Cane stepped out of his room that morning with his satchel slung over one shoulder, still tugging his sleeve straight. The second Water Element class of the week waited ahead—his mind already cycling through currents and pressure shifts.
He paused mid-step.
Fergis was standing in the hallway, motionless, staring at the floor with a look of deep suspicion.
"Morning," Cane offered.
Instead of a reply, Fergis pointed at the floor without breaking his gaze. "What do you think it is?"
Cane took a few steps closer, then leaned sideways to peer past the tall boy. On the stone floor just ahead of them rested a small, smooth, white object—oval in shape, lightly speckled.
"Where I'm from," Cane said flatly, "we call that an egg."
Fergis let out a cackle—half laughter, half frustration. "That's what it looks like... But what is it really?"
Cane eyed the object again. It looked harmless. Too harmless.
"You could just ignore it," he said, stepping around Fergis. "Go to class. Let it be."
"I should," Fergis admitted, still not moving. "Hold on."
He turned and darted into his room. A moment later, he returned—clutching a kite shield, nearly as tall as he was.
Cane blinked. "Why do you have that in your room?"
"I need to test my fire spells against defensive enchantments," Fergis replied, gripping the shield with both hands. "If I can't burn through a standard academy-issued shield, then what's the point of all the training?"
Cane arched an eyebrow. Mental note: never prank Fergis.
Fergis crept closer to the egg, raising the shield like a battering ram. Cane, having no intention of getting caught in the blast radius, quietly backed down the hall, scanning the walls, floor, and ceiling for any faintly glowing runes.
"Maybe it's just an egg?" he offered.
"No," Fergis muttered. "He did it on purpose. Nos knows me. He wants me to assume something. He wants me to overreact."
Then he lunged.
With a yell, Fergis scooped up the egg—shield held defensively across his chest.
For one long, still second, nothing happened.
Then—POP!
A burst of light exploded in his palm, and a white chicken materialized with a startled bawk, immediately pecking his hand.
"OW!" Fergis shouted, dropping the chicken.
It landed on the floor, flapped its wings—
POP.
Another chicken appeared.
POP. POP. POP.
The hallway erupted with bawk-ing. Chickens spilled into the space, appearing in twos, then fours, then eights—each replication increasing in volume and intensity. One tried to fly. Another attempted to wedge itself into a torch sconce.
"Replicator spell," Cane said calmly from his corner of safety. "Geometric replication curve. Every trigger breeds more."
"WHY!" Fergis roared as the chickens began chasing him. "WHY IS THIS EVEN A SPELL?!"
"Probably academic theory," Cane called. "Maybe to study swarm behavior."
"WHO STUDIES SWARMING CHICKENS?!"
"Nos, apparently."
The hallway became chaos.
Feathers swirled. Chickens clucked in every key. Fergis turned, tried to run, and was immediately swarmed. He staggered backward into his room with a shriek.
"Whatever you do," Cane warned, "don't use your fire abil—"
FOOM.
A flash of orange light spilled from the doorway.
The clucking stopped.
A long silence followed.
Then, the slow, unmistakable scent of burnt feathers wafted down the hallway.
Cane winced.
A soft, pitiful voice echoed from the other side of Fergis's door.
"I hate him. So. Much."
Cane chuckled; his second Water Element would start in a few more minutes but he really wanted to stay a bit longer.
A beat of silence lingered in the hallway, thick with char and disbelief.
Cane turned to leave—then froze.
A door appeared.
Not one that had been there before. Not one that made any sense.
It simply blinked into existence near the tower window, hanging impossibly in the air, its base floating inches above the floor with no wall to anchor it.
Through the narrow crack of the doorway was only open sky—blue, wide, and very far down.
The door creaked open.
An old man stepped through, white hair bound in a short ponytail, beard long and tangled like ancient roots. His gray robes dragged behind him, and a gnarled wooden staff clacked against the stone floor as he entered.
He slammed the floating door shut with a sharp crack—and the entire thing vanished.
Nos.
His face was red, nearly steaming. His massive mustache twitched with fury as he pointed a trembling finger down the hall.
"You little bastard!"
Fergis—still singed and slightly smoking—glanced at Cane, eyes wide.
"What did I do?" he hissed. "What did I do?!"
Cane shrugged.
Nos stormed forward, robes flaring, voice rising in theatrical agony. "That egg was a calibrated containment spell, you dimwitted fireblaster! That chicken was the final stage in a ten-year replication project!"
Fergis looked more confused than guilty now. "I thought it was a prank!"
"It was a prototype!"
Cane blinked. "You were... breeding infinite poultry?"
Nos jabbed his staff at the air. "That chicken would've fed me for three years! One cluck and it was dinner again!"
He turned back on Fergis. "You burned it! You torched my food! And the egg wasn't ready! The imprint was fragile! It was supposed to hatch naturally, you meddling—ohh I should turn you into a butter churn!"
Fergis mouthed wordlessly, stunned.
Cane, without a word, took one slow step backward.
Fergis caught the motion. "Run?"
"Run," Cane confirmed.
They bolted.
Nos shouted after them, voice echoing off the stones like thunder and wind.
"I WANT RESTITUTION!"
Cane burst out of the tower door, boots slamming against the courtyard stone. Fergis was a half-step behind, his robe billowing and his shield—somehow still strapped to his back—clanking with every stride.
They were running like they were being chased by something primal, ancient, and unreasonably petty.
Which, in a way, they were.
The ground in front of them shimmered.
A rune appeared—glowing bright green, circular, hovering slightly above the flagstones.
"Left!" Cane barked.
They veered.
Another rune lit up—this one vertical, floating like a sideways trapdoor between two courtyard pillars.
Fergis ducked just in time.
A third rune blinked into existence midair, pulsing pink.
"Don't touch the pink one!" Cane yelled, no idea why—but pink just felt ominous.
They dodged, ducked, and hurdled their way across the lawn like athletes in a very strange and very dangerous tournament.
The worst part?
There was no losing Nos.
Every time they pulled ahead—even for a second—a door would shimmer into existence beside them. Sometimes it formed in a tree trunk, sometimes out of thin air. It would open silently, and Nos would step through, keeping pace with casual fury, his beard flapping in the breeze like a war banner.
"I want restitution!" he hollered, voice unbothered by physics or breath.
Cane didn't look back.
"Where's your class?!" he snapped between gasps.
"Same building as yours!" Fergis shouted. "Third floor!"
Cane groaned. "Why?!"
"Why what?!"
Cane dove sideways, narrowly avoiding a rune that looked suspiciously like a portal to somewhere very cold and wet.
"Because he's chasing you, not me!" Cane said, laughing despite the madness.
Fergis deadpanned as he scrambled up the steps behind him. "We're in the same building. He's chasing both of us."
Cane cursed under his breath and kept running.
Nos appeared again through a broom closet door that hadn't existed two seconds ago.
"I CAN DO THIS ALL DAY!"
The tall building came into view—stone archways and copper gutters gleaming in the morning light.
Cane put on a burst of speed, lungs burning. Fergis matched him stride for stride, robes flapping wildly.
But with speed came recklessness.
Cane barely saw the flame-rune that lit up underfoot until it was too late.
"Really?" he groaned, as a strip of fire roared up from the path.
He batted furiously at his sleeve, which had caught the edge of the blaze. Smoke curled behind him as he launched forward in one final sprint.
They hit the front steps hard—Cane flinging open the doors with so much force it nearly came off the hinges.
Inside, students turned and scattered as the two barreled in. Cane barely dodged one startled classmate and—
SLAM!
Fergis crashed into Arven, who had just stepped into the hall with perfect timing to be flattened like a falling tree. They skidded across the polished stone floor, arms and legs tangled like a three-man marionette act.
"Mr. Cane..." came a familiar voice, cold and sharp as sea glass.
Cane winced.
Still tangled with the two fire mages, he turned his head—just in time to see Professor Selene Morva, water element instructor and unshakable presence, standing a few feet away. Her arms were folded. Her silver eyes were not amused.
Cane started to speak, but Fergis beat him to it—still lying on his back, pointing a soot-stained finger toward the door.
"It's not our fault! We were being chased!"
Selene raised a single brow and turned toward the open doorway.
Outside, the grounds looked pristine.
The sun shone warmly through drifting clouds. Birds chirped in the distance. The grass was untouched. The cobbled path shimmered faintly with dew.
Crickets sang.
No fire.
No acid pits.
No ice spikes.
No Nos.
Just the tranquil beauty of another day at the Academy.
Selene slowly turned back toward them, her expression unreadable.
Then she sighed.
Heavily.
Just as Cane began untangling himself from Arven's elbow, the sound of soft, deliberate footsteps echoed from the stairwell behind them.
Nos appeared, walking down the hall as if nothing at all had happened. His gray robes swayed with each step, his white beard as wild as ever. In his hands, he carried a large glass fishbowl, filled with water—and a single, tiny orange fish swimming lazy circles inside.
"Morning, Cane. Fergis." He nodded politely as he passed.
They stared at him in disbelief, still sitting on the floor like guilty schoolboys.
Nos stopped at the open door, gazing outside at the peaceful academy grounds. He adjusted the fishbowl gently in his arms.
"If you see my fish in the hallway..." he said, without looking back, "don't touch it."
And with that, he stepped out into the sun.