Caelan spent the following minutes relaying everything explained to him. Even including the more detailed medical terms. Holt’s eyes glistened, and he dabbed them with a handkerchief the size of a bedsheet.

Falkner leaned forward, scribbling in a notebook already cluttered with sketches and equations. Every so often, nodding or humming, as if fitting Caelan’s condition into some grand plan. Without looking up, he murmured, “Fascinating… essence silence. Could it be… no, impossible…”

Dorne sat as straight as a pike, his lips pressed into a tight line. Though he didn’t speak, his knuckles whitened as he adjusted his already set spectacles.

Trenith’s sharp eyes narrowed, her index finger tapping against her crossed arms. She leaned back in her chair, studying Caelan with the intensity of a scholar dissecting a theory.

Vaedra’s fan snapped shut with a soft click, her lips curling into a faint, unreadable smile. Her gaze lingered on Caelan, eyes like polished onyx glinting with amusement. Or something colder. “How… tragic,” she purred, though her tone made it impossible to tell if she meant it.

Lady Veylor remained still, her fingers steepled beneath her chin. Only the faintest narrowing of her eyes betrayed her contemplation. When she finally spoke, voice carried with the deliberateness of a judge. “This is… unprecedented.”

Caelan nodded, giving his agreement. Then he explained why he picked his words just minutes before. When revealing why the Weaver Course wouldn’t work with him. In fact, only two of the courses were available to him at the moment.

“Understanding and Creation.” The headmistress nodded to herself. “Two paths available to you, demanding resources, time, and trust of this institution. Let us say we grant you this opportunity. What, pray tell, does the Academy gain by extending you this courtesy?”

“Publicity.” Whatever the six of them expected, that word wasn’t it. “The hollowborne grow stronger, yet fewer people come to train here. Why? Because the Academy has an image problem.”

None of them gave him an answer; instead, they waited for him to continue. “To most people, it’s a fortress of privilege. A place for nobles and those under their patronage, not for common men and women. Where elitism fosters, turning away those who might otherwise stand against the tide.”

He raised a hand, aiming the gesture at the Master of Weaving. “I know what you’re thinking, Professor Dorne. How could one with such distaste for the rules attract potential new candidates? Consider how accepting a pariah among pariahs shows that anyone thrive.”

“And Professor Zenith, you get the chance to break the puzzle of the one who had his essence blocked presents. Wouldn’t you say this merits my continued stay?”

“And Master Falkner, I've always had a wish to expand my horizons beyond the mundane. And so, my true calling lies in your care. For imagine what perspectives I could bring to the table with my unique situation.”

“Oh, I already have many things in mind! Such ingenious things in store!”

“Oh, I do love a good underdog story. But tell me, darling, is this about redemption—or survival?” Vaedra leaned forward, as if a lioness ready to strike.

“Why not both, my lady?” A deep bow accompanied his returned question.

“I like you more by the minute, young Leopold.”

“An intriguing perspective.” The headmistress's words cut through the words of the others like a knife through butter. “But you’re asking us to gamble the Academy’s reputation on you. How can you ensure we don’t regret this decision?”

Caelan gave a smile that would make Leopold proud. “One would think if there’s anyone capable of reforming someone like me, it would be the people in this room. Or am I wrong?”

“Ha!” Slapping his enormous thigh, Holt laughed with joy. “The lad already has my vote. What say the rest of you?”

“Oh, to work in such a rough canvas could provide a learning experience, indeed!” Falkner’s forehead had drops of ink from his furious writing. “Let the kid be under my care.”

Dorne’s face had several red dots on it, his hands white from gripping the table. “Publicity stunts have no place in an institution dedicated to discipline and order. The Academy’s reputation must rest on its principles, not on hollow symbols. I say we proceed with his expulsion."

A knot tightened in Caelan’s stomach as Dorne’s words landed with the weight of a hammer. He could feel Leopold seething in the back of his mind, hurling obscenities at the Master of Weaving. Still, he kept a neutral expression. Showing weakness now would be fatal.

Trenith took out a strand of hair that had come loose from her braided crown. “Your sentiment is admirable, but it is an invitation to uncertainty. I shall not place my hopes on one who has failed to demonstrate his resolve so far.”

Her words hit harder than expected. Stay calm. Don’t show it.

Vaedra’s fan snapped shut with an elegant flourish, her smile a mix of charm and danger. “Oh, my dear Leopold, you do make a compelling case. If this were about personal tastes, I’d keep you without question.”

Body relaxing from all the tension, he had words of thanks about to come out when the woman continued. “But sadly, sentiment alone cannot outweigh practical concerns regarding your will to improve. My vote, reluctantly, is for expulsion.”

Caelan’s heart sank. Even Leopold had no snarky remark. Nothing but an open mouth as the room filled with overwhelming pressure. Every sound muted, his mind going blank, all preparation thrown to the side. Then his thoughts raced as an eruption of indignation formed from Holt and Falkner.

“Come on, think of something!” Leopold kept his face dancing from the teachers to Caelan. "You're the one with knowledge from the future!”

“Enough!” Caelan’s voice thundered, not with volume but with a clarity that cut through the rising chaos like a blade.

“What are you doing?” Leopold's horrified face would be comical in any other situation.

“Saving our asses from the firing squad.” The room stilled, all eyes locked on him. He clenched his fists, forcing down the tremor in his voice. “You want proof? Fine. But it’s for the Headmistress alone.”

Dorne at last managed to break his pen, such was his ire. “You think you can demand things, at this point?”

Ignoring all but Lady Veylor, the young man proceeded, gaze glued to her. “Madam, I am Leopold vorn Sturmfeld.”

Lady Veylor froze in place, studying him. Then, for the first time, the venerable woman stood up from her seat, pale as a ghost. “All of you, leave."

“What’s the meaning…”

“Out!”

Her voice, though quiet, carried the weight of an unbreakable command. The air itself seemed to shift, heavy with an authority that brooked no defiance. Even Holt, who looked about to protest, rose without a word. Not even his massive frame could eclipse her presence.

Then, they found themselves alone. “Explain yourself.”

Caelan took a deep breath with lungs that weren’t his own. “I’m not Leopold. My name is Caelan Ashvale, and I come from another world. Everything you think you know about me ends today.