Too many questions... Even with Tyr's augmented ability to sort and organize information, he was full to the brim with them. They'd been given two days to sort their thoughts, excused from classes. What with his dropping of the evocation and proper enchantment disciplines, his workload wasn't so bad. It only took him a few hours to finish his homework. As best as he could, at least, and cheating off Iscari in the process. His friend answering those questions he couldn't without complaint.

He summarized what he knew. First, the convoluted explanations from multiple sources regarding world energy were wrong. They had to be. World energy and mana weren't 'enemies', their opposition to one another was magnetic. A natural phenomena of a world born from these two forces. They existed in tandem, and were by no mean opposites.

Before either, the physical plane as it was understood today would not have been the same. Unrecognizably so, they'd be different. Human magic was predicated on the concept of utilizing magic circles and ritual to ward their core and mana circuits from the pressure of world energy around them. For the first time, he agreed with Abaddon wholeheartedly. 'Magic', as in 'human magic', was wrong. They'd gone down the wrong path of understanding, and it was entirely useless to him.

That which he could use would only become more worthless as time passed. That didn't mean that he was unable to use magic, he just didn't know how. And he'd never be able to engage in the more complex disciplines as the others were able to. Abaddon understood this, and with another pass through his book – so had Solomon.

This shaper magic, whatever it was, was more not anything like human magic. Literally 'weaving' spira or chi or any of the other names for it, with mana. Not casting, but weaving. Taking advantage of natural forces to produce a reaction. Thus, he studied science instead of magic, finding himself even more lost – but it was a goal nonetheless. In this era, engineering was looked upon highly – but natural studies were not. The age of the druid and shaman had long passed, with few of their teaching remaining in the library.

Biology, anatomy, chemistry, they were all for people who didn't possess the talent to wield magic. But for Tyr, they answered several questions and provided answers to many. Between this, and training incessantly, he remained busy. Not giving himself the opportunity to sleep, feeling himself being run ragged.

He felt a strange gratitude that frayed at his selfish personality toward Varinn and Abaddon in particular, even his father. For the things he had been taught. Riddles and complex problems that began to piece themselves together little by little. It wasn't so complicated after all.

The answers all lay in the balance. Become less literal. He'd lose versatility, but at least he'd be able to do something.

After the days of rest ended, and he returned to the forge, he was a new man. For some strange reason, his time in the study of Ellemar hadn't been months – but rather days. Perhaps this would explain why the man seemed to have aged so rapidly. Some rumors abounded that he had traded his life force for fel powers – but in all actuality – he had found a way to 'bend time'. Not stop it or travel through it, as far as Tyr knew, but to slow it somehow. Giving him far more time than his peers in his search for knowledge, but only in that one place.

Emerging years older in a matter of months, spending a decade in solitude and lost in his books. Or with Orpheus, a being Tyr could not define. A creature of magic, it would seem, but that was all he knew. Perhaps a god.

“What are you doing?” One of the students of the runesmithing class was observing Tyr closely. The prince did not know his name, realizing now that he hadn't taken much time to speak to any one of his peers.

“...Forging?” It was an odd question. What did he look like he was doing?

“I can see that...” The boy sighed. “But why are you doing it that way? We're not blacksmiths.”

That much was true. Tyr was tending far too carefully to the short sword the class was instructed to enchant, whereas the others were already on their third or fourth attempt. Instead, he was carefully measuring the blade. Beating, heating, and beating it again to remove the impurities.

“You'll see.” That's all he could say. He had no interest in sharing his 'secret' with others, especially not while Valkan observed them. They could not do as Tyr did, it was beyond them, but they could benefit from his care for the metal.

For Valkan's race, Anu, they did not possess magic as humans did. They had a core, but no circuits within their body that allowed them to project mana into spells. Instead, they used magic circles and great wards to imbue objects with their much denser mana to make up the difference and then some. Sure, an archmage among humans was not an opponent most Anu could face individually, but no human could match their artifice. Not in a thousand years of study.

Anu loved the earth, and the earth loved Anu. They took care of the metal and studied it carefully, tending to its every needs. Whereas humans would use magic as a source of convenience to solve all of their problems, quickly and efficiently. Forging imperfect blades and 'fixing' them with magic. It was faster. Easier, too. But convenience could be problematic.

If a runesmith forged a brittle blade and used runes to solve that weakness in the material, they were exhausting some – even if only a little – of the objects true potential. To forge and understand the intent of a weapon as a future tool... To truly know its purpose, was to commune with it, to know it better. Tyr was on that path even without prompting. Valkan knew it wasn't that the boy understood truly, more likely his incessant perfectionism was responsible.

Beating the silicate impurities out of it and repeatedly refining the steel. Humans weren't all lost, they just worked differently. Advanced runesmiths understood it, creating their most powerful artifacts by utilizing these concepts, whereas common smiths complacent with the 'average' would not. Those who chased margin or profit. They were the chaff, in Valkan's opinion.

That was one of the great failings of the runesmithing discipline and humanity as a whole. Their short lives and greed made them eager to finish one project and move on to another. Rarely thinking toward conservation of the future. To make an assembly line out of everything. There was a benefit in their speed of production, but they'd never achieve greatness that way.

Tyr followed the teaching of a blacksmith with very little magic, adopting care and precision to achieve greatness in his own way. A man of little repute who had sunk his whole life into a single blade. That being the royal spear of Longinus, the ruling house of Varia. Keeping the lower half of the blade hard and solid, and beating flexibility into the tip, observing the metal internally to extract as many of the impurities as he could. Where necessary.

It was an imperfect technique. He was no master, and Valkan observed his clumsy movements. But metal was metal. Technique could easily be replaced with care and time. Hours passed, near six before the blade was completed. As an Anu, Valkan was unimpressed, but as a teacher...

The runes are well formed internally. Sharpness, durability, and even an elemental enchantment for air to benefit further the keen edge and ability to conduct mana. A focus....

“Well done.” He nodded slowly. Again, they were alone in the forge. “One hundred points to Tyr Ebonfist for being the first of his class to forge a tier two artifact.”

“Tier two?” Tyr asked, disappointed. Humans were obsessed with their consideration of titles, as well as their identification of 'power levels'. Tier zero was your average blade with only a single rune, tier one would be a blade perhaps capable of bursting into flame, and tier two was just a bit more advanced than that, not quite following the magic standard but rather its own. They went all the way to level 15 in 'tier' or 'class'. He'd managed to commit four runes to the item, the extent of his ability, yet it seemed so... Underwhelming.

“Believe me.” Valkan plucked the shortsword from the table and played his granite hued fingers across its edge. “This is progress. A tier two steel magisteel blade. It normally takes years to develop such talent.” He nodded in contentment before placing it back down.

'Talent.' Tyr almost scoffed at the word. If not for his augmented mind and body courtesy of being a primus, it would've been trash. As it was now, he couldn't consider it anything but trash – despite Valkan's words.

“Go now.” Valkan waved him out of the workshop. “Return in a few days after you've slept – and I'll help you with your project. You're still as clumsy as Anu of two cycles, but you're ready enough. We'll see to that project of yours.”

Tyr did as he was bid. He was hungry, after all. Lately, he had returned to the gluttony his absorption of spira could not fix. Spira, because he'd begun to consider 'world energy' too wordy, never a fan of syllables. Chi was too... Strange. Spira fit his aesthetic.

It was still a short while before dinner, but he ate anyways. The cafeteria was open 24 hours a day, extended hours after years of experience among eccentric and hardworking students who would remain at their studies until the witching hours. That, and he had a good relationship with the staff in the kitchens. Always providing his honest feedback and eating practically everything they would throw in front of him regardless of how bizarre a recipe it was.

They considered him a valuable tool in their own personal pursuit of greatness. Part of his game, or something like it. A favor for a favor of sorts.

“What'll it be?” The voice from the table whispered as soon as he'd sat down. A student could not see the kitchens, but they could see him – rubbing their hands together excitedly with a request for 'surprise me'. Today, they'd be disappointed.

“Nothing weird. The usual is fine.” Tyr replied. A thick slab of beef, potatoes mashed in butter to a creamy texture, and a pile of greens. He didn't enjoy the vegetables in particular, but there was something to be said for health and the staff insisted on it. They added a cup of yogurt made from goats milk to the mix. He trusted them, they were experts in their field, culinary masterminds and all that. They weren't just cooks, they were mages and academics. Diet was very important to them, and a science of its own.

Powerful mages just like everyone else, turned toward the care for the body rather than the laboratory or battlefield.

“You alright, kid? You look tired.” The voice asked, tinny and full of static through the magical artifact socketed in the table.

“It's been a long few days.” Tyr replied, sighing. The impersonal nature of their communication made them easier to talk to. “No... A long year. Thank you for your concern, though.”

“Anything for our favorite customer.” The lips on the other end of the line seemed to be smiling. It was a mans voice, the 'head chef'. He was a warm man with burly arms, always keeping a loaf warm in the event that Tyr arrived in want for a late night snack. Accepting tips from the lad, even if he wasn't supposed to. For an obvious noble, he was very generous, and the staff liked him. “Let us know if you want seconds, lad.”

“I will. Thanks, Killian. And you too, all of you. It looks great.”

Killian closed the connection and pumped his fist, turning to the smiling kitchen staff with a wide grin on his face. “He remembered my name!” There was a thing about service. He'd given his whole life to it. Killian was a commoner. Used to being mistreated for too much seasoning or a lack thereof, something ridiculous that he knew wasn't true. But Tyr Ebonfist had never complained. Rare were compliments. It was, at times, a thankless job – but he knew better.

There was no glory in being chef at the academies, but there was a great duty to it. Seeing to the nourishment and health of future mages around the world. Food was a complex thing. People took it for granted, but it was arguably more important than anything else. It was love. Killian filled every dish with it, beaming as he and he staff prepared for the dinner rush.

Tyr wasn't always kind. He was no sycophant, but he was honest and measured. If something was disgusting, he'd say so – but he'd always finish it ensuring nothing went to waste. Killian saw it as a partnership, appreciating the boys attention to detail and refining his craft based on the advice he was given. He had a good palette, that Tyr, perhaps a future chef in the making. As far at critics went, he was the best that Killian had ever met in both skill and disposition. Bringing him closer to the goal his late mother had set for him.

“Congratulations, chef.” Someone laughed, beaming equally as wide, already planning to set aside seconds and thirds for the boy who talked to them as people rather than servants.

Back at the table, Tyr gorged himself on the food. It really was good, and as usual, he'd forgotten to order the bread – a loaf of it sliding out from a dimensional gate the size of his fist. He was thankful for them, wishing he had a staff like that back home and wondering how anyone lived any other way. Campfire roasted boar was all well and good, but these cooks had a divine sort of talent. Even when it wasn't the best, it was still magnificent.

“Mind if I sit?” Tyr looked up to behold Magnus approaching his table. The man didn't wait for an answer, ordering his own meal without thanks or praise as students were wont to do. Taking everything for granted until they were long gone from the academy.

“Go ahead.” Tyr offered after an uncomfortable swallow of buttered bread. “Who are you?”

The boy had dark skin, and wiry hair standing tall on his head without need for product, while the sides were shaved short. He was handsome and athletic, looking oddly familiar. “Oh, wait...” Tyr realized who he was. They'd only met briefly, but his memory had improved even further lately. Having forgotten all about him, it took a moment to process.

Magnus laughed. “Magnus, son of Lernin, of house Casterling. You saved my life, I'm glad you didn't completely forget me.”

“Mmm. You look a bit different. That's all.” Tyr replied, returning to his meal, unconcerned all things considered.

Magnus pulled his plate closer and nodded, fresh from the kitchens it was still steaming. “True enough.” He had hair, long hair that had been short before. And...

First... “Thank the people who made you this food.”

“...What?”

“I mean you just ordered. Where I come from, we thank our servant staff or tip them. Working all day like that is hard, especially with how service can be. I've known many innkeepers who said it was a thankless job. Thank them for the food.”

“Oh...” Magnus coughed, leaning into the lingering dimensional gate. “Thank you so much...?”

“You're welcome so much!”

“Your skin is lighter.” Tyr observed.

Caramel colored rather than the darker tones of Samson. Tyr felt like it stood to reason, considering his father was as pale as Tyr was. But when they'd first met, body new, the boy had been much darker.

“It's returned to its original shade. When you helped heal me, I came out as black as a true blood Agoron, but I had the healers make some adjustments. Regrew my hair as well.”

“Why?” Tyr asked. “It looked fine before.”

“I'm sure you understand what kind of treatment foreigners get around here, right? It's better to be closer to tan than to communicate that my mother was from the southern continent. Anyway, I am not usually that dark in the first place. Healing magic can have some bizarre effects on the melanin enriched. This is what I normally would look like, it's not an aesthetic choice.”

“I'm sorry for your loss.” Tyr said, looking up to observe the boy once again. He had the darker skin tones of a southerner, a bit darker than an assyrian by complexion, with eyes were the color of warm honey. Bright and luminous, full of personality. A very friendly and lively individual.

“What?” Magnus frowned, raising a single eyebrow. “She's er... Still alive... No loss here. She just lives in the nobles quarter now. Seeing as my father's an archmage, I'm sure she's spending his money as vigorously as ever.”

“...Ah.” What followed was an awkward silence, causing Tyr's anxieties to peak although Magnus on his part seemed to be totally unbothered by it.

Iscari arrived, eventually. Someone Tyr was infinitely thankful for. Awkward in his own way, but far more extroverted. He realized how long he'd been at his repeat orderings, eating more than he ever had before.

“Oi, oi, oi...” Iscari groaned, palming his face. “I cannot abide by another flirting with my man. And the headmaster's son, no less? How can I compete?” He laughed at his own joke, seating himself beside Tyr and elbowing the latter in the ribs. “Hello, I'm--”

“Yes!” Magnus stood to attention, performing some kind of odd military salute before shuffling bizarrely and bowing instead. “It's a great pleasure to meet you, prince Iscari!”

Tyr cleared his throat. “...Why don't you treat me like that...? You do know who I am.”

“I figured we had that kind of relationship...?” Magnus was eager to hear the other princes response. Tyr just shrugged. He wasn't one to make a big deal of it. His status as a primus was irrelevant in the grander scheme of things. The blackguard didn't bow. Sometimes they did at first but then they relaxed and acted more normal. Tyr preferred that.

“Well, as I've said before...” Iscari paused, looking over through the crowd of students entering the cafeteria. He rose abruptly before dragging Tythas through the mess, followed by two more students of the same year. All of a similar age. Now, all those seated were of the same year except for Magnus, who was a year ahead. “Anyways...” The prince of Varia cleared his throat. “Three of our grand order are here. Now, let me ask you, Magnus Casterling. And you two, as well... How would you like to become official members of 'the boys'?”

Tyr groaned. “Here we go again.”