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Night took the city one careful step at a time. Roof by roof. Street by street. Windows went dark except for a few that held on to light like old friends who didn't want to say goodbye yet.

Up in the highest part of the Heart Magic Academy, a single lamp still burned. It made a small gold pond on a big, messy desk. Books were piled there in crooked towers, open to pages with thin ribbon marks, half-read, half-remembered. A long pipe sat in a stand; the bowl puffed one tiny bubble and went quiet. On a side table rested a tall hat that was very sure of itself and tried hard to look like only a hat.

Half of the office was light. Half was a shadow. The shadow looked like a place a story could hide.

Professor Snake sat in his chair and did not hurry. He had the stillness of a man who had learned that waiting is also a kind of work. He watched the dark part of the room the way a hunter watches the edge of a field.

"Did you see him?" Snake asked at last. His voice was low and even. "What do you think of the boy?"

A woman's voice answered from the shadows. It sounded young if you listened to the tone, and old if you listened to the weight. "I saw," she said. "That boy holds a black hole. I am certain. One hundred out of a hundred."

She stepped forward into the lamp's gentle ring.

She was not human, though she wore the shape of one. Her hair fell long and clear, like poured silver. Her skin held a pale light of its own, like a pearl seen through water. Her dress was white and simple, the kind of simple that takes a very long time to learn. Her feet were bare. When she moved, the room felt older, like a story that remembers the first day it was told.

"I have never seen void magic," she went on, "but I have heard the old ones speak of it. Long ago, on the far side. Black-hole art has many hands. It can pull. It can bind. It can hide. It can unmake the stage so the actor has nowhere to stand. In foolish hands, it breaks what should not be broken. In cruel and strong hands, it can end a world in one move."

Her still eyes watched him. "Do not make a fool. Do not make a cruel one."

Snake gave a small nod, no bow, no show. "I heard you," he said. "I will teach him well. I will give all I can. The boy is a rare door. I will not slam it." He let out a breath. "And the orange one?"

The spirit's lips made a line that was not quite a smile. "The fluffy orange creature," she said softly. "Be careful. I do not know what it is."

"A spirit?" Snake asked, though he already knew that was the point of the question.

"I am a superior spirit," she said. She spoke it like a fact, not pride. "I have been in contract with you for hundreds of years, old man. When a true spirit walks near, even with no bond, I feel the thread. Even if I do not step back into our realm, the thread still tugs. With that orange one, I felt nothing. No pull. No kin. It looked like a spirit. It jokes like a spirit. It may be something else."

Snake's eyes slid to the hat and away again. "You have not crossed back for centuries," he said gently. "Perhaps the realm has changed while you kept me company."

The woman shook her head once. "Change or not, kin is kin. I would feel it." She lifted her chin a fraction toward the side table. "Also: the fluffy one noticed your hat. Your hat is a thing no one in this world should know. Not even spirits."

Snake coughed into his hand in a way that meant yes and also we will not talk about that now. "He looked," Snake said. "I looked back. It ends there."

"Be wary," the spirit said. Then, as if a thought she had been holding back slipped loose, her face warmed; the light in her skin deepened. "But also… it is very cute. I wish to hold it." She blinked, caught herself, and swiped away a thin line of drool with the back of her hand like a startled child. "Once. Twice. Several times."

Snake stared at her for two beats, then made a very serious show of clearing his throat. "Ahem. I will be careful of Fizz," he said, and the hat somehow looked more interesting without moving at all.

The spirit clasped her hands at her waist. "Teach the boy to close as well as open," she said. "Teach him to bind as well as cut. Teach him to set weight down, not only lift it. Teach him to say enough to himself. Many with rare power never learn that word and suffer for it — and make others suffer."

"I will," Snake said. He adjusted the pipe stem with two fingers, not smoking, only neatening. "He is strong already in one way that matters: he can listen. He heard his own fear and did not let it lead. He heard rules and did not spit on them because they were not written for him. That gives me hope."

She tilted her head. "And his line?" she asked. "I saw two notes in him. One old and steady. One new and deep."

"Yes," Snake said. "A second ring locked on the road. Quiet. He hid it. He should not have hid it from a clerk, but I know why he did. People fear what they do not understand. We will teach him how to wear a rare coat in a crowd without catching every elbow."

"Good," she said. "And the hat," she added, not able to resist one more poke, "must never be known."

Snake's mouth flicked. "The hat must never be known," he agreed. "That is a rule I keep for both of us."

They were quiet for a moment. The hookah bubbled once as if to say I am also here, then thought better of it and went still.

"You have not asked me what I want," Snake said. "You always ask."

The spirit looked at him with her still-water eyes. "I know what you want," she said. "It has not changed in a hundred years. You want to leave something behind that does not rot. A book with legs. A student who becomes a bridge. You want the world to keep one good thing you loved after your body will go to dust."

Snake smiled, very small and very tired and very happy all at once. "Then you know why I am careful," he said. "I do not get a second try."

"Be careful," she said one more time, because that is what old friends do: repeat the necessary.

"I will," he said.

They let the quiet come back, not awkward, not cold. The lamp made its small circle. The hat was deeply hat-like. The books leaned on each other the way old soldiers do.

At last the spirit stepped backward. She did not vanish; she simply allowed the shadow to become herself again. The room felt younger when she was gone. Snake sat alone a while longer and looked at nothing and everything. Then he turned the pipe stem so the mouthpiece faced away from him, as if he had silenced a talkative friend.

He did not touch the hat.

Meanwhile, In the Aqua family house, light stayed on in rooms that were usually dark by now. Servants tried to move like shadows and failed because fear makes noise.

Fartray's room was neat and bright and unhappy. The young lord paced in a small stripe between the window and the bed, each turn sharper than the last. His coat was fresh; his pride was not.

The steward stood by the door with his hands folded and his mouth thoughtful. He wore plain gray as always, the color of men who do ugly work for pretty houses.

"Where is that gutter rat?" Fartray snapped. "You said the men would bring him. You said he would not even sit the exam. He sat on it. I pulled strings and made him fail. He still walks. Why?"

The steward's face did not change. His voice stayed soft. "They promised delivery after the exam, young master. The first attempt failed. They said they will do the work before the day ends. They did not send a word. Perhaps something got in the way. I will look at the first light."

"In the morning?" Fartray spun. "I want him now. I want that orange ball too. Put men at the gates. All of them. If the boy tries to leave, I want him caught. I want him on his knees. Do you hear me? Caught him as soon as possible."

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