My display of speedy excellence fails to accomplish much. The small wooden block with the number one on it sits in my open palm as I lean against the beige wall. Feeble sunlight from the windows lining the hallway spills, the trees planted in neat rows outside blocking out most of the light. A plush chair sits next to me, an odd decoration standing all alone, as aides hurriedly move up and down the way.

One passes by, heading toward the big doors I stand outside of. She laughs nervously as she scoots past me, catching my eye and holding up a mess of stacked papers. Her chuckle dies the second she lays a hand on the door, opening it and hurrying inside. She is not the only one to come and go from the room as I wait. Soon, a line begins to form next to me, and a young faethian man with a beard down to his knees claims the second spot. His colorful wig almost comes up to my collarbone.

In a few moments, the line is down the hall, and people are waiting to be called in by number. Gaz waves to me when she joins the line in the seventeenth position, and I return the gesture.

At long last, some twenty minutes after I started waiting, the big doors crack open, asking for the first person to come inside. For a moment, after entering the room and closing the door behind me, I am transported back in time. The smell in the air is the same as the schoolroom behind the church back home, the musty smell of old books, chalk, and polished wood. Dust motes dance through the beam of sunlight coming in through the window, somehow tricking me back to the days when the threat of a switch across the back of the hands was something to be dreaded. Then the differences settle in, desks and chairs piled in the back of the room, a strange glow to the words written on the board at the front of the room, five men and women at a long table near the front.

The five judges regard me with a mixture of indifference and interest. Two don't even look up from the papers arranged in front of them. The first two are faethian men whose white hair and wrinkled faces are so similar they might be brothers. My eye pegs them as such, Don and Maester Calliswan. For the other three, my eye registers nothing; they block providence reading in some way. The centermost judge is an older faethian woman; she wears a colorful wig of curls–pink–but shows the restraint to have it tastefully short. The fourth, I know. The tallest of all the judges by far, her crimson eyes staring directly at me from above a fanged smile: Lady Talagast. The last is somehow even more unexpected than her, a half-elven man.

It takes me a moment to even realize his heritage. His robust form is far too wide for an elf, and despite the telltale point of his ears, the chestnut color of his hair gives away human lineage. The man is swaddled in fine clothing that I am tempted to call a suit, except that the jacket has been replaced by a battlerobe of lavender that he wears over his pressed shirt. Besides Lady Talagast, he is the only one who looks at me.

Opposite the table of judges stands a table set in front of a painted red line on the floor. I step up to it, holding myself erect and as serious as I can manage. After noting me, the two judges on the right end of the table, Lady Talagast and the unnamed half-elven man, glance down at their papers, rejoining the conversation that the other three continue to carry on. They speak as if I can't hear their hushed voices. Most couldn't, I assume, but I did think there would be more discretion. It does serve to let me know their evaluation far ahead of time, gives me the opportunity to quell my disappointment and school my face to stillness.

The woman in the middle looks up as their conversation draws to a close. "My name is Professor Sezza Melancholy. I will be leading this evaluation today." She points to a man sitting in the corner of the room, and he begins to write furiously on a piece of paper. "A record of this evaluation is being transcribed both for the records of the academy but also for your personal review. For the record, please state your name."

"Mesa Marigold," I say.

The professor's eyes grow wide for a moment before she catches herself. "Please refrain from humor, Miss Devardem. We have an incredibly long line of people to see today."

"On that note," the half-elven man says, leaning forward. "The assistants said that you completed your infusion before they could finish passing out the test. More, you managed to transfer nearly all of the mana to the medium. Explain that, if you would."

The two male judges on the opposite end of the table toss the man a dirty look, but he smiles on, unbothered. I find myself matching his smile. "For the record, my name is Charlene Devardem. As to your question, I was able to accomplish it by combining a soul index with one of my essentia abilities. I am not willing to disclose the exact nature of this ability."

"I would so like to know," the man says.

"Our information about you has you listed as a second rank essentia magician, is that correct?" Professor Melancholy asks, reasserting control of the conversation. "On our campus, we have two or three dozen such magicians. I have come to know how secretive your profession can be with disclosing their abilities, but can you at least tell me if you have an ability that might aid in enchantment?"

"I do not," I answer. "Other than being able to transfer mana, none of my abilities particularly pertain to enchantment."

"To even have one that would be directly helpful is rare," the faethian man at the end adds. Then, when heads turn to give him the floor, he adds, "Good afternoon, I am Professor Maester Calliswan. I work directly with the Adventurer's League in Faeth. It is from them that we obtained pieces of your record that they are obligated to disclose. You have some rather high accomplishments for one with a career so short."

"It is kind of you to say so," I say. Internally, the indignance I feel at hearing that the league was giving out my information simmers.

"Short is the right word," Professor Melancholy says. She throws a hard look sideways, letting all in the room know that she won't appreciate further interruptions. "I am given to understand that you have not been interacting with magic directly for much more than a year."

"That would be incorrect, professor. It was a year and some change ago that I became a magician, but I had an essentia long before that. I have been interacting with magic for some time."

"Still, is it true that you have not had any professional education in the area of enchantment?" she asks.

"That is correct. Everything I know, I taught myself."

"That shows in your results," the half-elven man at the end says. However, Professor Melancholy does not shoot a dagger of a glare at him like I expect. "My name is Treston Mox. I am an alumnus from this academy and often serve in a judgment capacity for the academy." The man, Treston, apparently, flips through some of the pages in front of him. "These scores demonstrate personal education. For the subject of enchantment itself, you show the insight and understanding that we might expect from a second-year student, and given that the usual student graduates after three years, that is a rather good mark in your favor. That said, your other subjects show an incredible lack. Your scores in Chemistry and Physics are entirely inadequate for even a beginner at this academy, and your skill in Mathematics is slightly below the average. These are the test scores I would expect to see from someone self-taught. Your education is clearly lopsided."

"Will that be an issue?" I ask. "I was understanding that enrollment should be certain at this point."

"The only problem will be is for your money," Treston says. "The academy will teach you, but remedial courses in these subjects are a must. These courses will need to be taken simultaneously to the starting courses for these subjects, making the course load that you need to even start very heavy and very expensive. You will be studying through the night more than a few times in your first semester."

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"I can handle that," I say. "A few sleepless nights are nothing to comment on."

"I like the confidence."

"As for your second test," Lady Talagast interjects, saying her first words since I came into the room. "You scored below average in your recognition of mana. This test is not meant to be difficult; there are only so many kinds of mana that enchanters work with. No, the test is more designed to show who has actually taken the time to dedicate this information to knowledge. It is generally a good gauge of how serious an individual takes enchantment. Scoring below average is not good."

"I have no excuse," I reply.

"Other than being still new to even perceiving magic." It is Professor Melancholy who defends me. "I would not expect many to be able to recognize the common kinds of mana at a glance without even two years of experience."

"Are you saying that you couldn't?" Lady Talagast asks.

"I am speaking about most."

"You forget yourself for your bluntness," Treston Mox says before flicking his eyes back to me. "Miss Devardem, this is Lady Talagast. She can be harsh with her judgment, but she is a genius of an enchanter. I believe you might even have some of her designs in use."

"Yes," I agree. It takes an effort not to bring my hand to my eye. "She must be a genius to have designed this."

"I think we can all agree on that," the faethian sitting to the side of Professor Melancholy says. "My name is Professor Don Calliswan. You just met my father. They brought me to evaluate your third test. As you no doubt know, you performed exemplary: both in the speed of your transfer and the quantity of mana transferred. If this test had more weight, your score would be very high, even given your struggles in other areas. Unfortunately, the third test is used more as a way to buy time for grading the first two than as a demonstration of aptitude at enchanting. That said, given the speed you can perform transfers, I would recommend looking into work doing that professionally. Many would pay for your services, to be sure."

"Thank you for saying so," I say, trying hard to be pleasant. The five seated in front of me fall silent for a moment, looking back at me.

So, I scored below average. On one hand, I am happy that all of my studying over the last few weeks in enchantment has paid off. On the other hand, now I know just how far I am lagging behind, and in what areas. It isn't as if the writers of the books I have been devouring over the last few weeks didn't mention chemistry or physics; I just never thought that I would need them.

"I suppose that brings us to the practical," Maester Calliswan says, hopping down from his chair and walking around the table. As he approaches me, a flare of magic shines from his brown and simple shoes. The man begins to step on air like it were solid as he approaches me, climbing invisible steps as he comes to stand on the air in front of the table I stand at. "Miss Devardem, if you would provide your entry."

I look down at the table. "I don't believe this could hold it," I tell him.

"Rest assured, this table is quite sturdy and has been reinforced," he says.

I test the slim wood with a finger, and remain entirely unconvinced. Still, it would be a poor idea to make a big deal about it. Holding my hand over the table, the first of the obsidianate gloves appears an inch above the table, falling to the surface with a loud crack. The middle of the table starts to bend as the terribly heavy glove lies atop it, bowing slightly and groaning. "And the other," I say, moving my hand and hesitating above the table. The man simply looks back at me, impassive. A second later, the second gauntlet hits the surface of the table with a bang. A spot beneath the left-front leg of the table cracks a bit at the sudden weight, but other than bowing a little bit more, the table itself remains undamaged.

"A pair of gauntlets," Maester Calliswan says, removing a pair of spectacles from his coat pocket and setting them on his face. The lenses glow with the light of magical inscription ringing the glass. "Remove the enchantment sheathe, if you would."

After pulling a screwdriver from my vault and applying incredible force to the latches, I remove the sheath. The man tuts, walking on air around the table, scrutinizing the gauntlets and muttering to himself. He produces a mana probe in the shape of a simple wand with a readout set into the grip: it might be one of the most elegant pieces of enchantment I have ever seen. The man worries at the infused mana running through the gauntlets, testing the flow, purity, and type of mana running through the array. After five minutes, he nods to himself and finally looks to me.

"An interesting demonstration," he says, looking me up and down and nodding. "For one so inexperienced, this demonstrates more personal drive to me than memorizing mana signatures. Most novice enchanters do not try to create something as complex as a second-tier enchantment array until they have at least completed their first year in an academic setting. For having the gall to dare and for managing to pull it off to this degree, you have my respect."

"Thank you, professor," I say, my mood lifting for a moment.

"That said, there are some incredible issues with this creation," he says. Then, as he begins to narrate the various issues, he points with his spectacles to certain parts of the gauntlets and their internal enchantment array. "You approached this paired enchantment from the perspective of a mirroring array. This was a good decision. Novice enchanters cannot be expected to perfectly replicate an enchantment, so mirroring is often their best path. The design of the array is also very well done. Were these titansteel or black iron gauntlets, this array would be optimal to achieve the etheric thinning that is the intent of the array. However, you appear to be using obsidianate for the base, a cheap and practical metal, but one that carries a natural affinity for earth and pressure. From the design, I can tell that you didn't recognize this. The implementation of earth mana is not optimal for this design due to that, and your use of pressure and depth mana is entirely unnecessary. Additionally, these runes appear to be etched by hand. Is that the case?"

I am still caught up in him telling me how my design is wrong. So much so that I answer him without thinking. "Yes, I etched them by hand."

"Were you using any visual aid during this?" he asks.

"Visual aid?"

The man shakes his head at me, tutting. "Miss Devardem, while that eye might be an incredible invention by one of our esteemed alumni, it is not a replacement for proper optical equipment. I recommend that every student have the foundry on campus machine etch their runes, but I recognize that this was not an option. Even if you have to perform etching by hand, etching without visual assistance is a poor choice." He points to some of the infused metal. "Your runes are riddled with micro-errors that proper optics would have noticed. These errors degrade the enchantment. The lack of optics also informs why your splicing of medium to array body was not well done either. These errors, along with those in your design, likely cause a power error of greater than half in your enchantment. If you remade these gauntlets with these changes in mine, your next creation could easily be twice as powerful."

To that, I have nothing to say. I had already thought that managing over a hundred bonus to my magic attribute was very good, yet he is saying that it could have been twice as good.

"Now, I have to ask the obvious question. Why did you base your mana transformers on fire mana?"

"So that I can resupply the enchantment myself," I tell him.

He weighs this answer for a moment. "While it is true that you could resupply the system faster than environmental charging, it is still a poor choice. Even if you took the time to purify the mana you can produce, it would still carry impurities. Over time, these impurities would collect throughout the array, degrading its potency further. I recommend that you complete a rebuild of these gauntlets. I am still inclined to give you high marks."

"Thank you, professor."

"I have to know," he says, motioning toward the obsidianate gauntlets. "Is this item for personal use?"

"It is."

"This enchantment is what I would normally find in cloth or leather. I have deep experience working with adventurers, so I recognize that they can have their idiosyncrasies. Are you capable of using these gauntlets?"

"Of course." A part of me expected to be asked this question; it is the reason that I infused the gauntlets with black dust before putting them away in my vault. A part of my mind mutters angrily at the man as I slip my hands into the gauntlets, letting my presence roll over them and bringing the dust inside to my awareness. If his special spectacles are so great, shouldn't he have been able to notice the dust?

Even with using my control over the dust to lift the obsidianate gauntlets from the table, the pair is still incredibly heavy. If I have to hold them for more than ten minutes, I am not sure I could manage it. I hold up my hands in front of the man, bearing down with all my will not to show the slightest discomfort at hefting them. "As you can see, these are functional."

"It would appear that they are," Maester Calliswan says. There is a different look in his eyes now, and he hurries back to his chair.

Professor Melancholy looks at me from her spot in the middle of the table. "This panel has come to an agreement, both about your tuition and what classes we are recommending for your first year. Before we deliver this to you, it is incumbent on us to ask. Why, Miss Devardem, do you want to become an enchanter?"

The gauntlets vanish from my hands back into my vault; I'll put them back together later. Clasping my hands in front of my waist, I look at the woman in front of me with all the seriousness I can muster. "I want to kill monsters, Professor. I want to be good at killing them."

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