2. Some Lessons Belong in the Classroom

Students of various races and magical talents gather in the lecture chamber for their first day of classes.

Professor Lirien Callavane, a female goliath, strides to the podium, her robes shimmering faintly with protective runes. Standing nearly seven feet tall, her imposing stature and the faintly marbled gray patterns on her skin immediately capture everyone's attention. You were definitely not expecting it. Misthaven University is really a cosmopolitan place. Her voice, when she begins, is calm and resonant.



"Good morning, students, and welcome to Introduction to Magical Ethics. Today, you embark on a journey that will likely challenge everything you think you know—not only about magic, but about yourselves. Ethics is the invisible thread binding all acts of magic. It is the compass that determines whether you wield power as a healer or a tyrant, a creator or a destroyer. But today, I will narrow our focus to one central question—a question that has long divided the scholars of the Arcane Eloquence Institute: What is the purpose of the Amplifico spells?"

"Is it, as some of my colleagues argue, a noble art devoted to improving and uplifting others? Is Amplifico the eloquent school that inspires unity, sows wisdom, and builds bridges between the fractured corners of our world? Or is it a more pragmatic tool, driven by personal ambition—a means to convince, persuade, and, perhaps, manipulate in the pursuit of one’s own desires?"

"Before we dive deeper, let's begin with a more mundane skill… Take literature, for example. A beautifully wrought tale might teach moral lessons, comforting and enriching its readers. Yet, is that truly its aim? Or does the author, consciously or unconsciously, seek recognition, profit, and immortality through their words? Can the two be separated? Can self-interest coexist with altruism?"

"As budding scholars of the arcane, this debate is not merely theoretical. When you cast a spell, every incantation, every gesture, and every intention carries a lot of weight. A simple communication charm meant to diffuse tension could inadvertently reveal secrets. A persuasive enchantment might bolster alliances—or compromise autonomy. Ethics lives at the intersection of your choices and their consequences."

"In this class, you will learn not only to examine the spells you cast and the words you speak, but also the intentions behind them. You will challenge your assumptions and confront uncomfortable truths. Because make no mistake: magic amplifies everything, and when wielded carelessly, it can cause irreparable harm."

"I will start with a question that will frame our first discussion: If we cannot separate self-interest from altruism in others, does that make all acts of magical expression inherently selfish—or inherently selfless?"

"During this semester, I expect you to think deeply, argue boldly, and, above all, listen to one another. Debate is the lifeblood of the Arcane Eloquence Institute, but so too is understanding."

Professor Callavane steps back, surveying the room with a faint, enigmatic smile, as the hum of animated discussion begins to ripple among the students.

After a couple of minutes, Professor Callavane writes a scenario on the board in neat, flowing script. She then turns to the class and gestures to the scenario with a flick of her wrist, causing it to shimmer with faint golden light.Then, she addresses the class:

"This exercise will form the foundation of our first discussion. Split into groups of 4 and decide your course of action. Consider the ethical implications of each choice and how they reflect your view of magical communication—selfless aid or strategic influence? Be prepared to defend your decision and challenge the arguments of others."

"Remember: the goal is not to win, but to uncover the truth as you see it. Now, let us see if Eloquence can illuminate your path forward."

Before the groups are formed, Kiraen raises a hand with a question. "Mistress, that scenario have already placed one ethnicity burden on our shoulders: That we have to act in this matter and take responsibility for these villagers"

Professor Callavane’s sharp eyes glint with interest as the student speaks, and she lets the room fall quiet before responding.

"An astute observation," she begins. "By presenting you with this scenario, I have indeed made an implicit assumption: that your power and knowledge impose a certain responsibility. But let us examine that assumption together."

"Should the wielder of magic—or, in broader terms, the bearer of any extraordinary ability—feel compelled to act when they witness suffering? Or do they have the right to turn away, as any other bystander might? Is responsibility inherently tied to power, or is it something we choose to take on?"

She takes a step forward, scanning the room.

"Perhaps you feel that this burden has been unfairly placed on you. If so, I challenge you to explore why that is within your group. Is it because I have stripped the villagers of their agency in this narrative, reducing them to a problem you must solve? Or is it because you recognize, deep down, that you could act, and that knowledge makes inaction uncomfortable?"

"Consider also the ethical implications of your refusal. If you choose not to intervene, does that absolve you of responsibility for the consequences? Or does the very fact that you have the ability to make a difference mean that you are, in some way, complicit in what follows? Is responsibility a burden to be avoided—or a privilege of the capable? And how does magic fit into this framework? Does it empower you, or does it create undue expectations?"

As the discussions ripple through the lecture hall, Professor Callavane begins tracing an intricate pattern in the air. The runes on her robes pulse softly as she speaks in a low, measured tone.

"Veritas Amplifico. Eloquium infinitum."

A gentle golden light radiates outward from her, dissolving into shimmering motes that dance briefly before vanishing. When the professor speaks again, it is not louder, but somehow everywhere, her voice carrying as if she stands within each group at once.

"I have cast an Amplifico and Illusio spell. You will find that my words reach you all, and that I can follow your discussions simultaneously. Let us use this to refine our understanding."

She turns toward Zix, Kiraen, Marlena, and Dorian, addressing their table as if she were there in person.

"Zix has raised an important concern: We are debating with incomplete information. But in real life, we rarely, if ever, have perfect knowledge. So, let me ask you—if you were in this village, at this moment, what would you need to know before deciding? Would you seek out the merchant's background, their debts, their moral character? Would you investigate the villagers—who is starving first, and why? How does uncertainty shape your choices? Must we act despite not knowing everything, or is inaction just as much of a decision as intervention?"

She pauses, allowing the weight of the question to settle before shifting her focus. Her gaze flickers to Marlena.

"You argue that using Dominatio as a backup plan makes it no different from using it outright. I commend your clarity. But consider this: Do degrees of coercion matter?"

The light in the room seems to dim just slightly as she steps forward, her voice carrying a note of challenge. You feel a powerful magic coming from her.

"We persuade people all the time—with rhetoric, with incentives, with social pressure. Imagine a king urging a noble house to support a treaty. He may appeal to their sense of duty, offer them wealth, or remind them of past favors. At what point does persuasion become coercion? Don't minimize the power of Amplifico... If I cast a spell to make myself irresistibly persuasive, am I not, in a way, bending another’s will? If my magic words compel you to act, is that truly different from forcing you outright? Or is the illusion of choice enough to preserve moral integrity?"

Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes shine with the intensity of a teacher who relishes the complexity of the lesson.

Professor Callavane listens with measured patience, her expression unreadable.When the Critic caws, her lips quirk ever so slightly in what might be amusement—or repproval.

Then, she speaks, her voice steady but carrying the weight of authority.

"Zix, you raise a valid concern. I have indeed introduced complex ethical dilemmas without first equipping you with the full arsenal of philosophical frameworks that might be used to navigate them. But I do so deliberately."

She steps forward, folding her hands behind her back.

"Over the course of this semester, you will study consequentialism, virtue ethics, deontology, care ethics, and more. You will be asked to analyze this very scenario from each perspective, crafting essays that argue for different courses of action based on those theories. In time, you will learn to wield these ethical tools as confidently as you would any spell."

She pauses, letting her words settle before continuing.

"But that time is not today. Today, I am not asking for your future selves—the ones who will have spent weeks dissecting moral philosophy and refining their reasoning. Today, I am asking you, as you are now, to decide. Not as theoretical ethicists, but as young mages standing on the precipice of real-world responsibility. As for your concerns about persuasion and free will, you are correct: the answers to those questions hinge on deeper metaphysical inquiries—compatibilism, determinism, libertarian free will. And you are right that these answers, if known, would change the landscape of moral philosophy entirely."

A glimmer of something sharp enters her gaze—an acknowledgment of Zix’s intellectual challenge.

"But those questions are not settled. If they were, we would not be standing here debating them. Philosophers and arcanists alike have grappled with them for centuries, and no consensus has emerged. So tell me, Zix—if certainty eludes us, if the foundations of ethics remain contested, does that grant us permission to do nothing? Or must we act despite the ambiguity, forging our path through reasoned intuition and personal conviction?"

She allows a moment of silence, then adds, more gently.

"At the end of the semester, I will ask you to revisit this scenario. You will analyze it again, but this time, armed with the ethical theories you will have studied. You will argue not just from your present self, but from the perspective of the mage you are becoming."

Her sharp gaze softens slightly.

"But before you can test your beliefs against philosophy, you must first know what you are. So, tell me—if this were now, if this were real—what would you do?"

Professor Callavane listens carefully to Kiraen’s quiet admission. She studies the drow student with an expression neither pitying nor patronizing—just understanding.

"You are here," she acknowledges, her voice calm but firm. "That alone is a choice. One that many in your position might not have made. You will not be judged in this class for what you were taught as a child, only for what you choose to become."

She meets Kiraen’s gaze directly, a steadying presence. "Ethics will not be your easiest course, but difficulty does not equate to failure. What matters is that you engage, question, and reflect. That is all I ask of you—and, I suspect, all you ask of yourself."

With a slight nod of acknowledgment, she turns back to the group at large.

---

"It seems you have reached a consensus. Amplifico, and not Dominatio. Persuasion, but not coercion. The ability to present your best arguments, but without overriding another’s will." She lets her gaze pass over each student, taking the measure of their convictions. "Very well. I mark your answer."

Her hand moves, and with a flick of her fingers, a small glowing glyph appears in the air before fading into nothing. "This record will be revisited at the end of the semester, after you have studied various ethical frameworks and applied them to this same dilemma. You may find that your stance evolves—or that it does not. Both outcomes will tell you something about yourselves."

She clasps her hands behind her back. "For now, we continue. Ethical decision-making is rarely about a single moment. It is a continuous process—one that will shape not just what you do, but who you are."

With that, she moves forward into the next lesson...

A few hours later, as classes ends, the Biblioplex, grand and filled with the scent of old parchment and ink, seems exceptionally quiet. The magic lanterns in it begin to dim slightly, signaling the shift toward evening

As the group steps out of the Biblioplex, the cool evening air greets them. The sky above Misthaven is painted in dusky purples and deep blues, the last light of day clinging stubbornly to the horizon.

Greta stretches her arms over her head, rolling her shoulders with a satisfying crack. She lets out a deep sigh before glancing around at the group, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips.

"Well, that was a lot of thinking for one day," she says, adjusting the straps of her satchel. "All this talk of ethics and magic makes my brain hurt. You know what’d help? A drink."

She plants her fists on her hips and gives the group a pointed look. "I say we head to the Bow’s End Tavern. First round’s on me—unless you lot would rather sit in your dorms and keep debating philosophy until your heads explode."

Kiraen gave a polite smile, though her mind raced for a response. The lie bubbled up before she could stop it.
The words felt strangely hollow as she spoke them. The Dueling Club wasn’t exactly what she needed right now. In truth, she was trying to avoid a far more pressing issue. Her trial evening at the Bow’s End Tavern a few days ago had been a mess — a disaster, she’d privately told herself over and over since. The way she’d fumbled with the drinks, the way her nerves had betrayed her… And the innkeeper. Her stomach twisted at the thought of facing him again, of his scowl as he’d asked her the apron and told her she wasn’t cut out for the job.She could still hear his voice in her mind: "Maybe try some other line of work, eh?"

The shame, sharp and biting, crawled up her neck. The Dueling Club — yes, that was her excuse. Nothing to do with the tavern. Nothing at all.

Greta didn’t seem convinced, but she shrugged. "Alright, suit yourself. But the tavern’s always there. Just saying!" She waved and began to walk away, rejoining the others as they headed toward the path that led north.

Kiraen turned away, clutching her satchel tightly. The sound of laughter faded into the distance as she walked, her steps quickening as she neared the eastern side of the campus. The cool night air kissed her skin, but the weight of her thoughts pressed heavier with each step.

Dueling Club. It wasn’t the place for brooding over mistakes. But it was somewhere she could do. Somewhere that required focus, action. Not like the tavern, where she'd stood frozen, spilling drinks and fumbling her way through the night like a fool. The Dueling Club had structure — rules, form, intensity. It was just what she needed, she convinced herself.

The stone path leading toward the Dueling Gym felt familiar in its own way, a calming contrast to the chaos of her thoughts. As she neared the small structure, the enchanted lanterns cast flickering blue and gold hues across her face. She paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. The sound of light footsteps echoed against the walls, and the smell of oiled leather and polished wood mixed with the subtle sharpness of magic.

Inside, the gym was alive with energy, the hum of arcane wards filling the air. A few students were already practicing tonight — shadowing strikes, moving with the fluidity of skilled duelists. The walls glowed faintly with runes, marking the spaces where matches took place, and the faint scent of sweat and determination lingered.

Kiraen hesitated, fingers brushing the hilt of the stiletto at her side. She watched for a moment, the rhythmic movements of the duelists a welcome distraction. Her mind was already on the movements she would need to work through tonight, the quick steps, the sharp strikes, the calculated defensive maneuvers that would distract her from… other thoughts.

But before she could make her way fully into one of the practice rings, a deep, gravelly voice broke the quiet hum of the gym.

"Hi, Kiraen," Gorran’s voice echoed across the room, rough yet surprisingly warm. "Didn’t expect to see you here this late."

Kiraen stiffened slightly, her gaze drifting towards the towering figure standing by the far side of the gym, near the training racks where the weapons were neatly displayed. The massive form of Gorran "Steelshard" Vrahk was unmistakable. At nearly seven feet tall, his broad frame and thick, corded muscles filled the space around him as if he were part of the stone and timber that made up the gym’s walls. His deep forest-green skin and the scars that crisscrossed his body told stories of years of battle, of survival, of someone who had lived through far more than most could imagine.

Greta’s hearty laugh bursts out at Marlena’s bold declaration, loud enough to turn a few heads nearby. "Dragon’s Fire, eh? Now that’s the spirit!" she says, slapping the table hard. "Nothin’ like a bit of liquid courage to start the night off right!"
Greta snorts. "Banana wine? Sounds like somethin’ you drink after losin’ a bet—but hey, I respect the adventurous spirit." She leans back in her chair, clearly loving every minute of this.

When the server, a recently hired third-year tiefling, finally swings by, Greta leans forward, drumming her fingers against the table. "Alright, listen close. For my friends here—one tankard of Dragon’s Fire for the brave one, and a glass of that fancy banana wine for our aspiring poet. And for me—" she pauses, eyes gleaming mischievously, "—give me somethin’ that glows. I want a drink that looks like it might singe my eyebrows off just for lookin’ at it wrong. Somethin’ magical—like it’s dared me to drink it."

The tiefling blinks, tail flicking uncertainly. "Uh... glowing. Got it. I’ll check with the kitchen on that."

Greta flashes her a grin. "Perfect. And throw in a plate of those sparkly pastries Chef Curtie makes. We’re celebratin’ survivin’ our first proper day—and no celebration’s complete without sugar and regret."

As the tiefling scurries off, Greta leans back, resting her hands behind her head, utterly at ease.

---

A few moments later, the tiefling server returns, expertly balancing a tray laden with drinks and a plate piled high with Curtie Axechucker’s famous enchanted pastries — some of which softly hum and shimmer with faint runes, the sugar dust sparkling like tiny stars.

First, she sets down Marlena’s tankard of Dragon’s Fire, a deep crimson liquid that faintly ripples as though it’s alive, a thin tendril of smoke curling from its surface.

Marlena swallows hard, trying to remember why she thought this was a good idea.Next comes Zix’s glass of banana wine, a pale gold with a subtle aroma of ripe fruit and something floral. The glass itself is etched with a delicate swirl design — a touch of refined elegance at odds with the chaos of the tavern.

Finally, with a flourish, the server places Greta’s drink in front of her — a tall glass filled with a swirling, iridescent liquid that shifts between neon green and electric blue, flickering faintly like bottled lightning. A few curious students at nearby tables lean over to sneak a glance.

Greta’s eyes widen with pure glee. "Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!" She slaps the table, sending one of the pastries hopping an inch into the air. "If this doesn’t put hair on my chest, I don’t know what will!"

She grabs her glass, holding it high, her iron-ringed braids clinking softly with the motion. "Alright, you lot — here’s to surviving our first day without melting our brains! Here’s to friends worth drinkin’ with, bad decisions we’ll laugh about later, and magic so wild it makes our professors cry!"

Dueling Gym
"Good instincts," Gorran rumbled. "When your head’s too loud, your hands should be busy." He stepped aside, gesturing toward the open gym. "You’re welcome to use the space, Kiraen. Plenty of practice dummies and moving mannequins along the edges if you just want to work off some steam."

He turned slightly, his gaze sliding over to the central dueling rings, each one framed by those flickering bands of light—some a calm blue, others burning red where matches were already underway. "If you’re after more than just punching something, we also run ranked matches here. Duelists fight to earn standing—proving your skill, learning from real opponents."

His heavy hand gestured toward a wide board mounted on the far wall, where names were engraved into polished wood, each accompanied by a string of glowing symbols—marks denoting rank, recent victories, and favored weapons.

"You want to compete for rank, you let me know. It’s open to any student who’s willing to put their pride on the line."

Bow’s End Tavern
Greta’s laugh explodes from her like a thunderclap, loud enough to rattle nearby plates and make the glowing drink in her hand ripple. She slaps her knee so hard it sounds like a hammer striking an anvil, nearly tipping herself backward in her chair. "HA! You’ve got a furnace in your belly, lass! Look at you — a proper fire-breather!"

She’s doubled over with laughter, tears gathering at the corners of her bright blue eyes. Several nearby tables erupt into cheers and applause, a few students raising their mugs in salute to the accidental pyromancer. One gnome in the corner shouts, "Do it again!" while a dwarf a few tables over looks mildly impressed, nodding in approval.

Greta slaps Marlena’s back — carefully, but still with enough force to nearly knock the poor girl off her seat. "I’ve known warriors who couldn’t handle that drink half as well! You’re a bloody legend now, lass!" She lifts her own shimmering, glowing drink high. "To Marlena the Firemouth! May your drinks always be bold and your eyebrows always grow back!"

---

Greta turns toward Dorian with a wide grin, her cheeks still flushed from laughing at Marlena’s accidental fire show.

"Dominatio, huh?" She snorts, her voice rich with amusement and just a touch of mischief. "Nah, lad — haven’t changed my mind a bit. Why waste good magic bossin’ folks around when you can just roll up your sleeves, flash a winning smile, and ask ‘em proper? Maybe flex a little if they’re stubborn." She winks, flexing one of her thick arms for emphasis, muscle corded beneath sun-kissed skin.

"Magic’s handy, sure — but I’d rather charm ‘em with my sparkling personality than fry my own conscience, yeah?" She knocks her glowing drink with her knuckles, the liquid within shifting from neon green to a deep electric purple. "Plus, no spell beats a good tankard and a bit of honest talk. Folks’ll do a lot for you if they like ya."

Dueling Gym
Gorran let out a low, rumbling chuckle, tusks gleaming in the lantern light. "You’ve got the right spirit, Kiraen."

He stepped over to one of the nearby training dummies — a scarred and weathered thing with limbs held together by enchantments and years of magical patchwork. He gave it a firm slap on the shoulder, causing the whole mannequin to shudder slightly. "For light blades like daggers, you can use your own. Most duelists do. A blade you know is worth more than any stick off my rack. And don’t worry about the damage — your monthly fee more than covers a Mutatio mage to stitch these poor bastards back together after you’re done."

He turned slightly, gesturing to the large ranking board mounted along the far wall. A couple of names now glowed faintly in shifting gold and silver letters, the current standings constantly updated by a scribe’s enchantment. "As for the rankings, you’ll be competing in Light Blades. That covers daggers, short swords, rapiers, even enchanted knives, if you’ve got any. Spells are allowed, but only the right kind."

He raised a hand, ticking off his thick fingers. "Tutela for defense. Perceptio for awareness, reading your opponent. Amplifico to boost your speed, strength, or reflexes. And Illusio — you can distract, mislead, or disguise a move. "

His fingers curled into a loose fist. "But nothing that hits directly. No Excidium bolts, no Creatio fire blasts, no Dominatio mind strikes. This is about finesse — blade work, positioning, and using your magic to sharpen your edge. If you want to blast someone across the ring, you’re looking for the battlemage circuit. Light Blades? This is for duelists."

Gorran’s tusked grin grew wider. "If you’re ready, I can put your name down right now. First match could happen tonight. There’s always someone eager to fight. And if you do well, you’ll have a shot at something bigger."

He jabbed a thumb toward a poster pinned on the wall — announcing a Light Blade Tournament in just a few days’ time. "Win a few ranked matches, and you’ll qualify for the tournament. It’s open to all students, and it’s a damn good way to make a name for yourself."

The massive orc crossed his arms, leaning back slightly as he gave her a once-over. "So? You want your first match now, or do you need to study a little bit more and warm up on the dummy first?" His grin sharpened. "I’d bet there’s at least one poor fool near the bottom of the board just itching to prove himself."

Bow's End Tavern
"Oh, Zix, you beautiful brain on legs — let me set ya straight." She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, fingers laced together like she’s about to deliver the most profound wisdom in all of Misthaven.

"See, threatenin’ someone with magic — that’s cheatin’. That’s pretendin’ you’re somethin’ you ain’t. Like slappin’ a fancy illusion over a lump of coal and callin’ it a diamond."

She unlaces her fingers and flexes one arm, her bicep bulging under her rolled-up sleeve. "But this? This is just me. No magic, no tricks, no illusions. If I politely suggest that a merchant reconsider his stance on lettin’ hungry folks starve, and I just happen to do it while crackin’ my knuckles loud enough to make his knees wobble — well, that’s just me bein’ persuasive."

Her grin sharpens, blue eyes twinkling with mischief. "A punch? A shove? That’s not coercion, love. That’s communication. Direct, honest, dwarven communication."

She leans back, arms wide. "There’s no ‘magical compulsion’ foggin’ his mind — just the stark clarity of choices laid bare: be a decent person, or maybe take a lil’ nap courtesy of Greta’s left hook. No different than haggling a price down or convincin’ someone to share the last pastry — just… a bit louder."

She taps her temple with a calloused finger. "It ain’t about takin’ away his free will — it’s about convincin’ him to make the right choice on his own... with a lil’ extra motivation. That’s the difference, my friend. Dominatio is about takin’ control. Me? I just give ‘em a… gentle push in the right direction. Completely ethical... Probably."

She downs the rest of her drink, slamming the empty glass on the table with a grin. "Besides, if my fists count as coercion, then so does Marlena's charming smile. Guess we’re both guilty!"

Dueling Gym
Kiraen draws her stiletto and in one smooth motion plants it between the target dummy's legs, with a quick cut under the left armpit and a final strike on the right side of the neck.
I assume that there are healers available or one of these potions that Professor Ellowyn Starforge gave me after we defeated the mirmic?
Gorran did wince when her first strike sank home, so he could understand her caution. What if I seriously hurt somebody? The thought that someone could hurt her in a dual hasn't entered her mind.

Dueling Gym
Gorran’s brow lifted slightly as Kiraen’s stiletto struck with precise, almost clinical efficiency. His eyes followed the fluidity of her movements — quick, practiced, and not at all what he usually saw from first-years. The corner of his mouth tugged upward in something resembling approval, though he didn’t say it outright.

"Not bad," he grunted, stepping forward to inspect the dummy’s fresh set of wounds. "You’ve got a professional’s touch — which means you’re going to need to unlearn a few things if you want to do well here."

At her question, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Yeah, I can patch up most anything short of gutting someone outright." He held up his large hand, fingers crackling faintly with a soft golden glow — evidence of his Tutela training. "But don’t go thinking that means you can cut loose like this is a back-alley scrap. This is a duel, not a fight for your life."

His gaze met hers, sharp and unyielding. "You need to learn to pull your strikes — aim to disarm, not disembowel. Control your blade. Read your opponent. If you don’t, you’ll hurt someone who didn’t sign up for a trip to the infirmary."

Gorran’s arms crossed over his chest, the cords of muscle shifting under his skin. "You’re not on the Underdark anymore, Kiraen. Here, a fight ends when someone yields, not when they stop breathing."

He stepped back, giving her a little more space. "But you’ve got the hands for it — I can see that much already. Just remember: precision and control win matches here. Not blood."

The weight of his words settled between them for a moment, before a wide grin returned. "Now… you still up for that first match? Or do you need a minute to convince yourself not to stab someone in the throat?"

Dueling Gym
Pull my punches?!
Break skin, not tentens or vains?
No sir I will not compeat to night. I have to practice first. She removes her hair band and ties it round the tip of her stiletto, so only a centimeter or two of the blade is free.
When I can work through all my katars, my forms, without moving the hairband further up the blade, then I will compeat. I still need power behind my thrust to penetrate defences, but I have to stop the blade for reaching mucles. Just break skin.
This is a fun challenge, its a hard one, but there is an immidiate feedback if she doesn't get it right.
Tomorrow I will ask Marlena for a elastic band of some sort. I need my hairband.

Bow’s End Tavern
Greta’s smile fades like a forge cooling after the heat’s been drawn back. She leans forward again, resting her thick forearms on the table, her fingers absentmindedly toying with one of the iron rings at the end of her braid.

"Zix, I get what you’re sayin’, I do," she says, her voice quieter than usual — though still loud enough for the nearby tables to probably catch a word or two. "But you’re paintin’ me with the wrong brush here. What you’re talkin’ about — threats for the sake of takin’ what ain’t yours, makin’ someone feel powerless just ‘cause you can — that’s not what I meant."

She shakes her head, brows furrowed in thought. "I’m talkin’ about when there’s hungry mouths and empty bellies, and some fat merchant’s sittin’ on a storeroom full of bread he’s hoardin’ for profit while kids are cryin’ for scraps." Her hand curls into a fist on the table, the leather bracers on her forearms creaking slightly with the movement. "If all it takes to loosen his grip is me crackin’ my knuckles or leanin’ in real close so he gets a good look at the muscle that built these arms — well, I can sleep just fine knowin’ I gave him a nudge toward doin’ the right thing."

Greta exhales sharply. "I’m not sayin’ I’m some perfect paragon of ethics, but I sure as hell ain’t some thug squeezin’ folks for my own gain." She taps the table for emphasis. "What I’m talkin’ about — it’s about justice. Not greed, not power, and sure as hell not…"

She pauses, her brow furrowing deeper, jaw tightening for just a breath before she pushes out the words. "…not anythin’ like what you’re thinkin’ of."

Greta then turns to Dorian. "Exactly!" she says, slapping the table hard enough to make a few enchanted pastries bounce. "You’ve got the coin, you spend it how you like — on swords, shields, or a whole battalion of mercenaries if that’s what gets the job done. No magic tricks, no mind-bendin’, just good ol’ coin and muscle."

She flashes Dorian a broad grin, completely missing the irony in his voice. "See? Now there’s someone who gets it! You play the hand you’re dealt — no shame in that. Whether you’re born with gold in your pocket or a hammer in your hand, you make it work for you."

Dueling Gym
Gorran’s brow lifted slightly at her outburst, but there was a flicker of approval in his eyes. "Fair enough. Better to know your own limits than pretend they don’t exist."

With that, he gave her a nod and stepped back, leaving her to her training.

Kiraen took a deep breath, centering herself in front of the enchanted training dummy. The hairband, black against the polished steel of her stiletto, stood out like a mark of intent. A simple challenge, but one that demanded absolute precision — exactly the kind of precision she had spent years refining.

Dueling Gym
Kiraen stars to work on the dummy, by the time she have gone through every karta twice she has two conclusions.
One, this is bloody difficult stopping just cutting skin.
Two, the hairband is a lot of extra weight on the blade, and it is in tatters now and it has been a constant distraction.

By the time she leaves for a shower, she has a new idea. She going to get herself some lipstick. A ring of lipstick around the blade would not weigh as much, and would have the same effect. And it would look badass placing the tip of the blade inside her mouth to apply the ring of lipstick before her training.

Bow’s End Tavern
Greta’s brow knits together as Zix speaks. She listens — or tries to — but when Zix finishes, Greta’s response comes without hesitation, her voice firm, but not angry.

"Nah, see, that’s where you’re wrong. They are the same." She leans forward, elbows braced on the table, her bright blue eyes locked on Zix’s. "You flash a smile, you bat your lashes, you tilt your head just so — it’s all angles and leverage, same as squaring your shoulders and showin’ off the muscle. Either way, you’re pushin’ someone to do somethin’ they wouldn’t maybe do on their own. The only difference is one’s soft and sweet, and the other’s loud and obvious. But they both work ‘cause they poke at somethin’ inside the other person — fear, attraction, respect, whatever."

But before anyone can answer, Greta’s already shifting gears, her expression brightening slightly — not in dismissal, but in that unmistakable way Greta tackles uncomfortable topics: by plowing through them into bigger ones.

"But y’know what’s really wild? Magic." She spreads her arms wide like she’s trying to encompass the whole damn University in the gesture. "Forget smiles and fists and coin. Magic’s somethin’ else entirely. If you’re clever enough, trained enough — you’re playin’ a whole other game."

She starts counting off on her fingers. "With Amplifico you can change your own senses, charisma and pheromones to a level so high people feel somethin’ they can’t even explain. With Dominatio you can swipe a memory right outta their head, like takin’ a coin off a table. With Perceptio you can peek ahead. Do this for just a few minutes, an hour maybe — just enough to know exactly what to say or where to stand so things break your way. All those choices we were talkin’ about? Magic can snip and twist ‘em without the poor sod even knowin’ it’s happenin’."

Her grin is crooked now, somewhere between admiration and unease. "That’s the real power gap — not muscle versus charm, not rich versus poor. It’s the folks who understand magic, who can bend it to their will, and the ones who never stood a chance against it."

She leans back, folding her arms across her broad chest again. "That’s why I don’t lose sleep over flexin’ at a greedy merchant. ‘Cause somewhere out there is someone who can make that same merchant think his whole family’s already dead, just to make him willingly sign a paper."

There’s no bravado in her voice now — just blunt certainty. "Compared to that? My fists are downright polite."

She grabs one of the enchanted pastries, biting into it with a crunch, her gaze flicking back to the group.

Greta gives Zix a look — she knows they could argue all night and still be spinning their wheels in the same mud pit come morning. She shrugs one broad shoulder, her iron-ringed braids clinking softly.

"Eh. No point goin’ in circles, Zix. You’ve got your stance, I’ve got mine — and neither of us is changin’ it tonight." She grabs her glowing drink, swirling it lazily. "Let’s call it a draw and save our breath for the next class debate, yeah?"

She downs a hefty gulp, wincing slightly as the magical fizz sparks against her tongue, then turns her attention to Marlena. The change in topic earns a grateful grin, though it fades a bit at the question itself.

"Power’s part of it, sure," she says, voice quieter than usual, though still firm. "But it’s not just about wantin’ power for power’s sake." She drums her fingers against the table. "My dad’s a professor here. Been one longer than I’ve been alive. I grew up hearin’ about magic, breathin’ it in..."

She pauses, jaw working for a moment before she adds, "Where we are from, a strong back and a quick fist’ll get you respect in the village square — but in a place like this?" Her hand sweeps out, indicating the whole of Misthaven. "If you can’t sling spells, if you can’t shape magic like breathin’ air, you’re just... there. Standin’ in the corner while the real players talk."

She huffs, shaking her head. "I’m gonna learn this stuff — the real stuff — not just for some shiny degree, but so when I walk into a room, people know I belong there."

She grins again, but it’s smaller now, a little more honest. "Magic is a tool, yeah. But it’s also a key. And I’m not about to spend my life stuck on the wrong side of a locked door."

Dueling Gym
As Kiraen wiped the sweat from her brow, her mind still spinning with the lipstick idea, the sound of measured footsteps caught her attention. The faint clink of armor accompanied them, and when Kiraen glanced over her shoulder, she saw her — Lieutenant Veyna Kallisar, second-in-command of the Eastern Dragon Guard.

Kiraen had seen her before, both in passing and during her initial tour of the campus. Veyna cut an imposing figure — not in size, but in presence. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight braid, her scaled armor polished to a muted sheen, and the long scar carving down her left cheek spoke to experience earned the hard way. Her posture was as precise as her sword strikes were rumored to be — confident, yet never arrogant.

The lieutenant offered a brief smile, though it barely softened the sharpness of her gaze. "You're practicing well for an Assistant Librarian, Miss Nyrazzrin."

Kiraen tensed slightly, caught off guard. "I—"

But Veyna raised a hand, cutting off any need for excuses. "I mean that as a compliment. Precision like that doesn’t come easy, especially when you're learning to hold back." She took a step closer, her sword hanging at her hip, the weight of it seemingly effortless against her side.

"The Guard keeps an eye on promising students — and you? You caught my attention before." She tapped a finger against the scar on her cheek. "We recognize the ones who’ve trained not just for sport, but for survival."

Kiraen felt her jaw tighten, unsure whether to take the words as praise or suspicion.

"So," Veyna continued, her tone casual but her eyes sharp, "why didn’t you apply to the Dragon Guard? With those reflexes and that focus, you could have walked into officer training."

Kiraen shifted her weight slightly, trying to read the intent behind the question. It wasn't a direct challenge — more curiosity, maybe even a touch of disappointment.

Dueling Gym
Thank you - I will give it some thought
Something about the Lieutenant just doesn't sit right with Kiraen, but she has learned enough about court intrigue to be polite and non-comical. To Kiraen Lieutenant feels like a hound who have spotted its pray - and Kiraen is no-ones pray!
I'm over analyzing, she is just a greedy human who wants to command me.

Dueling Gym
"Okay, assistant librarian. Just make sure you know which fights you’re willing to walk away from — and which ones will follow you no matter where you go."

She turned, her footsteps echoing as she strode toward the door. "See you around, Nyrazzrin."

Kiraen stood there a moment longer, her hand tightening on her stiletto before she slowly let out a breath. The gym was about to close.

Tavern
The waitress gives Marlena a wink and sashays off toward the bar, leaving she wondering whether she’s blushing from the drink… or something else."My dad? Professor Harnock Ironhart — teaches Telekinetic Archaeology." Greta drums her fingers on the table absentmindedly. "He’s all about digging up ancient ruins without so much as liftin’ a shovel. Says it’s all about precision, finesse — movin’ a single grain of sand if you need to."

She snorts, shaking her head. "Not exactly my style, but... can’t argue he’s good at it."

At Dorian’s question, her brow creases deeper, confusion plain on her face.

"The Hollow Quill what-now?" Greta’s eyes narrow slightly as she looks at Dorian. "Rewriting memories? Never heard of it."

Her gaze flickers between him and Zix, suspicion starting to creep into her expression. "What are you on about? Is this some upperclassman prank, or are you just tryin’ to mess with me?"

She leans forward, elbows on the table, all traces of playfulness gone from her voice. "If you’ve got somethin’ to say about my dad, spit it out."

Bow’s End Tavern
Greta’s fingers tighten around the note as she reads it.

"This is ridiculous." She slaps the note down on the table, not quite crumpling it, but the paper bends under her fingers. "Rewriting memories of half a dorm? Do you have any idea how much power — and how many faculty members — it would take to pull that off? That’s not some quiet little cover-up, that’s a conspiracy the size of a dragon’s arse."

She snorts, shaking her head. "This smells exactly like something the Society of Subtle Truths would pull. Professor Mirthwhistle warned us about them — bunch of troublemakers who plant fake clues and weave spooky stories just to see who’s dumb enough to chase after them." She gestures at the note dismissively. "This is their style — get us all riled up, waste half a term running around like idiots while they laugh themselves sick."

Dorian watches her, his expression mostly neutral, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes — curiosity, maybe, or something he’s choosing to keep to himself for now. He doesn’t say anything, just turns the note slightly so he can reread it, fingers tapping absently against the table. This note might be a prank, sure, but there was enough truth buried in the wording to tug at something deep in him.

Dorm
Grinning, Brie twisted to show off her own ink: a jagged series of dark lines and stylized webs across her shoulder and upper back, symbols of her own past and pride. "See? Nothing says ‘don’t mess with me’ like permanent body art."

Just as she was about to launch into a story about where she got her first tattoo (probably in an alley behind a questionable tavern), Brie’s sharp ears caught the soft sound of paper sliding under the door. She raised an eyebrow and hopped off her bed with an exaggerated stretch, scooping up the folded note before Kiraen could react.

"Ooooh, what’s this?" Brie held it up between two fingers, turning it over like it might explode. "Secret admirer? Mysterious love letter?"

The paper was smooth and high-quality — not the usual rough scrap or crumpled flyer you’d expect from students handing out party invites.

Brie squinted at the wax seal, which was stamped with a spiraling sigil — a snake consuming its own tail, but the serpent was segmented like puzzle pieces shifting apart. "Huh." She tossed it onto Kiraen’s bed. "Definitely not a love note. Looks more like… secret society stuff. You in some kind of cult already? I thought I was supposed to be the shady one in this dorm!"

When Kiraen opens the seal and reads the paper, she finds it is a note (invitation? request?) from The Society of Subtle Truths

To Kiraen, Assistant Librarian of the Biblioplex,

Congratulations on your appointment. Such a fine position is reserved for someone with brains… yet, it pains us to see you wasting precious time at the dueling gym.

A little bird whispered to us about your recent contributions to the illusionary door puzzle left upon the campus grounds. Clever work, Miss Nyrazzrin. It’s rare to find someone who notices the clues, let alone solves them.

We could use that mind. That curiosity. That knack for seeing what others do not. We need your help.

Should you wish to know more, leave a silver coin under the third floor common room’s couch before midnight tomorrow. Consider it an invitation.

---
The Society of Subtle Truths

Dorm
Well Brie, you got that tattoo by your own initiative. I'm not a follower of Lolth, but my aunt though I should be, just because she was a priestess.
And I'm not in a cult!

Kiaren reads the note sitting casually on her couch. Right now she is in the most comfortable and unimposing clothes she owns.I better go find a silver coin. But I'm starting to get a bit miffed about all those unwarrented oppions on how I use my spare time

Dorm
Brie stretched lazily, cracking her knuckles as she sat up. "Silver coin? Yeah, I got one." She reached into her coat, which was draped over a chair, and fished out a small pouch. The sound of clinking metal filled the quiet dorm before she pulled out a tarnished silver piece and flicked it toward Kiraen with a practiced ease.

"But hold up." She tilted her head, her golden eyes narrowing with curiosity. "Why do you need it? You planning to bribe a professor? Paying off a bookie? Some secret wizard handshake I don't know about?"

She leaned forward, tail flicking behind her, still oblivious to the contents of the note. "C’mon, spill. You know I love a good mystery."

Dorm
Nope Brie! I will tell you once I have uncovered this mystery myself.
Kiraen packs away the note. She will burn it at the earliest opportunity.
She takes the coin and leaves for the dorm stairs, she goes up to the third-floor common room and place the silver coin right away - and drops the note in a convenient fireplace.

Tavern
For a moment, the tavern falls completely silent as all eyes follow the fiery dragon soaring through the air. The flickering light dances across the walls, casting dramatic shadows over the gathered patrons. Then, as the dragon dissolves into a cascade of harmless golden sparks, the room erupts into cheers and applause.

"By the gods, did you see that?!" a gnome near the bar exclaims, nearly falling off his stool in excitement.

A few students whistle and clap, some slamming their mugs on the table in approval. A grizzled orc leans back in his chair, smirking. "That’s a hell of a way to liven up a night."

From behind the counter, Tulk raises a single brow but doesn’t intervene. He simply chuckles and shakes his head before returning to polishing a glass. "If you burn the place down, you’re cleaning it up," he calls toward Marlena.