The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"Ready?" she asked.

Elara allowed herself a single deliberate inhale, then let it roll out like a controlled tide. "Yes."

Maris, balanced between them, reached out and clasped both their hands in hers. Her grip felt steady, like braided silk cords. "We've practiced," she reminded them, tone calm and warm. "We refined the glyphs, we tested the projections, we even survived Astrid's full-court critique last week. We're ready."

Amberine nodded. Somewhere behind her ribs a frantic drummer hammered away, but the rhythm slowed just a beat. "Let's do this," she said, voice low.

They fell into an informal triangle around Maris—Amberine on the left, Elara on the right—as they moved toward the door. For one surreal heartbeat the hallway glowed deeper, the ambient water-blue light catching in Elara's hair like threads of starlight sunk beneath the sea. Amberine took a mental photograph—Elara's crisp jawline, Maris's gentle smile—and tucked it away in case the rest of the day blurred.

Beyond the threshold, the corridor opened into a labyrinth of crystalline walkways and gently arching ceilings. Mana currents flowed in visible streaks along the walls, bright turquoise ribbons that pulsed to the heartbeat of the fortress. Every few paces a pair of Council wardens stood at attention: one in midnight scale-mail reminiscent of deep-sea eels, the other in a robe woven from starlight threads. Their staves, capped with glowing pearl-cores, flickered the moment the trio passed—as if scanning their signatures before dimming again.

Amberine's boots clicked soft staccatos on the polished floor. Each tile was etched with overlapping runic geometry, small circles locking into greater rings—like walking across the blueprint of the very shield that had failed two months ago. The memory pricked at her: screams echoing through flooded corridors, floors tilting under explosions, water crashing through ruptured seals. She shook the image off, but it clung, barnacle-tight.

Maris must have sensed the downward shift. She squeezed Amberine's hand briefly before releasing it to adjust the strap of her satchel. "Just think," she said, voice pitched for them alone, "somewhere out there is a dignitary more terrified of public speaking than we are. Perspective."

Amberine huffed a laugh, grateful for the levity. She glanced at a passing display case—inside, tiny coral sculptures glowed faint pink, arranged around a model of the fortress rendered in opalescent shell. A plaque boasted: Aetherion, Jewel of the Depths—Restored and Reinforced, Year R.847. The fresh date glimmered, testament to recent repairs. A subtle line around the display's base buzzed—a micro-ward keyed to deter sabotage. She ran her gaze along it, cataloguing the rune sequence automatically: triple-layered suppression, water-aligned anchor glyph, failsafe crystal vent. Not perfect, she judged—Ifrit could breach that glass in nine seconds—but good enough to keep out amateurs.

Behind them, Professor Astrid's footsteps echoed. She checked a wrist-mounted chronometer—arcane blue glyphs pulsing across its face—then quickened her pace to match theirs. Her shoulders were squared, but Amberine caught the slight way her thumb traced the edge of her glasses every few seconds, like a metronome of nerves.

Ahead, the corridor split around an atrium filled with liquid light. A wide window curved across three stories, revealing Aetherion's outer barrier—a living dome of shimmering magic that held back the crushing ocean. Beyond it, giant manta-like creatures drifted, their luminous underbellies casting dancing shadows through the water. A handful of visiting scholars crowded the railing, sketchpads in hand, murmuring excitedly about ley-turbulence and mana-diffusion coefficients.

Elara's gaze flicked to them, narrowing with competitive spark. "Look at those two," she muttered to Amberine, tilting her head toward a pair in scarlet robes trimmed with desert crystals. "Zanthian Institute. Their focus rune arrays scored higher than ours last year."

Amberine raised an eyebrow. "Then we'll score higher this year."

Elara's lips twitched. "Confidence is useless without calibration."

"You can calibrate my confidence any time," Amberine shot back, but her grin was earnest. She felt the edges of panic dull under the steel of determination. A stubborn heat flickered in her chest—Ifrit responding.

Deciding not to be left out, Ifrit nudged her ribs again. Don't let that one look down on you, he growled, the crackle of distant embers behind every syllable. Your flame writes brighter lines than any desert crystal.

Amberine suppressed a smile. She couldn't talk back to a pocketed fire spirit in front of everyone, but the warmth of his encouragement settled under her skin like a second heartbeat.

They turned a bend where the mana rivers in the walls converged around a colossal double door. The door itself was carved from a single slab of leviathan bone, bleached white and veined with faint opalescence. Twelve glowing locks—and a Council crest taller than Amberine—guarded the seam. The bronze automaton from earlier now stood sentinel, joined by two larger constructs that resembled armoured crabs, each with three gemstone eyes swiveling independently.

One of the constructs lifted a claw tipped with a rune-scanner and swept it across the group. Blue beams traced over their wrists, reading identification glyphs embedded by the registration clerics that morning. A bell tone chimed: access granted. With a gasp of equalizing pressure, the leviathan-bone doors folded inward.

Warm air laden with the smell of old tomes and ozonic magic gusted out. Amberine's breath caught. Somewhere beyond those doors, at the amphitheater's center, Draven Drakhan would soon take the podium.

She didn't realize she'd slowed until Elara's shoulder nudged hers. "Stay with us, hot-head."

"I'm here," Amberine said quickly, blinking away the momentary haze.

The staging corridor on the other side was broader, ceiling arched high enough to fit a dragon's wingspan. Velvet banners hung at intervals, each bearing the sigil of a participating academy, while illusion screens suspended in midair rotated the names of presenting teams. A bustle of nervous energy thickened the air—voices low, parchment rustling, the occasional click of an anxious heel.

A group of alchemists in emerald robes hurried past, carrying a delicate glass alembic sealed under multiple stasis charms. The lead alchemist's lip twitched with nerves; Amberine heard him mutter about condensation limits. Another student, skin patterned with merfolk runes, practiced hand gestures for a water construct, droplets snapping between her fingers like beads.

Maris leaned in closer to Amberine while they walked. "I like watching everyone's rituals," she said quietly, wide brown eyes taking in the flurry around them. "Some chant, some pace, some pray. It's like seeing the color of their nerves."

"What's my color?" Amberine asked, curious despite herself.

Maris tilted her head, studying her friend's expression as though evaluating a gemstone's clarity. "A flickering orange," she decided. "Bright, but restless."

Amberine huffed. "Figures."

"And Elara?" Maris continued, glancing right.

"Steel blue," Amberine answered without hesitation. "Sharp. Keeps its heat hidden in the core."

Elara raised an eyebrow but said nothing, clearly listening despite staring straight ahead.

Professor Astrid slowed, turning around to face them while walking backward a step—an impressive feat in her heeled boots. "Ladies," she began, then cleared her throat when her voice cracked. She tried again, this time steadier. "Remember: you're not just showcasing results. You're demonstrating process. The Council values transparency of method."

Maris offered a serene nod. Elara tucked a silver strand of hair behind her ear. Amberine took another breath of ozone-tinted air and pictured the first slide of their presentation: a cascading map of mana displacement, fiery arcs overlaying water matrices. They'd tested it a dozen times in simulation chambers; they knew exactly how the visuals would sync with their spoken cues.

Still, the hall's magnitude loomed. Each step forward seemed to amplify the hallway, stretching moments like molten glass. Amberine wondered if Draven felt nerves the first time he stood on such a stage. Probably not, she decided. The stories said he'd delivered his doctoral defense to the Council while still recovering from a training injury that left him bleeding into his boot—and he'd never broken stride.

"Why are you so uptight, huh?" Amberine asked aloud, elbowing Elara as they neared an intake booth where name plaques were checked once more. "Scared you'll mess up?"

Elara's retort was swift, if softer than her usual edge. "I'm not the one who trips over her own words when startled by applause."

"Point," Amberine conceded, then grinned. "But I trip with style."

"Girls," Maris interjected, raising a hand in gentle command. Her patient smile held no judgment—only hope for peace. "Save the energy. Let's not start another argument here."

Amberine lifted a palm in surrender. "Fine. But if she starts again—"

"You'll lose. As always." Elara crossed her arms, smirk barely visible but undeniably present, the curve lifting only the right corner of her mouth like a secret she enjoyed keeping.

Before Amberine could volley back, Professor Astrid appeared at her side, having circled behind them. The professor's lavender eyes shone behind frameless glasses. Despite the faint shake at the edge of her smile, she looked every bit the esteemed mage—the emerald pin of her doctorate glinting at her lapel.

"You've all worked hard for this," Astrid said softly, fingers fidgeting once more with the rim of her lenses. "You'll be fine. I'll be there too. We'll… we'll do our best." She winced slightly at the stumble, then forced a steadier nod, as though bracing her own spine with the gesture.

Amberine's insides twisted—not unpleasantly, but with a realization: even Astrid, polished and controlled, felt the same pressure. The symposium's magnitude leveled them all to anxious novices. The thought strangely lifted a weight from her chest.

Maris cocked her head, eyes sparkling. "Even Professor Astrid's nervous, huh?" she murmured, a tease laced with empathy.