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Rhea Flame stood two stands down from John, her red ribbon bright as paint laid over a gray morning. The little bow caught the lamplight every time she moved, flashing like a small heartbeat. Her hands were steady, elegant in a way that said she had been doing this since before she could spell "mana."

She coaxed the flame to rise, then flattened it, then —almost shyly— made it walk through the narrow clay ring like a trained bird returning home. When it passed cleanly through, she smiled. Not with her mouth, but with her eyes lowered, the way sunlight smiles when it slips under a door.

Fizz almost clapped. His paws twitched midair before he froze, remembering he was supposed to be mysterious today. He leaned toward John and whispered, "She makes fire behave without shouting at it. That's sorcery and manners combined. I'm in impressed. She got a good mana control."

John's lips twitched. He held his hands over his own clay ring. He didn't drag void energy like a hammer this time. He let the quiet chill inside him brush the heat until it balanced, like a scale finding stillness. The flame steadied, bent once in respect, then flowed through the ring as smooth as ink.

Master Hale's gaze flicked toward him, sharp as flint. She said nothing, only moved on, her robe swaying like an idea too focused to pause. Around them, the class turned into a small orchestra of sighs, hisses, and quiet triumphs as other students tried to make their flames behave. One boy's fire burped and coughed; another boy jumped sideways and licked his sleeve, earning a sharp word and a bucket of humiliation.

Fizz had stopped watching the lesson entirely. His attention was glued to the small packet of pastries on Rhea's desk. His pupils dilated as if he were staring into the eyes of destiny itself. Rhea noticed without even turning. With the casual grace of someone who understands the laws of the universe and chooses kindness anyway, she broke off another corner of the treat and held it to the side.

Fizz gasped. "For me?" he said, scandalized and thrilled all at once.

She nodded without looking up.

Fizz accepted it like a knight receiving a sacred relic. "Thank you, Red Ribbon Snack lady," he murmured reverently, cheeks full.

Rhea's mouth curved, still focused on her flame. "Study well, Small Fire," she whispered back.

Fizz froze mid-chew, deeply moved. "She gave me more…" he whispered to John. "sweets, I am liking her more."

John didn't answer. He was too busy pretending his small smile didn't exist.

When the exercise ended, Master Hale dimmed the lamps with a flick of her hand. "Sit," she ordered. "Five minutes of nothing. Learn it. It will save your life more often than courage will."

The class sat cross-legged on the polished floor. Nothing creaked except the weight of everyone's thoughts. Fizz tried to be still. He lasted twelve seconds before whispering, "This is the loudest kind of nothing I've ever heard." Then, in a moment of accidental enlightenment, he began composing a silent song in his head and finally managed peace.

The bell broke the quiet like a bubble. The students rose. The yard outside was blinding with noon light.

By the time they reached the East House corridor, the day had turned golden. The board on the wall now held fresh chalk marks, names gleaming beside them. Clusters of students gathered to compare, complain, and celebrate. Some whispered their numbers as if afraid to break them; others announced them like victories.

John and Fizz moved closer. The sunlight caught faint dust in the air, turning it into glitter above the crowd. Rhea Flame stood near the front, ribbon glowing in the light. She smiled faintly when she saw John, a look that said, You didn't embarrass yourself. That's rare here.

Fizz floated higher, reading over shoulders. "Everyone's bragging about their dots," he muttered. "Humans love dots. They're like shiny fleas that make you itch for more."

John glanced once toward the names, then away. He didn't need numbers to tell him what he'd done. The day had already written enough on his mind.

A few feet away, Ned White pushed through the group like a knife through cloth—same stride, same disdain. His eyes flicked past John without recognition, and that was worse than if he'd glared. It was the kind of not-seeing that only people who think they've won can do.

John didn't tense. Didn't follow. The heat stayed in the cage where he kept it. But Fizz saw the stillness, recognized the storm inside it, and nudged John's arm gently.

"You okay?"

"Yes."

"You want to roast someone?"

"No."

Fizz's eyes gleamed. "You want me to roast someone?"

"Not yet."

Fizz sighed. "Fine. I will put my insults in cold storage."

They moved toward the refectory. The air smelled of stew and baked bread. Fizz insisted on sniffing every pot until the cooks, who had long surrendered to this ritual, simply made way for him. They sat in their favorite corner, where the sunlight spilled like honey across the table. John ate quietly, content. Fizz performed his meal like an art show. His each bite an expression, each chew a commentary.

Across the hall, Rhea sat with two girls who mirrored her posture without meaning to. She caught John's eye, lifted her water cup just slightly. John returned the gesture. It wasn't a promise, not exactly, but something gentler — a beginning written in silence.

Fizz tugged on his sleeve. "We should talk to her about the date."

"Fizz… we will talk about it later. You can't ask beautiful girls to date."

"Now is later. Let's talk. Don't you like her?"

"Later," John repeated.

Fizz deflated, then brightened. "Fine. Later later. I'll let romance simmer. It's tastier that way."

The bell by the door chimed again, softer this time. A clerk climbed onto a stool with a stack of notices and read out schedules and reminders, but the sound became just another hum in the day's long rhythm.

Fizz leaned close, whispering like a secret. "I need to go somewhere."

John raised a brow. "Where."

Fizz puffed his chest. "Somewhere noble. Possibly glorious. Definitely legal. I will meet the headmaster. We got things to discuss."

"That's what you said before the party too. What are you planning? Don't do anything that will break the rules."

"That was mostly legal," Fizz said defensively. "Anyway, you'll survive without me. I shall return before sunset, triumphant and sticky with success. Then we will talk about the date."

John smirked. "Go."

Fizz bring out his paws, tapped them on John's shoulder like a blessing, and zipped off into the sunlight, leaving behind a faint scent of sugar and trouble.

John leaned back, eyes following the bright speck until it vanished beyond the rooftops. Then he exhaled, folded his schedule, and looked up at the sky — wondering what kind of blue it would become by the time his day finished writing itself.

Then he stood, shoulders square, and walked toward the next door that would open for him.

A few minutes later…

Fizz did not knock so much as bounce into the headmaster's office like a bright idea that had grown feathers. The door clicked behind him. As always the high room smelled of paper, pipe smoke, and old plans that had become furniture. Shelves leaned under the weight of books. A long window spilled soft light over a desk that had lost a war with quills a decade ago and was proud of it.

Snake looked up from a ledger. His silver beard caught the window and made its own small weather. The black hat was on his head today too, shadow deep under its brim. The mouthpiece of the pipe rested in his fingers, not between his teeth. He was smiling in that polite, unreadable way that makes people tell the truth by accident.

"You sent for me," Fizz said, hovering to exactly eye level with the old man, because he had decided long ago that being short was a choice. "A magical message no less. Very grand. What is the emergency. Is it a pastry emergency. Is there a cake that needs a brave hero to eat it."

Snake's eyes creased. "There is a class that needs one," he said. "Today will be your first session as guest teacher."

Fizz's paws flew to his cheeks. Then he pressed his lips together and tried to look grave. "Ah. Yes. Of course. The sacred calling. The mantle of wisdom. I accept with dignity. What do I teach… something extreme?"

"Basics of elemental magic," Snake said. "Plain truths made bright. It will be an open class. First years must attend. Others may, if curiosity wins. You will teach them how mana becomes anything they ask of it without shouting. How to reach across the habit of one's own element and speak to another without starting a war. How to taste a second language without forgetting your first."

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