Written for Woodland Writers’s 2000-word DARK ACADEMIA writing challenge. The prompts were A SENTIENT OBJECT, AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR, and A FLAME IS EXTINGUISHED.
Result: TBD
Absolutely ridiculous.
I slam my textbook shut, sending the precarious pile of books on my desk teetering. It’s the first sound I’ve made since returning from dinner, and Rin startles out of the nap she was just taking on my unmade bed. She announces her displeasure with a long and lazy hiss.
“Oh hush,” I snap, “I can hear your thoughts well enough, you don’t have to be so dramatic about it.”
Her responding thought—if one could even call it that, being that she’s a cat—is one of annoyed, but tolerant disapproval.
I get up from my chair and pace around the cramped quarters of my dormitory, hands clutched behind my back. I have to sidestep the cauldron and spell circle that have found their home in the middle of the stone floor.
“I should say something, right? I mean, I can’t just let him perpetuate such glaring falsehoods about witches. He’s a professor, for Flame’s sake!”
Rin flicks her tail. My pathomancy doesn’t translate her feelings into literal words, but if they did, I’m sure they would sound something like, You’re irritated, Arabella, and it’s irritating me. Come back when you’re more pleasant to be around.
I stop pacing and pivot on my heel to face her. Her pupils are blown wide, leaving the slightest ring of green visible against her black fur. “It’s settled then,” I announce, throwing on my robes. “I’ll stop by his office and be back in time for curfew.” I lean over and knock my head affectionately against hers before slipping out the door.
Despite being the most sought-after arcane university in the world, the Forst Academy of Magical Studies isn’t particularly large. On the rare days I’ve woken up late for class, I’ve managed to run from my dormitory in the western wing all the way to my classrooms in the northern wing in less than three minutes. Tonight, the wide halls and massive central atrium are empty, save for the old headmasters’ portraits lining the walls. It makes for an easy trek to the faculty offices in the eastern wing. Luckily for me, Professor Ludwen has a reputation for staying late in his office. I may be persistent, but even I’d never dream of bothering a professor in their private rooms.
My feet pad silently up the spiraling stone stairs of Dawncrest Tower—named after some human queen who attended the school, if I remember correctly. The sun set hours ago, leaving only the vague promise of light at the top of the stairwell. The name feels all too ironic now in the endless darkness. Finally, I come upon a large wooden door, and beneath it, the telltale orange glow of a late night.
The sound of my knock echoes through the tower. “Professor Ludwen? May I come in?”
“You may.”
I open the door to reveal an office nearly as crowded as my dormitory. The entire back wall is a dark wooden bookcase, brimming with countless scrolls and knick-knacks. At the room’s center is a sturdy oak desk, covered in various stacks of parchment I immediately recognize as student essays, as well as half a dozen tea-stained porcelain mugs. Behind that desk, equal parts delighted and intrigued, is Professor Ludwen.
“Miss Sloan, this is unexpected.” He smiles as he speaks, with the slightest hint of an accent I’ve never been able to place. He’s one of the few teachers who acknowledge that charisma is just as essential to his role as expertise. He wields both with a warm and bright-eyed smile. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes, sir,” I nod, closing the door behind me. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.” I offer that last part purely as a courtesy; after all, my magic never lies.
His long fingers gesture towards the upholstered chair across from him. “Not at all. Please, have a seat.”
I obey with a polite nod. Once I’m settled, I set my hands in my lap, interlacing my fingers tightly. “I wanted to speak with you about today’s lecture.”
Professor Ludwen leans back, tucking the long, strawberry-blonde strands of his hair behind his ears. “I thought you might. Tell me, how did I do?”
I never told Professor Ludwen I was a witch, but it’s no surprise that he knows. With such a small student body, the academy is known to do quite a bit of research on their incoming students. The fact that I’m a witch wouldn’t be remarkable, exactly—not when my fellow students consist of humans, vampires, and half-breeds—but it would be among the list of things documented.
“Overall, you hit the major beats well enough,” I concede. “Though you don’t need to capitalize willpower when referring to the source of our magic. And we would say The Flame created witches, rather than birthed us.”
To his credit, Professor Ludwen’s smile doesn’t falter. He reaches over, grabs a quill, and jots down some notes. Humility, I observe, with a touch of humor. “Duly noted. Thank you for your feedback, Miss Sloan. So, what grave transgression brought you to my door with only ten minutes left to curfew?”
Ludwen has always been one of the less rigid professors at the academy. He speaks with students as fellow human beings, rather than subordinates. I’ve always held a sort of sterile appreciation for it. Now, however, in the flickering candlelight of his late-night office, I suddenly find it a little too familiar. It tugs at something in my chest. I shift my gaze quickly away from his face, allowing it to fall on the first thing that catches my attention: a small collection of candles, each burning with magical iridescent light, vivid and unmoving.
“Miss Sloan?”
My eyes flash back to his. “Right. Yes. You said witchcraft is limited to females. That’s inaccurate.”
He raises a single eyebrow. Curiosity. “Oh?”
“Witchcraft is limited to women, not females. Sex is irrelevant.”
His expression remains static, but that makes no difference to me. I can feel his emotions as readily as my own. Confusion. More curiosity. Then, at last, clarity. “Ah, I understand,” he nods. “In my native tongue, we don’t differentiate between the two. A misunderstanding, lost in translation.” He sets down his quill, satisfied, and cradles his chin in his hand. “It’s rather poetic, isn’t it? The goddess of choice, granting power based not on immutable biology, but on how one chooses to identify?”
I admit, I am enticed by the question, but his stare looks all too vibrant in the orange glow of the candlelight. It shimmers with a delight that tempts the permeable boundaries that exist between my feelings and those of the people around me. I’m certain he’s not flirting with me—but I’ve known since puberty, when more than magic started blooming inside me, that attraction, sexual or otherwise, can be complicated. I look away, once again finding the strange, colorful lights. I feel myself getting lost in them.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Ludwen’s voice is melodic: lovely and strange, like the lights. “What domain of witchcraft do you practice?”
“Pathomancy,” I answer, eyes still locked on the candles. “I can feel what’s in others’ hearts. Their sensations, too, but to a lesser degree.”
Like a light in my periphery, I can sense Ludwen’s sentiments. The satisfaction of a question answered. The tickling of one that isn’t. “That makes sense. You seem quite taken with my artifact there, Miss Sloan.”
I nod. “It’s compelling. Like a painting that tells a story I haven’t been able to discern yet.”
Professor Ludwen hmms—half chuckle, half pontification. “Aptly put. It does hold a great deal of stories. Emotions, too. Given your power, it’s no surprise you can feel them.”
His choice of words pulls me from my reverie. My head snaps to face him, my brows knitting into a tight line. “What do you mean?”
“That is what my people call a phylactery. It’s a physical object that houses the deals we’ve struck with other entities.”
“A phylactery?” My mouth forms easily around the familiar word. Paired with the unmistakable reference to deals, the truth slaps me in the face. “You’re fae?”
He turns up his palms, fingers splayed. “Rare among the ivory towers of academia, I know. But I find myself utterly titillated by the diversity of people who pass through these halls. There are few desires quite so all-consuming as the desire for knowledge.”
Delight. Wistfulness. Nothing to be frightened of. Still, I swallow past the dryness in my throat. “And those lights — what do they house, exactly?”
“Hmm.” He taps his chin. “My people have a word for it, but I’m not sure how it translates. Essence, perhaps? Power? I’ve struck deals with a great many witches. I give them what they want, and in return, I claim some of their power.”
I watch the lights, entirely transfixed. There are six of them, each a perfect reflection of every imaginable color. The longer I look, the more intensely I can feel them. What starts as a shallow glimmer becomes an undulating multitude of emotion: joy, sadness, accomplishment, love, lust, pain, fear. They’re there, reaching out for me, alive, aware, and…and…
“You have to let them go!” I blurt out.
He shakes his head. “That’s not how it works, Miss Sloan. The terms of the deals are not yet met.”
“And when they are? You’ll release them?”
Ludwen sits upright, folding both his hands in front of him. “In some cases, yes. In others, no. There are some who’ve made nonterminal agreements. The exchange of power will persist until they have no power left to give.”
“No power left?” I imagine the gift of The Flame burning bright in their hearts, diminishing, withering until it eventually burns out. “Professor, a witch’s power is their life. They’re inextricable. They’ll die without it.”
Patience. Grace. “Such is the deal they made.”
My fingernails dig into the armrests, my neck heating with anger and disbelief. I close my eyes against the waves of emotions that press against my mind. “Professor, it’s wrong. They—”
“Miss Sloan,” he interrupts, voice gentle. Soothing. “As your instructor, I’d like to offer an alternative perspective. Are you in a place to hear it?”
My instructor. Right. I take a deep breath, then another, then another, until I stop hearing the sound of my blood in my ears. This time, when I swallow, I don’t feel like I’m choking on it. Slowly, I nod.
“Choice and volition are central pillars of The Flame and her progeny. You know this. And while you may not agree with their choices, these witches chose to conduct deals with a fae. They weren’t tricked or coerced, and they’ve reaped significant power for it. If anything, their lives are a testament to The Flame’s doctrine.”
Silence. I know the truth in his words the moment they’re spoken. They writhe like worms in my gut, but I can’t fight them. My hard-earned pragmatism won’t allow it. They chose this, I tell myself, willing the tears not to fall. Just as The Flame would want.
…Right?
Ludwen’s face is softer now, less brimming with the humor from before. He lets the silence sit just a little longer before speaking again.
“Thank you for indulging me in an unscripted lesson, Miss Sloan, as well as the prompt feedback on today’s lecture.”
I look down, allowing my curls to hide the flush in my cheeks. “Of course, Professor.”
He stands, and I do the same. His smile returns, as comfortable as the embrace of an old friend. “Off to bed with you now. In fact, I think I’ll do the same.” He licks his finger and pinches the wick of his desk candle. The flame is snuffed out with a sharp and sudden hiss. I wince.
I offer a shallow bow before turning towards the door. As my feet thud quickly down the stone steps, the warm firelight of his office diminishes, until the darkness takes over once again.
