Chapter 1: The Frogs of First Year
Maribel Wren had exactly three goals when she walked into the Academy of Arcane Arts for her second semester:
Do not explode anything.
Do not accidentally summon something.
And above all else, do not turn any more professors into frogs.
So far, she was failing impressively.
"I told you not to stir counterclockwise!" Professor Beldron croaked—literally. His tiny amphibious form leapt off the desk and landed with a wet plop in Maribel's potion-stained satchel.
"I was following the instructions!" she wailed, grabbing for her wand. "Clockwise for two turns, then counter for—oh. Oh no."
"Do I look like I enjoy flies?" Beldron hissed, poking his green, wart-speckled head out of the bag. A pair of very unamused frog-eyes glared up at her.
The rest of the class stared in horrified silence. Then someone snickered.
Maribel sighed.
This was not how she envisioned her day going—not that any of her days at the academy had gone to plan. When she'd first arrived at the towering castle nestled in the floating hills of Eldoria, she'd imagined enchanted feasts, glittering gowns, and a few dramatically lit duels. What she got instead was exploding cauldrons, mandatory rune lectures, and a rapidly growing record with the disciplinary board.
"Ms. Wren," a voice said behind her, dangerously calm. "You will report to the Chancellor's office. Immediately."
Maribel turned to see Professor Stonetuft, the Transmutation chair, glaring at her from under his monocle. His mustache bristled like an angry hedgehog.
"I was just—"
"Do not speak unless you can do so without causing amphibious transformation," he snapped.
The Chancellor's office smelled like lavender and scorched parchment. A very bad combination.
Chancellor Eleanora Grimblebane sat behind a desk carved from the petrified wood of a screaming willow. Her eyebrows were long, white, and constantly twitching, as if judging everything they hovered over.
"You are aware," she began, steepling her fingers, "that this is your third frogging this term."
Maribel winced. "Technically, he was more of a toad—"
Grimblebane's eyes narrowed. "You are on magical probation, Ms. Wren. One more arcane mishap and we'll be forced to consider... relocation."
Relocation. The word hung in the air like a guillotine.
To Maribel, it translated to: exile to the Minor School of Mundane Charms in Lower Thistleblight. Where they taught things like magical laundry and polite spellcasting.
"I can fix it," Maribel offered desperately. "I've been reading Amphibian Undoing for the Advanced Accidentalist!"
"No more fixing. You'll be reassigned to supervised arcane study with the Academy's... External Artifacts Department."
Maribel blinked. "The what?"
A door creaked open behind her.
"Welcome to the Vaults," said a dry, humorless voice.
Maribel turned—and froze.
The man (well, technically she would later argue he wasn't a man anymore) stood tall in a long black robe that shimmered like liquid smoke. His face was pale, sharp, and unsettlingly symmetrical. A faint blue glow pulsed behind his eyes, and a silver circlet rested across a head of ink-dark hair.
"Ms. Wren," Grimblebane said, "meet Lord Lucien Gravehart. You'll be assisting him in relic preservation."
Maribel tried not to gape. "But... he's a lich."
"Yes," said Lucien flatly. "And you're a chaos magnet."
Grimblebane coughed. "Lucien is a highly-respected magical consultant. He has graciously agreed to help guide... volatile students."
"I'm not volatile," Maribel mumbled. "I'm just... energetically gifted."
Lucien raised one thin, skeptical brow. "You blew up the Conjuration Lab trying to bake enchanted muffins."
"They were surprise muffins!" she protested. "They weren't supposed to detonate."
"I rest my case."
The Vaults were nothing like the rest of the Academy.
Cold, echoing, and dimly lit by soul-lanterns, they ran deep beneath the floating cliffs of Eldoria. Rows of magical artifacts lay sealed behind crystal panes, each humming faintly with dormant power. Maribel trailed behind Lucien, trying not to trip over her own robe or stare too hard at the cage labeled DO NOT LOOK DIRECTLY INTO THE JAR.
Lucien stopped at a worktable scattered with scrolls and bone-shaped keys. "Your job is simple. Catalog minor relics. Do not touch anything glowing. And definitely don't open anything labeled 'Cursed'."
Maribel nodded quickly. "Got it. No glowing, no cursed, no touching."
He peered at her. "You look like someone who touches things."
"I do not!" she protested. Then paused. "Okay, once. But that wand looked like licorice."
Lucien pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is going to be an unholy disaster."
"I like to think of myself as an opportunity for personal growth," Maribel said, smiling sweetly.
Lucien didn't smile back. "Let's just get started."
Two hours later, Maribel had knocked over three jars, sneezed a dust curse into an old phylactery, and nearly soul-bonded with an enchanted sword named Kevin.
Lucien was rapidly reconsidering his entire existence.
"Why are you here?" he asked finally, watching her fumble with a quill that kept turning into a ferret.
Maribel sighed. "I wanted to learn magic. Real magic. Not the stuff my aunt taught me, like how to enchant teacups to insult visitors."
Lucien gave her a long look. "And you thought this school would be... less chaotic?"
"Okay, fair."
She met his eyes then—and for a moment, something odd passed between them. Like a flicker of heat in the chilly air, or a thread pulling two very different fates just a bit closer.
Lucien blinked first and turned away. "Careful with that scroll. It bites."
Maribel grinned. "So do I."