Iskanda lifted one languid hand, a gesture so precise and effortlessly authoritative it looked less like movement and more like a command the air itself hurried to obey.
Her attendant responded almost instantly, bowing so deeply I half-expected his spine to snap out of sheer devotion. His expression didn’t so much as twitch as he vanished into the shadows of the room.
The Velvets scattered around the training hall stood in loose clusters, some idly stretching their arms or testing the weight of practice weapons, their movements sharp with the restless energy of people bred for combat rather than comfort.
Moments later, the attendant returned with something in his gloved hand—something small, something black, a curious object that seemed to hum with quiet insistence.
My gaze locked onto it immediately, drawn by some instinctive pull I couldn’t explain, and for a fleeting heartbeat I imagined it had eyes, or maybe a soul, quietly demanding attention, reverence, perhaps even worship.
He carried it as though it were sacred, or cursed, possibly both. And when he reached Iskanda, he extended his arm like he was presenting a newborn god, revealing a cube no larger than his palm, its matte surface swallowing the light like a starless void.
Iskanda’s lips curled into that lazy, knowing smirk of hers. "This is nullglass," she murmured, her voice smooth and unhurried.
Saints, seeing it up close sent a weird ripple of unease through my stomach, as though I were staring into something that technically existed but really shouldn’t.
"It’s a rare sort of material. Highly dangerous if used incorrectly," she continued, tracing her nail across one angle with the indulgence of someone showing off a lover. I raised an eyebrow, because what else was I supposed to do—clap?
"It reacts only to magical presence," she said, "not to physical force. You could strike it with a hammer until your arms fall off, and it wouldn’t so much as dent," she added lightly.
"Well, that’s a relief," I muttered before I could stop myself. Iskanda shot me a look somewhere between amused and exhausted. "I’m just saying," I added with a shrug, "good to know it won’t explode if I sneeze on it."
She exhaled in the way only a seasoned handler of chaos does, but a tiny smile tugged at the corner of her lips, which I took as a personal victory because I am, above all things, an attention-seeking disaster.
She shifted her stance then, gesturing slightly with her hand, and her attendant held the cube forward like some solemn officiant at a ritual.
"Magic," she began, her tone sliding into lecture mode, "is drawn from the Astral Nexus—your core of energy, your inner reservoir, the very source from which every spell, every spark, every surge flows."
I nodded deliberately, pretending to be extremely studious while actually trying to figure out whether Astral Nexus sounded more like a mystical power source or a nightclub with overpriced drinks.
"And mages," she continued, "fall into two primary categories. Incarnic and Excarnic."
"Right," I said, doing my best imitation of an attentive student.
Iskanda lifted her chin a touch. "Incarnic mages use their Nexus to strengthen, alter, or reconfigure their own bodies. Enhance speed, density, muscle strength... even alter features or bone structure once they’ve mastered it."
She paused for dramatic effect, letting the idea sink in, and gods help me, it did. My brain immediately conjured images of people ripping open their shirts and revealing glowing abs like some sort of magical fitness cult. But then the humor caught on something darker. I remembered the High Warden’s escorts—their bodies made of that black, writhing mass pulsing like a living shadow under their skin.
"They’re walking weapons," she finished. "Excarnic mages are the exact opposite. They project their magic outward, influencing the environment rather than themselves. Illusions, barriers, conceptual manipulation. Anything that reshapes the world around them."
She gestured loosely at the air, and I swear the temperature shifted, just a hair, as though her explanation alone carried some subtle force. "The category is entirely genetic. You’re born one or the other."
"Great," I said, nodding again. "So I can’t just pick the one with the better benefits package."
Iskanda’s mouth twitched, but she pressed on, turning her attention back to the cube. "This," she said, "will determine which category you fall into."
She motioned for her attendant to step closer then fixed her gaze on me with a poised, expectant calm that made my stomach lurch in anticipation.
"So what—do I pet it?" I asked.
"Place your hand on the surface," she replied dryly.
I extending my hand, hesitating just long enough to remind myself I wasn’t completely insane, before letting my palm settle onto the cube. The surface was cool, unnervingly smooth, and somehow alien—not stone, not metal, not any material that had ever bothered to follow the rules of this world.
It seemed to hum faintly against my skin, as if it were aware of me, judging me silently for even daring to touch it.
For a few seconds, nothing happened—no glowing, no flash of light, no sudden burst of cosmic revelation—just me, standing there, palm pressed against a cube that seemed to drink the light around it with quiet contempt, making me feel as though I were the universe’s most spectacular fool.
"Oh," I said, glancing up sheepishly. "Uh. Nothing’s happening."
"Give it a moment," Iskanda said, lifting a finger with the smug authority of someone who knew dramatic timing was her birthright. "If you’re an Excarnic mage, the cube will grow heavier—dense enough to bow your wrist if your affinity were strong. If you’re an Incarnic mage, it will lighten, almost as if it wanted to float right out of your hand."
I gave her a slight nod and waited for something, anything, to happen.
Just then, without warning, the attendant’s eyes snapped open, wide and sharp, like someone had slapped him with unseen knowledge.
"There’s no change in weight!" he exclaimed, eyes wide, voice cracking as if the words themselves were struggling to escape him, spilling pure, unfiltered astonishment into the quiet room.
He swung his gaze to Iskanda, who mirrored his shock—her eyes flying open before a slow, wild, positively predatory grin stretched across her lips.
The entire hall reacted almost instantly. Velvets, dozens of them, shot upright with startled whispers that sliced the air. Their murmurs weren’t dainty whispers, either—they were low, dangerous rumbles, the kind predators make when something in the grass moves the wrong way. Sweat-slick bodies leaned in, muscles taut, gossip rolling through them like a shockwave.
Honestly? It was kind of flattering. Sure, they looked horrified, confused, maybe even vaguely ready to tackle me, but attention is attention.
"Impossible."
"He’s joking. He has to be."
"This is absurd!"
"Concarnic? No—no, but that’s just a myth."
"He’s gutterborn! How—?"
Their voices piled over one another, thick, sharp, and glittering like shattered glass, each one trembling with disbelief. It was as if I’d stumbled into the epicenter of a social earthquake, and as much as I wanted to be terrified, a traitorous part of me felt dangerously flattered.
"Okay," I said at last, looking at Iskanda. "Not that I don’t enjoy having a panic attack named after me, but what exactly is going on?"
Iskanda inhaled slowly, her expression brimming with something that looked suspiciously like excitement—a bright, hungry, calculating delight that made the back of my neck tingle in response. She stepped closer, close enough that the scent of incense woven into her skin wrapped around me like a secret.
"There is," she said softly, savoring every syllable, "a third category I forgot to mention."
"A third—"
"Concarnic."
The word landed with a strange weight, heavier than the cube, heavier than the room, heavier than the whispers clawing across the hall.
Iskanda snatched the cube before turning it in her fingers. "Concarnic mages can draw upon both Incarnic and Excarnic abilities. They can reshape themselves and the world beyond them. A true balance of internal and external force."
I stared up at her with a blank expression. "I’m sorry," I finally said, "but that sounds extremely made up."
She laughed—a sharp, delighted sound that rippled through the hall and left the air humming in its wake. "They’re rare," she said, leaning in just close enough for her breath to brush my cheek, "so rare that most dynasties pretend they don’t exist. And yet here you are. The nullglass doesn’t lie."
"So the cube not changing weight means...?"
"That you are neither pushing nor pulling. Neither strengthening nor projecting. You are both. You are Concarnic."
Silence fell around us—or rather, the whispers turned into a stunned, dreadful hush, like everyone was inhaling at the same time and forgot how to let go.
I stood there with my hand still half hovering over the cube, feeling as though the floor had tilted, the air had thickened, and the entire hall had suddenly realized I was a walking disaster equipped with a magical category no one wanted to believe in.
"Oh," I said faintly. "Well. That’s... something."
Iskanda smirked.
"Loona," she said, "it’s not just something. It’s unprecedented. It’s the kind of thing instructors argue about in theory lectures then dismiss because it’s ’too improbable to waste ink on.’ It’s the sort of anomaly that gets archivists sweating and Highbloods sending letters. Saints above—you’ve just stepped into a category most mages die believing is a myth."
The hall murmured again, this time with awe, horror, and the kind of ravenous interest you only hear when a crowd realizes their evening just got infinitely more interesting.
Iskanda paused, her expression tightening with a rare flicker of reluctance.
"Understand this. I’m an Incarnic mage. I can teach you the fundamentals of that path and that path alone—strengthening your body, honing your instincts, channeling power into muscle and bone—but only that."
I nodded slowly, taking in her words before, all of a sudden, the doors to the training hall exploded open, slamming against the walls with a thunder that rattled the rafters and sent a ripple of sand skittering across the floor.