Ascension was the word upon every tongue, a murmur fraught with mixed marks of apprehension and anticipation. ?To many, sleep became second to studying; in classrooms and commons, all hours became nearly indistinguishable in regards to activity or crowd. ?The library, for all its formidable gloom, maintained its population of scholars for entire evenings as strained eyes read and reviewed: many brilliant minds meticulously categorized unimaginable wealths of arcane information.?

Relationships both blossomed and dissolved amid the shared strife of intensive stress. ?Friends grew distant. ?Competition tainted casual conversation. ?Desperation drew deep connections between simple acquaintances.?

Tension thrummed, electric, through the sacred hallways.

Quillyan had sequestered herself in the Stormsabre common room, claiming a small window niche overlooking Shah Gardens. Upon her arrival, she erected a sensible blockade of books around her comfy perch, the studious structure a hallmark for ease of perusal. Despite her insecure inclinations, the novice felt certain that she was capable of ascending to apprentice - with the proper preparation.

After the first hour, she slipped off her shoes, primly tucking her bare feet into the cushion supporting her slim form.

After the second hour, her stomach rumbled unhappily, reminding her that she had overlooked the noon meal.

After the third hour, her concentration began to wane. Brilliantly-blue eyes drifted toward the magnificent gardens below, remotely absorbing the shifting hue of the late-afternoon sun. It was only then that Quillyan?s attention closed upon the pristine white down of an owl perched above the cultivated greenery. The interest of her gaze was reciprocated in a form of a round and unblinking stare from a stately but dramatically-twisted head.

Thus the two watched each other, for a long while, motes of dust swirling in the shaft of illumination pouring abundantly through the glass, bathing her languid figure in pinkish, orange-gold. Neither moved: girl nor beast.

If you were to ask her why she finally stood and approached the window, she?d have no sensible response beyond mindless inspiration; yet this she surely did (among the audience of her peers), and her nimble fingers fumbled upon the ancient window-latch. When finally the she pried the mechanism free from its rusting rest, the right side of the lofty portal swung outward, opening the room to the precipitous drop beyond the sill.

Strands of silky crimson, left loose around a cherubic visage, lifted lazily in the gust, riding the airy caress of a sudden draft.

The owl - an archon actually, adjusted in proportion to resemble the traditional avian - suddenly sprang from its still perch, drifting easily upon regal wings up to the invited window and resting, with claws fixed securely, upon the frame. The majestic head shifted, arching upward toward the bewildered student, and an abrupt, low trill emerged from its small beak.

It wanted her to follow.

With an audacious flutter of feathers, it soared through the commons, leading the wondrous witch in a demure trot through the room, around a corner, and down the corridor toward Calendula.

The owl flitted past the quarters she now shared with Patience, past the stairwell of the mysterious clock-face, past relics, finally shifting its course around a sudden corner, leading the nearly-soundless slap of Quilly?s bare feet up a winding staircase. At the stoney termination of the stair, a portal suddenly swallowed her guide, and before she could pause her swift gait, she too plunged through the entry.

The unanticipated travel enlivened her flesh with the crawl of apprehensive shock, stealing her breath and releasing her, stumbling, into a chamber of luminous ivory. The wall before her opened in a large, elegantly-arching window, revealing the menacing rise of several spires into a steely-gray sky.

Though her youthful eyes had never before beheld this particular scene, her instinct urgently identified it, inviting a numbed awe across her astonished senses.

It wasn?t a whisper, nor a question, but a cry of surprise that parted her lips: ?Barud Das!?

Something soft and small thumped against her temple, forcing the daydreaming novice to respond to her lively surroundings as instinct jerked her head to the side: an entirely ineffectual and terribly late dodge. With unalarmed vacancy, brightly-blue eyes dropped to the offending projectile, which rolled along the well-worn surface of the long table before settling in a particularly deep crevasse.

It was a grape, firm and spring-green: typical fare for the Institute?s great dining room in the morning and midday.

As Quillyan?s gaze lifted, it met the unblinking stares of her companions, novices all, their various countenances befuddled by her curious distance.? These were her peers, her classmates: some of a talented assortment of diverse personages with whom she?d suffered through the academic and social stresses of the past year.

Could she bear to stay behind as they all progressed?

?Hey Quilly, you awake?? one of them teased with boyish charm.

As the red-headed?s features absorbed the mischievousness of the moment, her lips tugged into a small smile and she retrieved the grape to hurl it in her tormenter?s direction. ?He was - unlike herself - entirely cognizant of his surroundings and therefore able to watch the projectile pass with nary a duck or dodge, for it missed by several long inches.

?Nice,? the novice muttered.

?Whatever, Kellen,? she rolled in eyes in a feigned exasperation, her tone adopting a playful bantering.? ?And obviously I?m awake, unlike you in Smout?n?s class yesterday evening. Did you tell everyone here how you screamed like a little girl when Grail woke you up with that skull??

The table erupted in laughter, and Kellen agreed in mirthful self-deprecation: ?Like a little bitch. But I still -? he swiftly fired off another grape, which hit Quillyan square in the forehead, eliciting a squeal, ?- have way better aim than you.? A quick succession of tosses had her batting away the fruit, the blocking severely hampered by her laughter.

Finally, when the barrage had subsided, she plucked a stray green orb from the table and made a show of fixing her aim upon Kellen. ?You?re right,? she admitted. ?I do need some target practice. So hold still.?

- - -

One by one, her companions had reluctantly parted to pursue their afternoon routines, and Quillyan found herself listlessly passing a spare hour in the library. Bypassing the tables in the center of the lofty main room, she selected instead a solitary perch toward the back, bathed in the illumination of a high window.

Outside, an afternoon rainstorm watered the earth, turning the sky beyond the glass-clinging droplets pure white. This she watched, as if mesmerized, the book laid across her half-bare thighs ignored as she again succumbed to her melancholy reverie. Chancellor Deron?s proposition was undeniably fascinating, and she was sorely tempted to devote herself to study with the magnificently-powerful Tulani, but could she endure another Novitiate year? It was a test of her willingness, she assumed; it was a lesson in patience and humility.

It was also an opportunity to declare a school of focus. A few schools of focus: Evocation and Abjuration, Spell Craft, or whatever else her sublime Mistress should define as a strength. While she would still wear the novitiate black and white, her course of study would be far more advanced than the typical first-year?s.

?It?s a lot to consider,? came a whisper, sweet as a summer breeze.

Quillyan?s eyes darted toward the voice, again caught unaware by her absorption in her own thoughts. An unfamiliar student - an apprentice, by the uniform - leaned a slender form against the window-frame, her smile affording a sweet serenity to her doll-like features.

?What?s a lot to consider?? Quillyan responded uneasily.

?White Magic,? the girl clarified pleasantly and, taking a step forward, extended a pale hand to the seated novice. ?My name is Adina.?

Speechless and wide-eyed with uncertainty, Quillyan shook the offered hand.

?I study with Chancellor Deron,? the Apprentice continued, her free hand indicating a vacant chair to the left, ?May I join you??

It took a moment of study to ascertain whether or not the pile of bones and hair in the corner was at all vital. Yet it breathed.

Then it stirred.

Pallid flesh strained across a skeletal frame, the seemingly too-large head gradually lifting from its cradle in folded arms. Stringy white hair shifted away with the incline, revealing a face broken and empty, wretchedness carved into feminine features that must have once been remarkably beautiful. Small bits of color emphasized the sickly white of her skin: the midnight dark of the flesh beneath her colorless eyes; the red of her mouth, bleeding faint pink at the crease between her dry lips; the purple-green of bruises ringing her bony wrists and ankles.

The woman drew an audibly shaky breath, her ribs visibly expanding against the thin white gown she wore.

Awaiting an introduction from the apprentice, Quillyan glanced back nervously, just in time to see last bit of space between the door and the frame being swallowed by its closing. Adina, it seemed, was leaving her to a solitary interview.

?So you?re going to be my replacement,? the woman whispered, beckoning back her attention. The voice was disarmingly clear and child-like, the volume so low that the words barely separated themselves from the air.

?Maybe,? Quillyan admitted, haltingly approaching the fragile figure. ?I haven?t made up my mind.?

?Quillyan Daewen,? the girlish voice cooed, ?You never make up your mind. Silly girl.?

?Who are you?? she inquired gently as she lowered herself to the floor several feet away, settling herself cross-legged and running modest hands along her brief skirt.

?I was Sorceress Yona Monot.?

?Was??

?I am mostly nothing now. A bit of skin, whatever blood is left, some hard parts, a little air.? A repulsively-slender arm lifted, the bones shifting as she illustratively stretched the malnourished limb.

In an attempt to hide her horror, the novice spoke too quickly: ?That?s pretty self-aware for someone who?s supposed to be crazy.?

?I?m not crazy,? Yona clarified, a troubling darkness lurking in below the melodic notes of her childish chiming, ?I?m simply finished existing in this form. This body is nothing to me. I will transcend beyond this realm of pain.?

?What will you become instead?? She spoke more carefully this time, shielding her tone from critical insinuations. The question she yearned to pose - ?What happened to you?? - had the possibility of inviting endless turmoil. If Yona had truly been a Sorceress, Quillyan dared not incite her ire, despite this brittle, questionable state.

?Everything!? Yona exclaimed in her little whisper, pallid lips twisting into a sick smile, revealing the blood-red of her mouth behind perfect teeth. ?But that?s not why you?re here. Quillyan has a lot of questions, doesn?t she??

?I guess so,? she admitted, her eyes darting from the unsettling sight. ?But mainly I just want to know -?

?-if it?s worth it,? she interrupted, shifting her sharp shoulders in their slouch against the wall. Observing silently, Quillyan doubted the woman would have the strength to sit upright if not for that support. ?You want to know if it?s worth sacrificing the opportunity to ascend. But that?s only because you know so little - if you truly understood what you?re sacrificing, you?d run away screaming. So I won?t tell you. But I will answer your question.

"Yes, it?s worth it. A thousand times, yes. Even with all that you think you have, there?s nothing that could be too great of a sacrifice, Novitiate Miss Daewen. Not friends. Not love. Not the darkness.?

?The darkness??

?It?s alluring, isn?t it??

?I don?t understand.?

?It has you already, girl - it?s claiming you as a student, as a shield, even as a companion! But not so much as others. No, you?re not like some of them.?

The novice repressed a sigh, for it seemed as if Yona?s sensibility was rapidly evaporating.

?You think you are something you are not,? she continued, ?You think you are bad, unfaithful. You are not.?

?What?? Quillyan tilted her head curiously to the side, her eyes narrowing faintly.

A series of rhythmic gasps lifted the Sorceress's bony torso - it was laughter. She sucked a breath on which to whisper: ?You think you betrayed him, but you did not. The Viper lied to you; he manipulated you into believing an untruth. You are good.?

The Novice swallowed, crawling surprise pricking along her soft flesh. ?Grant?? she whispered roughly, ?He was lying the whole time??

?Yes,? Yona affirmed in her angelic murmur, lashless lids fluttering over pure-white eyes. ?But even so, you would not be here had he not, so you should be thankful.?

Tears welled at the inner corners of Quillyan?s eyes, making them seem powerfully blue. ?Thankful?? she choked.

Yona?s speech then became trippingly metered, the Faustian lines relayed with great relish from her twisted memories:
??Then indecision brings its own delays, 
???
And days are lost lamenting over lost days. 
??????????
Are you in earnest? Seize this very minute; 
??????????
What you can do, or dream you can do, begin it; 
??????????
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.?

The air had changed.? It was thinner, crisper, the sunlight sharper as it filtered in dusky, orange-rose hues through the?breeze-shifting?limbs canopying the trail on the outskirts of Vesper's woods.? The sun was setting earlier now, shadows?eagerly dancing in a?leaf-laced motley across the forest floor.?
?
The chill of autumn was in the shadows.
?
Quillyan shivered?slightly as, following Tracha's expedition, she tripped along the path back to the school, the sounds of the forest?overshadowed by the playful banter of her classmates.? They progressed in a swiftly-moving line over the uneven ground, the path too narrow for pairs: an energetic succession of identically-clad novices, with the redhead at the rear.? They talked of ascension; they joked of failure; they schemed of success.? And in the din of their excitement, they failed to notice how very quiet the woods around them had become.
?
The novice's?steps slowed, the distance between her and the?proceeding student?stretching to several paces.??With their voices growing slightly more distant, she?noted?the unnatural silence, and pure curiosity?brought her to a complete standstill.?
?
The wind whispered through colorful leaves, the new yellows and?oranges bright against the violet sky.
?
"Quilly?" a classmate prompted from several yards down the trail.?
?
"Go on!" she called, her voice seeming strangely amplified by the silence.? "I'll catch up!"
?
With vague reluctance, he?nodded and trotted ahead, eager to match the pace of the others.
?
Was it just her fancy that deciphered the faintest bit of laughter in that rush of wind?? Could it be Vesper?? The groundskeeper, while inarguably worrisome, held?a certain fascination for the novice.??It wasn't quite fear?she felt in regards to the fae-pact warlock -?it was something else, a sense of significance: a sense that, for better or worse, their fates were linked.?
?
Your children will forgive you, but you'll never forgive yourself.
?
Quillyan rotated in her still spot, a steady gaze?burning through the shadows that grew thicker and bolder with each passing minute.? Then she spied it - a pure white owl, instantly recognizable as Chancellor Deron's herald.? It swooped from a high branch, an impressive wingspan shifting nimbly through the obstacle branches, and dropped a folded piece of parchment above her head, forcing the svelte girl to scurry to catch the fluttering missive.??It's glide concluded on a nearby perch, lower than the previous,?and there it?patiently observed as she read.
?


Novitiate Dawaen,
?
I am pleased that you have agreed to this course of study.? In a fortnight, you will begin reporting to the?Ivory Spire each morning.? In the meantime,?I suggest that?you meet with?your instructors to declare focuses in evocation, abjuration, and spell craft.?
?
Chancellor Deron


?
Quillyan read the short note several times, unable to repress the disappointment welling in her chest.? She turned a pair of distressed eyes toward the bird, who, having seen his task through to completion, again alighted from?the branch and sailed through the kaleidoscope canopy into the twilight sky, abandoning her to the silence of the forest.
?
Nothing about ascensions.? Foolishly, her capricious psyche had clung to the hope that the Chancellor's demand?to forgo evaluations was simply a test of her willingness, and that once she agreed, it would be proper proof of her dedication.? Then, satisfied,?the Chancellor would allow her ascension?to progress as planned.?

This, apparently, was not the case.
?
The next several weeks would be difficult as she watched her peers toil at advancement, for it seemed as if everyone - even her new roommate, Patty - was ascending.
?
She took her time walking back.

The trio of students - Uriel, Adina, and Quillyan - lingered in the hallway outside of Yona?s room for the entire night, their vigil hours whittled away by fond reminiscences and languid shifts of conversation, sprinkled occasionally with brief lapses of comfortable silence.? For the most part, they were undisturbed, Mistress Evahlys taking care to grant them a respectful solitude.? And while the redhead novice was still undoubtedly an outsider to this close-knit crew, she found herself compellingly absorbed by their camaraderie.? Quillyan had only met the deceased sorceress once, and therefore could?ve excused herself at any point, but she never did.

She liked them.? She liked their authenticity, their honesty, their lack of?selfish censure.? They were comfortable and kind,?allowing her self-consciousness to abate entirely as the hours wore on toward morning.

And with?few windows in the infirmary,?dawn's return was only evident by the shifting routines of the workers.? Quillyan?s limbs ached from sitting all night, her fatigue keenly felt as she stretched her lean, lazy figure.? There was little left to say.? Yona?s body would be cremated that afternoon, per the sorceress?s wishes.? Chancellor Deron had expressed interest in holding a small gathering in her honor, but no specific time had been appointed.

The novice?sighed heavily, contemplating, for the first time, the length of the day that lay ahead.? "I guess I should be going," she murmured in resignation, slowly rising to her feet.? "I need to?take a shower and get some breakfast before class."
?
Adina nodded up to her, and the doll-like eyes that had intermittently leaked tears all evening welled again.? Uriel, who had positioned himself on the hall's opposite wall, rose with Quillyan and offered his hands to the blond apprentice, assisting her as she shakily rose from her perch on the floor.?
?
"Thanks for staying, Quilly," Adina murmured, smiling meekly.? "It was..." she paused, truth's strangeness delaying her words, "kind of fun."
?
"Yeah," Uriel echoed, his arm wrapped warmly around Adina as he addressed the novice.? "What are you doing tonight?"
?
"I need to go visit my orphans,"?she admitted,? "I haven't seen them in forever."
?
"You're involved in the Helping Hands initiative?" he inquired with a contemplative smile, "I've always wanted to go do that, but I just...never got around to it."
?
"You should come with me!" she responded brightly.? "Both of you!"
?
"Oh, that's sweet.? Adina?s mournful gaze flickered between them, "but I think I - I just want some time alone, I think."
?
"I'll come," Uriel declared briskly,?resolutely. "After final classes this evening?"
?
Quillyan nodded, slender shoulders?rolling in a casual shrug. "Sure."
?
"Looking forward to it,"?he said with a wink,?his expression very faintly shifting from that prior persona.
?
But whatever that small difference was, Quillyan couldn't quite discern.?

Uriel had cast versions of this spell a hundred times before, but now the words rolled unwieldy on his tongue, thickened and slurred by hours of copious alcohol consumption. He could barely stand, much less juggle the intricacies of establishing a portal back to the school. The rhythm of the archaic language was suddenly and infinitely amusing, forcing him into disruptive fits of snickering. He restarted several times.

?This is never going to work,? Quillyan giggled, leaning woozily on the railing of the porch outside of the Red Dragon and observing from a safe distance.

?O ye of little faith,? he smirked, a mere moment prior to succeeding in opening... something. It was small and circular, a subtle bluish rift in the air, but whatever lay on the other side was obscured by the novice?s unfortunate angle. Immediately, Uriel pumped his fist in excitement, but his exclamation yielded weakly to the thundering roar that emerged from his rickety passage. ?Oh fuc---?

In the rush to sweep the portal away, the apprentice lost his balance and sprawled onto the ground, somehow managing to land on his back. The stars spun above him.

?Friends don?t let friends cast drunk,? Quillyan chimed, meandering down to her fallen comrade. Her polished shoes halted at his side.

Moaning in mock defeat, he curled a strong set of fingers around her ankle. ?Why did you bring me to this horrible, terrible place? What torture is this??

Leaning down, tottering precariously on her own set of unsteady feet, Quillyan tugged at his arm, urging him up from the ground. ?You?re the one who kept going back for more!? she protested playfully as he rose, his arm wrapping around her shoulders, hers about his waist. They lurched back toward the Inn?s door.

?Is there more?? he inquired eagerly, his sense of challenge renewed by his upright stance.

?No, you drank it all,? she slightly slurred, assuring him with the driest sarcasm as they clumsily navigated the steps.

?We?re idiots, Quills!? he yelped, ?This is an Inn - we don?t have to go back to the school at all tonight! We can just get a room here!?

Somewhere, buried beneath the pleasant mental fog of her intoxication, a distant alarm triggered in her mind, but it was immediately overwhelmed by a stubborn and overzealous sense of adventure as they barged back into the Red Dragon.

The Ivory Spire

After several long hours of study, Quillyan?s attention strayed to the massive mural looming on the opposite wall of the reading room. Beautifully-winged seraphs aggressively crowded a pristine blue sky, their postures varied in violence: a warlike paradox to their otherwise celestial features.

Those were some pissed off angels.

And perhaps they should be, for the earth far below was being consumed with a hellish inferno, one that swept along fertile green fields, ruining all. If she stared long enough, the hyper-realistic neoclassic flames seemed to subtly writhe against the canvas.

The novice blinked several times, alternating her gaze between the painting and her book, attempting to reign back her concentration.

Those angels were really angry. Why did she feel as if their glowers were bearing down upon her, their infuriated focus fixed entirely upon her solitary presence?

It was only her mind drifting, she assured herself. All in all, this first day of study in the Ivory Spire was proving to be a terrific disappointment. She had risen early, taking great care to look presentable, fussing endlessly with both the arrangement of her crimson tresses and her light make-up. With much deliberation, she chose her best uniform pieces, convincing herself that she would look different than she did every other day.

And she hadn?t even seen anyone.

Well, except for the Mage who had greeted her upon arrival, ushering her quickly through the empty corridors of Chancellor Deron?s spire, bringing her here, to this empty room, where sat a single, oppressively-large book in the middle of a gilded table. The table had only one chair, facing off with the preposterously-dramatic mural.

?Read,? the mage had commanded. ?Learn it.?

Quillyan struggled now to recall his name; she wasn?t entirely sure that he?d ever offered it. In fact, she could recall very little about him.

She flipped a page. It was one of the driest academic texts she?d encountered in a field full of mind-numbly boring writing: a wandering, widely-scoped history and philosophy of white magic. Not a spell in sight; not yet.

She sighed, and the angels glared.

Quillyan?s wide eyes went wider, the sharp blue of their irises intensified by the effusive glow of the Chancellor?s high chamber.

She was awed by the task, or perhaps by the surreal beauty of the Tulani; either way, an eternity of several seconds passed before the novice found herself able to develop sounds or words or - finally - a complete and coherent thought.

?But Chancellor, that book was several hundred pages long! I know the material, but I fear I?ll never be able to reproduce the entire thing from memory,? she confessed, the quiet of her voice amplified eerily by the acoustics of the circular room, doubling back to her in distorted melody.

With a disposition of infinitely tranquil accord, Tora Deron dipped her chin in acknowledgement, yet she merely echoed her prior instructions: ?Everything you remember.?

Her attention flickered to the first page of the book, and the empty span of white appeared inordinately ominous, as if it would consume her in its sheer nothingness, erasing her entirely and allowing the world to forget she ever existed. In that blank page was everything she wasn?t, everything she hadn?t done, all of her disappointments and failings. It reminded her that she would die someday.

So, feeling very small, Quillyan swallowed trepidation and took the quill, barely feeling the smooth instrument between her fingers as she began to write, filling the empty space.

***

It was strange, at first, writing as others watched. Perhaps they noticed when the words stopped or when her pen doubled back in doubt, when the enormity of the task obliterated her focus entirely and she was forced to reread her last pages to catch an inkling of her thread of thoughts.

They drifted in and out of the chamber - the Chancellor, the other six students, and others.

The daylight hours eventually succumbed to the turbulent dark of the evening, demanding additional candles, which were provided without request. And Quillyan continued to write. Sometimes the words were effortless, running at length with complete independence, as memory, rather than mind, related the content. Other times, when her recollections failed, she found herself in agonizing silence, knitting together ideas with details derived entirely from her own imagination.

Her fingers, stained with ink, ached intensely. She was hungry and tired, yet she still had much to write.