Chapter 43: Entrance Exam (5)

In the sunny warmth of the estate’s courtyard, a trio of maids had huddled together near the laundry lines, their hands still busy folding linens, but their minds entirely occupied elsewhere.

“I’m telling you,” hissed Maribelle, the youngest of the group, her eyes wide with the urgency of gossip, “Young Master Lucien hasn’t left his room in two days. Not even to sneak snacks from the pantry!”

“That’s because he probably turned into a mushroom,” said Elga, the stern-faced head maid, slapping a sheet into the air like a judge delivering a sentence.

“Boy’s been buried in books for weeks. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s sprouted spores and rooted into the floorboards.”

“Nonsense!”

Snorted Mira, the ever-romantic one, who had a habit of narrating everything like it was a serialized romance drama.

“He’s obviously pining for Lady Vaelira! He probably locked himself up to compose the perfect love confession! Or maybe he’s writing poetry!”

Maribelle gasped.

“You think he’s writing love poetry?”

“Have you seen the bags under his eyes? That’s emotional torment, not insomnia.”

“Or he’s dead,” Elga muttered darkly, folding a pillowcase with unnecessary violence.

“Or worse. He’s decided to become a wizard hermit. I saw a faint blue glow under his door last night.”

“That’s what happens when you fall too deep into forbidden knowledge,” Mira agreed solemnly.

“First the glow. Then the muttering. Then you start seeing the world in hexagons.”

Elga raised a skeptical brow. “You’re thinking of bees.”

“Same thing!”

They all gasped in synchrony as the kitchen boy ran by and whispered, “Lady Vaelira just went upstairs. With Sir Richardson.”

The maids dropped their linens mid-fold.

***

Meanwhile, upstairs…

Knock knock knock.

“Lucien,” Sir Richardson’s voice called through the door, firm but concerned.

“Are you alright in there?”

There was a long silence.

Then, faintly, very faintly, a muffled thud.

Vaelira narrowed her eyes.

“That’s it. I’m going in.”

“Wait-”

But she had already turned the knob, pushing the door open cautiously… only to freeze in the doorway.

Lucien sat cross-legged in the middle of the room like some kind of deranged meditation monk, surrounded by glowing blue glyphs, softly pulsing trap sigils, and delicate floating runes orbiting sections of the floor.

He looked up at her slowly.

His eyes were bloodshot.

His hair was a mess.

His expression?

Haunted.

Vaelira instinctively took a step back.

“…What in the seven constellations are you doing?”

She asked, trying not to sound panicked.

Lucien blinked once.

Then slowly said, with the tone of someone who had made peace with the consequences of his own disaster:

“I messed up.”

Sir Richardson moved beside Vaelira, squinting into the room, then back at Lucien.

“Define ‘messed up,’ Lucien.”

Lucien raised a finger, very carefully, and pointed to the glowing ward etched just a few inches from his toes.

“I… may have boobytrapped the entire room.”

“You what?”

Vaelira choked.

“I was practicing trap and ward spells,” Lucien explained quickly, “and I got a little carried away. At first, it was just a kinetic barrier glyph. Then I thought, hey, what if I chain that with a mana siphon trap? Then that spiraled into a spatial anchor rune-”

“Lucien,” Richardson said slowly, “what part of any of that sounded like a good idea?”

“It did at the time!”

Lucien waved his arms, then immediately winced and pulled them back in when a faint pulse of magical light flared under his elbow.

“I thought I could cancel them once I was done, but it turns out some of them are persistent. As in, very persistent.”

“So you’ve been stuck in that exact spot for two days?”

Vaelira asked, incredulous.

Lucien nodded solemnly.

“I tried moving once. The bookshelf almost fell on me. It wasn’t even part of the trap, I think it just got startled.”

Vaelira stepped forward, looked down at the glyphs, then turned back to him.

“Aren’t you the one who cast these? Shouldn’t you know how they work?!”

“In theory,” Lucien muttered.

“In practice, my mana kind of has a mind of its own. It sometimes improvises. Badly.”

Richardson groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I’m going to get Ms. Celeste. Again. And you-”

He pointed at Vaelira, “stay on this side of the door and make sure he doesn’t try to ‘improvise’ his way out and blow himself up.”

Vaelira, expression stiff with disbelief, gave a brisk nod.

“Gladly.”

Richardson left, muttering something about magical idiots and early retirement.

Back in the doorway, Lucien hunched a little lower, staring at the humming rune just to his left.

“I think that one’s a mild paralysis trap,” he said quietly.

Vaelira sighed, folded her arms, and leaned against the doorframe.

“You think?”

Lucien grimaced.

“Or a temporary blindness ward. It depends on how my mana interpreted ‘stop them in their tracks.’ It’s a little too creative sometimes.”

There was a long, heavy pause.

Vaelira rubbed her temples.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Ms. Celeste might actually be proud of you.”

Lucien looked up, hopeful.

“Really?”

“Don’t let it go to your head. You’re still an idiot.”

“I’ll take it.”

***

Vaelira stood at the threshold, arms crossed tightly, watching Lucien like one might watch a particularly cursed artifact.

The glowing runes circling his floor buzzed quietly, and Lucien, still cross-legged in the only safe spot left, looked more like a man communing with eldritch beings than a teenage boy preparing for school.

Her gaze scanned over him, from the unkempt hair jutting in angles gravity didn’t authorize, to the dark shadows under his eyes and the ink-stained fingertips that twitched every time a nearby glyph pulsed.

“You look like you’ve been thrown off a cliff into a swirling whirlpool,” she said finally, lips twitching despite herself.

“And then washed ashore and beaten with your own books.”

Lucien tilted his head with mock offense.

“What, this isn't the rugged scholar look?”

He gestured vaguely to his appearance.

“A little desperation, a dash of panic, and the scent of two-day-old sweat?”

Vaelira chuckled and rolled her eyes.

“It’s unbelievable. You’re unbelievable.”

He smiled wearily.

“Yeah, well... the entrance exam doesn’t choose people based on their looks, thankfully.”

“No, but it might award points for surviving self-made magical minefields.”

Lucien sighed, brushing his hair back and watching the faintly glowing rune near the door pulse once in warning.

“Still,” he murmured, voice quieter now, “I think… this magic type might be the best fit for me. Or at least… I hope it is. Because if it isn’t…”

He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers like he was trying to squeeze certainty out of them.

“I don’t really know what I’ll do.”

There was a long pause before Vaelira’s voice cut in, soft and laced with dry humor.

“Well, you could always learn the blade.”

Lucien barked a laugh, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I can see it now. Lucien: Trap Mage and Swordsman Extraordinaire. Trips over his own scabbard and activates a mana mine with his forehead.”

Vaelira laughed along with him, and the sound felt like a breeze through the thick tension that had settled in the room.

Her laughter faded slowly, and her expression softened into something gentler.

“But really,” she said, her voice firmer now, more certain, “You can do this. I believe in you.”

Lucien blinked, caught off guard.

Then he offered her a tired but genuine smile.

“Thanks. Just… hold onto that belief, alright?”

He looked her in the eyes.

“Hold onto it until we meet again, at the Academy.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, unexpectedly, Vaelira looked down and bit her lip, her voice quieter now.

“Yeah…”

She said, barely above a whisper.

“I hope to see you there too.”

For a second, the room seemed still despite the pulsing runes and faint buzzing of unstable arcana.

Lucien sat frozen, and Vaelira stood like she wasn’t sure if she should say more or turn and leave.

In the end, she did neither, just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed again, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips as Lucien reached down and cracked open Foundations of Trap Magic once more.

"Alright then," he muttered, eyes narrowing at a chapter titled ‘Deterrent Arrays and the Illusion of Escape.’

“Please don’t,” Vaelira muttered.

“I’m running out of excuses for you to the staff. They think you are becoming a fungus.”

***

The relief that swept over the D’Claire estate was almost palpable the moment Ms. Celeste arrived.

Sir Richardson had practically galloped back with her in tow, both storming up the stairs like soldiers in a siege.

And there Lucien still sat, cross-legged in the middle of his room, looking like a prisoner surrounded by magical landmines.

“Thank the stars,” he muttered when he saw Celeste step into the hallway, sleeves rolled up and wand already out.

“Well, well,” Ms. Celeste said, hands on hips as she surveyed the mess from the doorway.

“Looks like someone had fun with trap magic.”

Her eyes narrowed as the faint traces of wards and spellwork shimmered across the floorboards, over the desk, even faintly on the ceiling.

“What in the Nine Wards of Wyrmhold were you doing? Conducting magical guerrilla warfare?”

Lucien gave her a sheepish look.

“...Experimenting…?”

Celeste sighed but smiled despite herself.

“Step aside. Time to clean up after the toddler mage.”

With a flick of her wrist, her wand sprang to life, not with glowing precision or elegant chants, but a storm of muttered incantations, sweeping gestures, and chaotic energy that danced across the room.

Her magic didn’t glide, it crackled, erratic pulses of power that shouldn’t have made sense, but somehow did.

One trap after another fizzled out in cascading glows.

Sigils unspooled from the walls like unwound thread.

A ward that had turned Lucien’s pillow into a proximity mine puffed away with a sound like a disgruntled cat.

Vaelira and Richardson watched from the door with mixed awe and caution.

“She’s like a whirlwind with spell diagrams,” Vaelira whispered.

“That’s years of battlefield improvisation,” Richardson said, nodding sagely.

“She once disarmed an entire cursed tomb with a ladle and her hairpin. Don’t ask how.”

Within minutes, the room was sparkling clean, not physically, but magically.

Every trace of danger, misfire, or accidentally homicidal glyph was gone.

“There.”

Celeste wiped her brow and plopped down on Lucien’s desk chair.

“Crisis averted. You’re lucky I was in town, sparkplug.”

Lucien slumped to the floor like his strings had been cut.

“You’re a saint.”

“No, just someone who knows better than to let magical rookies blow themselves up,” she quipped, kicking his boot lightly.

“Now, tea.”

The four of them, Celeste, Lucien, Vaelira, and Richardson, sat around the small estate table with cups of steaming tea.

The sun was beginning to dip below the hills outside, painting the sky a calm, deceptive orange.

“So,” Richardson began as he poured himself a second cup.

“Lucien, you’re going to have to head to the capital in two weeks.”

Lucien blinked over his teacup.

“Two weeks? Why so soon? Isn’t the exam at the start of next month?”

“It is,” Richardson said, “but the trip to the capital takes a week and a half. That’s with fair weather and no disruptions. Considering your luck, I’d add two or three buffer days for plagues of frogs or tornadoes.”

Lucien groaned.

‘Why does everything in this world have built-in suffering?’

“It’s not just you,” Vaelira said, resting her chin in her hand.

“Most prospective students start traveling around this time. They aim to reach the capital about a week early so they can settle in, scout the test sites, and cram in a few last-minute study sessions.”

“You make it sound like a pilgrimage.”

“Honestly? It kind of is,” Celeste said, sipping her tea.

“You don’t want to be late. The Academy doesn’t take kindly to tardiness. If you’re even one second late, the gates close, and you can say goodbye to your future. They’re strict like that.”

Lucien leaned back.

“One second?! That’s- insane!”

Celeste shrugged.

“Because it’s the Twilight Crown Academy. It’s not just a school, it’s the school. They don’t cater to slackers.”

Vaelira smirked, “You could’ve avoided all this if you’d just gotten a referral. Or a letter of recommendation.”

Lucien narrowed his eyes.

“You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not when it’s this funny.”

She took a sip of her tea, eyes sparkling.

“Maybe next time, don’t antagonize half the province.”

Lucien huffed.

“You might have to take the entrance exam too, you know. What if your letter gets rejected?”

Vaelira leaned back in her chair, smug.