"It happened again?"

A sing-song voice echoed from the shadowed corner of the room.

Bartholomew didn't answer. Instead, he waved his hand sharply, sending a burst of violet energy toward the source of the voice. The spell surged forward, but just as it was about to make contact, the space shimmered—distorting—and the energy fizzled harmlessly as the room returned to normal.

A figure emerged.

She wore a flowing crimson robe, the fabric parting slightly to reveal a sleek black dress beneath, tailored to the sultry curves of her frame. Her red hair shimmered like molten copper, cascading over her shoulders and blending seamlessly with her attire, as if fire and cloth had fused.

"Is this how you treat your beloved sister?" she crooned, a faint frown tugging at her lips.

Bartholomew cast her a sidelong glance, his fury visibly cooling.

"You look far too young to be the sister I remember," he said flatly, turning his back on her once more.

"I'll take that as a compliment," she quipped, walking gracefully toward the pair of chairs positioned in front of the desk. "Though I'm sure that wasn't your intent."

She inspected both chairs with the scrutiny of a noble choosing wine, before settling into the one on the left—crossing one leg elegantly over the other.

"You're still suffering from your mysophobia," Bartholomew noted. It wasn't a question.

Though it appeared she was seated, her body hovered ever so slightly above the armchair—suspended a hair's breadth above the upholstery. She hadn't made contact at all. The levitation was subtle, but deliberate. Impressive, even—but the headmaster's gaze wasn't one of admiration. It was concern.

"Once you've seen the microbial world… it's hard to forget it," she replied matter-of-factly. Her amber-brown eyes narrowed slightly as she studied him.

"But we're not here to talk about my flaws, Bart."

"I'm aware, Sylvia," he said with a sigh. "After three years, it's happened again. This time… further inland."

He didn't finish the thought. The weight of it hung in the air like smoke.

Sylvia Arcadius watched him closely, her posture relaxed but her expression deeply focused. Her voice softened, just a fraction.

"Do you still think they're behind it?"

Bartholomew's expression twisted. He spun back toward her, the sunlight catching the red strands of his thick, bushy beard.

"There is no other alternative!" he thundered.

But Sylvia didn't flinch. If anything, her expression deepened with sympathy.

"The king ordered a full investigation into the Arcane Church three years ago," she said calmly. "They found no evidence. Nothing. If they were truly involved, don't you think someone—anyone—would have uncovered it by now?"

"Our family suffered immense backlash after your accusations," she continued. "It's a wonder you were even allowed to remain headmaster during the fallout."

Her voice was steady, emotionless—but not unkind.

"Bart…" she stood, her tone gentle now. "Mana springs dry up all the time. It's not new. The world has always found ways to redistribute mana—balancing the flow."

Bartholomew's eyes narrowed, a flash of heat behind them.

"I've never heard of a mana spring naturally drying up and killing every man, woman, and child within a twenty-mile radius," he snapped. His voice carried conviction. Unshakable certainty.

"I want to believe you, brother… I really do," Sylvia murmured, running a hand gently through his hair—just like she used to when they were children. "If only you could prove what their motive was—or even how they managed to cause so many springs to dry up simultaneously. Maybe then, Father could be convinced to mobilize his support."

A silence settled between them, thick and raw.

Eventually, Sylvia exhaled slowly, folding her arms across her chest.

"I have a few young spies I was planning to place in the other academies, but… I suppose I can send one or two into the Arcane Church. If anything suspicious is happening, I'll keep you informed," she said, offering a small, reassuring smile.

Bartholomew looked at his older sister—the same woman who had always watched over him. Despite everything, she was still doing it. His lips curled into a tired smile. From the outside, one might assume he was the older sibling—but that certainly wasn't the case.

"Thank you…"

"Well," Sylvia said, stretching her lithe, well-proportioned frame with casual elegance, "just keep your accusations to yourself for now—at least until we find solid evidence. Our family might be a big fish, but if we stir the waters too violently, every other fish in the pond might turn on us." Her voice turned cryptic.

"So Father sent you here, then?" Bartholomew asked, though there wasn't a hint of surprise in his tone.

"Can't a girl visit her little brother of her own volition?" she teased, then smirked. "You know the old man—he's even more uptight than when we were younger."

Bartholomew nodded, a small chuckle escaping him.

"I used to think this job would be too exhausting… but not having to live back home has its perks."

Sylvia laughed, catching his drift. "Don't get too comfortable. You know your son—or maybe your nephew—is next in line for the headmaster's position. If you're not careful, Father might drag you back as his assistant. Then you'll really never get a break."

"Stop," Bartholomew groaned, rubbing his temples. "I've had enough bad news for one day."

The laughter faded, leaving behind a peaceful silence—one born of mutual understanding.

"Any promising students among the first-years?" Sylvia asked, shifting the conversation to something lighter.

"A few," he replied thoughtfully. "But their identities are… complicated."

"Melody Winterborne, right? I heard Julius mention she'd be attending this year."

"Mmm. And her fiancé."

"Fiancé!?" Sylvia's eyebrows shot up. "This is the first I'm hearing about any engagement."

Bartholomew chuckled, though it was a hollow sound.

"It's most likely a ruse—something orchestrated by that man. But I doubt he realized how special the boy he used was. If he had, he never would've treated him like a disposable pawn."

Sylvia's curiosity sharpened. "Special how? Does he have a rare affinity?"

Bartholomew shook his head.

"Not an affinity… a soul. One unlike anything I've ever seen. Who knows how far he might traverse the abyss within the Arcana…" he murmured, his voice trailing off into a thoughtful hush.

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