Winter in Atheria was very unlike the winters Sam was accustomed to. For one, it was colder-a lot colder, he realized, as he pulled his cloak around him tighter. He gripped his staff tightly in his right hand, attempting to project a field of warmth around him.
After weeks of study, even just this small feat was nearly beyond him. The theory behind thaumaturgy was all well and good, but actually putting it into practice… Sam puffed a sigh as he made his way to the main lecture hall.
“Ah well,” he mumbled. “Last one for the week.”
Keeping his head to the ground, he steadfastly ignored the bustle of students seething across the pathways. It was easy to pretend they didn’t exist for Sam. After all, they did the same to him.
At that moment he chose to glance up, and caught the eye of an incredibly strange looking man. He wore gloves of silver that shimmered in the reflection of sunlight off snow.
The man wore a cloak with a hood that cast his face into deep shadow. For just a moment, he looked up at Sam.
Sam stood stock-still. The man smiled. It was an odd smile; it was almost menacing, but then almost friendly at the same time. A flicker of a frown flashed across Sam’s face. He blinked, sure that the field he was casting had caused a mirage.
When his eyes opened once more, the man was gone.
A true frown creased his pale brow.
“I’m seeing things,” he grumbled. “What next?”
But like a wisp of cloth caught in the wind, a shred of doubt floated in his mind. He was sure, certain even, that he had seen the man before. He shook his head; the late nights were getting to him. Of this he was certain.
The tip of his staff gave a feeble splutter. Faint puffs of smoke emerged from the tip.
“Oh, crap,” he moaned. “Not now, please.”
Sam quickly performed percussive maintenance on the thin rod. It coughed one final time, and then ceased to emanate anything.
“Typical,” he groaned.
With that, he walked through the double oak doors of the Aetherium, the hooded man all but forgotten.
Through a significantly smaller set of doors, Sam entered the main lecture hall and took his customary seat, at the corner farthest to the back of the theatre and away from the doors. He eased himself onto the hard wooden bench and slipped his bag onto the desk in front of him. With a grunt of irritation, he placed his staff on top of the bag and glared at it. He’d known what he was buying when he purchased it, but hadn’t honestly expected it to be this infuriatingly terrible.
A poor worker always blames his tools, as his father would say. Sam shook his head as though the thought was water in his ear.
Down at the podium, the professor of thaumaturgy had taken his place. Silence fell on the theatre in moments.
Even from the back of the class, Sam could see the professor’s radiance: it burned like a fire in a hearth, flickering and roaring. It hurt to look at, and not even closing his eyes worked. Only cold stone could block out the radiance of a thaumaturgist. That, and flesh, but Sam somehow doubted that he could get away with covering his face with his hands unnoticed for long.
The professor, William Wescott, cleared his throat quietly. Even from here, Sam could make out that spark in his eye that symbolized his enthusiasm. He leaned forward slightly, suddenly curious about the day’s lecture.
