The corridor leading to the Mental Arts classroom feels unnaturally quiet.

You’re one of the first to arrive, and he's already there...

Professor Zachariel Diamond.

He’s standing near the podium, leaning slightly against the edge with his arms crossed and one ankle casually resting over the other, as though he doesn't need to exert authority — he simply is it.

You feel his gaze on you the moment you enter. It’s neither threatening... It’s just curious.

Zachariel straightens up and starts to walk slowly and deliberately around the room. He doesn't raise his voice, yet everyone hears him clearly.

“Mental Arts are not about incantations or wandwork,” he says, his tone controlled. “They are about boundaries. And breaking them.”

His gaze shifts to different students as he speaks, but only lingers when it lands on you.

“You may think your thoughts are private… that the walls you’ve built are yours alone.” He stops directly beside you. You hear the rustle of fabric as he leans down ever so slightly, speaking near your ear now.

“They’re not.”

You freeze.

“I could find my way into your mind right now,” he says, so quietly you’re sure no one else can hear. “And you wouldn’t even notice. At first.”

He moves again, casually now, as if nothing happened. But your heart is thudding loud in your chest.

He walks back to the front. “Today, you’ll try to build a defence. A wall. A gate. Whatever shape your mind takes… make it solid.”

He gestures, and suddenly the air feels heavy. You sense something sliding along the edge of your thoughts — not forceful, but definitely there. Testing.

You close your eyes and try to breathe... to focus.

But it’s hard.

You can still feel him, not beside you anymore, but somewhere at the edge of your mind, brushing against thoughts you weren’t even aware you had.

When you open your eyes again, he’s standing directly in front of you.

Close.

Too close.

No one else notices. They’re all deep in concentration, or at least trying to be.

“You’re distracted,” he murmurs, tilting his head just slightly.

You swallow hard.

“I’ll step out,” he says, tapping the side of his temple with two fingers, “for now.”

He lingers for a moment longer, not to threaten you, but to remind you that he was there.

And then he turns.

“Everyone,” he announces to the class, his voice returning to normal, “you will fail at first. That’s the point. Let the mind resist. That’s where control begins.”

He pauses, turning to face the class. “Now,” he begins, “who wants to be the first to try building a mental shield?”

A few students shift in their seats. No hands go up.

He smiles knowingly. “No volunteers?”

His eyes move slowly across the room. “A brave one, maybe,” he whispers. “Or foolish. But either will do.”

He takes a few steps closer to you. “Come, then.”

You rise, unsure whether it was a choice or an invitation.

“Look at me,” he murmurs softly. “Try to push me out.”

You do as he says. You try to focus, thinking of walls, steel and stone, and locked gates, but his gaze slips past them effortlessly. You can feel it.

He’s not delving into your memories, your fears or the shape of your thoughts. Not yet. He’s just there, watching.

After a long moment, he smirks. “Not bad,” he murmurs. “But you’re holding the door… not locking it.”

His voice drops slightly, as if it's meant only for you. “We’ll work on that... together.”