. She was striking—dark hair swept into a sleek bun, her olive-toned skin glowing under the soft light. She wore a tailored Gior uniform, a black blazer with gold embroidery, paired with high-waisted trousers and a silk blouse in a deep burgundy. Around her neck hung a delicate gold chain with a single Gior logo charm. She moved with the grace of someone accustomed to luxury but carried herself with an air of professionalism.
"Buongiorno, Miss Toussaint," she said with a polite smile, her Italian accent soft but distinct. "My name is Sofia Moretti, and I manage this flagship store. I'm 28, originally from Florence." She held out an impeccably folded uniform, a sleek black ensemble accented with subtle gold stitching. "We have a full day ahead, so I'll need you to shower and dress quickly. I'll wait outside."
Loconda nodded, her expression calm but curious as she accepted the uniform. Sofia gave a slight bow before turning and stepping back into the hallway.
Moments later, Loconda emerged, her presence commanding despite her quiet demeanor. She wore a fitted Gior blazer with a nipped waist, paired with tailored trousers and a high-collared ivory blouse. The ensemble was understated yet elegant, its fine craftsmanship evident in every stitch. Renata rested lazily in her arms, her black fur gleaming in the light.
Sofia's eyes lit up as she glanced at Loconda. "Bellissima," she said warmly. "You wear Gior as if it were made just for you."
Loconda gave a slight smile, smoothing her sleeve. "Thank you."
"This way," Sofia said, gesturing down the hall. They moved through a corridor lined with modern art, the walls accented with subtle touches of gold. At the end stood a gleaming gold elevator. Sofia pressed a button, and the doors slid open with a soft chime.
Inside, the elevator's mirrored panels reflected Loconda's composed figure. Sofia began to outline the day's itinerary. "First, you'll join Miss Giordano for a walking brunch and tour of the storefront. Afterward, you'll meet with our Head Designer, Isabella Cattaneo, from the Innovation Department. She's eager to show you some of our latest creations."
Loconda raised a brow slightly but remained silent as Sofia continued.
"Following that, you'll have lunch here. Then Otto and David will drive you north to the Church's mountain monastery in the Alps, where the Havocy Program will take place."
Before Loconda could respond, the elevator doors opened, revealing a lavish reception area where Vivian Giordano, Otto, David, and six other Gior staff members stood waiting.
Vivian, dressed in a striking crimson Gior suit, flashed a mischievous smile. "Ah, Loconda, radiant as ever. I see Gior has found its match."
She strode forward, her heels clicking, and gave Loconda a warm hug and a kiss on both cheeks.
"Now," Vivian said, turning sharply on her heel, "let's not waste time. Follow me, everyone."
The group moved as one, their presence commanding attention as they began their journey through the store.