Luckborn

The training hall inside Ironside Keep was warmer than the frigid morning air outside, but only barely. The massive stone structure had been built for durability, not comfort. They were in a large hall, its vaulted ceiling lined with thick wooden beams, and its walls adorned with banners displaying various crests or coats of arms. Otter didn't know what they meant.

He stood among the finesse weapon users, shifting on his feet as he adjusted his grip on a real rapier. It wasn't the one he'd bought. That one was still locked up. But the polished steel was lighter, quicker, and sharper than the weapons he'd trained with last semester. They weren't using blunted or wooden training weapons any longer.

Around him, students murmured to each other, testing their weapons, and adjusting their gear. The groups were much smaller now—last semester's Combat Basics had been a broad, sweeping introduction to different fighting styles. This semester, however, students had been divided into more specialized groups.

Across the hall, the heavy blade group stood in their own section, listening intently to their instructor. Among them was Jasper. Earlier, as everyone was entering, he'd sidled up to Otter. "Hope you don't stab yourself, Bennett." There was no bite to the words.

Otter had laughed. "Hope you don't trip over that thing, Thorne."

Jasper rolled his eyes but smiled before moving on. Otter noticed that he wore his new medal of valor pinned above his Fighter's Badge.

Otter's was likewise pinned to his uniform, though he still had no Class Badge to accompany it.

Master Horvan stood at the front of the hall, arms crossed. He surveyed the students with his usual critical gaze before speaking.

"Last semester," he began, his voice carrying easily in the large space, "you learned the foundations of combat. Some of you showed promise. Others barely scraped by. This semester, your training will be more focused, more demanding."

Otter straightened slightly.

"You are no longer just students swinging sticks in the dirt. You are combatants in training. Your movements must be efficient. Your actions decisive." His sharp eyes passed over each group. "And you will be tested accordingly."

There was a shift in the air—a quiet tension settling in.

"Look to your new instructors," Horvan ordered. "They are masters in your weapons of choice. Their word is law."

Otter and the others of his group were directed to a training area marked by wooden dummies and a row of training rings. Their instructor was a wiry man with graying hair, named Vaughn, who held his own rapier with the effortless precision of a seasoned duelist.

"The key to light blades," Vaughn began, pacing before them, "is speed and precision. Unlike heavy weapon users, you cannot afford to trade blows. You do not rely on brute strength. You rely on timing, footwork, and accuracy."

Otter nodded along, his fingers tightening around his rapier's hilt. He had always been quick on his feet, but this was something else entirely.

They spent the next hour drilling thrusts, parries, and footwork patterns. Vaughn corrected postures with a sharp tap of his weapon, muttering comments like, "Too wide, too slow, too predictable."

Otter found himself falling into a rhythm, the controlled movements clicking into place. This felt good.

A metallic crack echoed across the hall.

The drills halted instantly. Heads snapped toward the source of the noise.

A student in the heavy blade group stumbled backward, staring at the broken hilt in his hands. His greatsword lay in two jagged pieces on the floor.

Master Horvan strode forward, kneeling to inspect the shattered blade. His expression darkened.

"This was Academy steel," he said, turning the hilt over in his palm. "Maintained properly?"

The student swallowed hard. "Y-yeah. I check my gear before every lesson. There wasn't anything wrong with it."

Murmurs rippled through the hall. Otter was no expert, but he didn't think weapons could just break like that.

Horvan stood, his tone clipped. "If any of you find defects in your weapons, report them immediately."

A heavy silence settled over the students. Something about this felt… wrong.

The drills resumed, but the unease lingered. Even as Otter refocused on Vaughn's instructions, he couldn't shake the feeling that something peculiar was happening at the Academy.

***

The alchemy labs were tucked away in Pratchett Hall, separated from the main lecture halls and training yards. Probably for good reason.

The moment he and Milo walked in, a dozen strange smells assaulted Otter's nose—some sharp and acrid, others thick and cloyingly sweet. Brass pipes lined the walls, occasionally hissing with released steam. Shelves overflowed with glass bottles, ceramic jars, and bundles of dried herbs, some of which Otter recognized from Brighthaven's market stalls. Others were completely foreign to him.

Their assigned room was circular, filled with long wooden tables, each equipped with burners, mortars and pestles, and an array of measuring instruments. Light streamed in from tall, narrow windows, illuminating a thin haze that hung in the air.

Several other students were already there, setting down their bags and inspecting the equipment. A few looked excited. A few looked wary.

Otter fell somewhere in between.

At the front of the class, standing before a massive chalkboard filled with elegant but precise script, was Professor Salien. She was short but carried herself with an air of complete authority. Silver streaked her dark curls, her sleeves were rolled up, and her apron bore faint burns and faded stains. She stood with her hands behind her back, surveying the students with sharp, calculating eyes.

"Alchemy," she began, her voice crisp and cutting through the low murmur of conversation, "is not magic. It is science. And science does not forgive mistakes."

The murmuring ceased instantly.

"Alchemy demands precision, discipline, and a steady hand. It is the foundation of many of the potions and elixirs that Adventurers rely on in the field. A healing draught made correctly can mend wounds. A fire tonic brewed carelessly can turn your own hands to ash."

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A few students shifted uncomfortably.

Salien strode forward, arms still clasped behind her back. "If you are here expecting to wave your hands and create wonders, leave now. This is a craft of measurements, reactions, and control. You will follow instructions to the letter, or you will fail. And in the world of alchemy, failure costs time, money, and sometimes lives."

She stopped at the center of the room and gestured toward the tables.

Otter sat up a little straighter.

She clapped her hands together. "Today, we're starting simple. A rejuvenation potion. It is usually a favorite of Academy students. Correctly brewed, this potion can wipe away hours of fatigue, making an all-night study session seem like a refreshing nap.

"Your first lesson is on the importance of following written directions. Please read all of them before beginning. You will need to find a partner and a work station. Each station contains all the ingredients you will need. Follow the instructions precisely. If your potion turns green, you did it correctly. If it turns any other color, come see me—unless it starts smoking, in which case, step back and let the fire suppression wards do their job."

He turned to Milo, who was already setting out the ingredients. "Have you done this before?"

Milo nodded. "I helped my grandmother brew potions when I was little. Nothing fancy, but I know the basics."

"Good. Because I don't know the last thing about it."

Milo huffed a quiet laugh but said nothing, instead pointing at the neatly written instructions on the parchment in front of them.

Otter exhaled and read them carefully. The process seemed simple enough—heat the base, stir the infusion three times counterclockwise; add the crushed emberweed last.

Easy.

Otter reached for the first ingredient, measured out the proper amount of powdered sassafras root, and sprinkled it into their cauldron. The liquid inside turned a pale yellow.

So far, so good.

Milo handled the next step—stirring the mixture while keeping a close eye on the temperature. His movements were fluid, practiced.

Otter, not wanting to feel completely useless, took the final ingredient—the finely crushed emberweed—and prepared to add it. The directions said to add one tablespoon.

He grabbed a scoop labeled "tsp" and filled it up. Should it be level? Or heaping? Considering Salien's lecture about the importance of precision, he decided it should be leveled, so he took a stir stick and scraped the excess off, then dumped it in.

The effect was immediate.

A thick puff of acrid smoke rose from the cauldron, and the liquid inside darkened into an unhealthy shade of brown.

Milo jerked back, coughing. "Otter—!"

A sharp clink rang out as Salien set down a glass vial, then turned her steely gaze toward them.

"Bennett." Her voice was calm. Too calm. "Correct your measurements or correct your career path."

Otter stiffened. Heat crawled up his neck as other students glanced their way.

"What did you put in there?" Milo hissed.

"Emberweed. That's what it said."

"How much?"

"A tablespoon." He paused. "I think. TSP stands for tablespoon, right?"

Milo ran a hand across his face. "No. That's a teaspoon."

Otter groaned. "How much more do I need to add?"

Milo thought for a second. "Two more. But they need to go in together. Measure one out, put it in something, then measure the second out."

Otter swallowed hard, measured the proper amount of emberweed this time, and let it fall in.

The moment it hit the mixture, the brown murk faded into a pale green hue.—the correct color.

He exhaled in relief.

Salien watched for another beat, then nodded and moved on.

Milo gave him a flat look. "I thought you baked with your mother?"

Otter shrugged. "She never measures anything. Just dumps stuff in."

Milo just shook his head.

***

Otter entered the same room in Evershade Hall where he'd taken Understanding the System. Other than the tiered amphitheater design, everything had changed. Instead of the bright lights and stark white walls from before, everything was dark. The walls were now lined with ancient star maps, their constellations shifting faintly with magic. At the center of the ceiling, a great orb of light flickered and pulsed, mimicking the slow breath of a distant sun.

Otter found a seat beside Erin, who was scanning the room with mild interest. There was an unsettling quiet among the gathered students, as if they all sensed that this class would be… different.

A young man, whom Otter assumed this was their professor, Aldwyn Quisling, hopped on the stage. He appeared younger than most of their instructors—perhaps in his early thirties. He had curly, sandy-blonde hair and bright eyes. Instead of the stuffy three-piece suit that most of the older instructors preferred, this man wore a simple waistcoat and bow tie over a white shirt with billowing sleeves. He carried no books, no notes—only a small, silver pointer that he idly twirled between his fingers. "To understand Kaos," he said in a voice pitched with excitement. "We must first understand the nature of the universe itself." He looked all around the room. "A tall order, no doubt. So let us begin with the concept of entropy. Can anyone tell me what it is?"

The room was silent.

Quisling clasped his hands behind his back. "No volunteers? No eager first-years ready to answer one of the most fundamental laws of existence?"

A few students shifted uncomfortably. Erin and Otter exchanged glances. Finally, someone spoke up. "Entropy is the gradual decline into disorder."

Otter couldn't tell who said it.

Quisling grinned. "Wrong! But that is what many textbooks say." He snapped his fingers, and the floating orb above them dimmed, shifting into an endless black void, dotted with stars. "For our purposes, entropy is the gradual dispersal of energy toward equilibrium. It is, quite simply, the universe's slow march toward uniformity. Left unchecked, entropy ensures that all things—all things—eventually fade, their energy spread evenly across existence, until no more work can be done. No more heat. No more motion. No more light."

He raised his hand, and the stars in the illusionary sky began to dim, their light softening, shrinking.

"The universe was dying before it even began," he said, almost reverently. "A slow, cold collapse into stillness."

He let that sink in.

Then, with a snap of his fingers, the orb above them flared—not with warmth, but with violent, chaotic motion.

"And then came Kaos."

The illusion twisted, no longer a simple starfield but a whirling mass of energy—gases colliding, explosions birthing new formations, forces pulling and pushing in ways that should have been impossible.

Otter sucked in a breath.

"Kaos was not destruction," Quisling continued, pacing now. "Kaos was change. Unpredictability. It threw the universe into flux, shattering the slow, inevitable death march and creating—" he gestured upward, "—motion. Heat. Light. Possibility."

The illusion shifted again, and from the swirling mass of energy, shapes began to emerge—planets, storms, vast oceans. Life.

"And from the raw potential of Kaos, the gods rose."

Otter felt a chill run down his spine.

"The gods," Quisling said, his eyes alight with passion, "were not born as rulers of this universe. They were a response. A counterbalance. They were the embodiment of Order, of structure. And they saw Kaos for what it was—a force that could just as easily unmake as it could create."

He spun on his heel, pointing toward the illusion above them, which now showed figures of light—tall, radiant, shifting in form, but unmistakably divine. "So they did what gods do." He flicked his wrist, and the swirling chaos around the figures hardened, shaping into numbers, symbols, formulas.

"They made the System."

A murmur spread through the students.

Otter stared.

The projection above them solidified into something eerily familiar—the System interface itself, stats and structured abilities woven into the very fabric of reality.

"The System was their answer to controlling Kaos," Quisling continued, pacing again. "A way to tame the forces that had shaped them. To bring rules to a universe whose sole purpose is its own destruction. And it works… to a degree." He paused for effect. "The only problem is that they could never completely lock away Kaos. Because without Kaos, there can be no change. No growth. While Order and Kaos may be opposite sides of the same coin, both are needed to keep entropy at bay."

Otter's mind reeled at the implications of what Quisling said. If he was right, it meant that Kaos was necessary for survival. Otter raised his hand.

Quisling clapped. "We have a question already! How delightful. Yes. What is your name?"

"Uh. Most people call me Otter."

"Very well, Mr. Otter. What is your question?"

"If all that is true, is the System really a tool to create Order or a tool to maintain the balance between Order and Kaos?"

The professor's eyes went wide. He flicked his wrist and the the orb flashed, then focused a tight beam on Otter. "That, my young scholar, is one of the most insightful questions a first-year has ever asked."

The orb above them flickered one final time and then went dark. Silence settled over the room as Otter awaited an answer.

Quisling clapped his hands together again and said, "Right! That was fun. Now let's start today's actual lesson."