The heart of Rexxentrum was a maze of spires and stone — towers thrusting skyward like fingers reaching for divine favor, archways looping between them like veins of history. Layer upon layer of neighborhoods clung to one another in a patchwork of marble, brick, and shadow. It was a city easy to lose oneself in — by accident or by intention — a place where every turn seemed to whisper of empire and ambition.

Near the city’s pulsing core, beneath the looming shadow of Ungebroch Castle, stretched the manicured grounds of Soltryce Academy, the empire’s bastion of learning and arcane study. As the late afternoon sun slanted through the autumn haze, its light fractured through tall glass windows, spilling molten gold across a lecture hall on the academy’s second floor.

Inside, a dozen students sat poised behind polished desks, their quills idle, eyes fixed forward. At the room’s fore perched a gnome — stout, grey about the temples, and perpetually frowning. His slick black comb-over clung to his scalp in stubborn defiance of time, a curl hanging defiantly over one ear. Heavy robes swallowed his small frame, suspenders taut over crisp trousers that rode perhaps a touch too high. He sat upon a stool, drumming impatient fingers on the desk before him — a rhythm that betrayed both authority and irritation.

And before him, finishing his thought with measured gravity, stood Caleb Widogast.

It was the tail end of a guest lecture — one of many he’d been coaxed into giving, despite the repeated urgings of Astrid and Beauregard to take a more permanent post. He wasn’t ready, or so he told himself. The academy’s walls held too many ghosts.

He looked down at his notes, then up again, voice quiet but deliberate.

“And with that, I think we can all see the importance of a strong grasp of the alchemical base as you climb the higher rungs of the transmutative ladder. But if I could leave you with one challenge as we break for today, it would be to set aside the what and the how for some time, and to consider the why. Now, as each of you leave the academy and you go on to poke and prod at the edges of reality, ask yourselves what the knowledge and power you've gained here is for. Transmutation is a powerful tool for change. How will you use it to alter the world around you, and to what end? And ask yourself, how will it change you? When I studied at this school myself that question was never on any exam, and maybe it should have been.”

A faint smile ghosted across his face.

“Also, make time in your studies for history or you will be doomed to repeat it! History is littered with sharp-minded individuals like yourselves who bit off more than they can chew, and it somehow always comes back to bite them in the butt. But that is all for today. Bis später.”

The spell of focus broke. Chairs scraped, murmurs rose, and the students began to gather their books, conversations already drifting to lighter things. One half-elven girl lingered, clutching her notes. She offered Caleb a timid smile, stammered a word of thanks, and fled with cheeks aflame.

The gnomish professor watched her leave with a sniff.

“A fine seminar, Mr Widogast. Hopefully the students have grappled onto any of it.”

“Well, I would like to think that the student body here would learn thinking skills and the ability to think for themselves, not just memorize by rote.”

“Of course,” the gnome replied dryly. “Though I must note, your manner of presentation is rather… theatrical for my taste. Still, the young seem to adore it. The arrogance of youth, hm?”

“Ja. Well I don't want to impose any longer I will retreat to my private practice.”

“Please do. We'll reach out as soon as we find a portion of our coming curriculum would use some of your unique insight.”

The gnome brushed a hand along the doorframe as he exited, robes swishing primly behind him. The door clicked shut

“What an arschloch.”

The room stood silent again, save for the fading echo of footsteps down the marble hall.