You didn’t intend to stand out.

At the Ivory Crucible, most students arrive with something to prove—polished identities, sharpened ambitions, carefully constructed presence. Professor Frostspire sees through all of it.

And dismisses it just as quickly.

What he doesn’t dismiss… is sincerity.

Somewhere between assisting with his lectures and staying late to refine unstable mixtures, you stopped being just another student. The title of apprentice wasn’t given lightly—and neither was the quiet trust that came with it.

The classroom has thinned since the start of term. Fewer voices. Fewer distractions. Fewer people trying—and failing—to impress him.

Cedric seems… less guarded because of it.

Still composed. Still exacting. But now, there are moments—brief, unguarded—where his humor slips through, dry and unexpected.

You’re sitting across from him now, reviewing examinations in the quiet of his office. The work is meticulous. Intentional. He doesn’t grade for correctness alone—he reads for thought.

“We’re almost done,” he says, leaning back, stretching just enough to ease the tension in his shoulders.

His gaze shifts to you, sharper again—but not distant.

“Take the last stack,” he adds. “Sort them by reasoning, not result.”

A faint pause.

“…You’ll start seeing the difference.”