Welcome to our lair: dormitory 7, floor 2, section A

The adventure begins in the northern, icy coldness of Bryn Shander. Night has settled in, and a church stands in darkness, pale moonlight filtering through and illuminating the interior with a cold, silvery glow. The acoustics inside are phenomenal—magnificent. A violin sings through the space, a soulful melody piercing the silence of the town and filling the church completely, replacing the deafening quiet that had been there before.

Lana plays, the sound resonating beautifully off the stone walls. The music continues, rich and reverberating, until the song finally comes to an end. From the darkness, a voice speaks.

“I thought I would find you here.”

Lana sits alone on the small stage in the middle of the church, where the orchestra would normally be. Chairs surround the space, all empty, leaving only a single seat occupied as she holds the violin. She answers calmly, almost tiredly, “Yes, of course. Of course I’m here. Where else am I supposed to go?”

“The path is not always clear,” the voice says, “but it’s up to you to find your way.”

Lana exhales in frustration. “You know you said that every single time. Every single time I try and then shit hits the fan and it just fails again.”

“They wouldn’t understand,” the voice replies.

“They will not,” Lana murmurs softly.

“Why can’t they just see?” Lana asks, her frustration spilling out. “Why do they have to choose every single time fear and the same damn thing?”

“It’s what they’ve always chosen,” the voice says evenly. “It’s the safe option. You are the wild card.”

A figure steps out of the darkness. He is a dwarf, a short man moving toward Lana at the center of the church. He approaches her slowly, his presence calm but heavy with meaning, until he stands close to the stage where she sits with her violin.

“What do you want, Lana?” he asks.

“I want… I want change,” she says after a moment. “Like it should—something should happen.”

“Something should,” he agrees. “But what do you feel the path should be?”

“I don’t know,” Lana admits. “Every time I try to get into the political system, they think I’m not equipped enough. Or they think I betrayed them because of Zoya, and I can’t get in. What if we get another war? What if we get Frost Giant stuff again? I don’t know.”

“Do you understand why they did not pick you?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Am I not educated enough? Am I not clear enough? Am I too understanding? The world is broken. The law—the law doesn’t help people. People help people.”

“The laws are there to guide the people,” he replies.

“But the laws are broken,” Lana shoots back.

“Then fix them. Apply yourself.”

“But it doesn’t work. I try,” she says, her voice cracking. “Where do I have to look? Nobody lets me do it. Where can I do it then?”

“You’re too new for this old guard,” he tells her gently. “An inexperienced person, with all the experience she needs to change things, but none of the opportunities. This town is too small for you.”

“Well, you don’t say,” Lana mutters. “This is the biggest town in all of Icewind Dale.”

“I have a better path forward for you. It’s not always clear,” he says again.

Lana gestures faintly around them. “Well, of course it’s not. It’s always winter here. And we have had two dark years.”

“Exactly.”

“You need to learn,” he says, revealing a carefully folded piece of parchment. He hands it to her, and the moment her fingers touch it, the letter lights up and unfolds itself with a soft glow of magic. It reveals itself as a carefully folded origami owl.

“Well, this is pretty, but…” Lana hesitates. She begins reading the first words, the parchment responding with subtle magic as it unfolds further, addressed to a prospective student of Strixhaven.

“You may disagree,” the dwarf says, “but I think this is your path.”

Lana takes a breath. “If you tell me to go, because this is my path, then it shall be. And I will go.”

“Keep your mind open.”

“Jorund,” Lana asks, finally saying his name, “how did you get me there?”

He twists his hand, and glowing runes flare to life along his arms. “You ever wonder where I got my powers? Where I learned to develop them? You ever wonder how I could take down a giant by myself?”

“Yes, of course,” Lana says. “You taught me to fight. You also taught me how to play the violin like this, but—”

“Yes,” he says gently. “These times are hard.”

“Well, all times are hard here in the North.”

“You’ll soon learn that that’s not the case everywhere,” he replies. “You need to see something of the world. You cannot be stuck here. You need to learn, and then you can come back. The next election of the speakers will be in four years—exactly the amount of time you’ll need to graduate.”

“Okay,” Lana says slowly. “If that will teach me how to be like the people want. If it will teach me how to rule, or at least be like the people want me to be. I need that. Because on my own, I will not succeed. I tried. I took every single job. I checked all of the laws after Zoya—everything. It’s like—”

“You have to face it, Lana,” Jorund says. “It’s not just the second time you tried. It’s the second time you failed.”

She opens it fully and reads aloud. The words speak of demonstrated aptitude and arcane potential, of selection for admission to Strixhaven University, of speaking the command words to accept and open the path to knowledge. As she reads, she pronounces the words immediately, almost without realizing it.

Magic bursts forth from the parchment. Sigils appear on her hand, golden lines spreading across her skin to form part of a star-shaped emblem—the sigil of Strixhaven. The energy ebbs and sinks into her, warm and humming beneath her skin. Jorund looks at her with a small smile.

“Congratulations.”

“Well, thank you,” Lana says softly. “I don’t know what to say except thank you. What day is it? How long do I have?”

“Approximately half a ten-day,” he tells her. “So it will be next week.”

He laughs softly and takes her hand. As he does, the patterns flare again, his own sigil whole and complete, hers only a fragment. Energy surges through her veins, and suddenly understanding blooms within her. The knowledge had been inside her all along—the ritual, the destination.

A name rises in her mind.

“Arcadios.”

She recognizes it as distant and unfamiliar, yet eerily known. Images flood her thoughts. “So I need to go to Arcadios to get to Strixhaven.”

The sigil is clear in her mind now.

A day or two later, after packing, Lana prepares to perform the ritual. She decides to do it alone, walking out through the South Gate toward a quiet memorial obelisk where few people gather. There, she carves the Strixhaven sigil into the ground, using the back of her javelin, drawing from memory and instinct. The markings are rough but true.

The icy wind cuts at her face as she centers herself, focusing inward, finding her inner energy and concentration. She closes her eyes, breath steady despite the cold. When she opens them again, a bluish line of light trails down from the sky—like lightning, but slower, rounder, deliberate.

Instinctively, she reaches for it.

The pull is immediate and powerful, dragging her forward through space—perhaps even time. The cold vanishes, replaced by warmth and brilliance, and Lana finds herself carried into a bright, sunny sky.

---

After ten minutes of focused ritual, he finds himself grabbing at a blue line in the sky, and suddenly he is dragged forward. The skyline rushes into view. Individual pieces of rock float freely in the air, spread out before him like a fractured cityscape. Below lies something like an archway plaza, with a massive statue at its center. Off to one side stands the Biblioplex—or what he assumes must be the Biblioplex. Somehow, inexplicably, he already has knowledge of this place. The sigils on his arms glow faintly beneath his gloves, and that glow feels connected to this sudden certainty. Everything looks magnificent.

He looks up and sees the suns in the sky. Two suns. Of course there are two: Ezra and Kara. He knows their names, knows them instinctively—though he has no idea how he knows. He breathes in, and the air is fresh, crisp, like a spring morning. The temperature is warm but gentle, pleasant in every way. It feels good just to stand here. Around him, other students emerge from what appears to be a large teleportation circle or plaza, stepping into this place in much the same way he has.

Ruben feels his excitement bubble over. “I’m so excited.”

This ritual reminds him of home—of his parents, of the ritual space in their house. Where most families have a dining table, his family has a reading table, lit by infinite light bulbs that always provide perfect illumination. Years and years of work have led to this moment. As the first Titalba in his family to join this prestigious magical school, the pride and pressure settle on him at once. The weight of the institution presses forward, but instead of holding him back, it propels him onward. He wants to absorb all the knowledge there is.

He grabs his spellbook and moves forward—hovering rather than walking. He is an owlin, after all. He floats ahead slowly, nearly silent despite the bright midday light, drifting forward with such subtlety that one would need sharp perception to hear him move at all.

He looks left and right, scanning the plaza. Others are moving too, but many stagger, confused and dazed, acting on instinct without fully understanding what they’ve done or why they’re here. They look much like he feels—awed, uncertain, overwhelmed. Above the archways, more students fly through the air: owlin like him, but also others, some wreathed in elemental magic. Fire and ice streak across the sky, fractals forming and dissolving in breathtaking patterns. The sight is astonishing.

Ruben is overwhelmed, utterly so. Still, he keeps hovering forward, intent on taking it all in, almost forgetting the people he arrived with. He has a goal, and he is here to pursue it. He will absorb everything Strixhaven has to offer.

In the middle of the plaza stands someone clearly positioned to receive newcomers. “Welcome, welcome. How can I help you?” Other students approach her as well.
“Welcome. If you want to know where your dorms are, report to me.”

“Hi, I’m Ruben. I’d like to—”
“Welcome to Strixhaven. Nice to meet you.”

She asks whether he already knows his dorm. He does not. She is an owlin with pristine white feathers, her demeanor timid but steady, welcoming yet practiced. Ruben studies her carefully. His own feathers are deep chestnut, tipped with gold and white, his amber eyes sharp and focused as he looks at the list she carries. For a brief moment, his thoughts race. Is this a test? Should he read her mind? What is really going on?

The list contains only names—no dorms.
“What’s your name?”
“Ruben. Ruben Titalba.”

She scrolls through the parchment, which magically winds along like an endless ribbon. “Ah, yes. Perfect. All right, Ruben.” She steps aside, revealing a pedestal topped with a crystal. “Could you please put your hand on the pedestal?”

Instantly, Ruben does so, climbing slightly onto his spellbook for balance and placing his hand flat against the crystal. The sigils on his arm flare to life, glowing brightly as magical energy pulses through him.
“Ah, yes. You’re in dorm 72A. Floor two. Dormitory A.”

Somehow, instinctively, he knows where to find it.
“Oh, thank you. Your name was—?”
“My name is Galia Malou.”

Ruben nods, already analyzing the etymology of her name, the pattern of her feathers. “Thank you, Galia.” This time, he walks rather than hovers, matching his pace to the other students.

A commotion draws everyone toward the archway. Students gather to take in the Biblioplex and the central statue. As Ruben walks through the grass, something catches his attention—not just visually, but audibly, even by scent. Someone is playing dragon chess.

He is immediately torn. He is supposed to go to his dorm, not get distracted—but as the local school champion in dragon chess, the pull is irresistible. His heart races as he carefully makes his way toward the sound, careful not to shove anyone aside. This place is incredible.

In a park nearby, ten tables are set up, each hosting a game of dragon chess. The matches are fast—far faster than anything Ruben has seen before. It looks like a competition, or at least something close to one. On the far right table, a match is clearly nearing its end.

He notices the clothing first. New arrivals wear all manner of garments from across Faerûn and beyond—wildly diverse, dozens of students passing by at once. Older students are easier to identify: their tailored uniforms are adorned with green, red, or gold, customized but unmistakable. Prismari. Silverquill. Lorehold. He starts recognizing the patterns quickly, eager, though he knows these uniforms come only after the first year.

In the corner sits a Loxodon clad in full plate armor, smug and relaxed. He uses his trunk to move the pieces with casual precision, utterly confident. His opponent scrambles, thinking fast, moving faster—but it’s not enough.
“Checkmate.”

The Loxodon crushes his opponent’s hopes with a final move.
“Undefeated champion. Who dares take me on?”

Ruben is already standing beside the board. “I’m new. Can I join? I want to learn. I know dragon chess—this is a bit fast, but—”
“All right. Let’s go. Do you know the rules of blitz?”

Ruben has heard of blitz, though he has never played it. It’s far faster than even the rapid games he’s used to. “I’ll try. I might have to learn.”
“No worries. Enjoy your match.”

The Loxodon stretches, armor clanking as he shifts his heavy frame, constantly adjusting to ease the pressure on his belly.
“All right,” he says. “You start. Be the attacking force. Do I need to repeat the rules?”

“Yes. Please repeat.”

Dragon chess can be played aggressively, defensively, or as a maverick. Defensive beats aggressive. Aggressive beats maverick. Maverick beats defensive. Blitz means five seconds to choose a style. First to three wins.

The game begins. The pace is brutal. Moves fly back and forth. Ruben adapts quickly, even summoning mage hand to move pieces with lightning speed. The Loxodon’s smug confidence falters; he takes the game seriously now. The competition heats up, each round faster than the last.

In the final moments, Ruben’s strategy is sound, his calculations flawless—but it is still too fast. Just as he reaches for the final move, the Loxodon interrupts.
“Uh—my turn.”

The king falls.

“It’s so fast. I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s so cool. Thank you for playing. Good game.”
“Very good game, my man. Have you picked a club yet?”
“No.”
“You should consider the Dragon Chess Club. Absolutely. You’ve got talent.”
“You’ll see me there.”

The Loxodon nods. “Pleasure to meet you. I am—” He makes a rumbling sound, then chuckles. “You can call me Rampart. Easier for you folks.”
“Okay. Thank you, Rampart.”

Ruben steps aside, making room for the next challenger. Rampart settles back into his seat, armor clanking as he relaxes once more. He glances after Ruben briefly. The first impression has been made.

---

A head turns past the door, and Kroak peers out, eyes bright. “Yes, welcome. Come in, come in, come in.” The space beyond looks a bit scary at first glance, and Kroak immediately fills the silence. “It looks a bit scary. Do you want some potions? I do.”

Inside, the store is not really a store at all. A bed sits in one corner, a desk nearby cluttered with bottles and little vials. A kettle boils, steam creeping along the floor. In another corner there is a pile of mud and sticks pressed up against the walls. A second bed stands opposite the first, lines stretched between them where herbs hang drying. The air is thick with smells—sour, sweet, herbal. In the middle of it all stands a slender, almost gaunt tiefling, super pale, their skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Dark curls spill down both sides of their curled horns, their ears ending in long points. Large, bat-like wings rise from their back, making them seem bigger than they are, though their hunched posture offsets it. They stare into a pot, then look up again. “Come in, come in, please. Yes, okay. So you’re looking for a potion?”

They ask what they can help with, and the answer comes easily: potions and prophecies. Kroak nods eagerly. “Potions and prophecies, that is correct.” When asked for a prophecy about what the best potion might be, they usher the visitor inside. “Of course, of course. Please, please, sit.” A tiny stool is revealed as Kroak lifts a plate of half-eaten food and drops it onto the floor. “Please, sit.”

A small gnome settles onto the stool, looking around with wide eyes. With pointy ears and a little hat, dressed almost comically, they seem far too young to be here. Kroak steps closer. “Give me your hand. What’s your name?”
“My name is Tim.”
“Your name is Tim?”
“Yes.”

Kroak pulls something sharp from their hair and pricks Tim’s finger with a needle. A single drop of blood appears. It doesn’t look sanitary. Kroak peers at it intently. “I can see now. I can see. First I need the pain.” They ask for payment, waving it off casually. “Just pay what you want. But it’s also pay what you get.”

They mutter to themselves, handling bottles, declaring, “I have a small piece. Perfect.” They gesture broadly, noting what they see. Then, decisively: “You need some healing. It seems you recently got an injury.”
“Oh, you’re talking about my leg.”
“That’s right. Yes, your leg. It’s not fully recovered. I can tell, I can tell.”

They probe further. “Is there someone close to you? Are they alright?”
“Maddy was there.”
“Yes. Maddy. Oh. Damn, she was good.”
“She was a lot worse than me.”
“Oh yes. Well, maybe we can help her. I might have the right potion.”

Kroak turns away and begins scrambling, moving bottles aside. They pick up an empty vial. “Oh, this is kind of clean enough,” they mutter, shaking it out. They scoop liquid from the boiling kettle, search unsuccessfully for a cork, then shrug. “Well, is this good enough? You can drink this for your luck. Or you can get this to Maddy.”

The decision is made quickly: start with Maddy, then come back tomorrow for another healing potion. Kroak names the price. “That will be 25 gold pieces for the healing potion.” The gold is handed over. Kroak beams. “Please make sure to tell your friends about potions and prophecies.”
“Yes, yes, I will.”
“Thank you so much. You are so smart.”
“ No worries, Tim. Come back anytime you want.”

Tim leaves, and the room settles. Kroak exhales. “Let’s see.”

---

Lana makes her way to the dormitory: Dormitory 7, floor 2, section A. As she is about to open the door, it swings open and a little gnome walks out. On the door hangs a handwritten sign on old wood: Potions and Prophecies.
“I—hello?” Lana calls. “Hello, anybody here?”
“Yes, yes, welcome. Come in.”
“Um, hello.”
“Are you here for some potions?” asks Kroak.
“Well, no. I’m actually here to claim a bed, because this is my dorm.”

“Roommate, you say?”
“Are you saying that you run a shop from a dorm?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Well, your roommate.”

She steps inside and is immediately hit by the smell—sour and foul, mixed with drying herbs and something obscenely sweet, so sweet it clings to her nostrils. Lana thinks about when this place was last cleaned, then straightens. She hears a voice from deeper in the dormitory, from a tiefling lounging on a couch by the fireplace, head popping out of a side room. “Yes, you want potions and prophecies there?”

Lana enters with her trunk and backpack. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
Kroak grips her hand in a very firm handshake. Lana notices how skeletal they feel and is almost afraid to squeeze too hard.
“I’m Svetlana Rimov, but you can just call me Lana. It’s way shorter.”
“Lana. Hi.”
“Hi. I’m—Kroak!”
“… Kroak..?”
“Kroak. Okay. Because my voice— People just call me Kroak. It’s fun.”

Another tiefling watches from the couch, looking extremely unamused. Kroak gestures down the hall. “Well, you can stay here.” They point toward their own room, where a rotting smell drifts out. “Or you can stay over there.” The other room is empty, filled with natural light.

Lana instinctively chooses the brighter room. “Well, thank you. I think I will take the room with the most natural light. That’s more my vibe.” She keeps her aristocratic composure. “Thank you, Krok.”
“Kroak.”
“Like a crow?”
“Like the sound. Kroak.”
“Okay. It is very good that you tell me when something is not correct. Thank you for bettering me. I will be in the side room. Thank you.” Lana takes off.

The room is simple: a bunk bed, a desk beneath it, a window, a small closet at the end of the bed. Lana unpacks methodically. Clothes are dumped into the closet without much care. She sets up a stand between the closet and the bed and places a violin on it—slightly shabby, but still in good condition. On the desk she puts two pictures: one of a young girl who looks much like herself, and another drawing of a large building before a great fire, snow and mountain peaks rising behind it. A heavy fur blanket from her father goes on the bed. She breathes in, adjusting to the normal smells, grateful for the absence of Kroak’s fumes, and looks out the window to take in the campus—students walking and laughing, arcane fire and ice swirling in the distance near the archway.

---

The next morning, voices and commotion drift in from outside. The door opens as someone knocks, the movement quick and practiced, as if the interruption is expected. A tired figure barely looks up from a table inside.

“Hi, is there anyone there?” Ruben calls out uncertainly.

“Yes. Are you looking for the Potions of Prophecies? It’s in that room. I don’t need to know your name. If you’re looking for the Potions of Prophecies, it’s that room. They will do the reading. I’m trying to study here.” answers the tired gnome.

Ruben blinks. “I think this is my dorm.”

The tired gnome returns to his work without another word. A moment later, another door opens and Kroak appears, bright and welcoming despite the clutter behind them. “Oh, hello. Are you here for a question?”

“Uh, potentially, yeah, but I’m not—this is my dorm, uh, supposed to be,” Ruben says.

“Oh, welcome,” Kroak says warmly.

Ruben steps closer. “Hi. I’m Ruben.”

“Hi, I’m Kroak,” Kroak replies cheerfully.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Please, please, come in.”

As they speak, the sound of a violin drifts through the walls—steady, focused, coming from behind a closed door – Lana’s room. Inside, Ruben takes in the space, larger than he expected.

“It’s quite big. I thought it was quite small, but—oh. This is…”

“Cozy,” Kroak supplies happily. “Yes, please, come in. Let me clear some room for you.”

They move quickly, scooping piles of belongings off a bed that is clearly already occupied. The room is crowded—very occupied—but Kroak does their best, shifting things aside to make Ruben feel accommodated.

Ruben just absorbs it all. In his mind, this makes sense. Someone focused on studying has every right to be unfriendly, but this—this is a super friendly person inviting him into the dorm. There’s a bed. It’s dark. He’s a night owl. This works perfectly fine.

Kroak opens a chest meant for clothes and pulls out what looks suspiciously like a dead possum. “Well, that’ll clean right now.” They move it to a corner. It’s…disgusting.

Ruben swallows. “I, um—yeah, this is all very new for me. Maybe you can explain how it works here?”

“Yes, of course. This is where you sleep. You can have your personal belongings here.”

“And where can we store our books?”

“In your chest, or wherever you want. And then that open space you came in through—that’s our common living room. We often sit and have dinner there. Or study.”

“So…do we cook ourselves?”

“Yeah. I can make stew if you want. You cook yourselves at night, but in the morning there’s a dish in the kitchen. Every morning—bagels, donuts, all these nice treats.”

“That’s what gives the sweet smell,” Kroak says. “Always permeating the area. Are you hungry? Would you like a potato?”

“A…potato?”

“Yeah. I grew that myself.”

“Oh. Thanks. Maybe it’s cooked even better.”

“Sure.”

Ruben starts unpacking. “Well, let’s unpack a bit. Um…how far north is Neverwinter from your place? Have you been into trade before you went to Strixhaven?”

“I’ve been into cities,” Kroak says. “Moved around a little bit.”

Ruben clutches his spellbook as he speaks—a thick volume marked with a golden crown and a red carpet spilling from the cover. “This symbol—it’s an association of merchants and rulers. All around Faerûn. If you’ve been involved in trade, you might recognize it.”

“I’ve not been to Neverwinter. Too far. But I’ve been to trading cities. Silverymoon. Everland.”

Ruben perks up. “Silverymoon is good. One of the largest cities with representatives.”

“Yeah. Both are part of the trade network. The…Lords’ Alliance?”

“Lords’ Alliance,” Ruben confirms. “Though I think it broke apart.”

“I think so. Some cities left.”

They move on, the topic drifting. Ruben’s belongings emerge—mostly books, a neat quill, ink. He looks around, thoughtful. “So you’re also into trading?”

“Yeah. Theoretical experience. I’d love to expand—start my own little trading for the school.”

Ruben smiles. “That’s nice.”

He glances at Kroak’s appearance. Kroak’s robes are tattered, forest-dark, stained, threaded with leaves.

Ruben gestures vaguely. “Who’s the gnome here in the dorm?”

Kroak explains easily. They’re very social—perhaps too social. Offering stew every night. Having people over constantly. It disrupts the gnome’s studying. Pell, they explain, always looks extremely tired, relentlessly studying even though classes haven’t started yet.

As they talk, the violin stops. Footsteps cross the hallway, and Lana appears at the open door, knocking anyway.

“Hello, Kroak. Good morning. Do you want, like, a bagel?”

“What’s on the bagel?” Kroak asks.

“Cream cheese and stuff. Smells good. At least more fresh than what you’re used to.” Lana looks at Ruben, chin slightly raised. “And who might you be?”

“Hi. I’m Ruben.”

She gives a curt greeting. “I’m across the hall.”

Kroak turns, rummaging again. “Oh! Lana, before I forget—I have something for you.”

They return holding a potato and place it into her hands.

“Why do you hand me a potato?” Lana asks, baffled. “I just handed you a bagel.”

“Because I’m giving it to you. You can do whatever you want. Eat it. Cook it.”

“No—Kroak, why are you offering me a potato? My dad cooks with it at the inn, but—why?”

“You don’t want the potato?”

“I don’t need the potato!”

“You can say that ten times.”

Lana stares, clearly unsettled. “You make me feel uneasy. You have this smile—it’s a bit…unsettling. But you handed me a potato, so…from politeness, I’ll take it.”

Ruben tries to redirect. “So, Lana, you’re also in this dorm?”

“I’m from the other room.”

As the exchange continues inside the crowded dorm, another owlin woman approaches to introduce herself—someone Ruben already met the day before. She carries herself strictly, cutting through the chaos with quiet authority. Ruben glances her way. She has nice brown feathers. She looks young, doesn’t she? His thoughts tumble over each other, and when she walks in, he knows it immediately—he is blushing. There’s no point denying it.

Lana notices at once. She is intensely observant, always reading posture and expression. She sees how unsettled Ruben is, elated, maybe. Or unnerved. 

The owlin steps forward. “Nice to meet you. I am Seraphine.”

“Hello, Serafina. I’m Ruben,” comes a rushed reply from Ruben, followed immediately by, “Which clan are you from?”

There’s an awkward pause.

“What kind of question is that?” she snaps. “We barely know each other.”

Ruben stumbles through an explanation. “Does it matter? I thought we could connect.”

“Maybe someday,” Serafina says coolly. “I don’t feel like it now. You were way too forward.”

Ruben exhales. “Okay. Thank you. It’s good to learn.”

Serafina withdraws into her room—the south one, right next to theirs. As the door closes, Lana turns sharply. “What was that?”

Ruben thinks carefully before answering. He knows now that he pushed too far.

Later, memory fills in the gaps. He has met her before—another sharp-tongued encounter, another clear warning not to overstep. Still, no one is wearing school uniforms, and the mood is looser than expected.

“Ruben, was it?” a tiefling woman says. “Hi.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Ruben.”

Lana has already heard enough to piece things together. “Hello. I’m Lana.”

“I’m Nimry,” the tiefling replies.

One by one, people drift back to their rooms, and the dorm quiets. When they look around again, one bed is still unoccupied.

“That’s next to mine,” Lana says. She shrugs. She’s fine with it staying empty.

Days pass. The introduction day arrives, and the bed remains unfilled, despite the letter clearly stating that all students should be present. Lana jokes that Ruben can bunk in her room if he wants more daylight and fewer smells.

Ruben doesn’t mind the mess much anyway. The dorm is cluttered—junk piled high—but his own bed is clean, the sheets neatly arranged. He respects Kroak’s space and style, and together they talk rules, boundaries, and how to make the room work. It’s cleaner than when he arrived. His mother would be proud.

He writes his first letter home, describing his dormmates. Soon, conversation shifts to business. Flyers. Signage. Marketing. Kroak admits their handwriting is far better than Ruben’s early attempts. They laugh and sketch ideas—posters, a redesigned sign, maybe even flyers for Presto, the little cantrip-cleaning service everyone’s talking about: for a silver piece, a first-year student will Prestidigitate just about anything. Ruben decides it’s the perfect way to start clean.

At last, they all head together to the introduction in the Biblioplex—seven dormmates walking as one, though one is still missing. Names are recited and corrected along the way: Serafina the owlin, Nimry the tiefling, Pell the gnome, Kroak, Lana, Ruben… and Tobin, the halfling who had been messing with fire earlier.

The Biblioplex looms massive as they arrive on central campus. Students flood the space. The Hall of Oracles dominates the center, a beam of energy tearing upward through the air without harming the structure around it. Hundreds of students gather, speakers prepare the stage, and the twin suns mark the time—Ezza bright and blazing, Karu smaller and redder.

As they step inside, magical power hums through the air. The Strixhaven mark glows on their hands.

There are no uniforms on most students—only a few older ones wear them. Shelves stretch endlessly, rows upon rows of books. Tables are filled with studying students, while first-years wander in confusion toward the stage.

Ruben walks with the group but can’t help himself—his eyes track the indexing systems, the structure of knowledge. This is why he came. The books matter more than the crowd.

Lana, meanwhile, watches the people. She spots faculty immediately—owls, humans, all manner of folk in official attire. Music swells as Prismari students perform, fire and ice weaving through fractal light. It’s beautiful. It’s exactly her taste.

A proud owl in black-and-white steps forward. “New students of Strixhaven, welcome.”

Applause rises, magic flares, and sigils bloom in the air. The owlin makes a heartfelt and joyous speech about the opportunities at Strixhaven. Then the tone shifts.

Another figure takes the stage, his presence cold and unsettling. His words cut sharper.

“Look left. Look right. Those people will most likely be gone by the end of the year.”

Ruben stares, quill frozen mid-scratch. When the man says, plainly, that some of them will die, murmurs ripple through the crowd.

“This is not a metaphor,” the speaker continues. “You work with real magic. Real consequences.”

Lana feels a chill—and, disturbingly, fascination.

The speech ends with a challenge: a ritual. Dormmates must enter a demiplanar wing of the Biblioplex together. No shortcuts. No rescue.

Lana speaks up despite herself. Their dorm only has seven, and they need eight.

The response is merciless. Not everyone makes it.

As the orchestra swells again and students begin to vanish in flashes of light, groups completing their sigils and disappearing together, panic creeps in. Scrolls of light appear. Symbols align. One by one, groups are gone.

Their group hesitates. Something is wrong. One sigil duplicates, Tobin, and another one is missing.

Then a friendly-looking man approaches. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Edrin.”

Introductions are exchanged quickly. One problem is solved: the duplication. The problem remains—they’re missing someone.

---

Mountains, vast and constant, their colors more alive than anything should reasonably be, fill the landscape. Light saturates everything, an array of it pressing in from all sides, so vivid it feels almost physical. The colors don’t merely exist—they attack with their vibrancy. Trees are filled with fruit, extremely ripe, their sweetness heavy in the air. Streams run down the mountainsides, their sound ever-present, little threads of water waving through the air. Laughter drifts naturally from shrubs and from trees themselves, woven into the landscape. A small valley lies below, thick with trees, waterfalls spilling endlessly, flowing and flowing without interruption.

“Oh my god, what time is it?” The urgency cuts sharp. Another thought overlaps, distant but insistent—I was supposed to be there already.

“Oh no, I have to do this. No—where is my bag?” The fairy scrambles, gathering his things in a rush. A reassurance flickers through—I got everything—but it doesn’t slow him. He spirals instead. “I said goodbye to everyone. Oh no, I forgot this. Something. Everything. What did I do?” He forces himself to remember. “I have to—oh yeah, I have to draw a sigil.”

The fairy, named Daiki, starts drawing. A sigil takes shape. Then hesitation. “And then… what was it again? Something with—” The thought slips. Something. Something. “I don’t know what I have to say anymore.” Another fragment surfaces, clear and firm. Those are the words.

The signs are already done. The words are spoken out loud. The sigil is completed and becomes the focus. Daiki tries to center himself. That is not going to work. Another thought presses in—I know the vocal component… emotions. He catches himself. “Sorry, I know. We are super… excited.” Nerve-excited. That’s what it is.

He focuses. Laughter creeps in again from the sides. He keeps peeking, just a little, and each glance costs him. Time presses down. It is going to be late. He is not going to make it. Something pulls. He sees it and already knows—fuck. He leaves the circle. The string snaps, disappears. He tries again. Focus. What do you want? The answer is simple and unavoidable. You have to be there.

This time, he waits. His arm shakes uncontrollably. He knows he cannot go up to it. He grips what he’s holding, eagerly, desperately, clinging to it. The world shifts.

Daiki feels himself displaced. Pulled. Dragged into another reality.

---

“Maybe someone is invisible,” Ruben offers weakly.

Before anyone can respond, hurried wingbeats cut through the air. A frantic flutter approaches, rushed and chaotic, as if someone is arriving far too late.

A very small figure rushes toward them, barely sixty-nine centimeters tall, short hair streaked with purple highlights, tall ears framing a face marked by two tiny horns. Bright bluish, aqua-shimmering butterfly wings beat behind him as he flies, a tail swiveling with each motion. His outfit is purple and aqua, and he carries two bags—a larger one and a smaller one. Tiny scales cover his hands and feet, bare because he wears no shoes. He is flying, after all. Why would he need them?

The small flyer lands in a rush of motion and breathless energy. “Hello! I’m here—sorry I’m late. I was working and I forgot the time. No, time is weird. Hello. Do you have a tattoo? I think so—is it on my left or my right—can—”

“Can we please pull all the hands together?” Lana cuts in firmly.

Everyone does, hands stacking together in a quick, awkward pile. 

A booming voice suddenly echoes inside their heads. Congratulations on solving the first puzzle. A scroll appears, floating in midair.

As soon as one of them reaches out and touches it, the world shifts.

They are pulled into an extremely blue, washed-out version of the Biblioplex. Everything is still there—students walking, books moving, life continuing—but it feels wrong, as if they occupy the same space while standing just outside of it. A demiplane layered over reality.

The small flyer looks around, blinking. “Okay, what’s next? Sorry, I missed everything. Hi, my name is Daiki. We didn’t meet yet.”

“Hi Daiki, I’m Ruben”

“So what should we do? I missed the whole introduction thing—”

Ruben opens his book, starting to recite the opening speech.

“We don’t think we have time,” Lana says. “Maybe you can tell him later.”

Lana exhales and gestures around them. “Okay. Synopsis. You look left, you look right—somebody might die, somebody might finish their studies, somebody will not. I will finish it. But first, we need to solve this. We are now somewhere. This might be a riddle. Or something else.”

“I think we’re in a parallel dimension of the library,” Daiki says.

“A demiplane,” someone corrects.

They look back at the scroll.

“What does it say?” Daiki asks.

“Clue number one: You’ll forget all about any trouble or plight when you step forward and are ensnarled in light.”

“It’s a library,” Daiki says immediately. “You forget everything because you’re so focused on studying.”

They argue briefly about reading everything versus following the first clue. Eventually, Daiki continues.

“Clue number two: Alumni commission works when they retire, seeking promising majors to inspire.”

“Clue number three: Each group deserves a free treat for their investment—serve up this list and enjoy your refreshment.”

“Sweet treat,” Kroak says. “I don’t play with sweet treats.”

“Clue number four: These leafy beds aren’t always what they seem. Give them a pat and see what you believe.”

“And clue number five: Some stars are ancient and jewelry and bright, but others—maybe you are born on opening night.”

“I’m a star,” Daiki says proudly. “I know.”

They circle back to the first clue.

“The big glowing energy,” Lana says. “At the entrance. The show. Let’s go there.”

They move together, drawn toward a massive, pulsing glow—a strange, radiant distortion cutting through space itself. They can’t interact with anyone else here, but the energy hums with power.

“What do we do?” Daiki asks. “Maybe we just fly into it?”

“That’s a very bad idea,” someone says.

“It sounds really good,” Kroak replies cheerfully.

Daiki hovers, frowning. “The clue says you have to step forward and be ensnarled in light. Maybe we just have to focus. Forget everything else.”

“You’ll forget all about any trouble or plight…” Edrin repeats.

“I can help you forget things,” Daiki offers brightly. “I have a really nice deal for a memory.”

“Let’s not,” Lana says quickly. “Please.”

After more debate, Daiki straightens. “I am the bright star to be, so I’ll go.”

“What kind of ego has this fairy?” Lana mutters as Daiki flies forward.

He plunges into the blazing energy like a mosquito to light. It is blinding. He loses all sense of his body, of direction, of self. He is far away—then suddenly not. He emerges clutching something.

“I got something in my hand,” he says, confused.

It’s a potion of healing, tucked into a small pouch. Kroak examines it, adds something to it with practiced motions, biting their finger and shaking the vial. “You didn’t know this, but you have an upgraded potion.”

Daiki grins and stows it away.

Others follow, touching the light and receiving their own potions. With the first clue complete, they turn back to the scroll.

“Alumni commission,” Daiki repeats. “When they retire. Seeking promising mages to inspire.”

They debate dorms, graduation stages, teachers, commissions. Tension builds. Another group completes the task elsewhere.

Finally, Ruben speaks up. There is a hall in the Biblioplex—a hallway lined with alumni.

“A Hall of Fame,” Lana says immediately.

They head left through the Biblioplex, passing bookcases and gardens set indoors, shrubs and trees among benches where students study. A massive door opens into a room lined with portraits and plaques. Prismari students admire the art, uninvolved.

“This must be it,” Lana says. “We have to touch what inspired us.”

Ruben notices a portrait with an inscription: At Strixhaven, we were all inspired.

He touches it.

There’s a mechanism in the plaque. With careful pressure, it opens, and a small pendant drops out, glowing faintly. Others repeat the motion, each receiving one: Strixhaven pendants!

Some bear college symbols—Lorehold, Quandrix, Witherbloom. Others remain plain. They compare them, excited and confused, slipping them into pouches and around their necks.

“Second group completed,” a voice announces.

“One more place left for the grand prize.”

“We don’t need the grand prize,” Lana says.

“But publicity would be nice,” Daiki adds, grinning at Kroak.

They turn toward the next clue.

“Something sweet,” someone says.

“The café,” Daiki agrees. “The smaller one inside the Biblioplex.”

They move back toward the front of the Bibliplex, and the exit reveals itself properly now: a wavering horizon of fabric, like a suspended curtain, as though the demiplane simply ends there. Beyond it, they step out into a small cafeteria. A counter runs along one side with a cash register, and trays of sweets sit beneath glass. The smell is sugary, but muted—pleasant, though nowhere near as overpowering as the Firejolt Café they all know.

Lana approaches the counter as if to order something. The woman behind it looks up and smiles. “Welcome,” she says. 

Lana hesitates, trying to remember the clue. Wasn’t it something about asking for something sweet? Lana says, politely, that they would all like a refreshment. Someone urges them to hurry, because they want to win the prize. The woman nods and hands over a stack of sandwiches—simple, but generous. Ruben looks delighted. “Lovely sandwiches.” Kroak, chewing, mutters, “I only know about desert witches. Let’s go.”

The next clue comes quickly: “These leafy beds aren’t always what they seem. Give them a pat and see what you believe.” They puzzle over it—beds, leafy beds, parks? Lana asks if there’s a park. Ruben insists they flew past some earlier, still inside the demiplane. Shrubs, plants—maybe that’s it. As they move, they spot other groups. Two of them stand near the stage now, dressed in neat grey, black, and white uniforms. They pat one of the shrubs. The leaves immediately part, revealing a hidden teddy bear nestled inside. Lana blinks. “Do we all get plushies?” Kroak answers before anyone else can. “Mascot.” Each of them finds one—a cuddly Strixhaven mascot, just like the others got.

Ruben stares at his. “It’s so ugly. Why is it so ugly?” Kroak agrees, though there’s fondness in their voice. It’s explained—this mascot is one of the physical signs that marks someone as a Strixhaven student, something others will instantly recognize. Ruben turns it over in his hands, conflicted and oddly moved.

They each end up with different ones: an inkling mascot, a pest, a fractal creature that looks like a little snake made of shifting patterns, a Prismari-colored one. Reactions fly—“It looks terrifying,” “It’s cute,” “Nice swamp cat,” “I’ve never seen anything like this.” Pell and the others pull out their own mascots too, laughing and comparing. Trades are discussed and made. They swap, mascots changing hands until everyone is at least somewhat satisfied, or resigned.

With that settled, they turn to the final clue: “Some stars are ancient, enduring, and bright, but others—maybe you are born on opening night.” Lana wonders aloud if there’s an observatory. Ruben shakes his head; it doesn’t feel literal. A nursery? A stage? Kroak’s eyes light up. A stage makes sense.

They run back the way they came. Another group has already finished, and for a moment it sounds like they’re too late. There are prizes, eligibility, confusion about who qualifies. Still, they reach the stage as more people spill out around it. The clue echoes in their minds: stars, opening night.

They step onto the stage. “Prophecies and potions,” Ruben says, half in disbelief. Then Kroak begins to chant it properly, louder, more deliberate. “Prophecy and potions.” Lana joins in. “Prophecy and potions.” Kroak urges more enthusiasm. Lana jokes that she needs her violin for that, but they keep going anyway.

As their voices rise, spotlights snap into place, bathing them in brilliant light. Magical sparks scatter like fireflies. Fireworks bloom overhead, and golden dust rains down, settling over their skin and clothes. At the center of the stage, on a stand meant for speeches, lies a large scroll.

They rush for it. Seraphine reaches it first, touching the parchment, reading quickly. Ruben appears beside her, then steps back, gesturing for her to go ahead. She takes up the feathered pen beside the scroll, dips it in ink, and makes careful marks. “What are you doing?” someone asks, but she only focuses, then nods. Now it’s their turn.

The scroll reveals itself as a curriculum selection for their first year. Three courses must be chosen. Discussion erupts immediately—about archeomancy, archeobotany, incomancy, computational magic, history of magic and art. Definitions blur together in hurried explanations. Archeomancy is archaeology through magic. Incomancy is rhetoric and writing. Computational magic is mathematical, almost like numbers and logic given arcane form.

They argue, joke, panic, and decide. Some settle on botany. Others on history. Someone insists they’ll just excel in three and ignore the rest. Eventually, names are written down. Others—Nimry, Seraphine, Pell—make their own choices, some picking the minimum, others far more than required.

At last, everyone signs.

A booming voice fills the space. “Congratulations. You solved the scavenger hunt. You may now call yourselves officially our brand-newest students of Strixhaven University. Welcome.” The golden dust still clinging to them shifts and weaves itself into their clothing, transforming bright colors into a clean uniform of black, white, and grey. 

The scroll remains in their hands, listing the courses they chose—and one more, added automatically. A general study that everyone must take: Magical Physiologies.

They stand on the stage as the noise dies down, most of the other groups already gone back to their dorms. It is relatively quiet now. They are not the very last group, but close enough that it feels that way. Around them, talk drifts about how many groups were allowed to pass, about special prizes, about who finished first or last. There is joking speculation about failure and death, quickly dismissed, followed by a strange, relieved sort of laughter. What matters is that they finished. They are not the last, and they are not anywhere near the first either.

Eventually, the tension ebbs. The group talks about celebrating their first victory, maybe at the café, maybe back at the dorms. The café is likely packed by now; everyone else got there first. With a resigned sort of agreement, they decide to head back to the dorm instead. As they walk, Lana pauses to ask Daiki why he was late. She points out they had to wait and got delayed. The answer is vague: everything will make sense later.

They walk together, chatting. They pass the Café and see it overflowing, hundreds of students packed inside and spilling out. It is obvious now how late they really were. Conversation turns to how the first groups might have chosen their courses so quickly. Maybe they guessed. Maybe they were legacies, children of former students who already knew exactly what they wanted. They reach the dorm building. Other students are heading in as well. When Lana opens the door, something clicks.

In an instant, confetti explodes everywhere—blue, pink, purple, every color imaginable. Music blares, hysterical and loud. Banners hang from the walls in bright, glittering patterns. The smell of sweets floods the air: apple pie, candies, sugar upon sugar, overwhelming the senses. Lana is nearly blasted in the face, her glasses catching flecks of confetti. Kroak stares, stunned. Ruben laughs in delight.

Then Daiki swoops into view, flying above the fireplace. A large blue banner reads, in glittering letters, “WELCOME TO OUR LAIR.” Confetti rains down as he cheers loudly, welcoming everyone home. He offers sweets from a huge plate, proudly explaining he brought them from the café.

It quickly becomes clear that this is not every dorm—just theirs. Their common area is completely covered in confetti. When asked how this all happened, Daiki explains in a rush: he wanted to prepare a surprise, worked at the café, lost track of time, flew back to decorate, added music, sweets, confetti, and then realized he was late. Kroak points out, dryly, that they almost were not accepted because he wanted to vandalize their room. Lana tries to mediate, acknowledging that while the execution was questionable, the intention was good.

The music continues. Daiki insists they all stand in a circle and learn a song. He sings enthusiastically. Lana initially walks away, clearly unwilling, but returns with her violin and begins to play instead, using the instrument to avoid singing. Ruben tries to sing too, refusing to dance. The whole thing is chaotic, silly, and strangely joyful. Daiki sparkles with enthusiasm, declaring this a friendship dance.

Lana circles back to the earlier question: why Daiki was late, and how risky it all was. She explains carefully that while the party was strange, even one of the weirdest things she has ever seen, the intention was genuinely kind. Still, they could have missed everything, could have been expelled. Daiki insists he calculated it perfectly. Lana counters that he could not have known how the trial would go and asks him to think before acting next time. 

Confetti has invaded everything. When one door is opened by Ruben, it reveals beds, belongings, and even more confetti explosions, leaving Ruben hovering awkwardly with feathers and paper stuck to him. Other students peek in from the hallway, staring in disbelief at the explosion of color. Then, with a maniacal laugh, Kroak starts running around, opening ALL the doors in the dorm, setting off a confetti cannon with every action. 

Daiki shows his own sleeping space: in Nimry’s room, behind cloaks and carpets lies a miniature cave, decorated with flowers, a mural, shiny objects piled in a corner, and a tiny bed. There is even a hidden window he flies through. Lana is stunned, calling it a whole mansion. Daiki shrugs it off casually, explaining he has been at the academy for almost ten days now, working double shifts at the café and helping people. Daiki apologizes for not meeting everyone properly earlier, explaining that he brings leftover desserts from his shifts and leaves them out in the mornings.

The dorm decides to hire Presto’s cleaning services to help with ridding the dorm of all the confetti. As the conversation drifts and ideas bounce around—courses, clubs, jobs, friendships—it settles into a comfortable chaos. They think about what they will need to prepare, what lies ahead, and how all of this will fit together. 

It feels like a beginning