Mirok's fingers moved across the plate, tracing the same pattern he'd inscribed a thousand times before. The enchantment flared briefly, a pale shimmer of protective Magic that would keep someone's roof from cracking, even in the winter frost. Nothing grand. Nothing that would earn mention in any magical treatise. But it was honest work, and it kept food on the table.
The workshop hummed with quiet industry around him. Seven other enchanters bent over their stations, each focused on their own repetitive tasks. The air tasted of metal shavings and the peculiar tang that lingered after channeled Mana.
Through the grimy windows, the Fourth Circle's afternoon bustle continued: merchants hawking wares, children darting between carts, the endless rhythm of a city that never truly slept.
Mirok set aside the completed plate and reached for the next, but his mind wandered to the evening ahead.
Tonight was lecture night.
His youngest son, Tam, would already be making his way to the old Meridian Theater, notebook clutched tight, that earnest expression on his face that made him look older than his fourteen years. The boy had a gift, not for Magic itself, though his Lesser Fire affinity wasn't completely negligible, but for understanding. For taking Lord von Hohenheim's teachings and translating them into words that even old Mirok could grasp.
"Drifting off again?"
The voice belonged to Castor, who worked the station beside him. The younger man's tone carried gentle mockery, but underneath lay something else. Envy, perhaps. Castor's family had drawn lots like many others, and his older brother attended the lectures. The brother who could barely explain what he'd eaten for breakfast, let alone the intricacies of Mana circulation.
"Just thinking," Mirok replied, starting on the new plate. The pattern flowed from muscle memory, leaving his mind free to wander.
"…About that spell your boy taught the neighborhood?" Castor pressed. "My sister hasn't stopped talking about it. Says her bedroom's never been warmer."
Mirok allowed himself a small smile. The ‘spell’ was just a beginner cantrip, one of those Lord von Hohenheim had released through the Magic Association. But simple didn't mean worthless. Not when the cold nights often meant choosing between food and fuel. It certainly had been worth the few odd silver their family had spent on it.
"It's a useful thing," he admitted.
"Useful…" Castor snorted. "My grandfather would've called it a miracle. A common housewife channeling actual magic, not just those hedge-witch tricks the charlatans peddle." His voice dropped. "Times are changing, Mirok. Can you feel it?"
Mirok could. Everyone could.
It was obvious even in the way people walked: Spines a little straighter, eyes holding a glimmer of something that hadn't been there before. Hope, maybe. Or possibility. Even here in the workshop, he'd noticed differences. The results weren't dramatic, but the mood had definitely changed.
"Speaking of changes," Castor continued, lowering his voice further, "did you hear about Wilkins?"
Mirok's chisel paused. Wilkins ran one of the larger shops in their district. He was the kind of man who'd made his fortune keeping prices just high enough that working folk could barely afford necessities.
"What about him?"
"Lost another three apprentices this week,” Castor's grin held no sympathy. “They've started their own shop, using those preservation spells from the collection. Charging half what Wilkins does for the same service. Man's been raging about 'improper competition' to anyone who'll listen—”
The workshop door chimed as a customer entered. Mirok looked up to find a well-dressed woman, the kind who usually sent servants for such errands. Her fingers twisted a silk handkerchief, and her eyes darted nervously around the modest space.
Normally, someone like her would never have come to a place so humble. But the recent surge in demand for Enchantments had driven wealthier clients to try their luck in smaller shops. It had been eye-opening.
"I need an enchantment," she declared to no one in particular. "For my daughter's bracelet. Something... protective."
The workshop's owner, Master Grell, emerged from his office with the speed of a man who smelled money. "Of course, my lady. We offer several varieties of protection. Against theft, against damage, against—"
"Against Magic," the woman interrupted. "I've heard there are... ruffians... throwing spells about these days. It's not safe."
Silence descended like a dropped blanket. Every enchanter in the workshop had family attending Lord von Hohenheim's lectures. Mirok watched Grell's face cycle through several expressions before settling on professional neutrality.
"I assure you, my lady, the Magic being taught is quite safe. There are no combat spells in the collection. Lord von Hohenheim—"
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"Is filling people’s heads with dangerous ideas," the woman snapped. "Magic belongs in proper hands. Trained hands. Not..." she gestured vaguely at the workshop, apparently just realizing she was surrounded by exactly the sort of individuals she feared.
"Perhaps," Master Grell said carefully, "you would be better served by one of the establishments in the Third Circle."
The woman's face flushed. She turned on her heel and departed without another word, the door chiming mockingly in her wake.
"Well," Castor muttered, "that was something."
Master Grell's expression soured. "Back to work, all of you. We've quotas to meet."
Mirok focused back on his enchantment, though his thoughts churned. The woman’s fear hadn’t been entirely theatrical. Many people were nervous. He had noticed it in small ways: Increased commissions from wealthy clients, more requests for protective wards, whispers about maintaining order.
The hours crawled by with agonizing slowness. Each completed enchantment brought him closer to evening, closer to hearing what new knowledge Lord von Hohenheim would share. Last week, Tam had come home practically glowing, explaining a technique for the controlled dispersal of Mana inside the body. It could be used to strengthen one part of the body in particular.
Their neighbor, a carpenter, had wept when Tam taught it to him. Forty years of splinters and aching fingers, solved by a method so simple even a child could manage it.
Finally, the workshop bell rang, signaling the day's end. Mirok cleaned his station with deliberate care—Master Grell was particular about such things—then joined the stream of workers heading home.
The streets of the Fourth Circle transformed at this hour. The merchants' cries grew desperate, trying to sell the day's last goods. Tired mothers herded children inside while fathers stopped at taverns for a quick drink before facing domestic responsibilities. But tonight, there was an undercurrent of anticipation. Mirok wasn't the only one with family at the lecture.
He passed a group of young men practicing what looked like a Light spell, their faces scrunched in concentration as tiny orbs flickered between their palms. Near the fountain, two women compared notes from previous lectures, their conversation peppered with terms that would have been meaningless to them only a month ago: Mana circulation, affinity resonance, Core strengthening…
Mirok hurried along the winding streets, leaving the fourth circle and entering the fifth. Here, the mood was just as lively, if not more so. He barely registered the people around him, his steps carrying him with the urgency of a man on a mission.
His apartment building loomed ahead, six stories of worn brick and narrow windows. He climbed the four flights to his family’s rooms, knees protesting the familiar ascent. The door opened before he could reach for the handle.
"Papa!" His daughter Sera pulled him inside. At twelve, she'd inherited her mother's quick mind and sharper tongue. "Tam's not back yet, but Mama's made soup, and the Korvins are here, and their son couldn't explain last week's lesson properly, so they're hoping Tam can help when he returns."
Indeed, his small main room was crowded. His wife, Enna, ladled soup while their neighbors huddled around the table, studying notes. Everyone looked up when he entered, offering greetings tinged with the same anticipation he felt.
"…Any word on tonight's topic?" asked Korvin, a barrel-maker whose thick fingers seemed too clumsy for spellwork but who'd surprised everyone by mastering a water condensation spell with surprising ease.
"Nothing on my part," Mirok admitted, accepting a bowl from Enna. The soup was thin. The end of month meant stretching ingredients, but the warming cantrip Tam had taught her made it seem heartier than it was. "But Lord von Hohenheim hasn't disappointed yet."
"My sister says the Second Circle's in an uproar," Korvin's wife added. She worked as a seamstress, occasionally taking commissions from wealthy clients. "Claims Lord von Hohenheim is 'disrupting the natural order' or some such nonsense."
"Let them fuss," Enna said firmly. "While they're wringing their hands, we're learning to make our lives better. Did you see what the baker's apprentice can do? Bread that stays fresh for a week without preservatives."
The conversation continued, speculation mixing with gossip, hope threading through every word. Mirok ate in silence, watching his neighbors' animated faces. When had he last seen such engagement, such collective excitement in their community?
The door burst open. Tam stood there, breathing hard from running up the stairs. But instead of his usual enthusiasm, his face was pale, his expression stricken.
The room fell silent.
"Tam?" Enna rose, maternal concern replacing everything else. "What's wrong?"
The boy's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked.
"Lord von Hohenheim... he announced tonight would be his last lecture. At least for a while." Tam swallowed hard. "There's to be a hearing. To determine if he'll be stripped of his rank and... and exiled from the city."
The silence that followed was different from before. This was the silence of a breath held too long, of hope suddenly, brutally, suspended.
"Exiled?" Korvin was the first to find his voice. "On what grounds?"
"He didn't say." Tam moved into the room, his notebook clutched against his chest like armor. "Just that some people were dissatisfied with him. But he did teach tonight. Said he wouldn't waste the opportunity, not when..." The boy's voice caught. "Not when it might be the last chance."
"What did he teach?" Mirok asked quietly.
Tam straightened slightly, falling back on the familiar rhythm of instruction. "A trick for enhancing memory. He said... he said if we couldn't have him as a teacher, at least we could better remember what we'd already learned."
The irony of it, a memory enhancement as possibly the final lesson, wasn't lost on anyone.
Sera was sobbing silently. The Korvins sat frozen. Enna reached for Mirok's hand, squeezing it tight.
"Well," Mirok said, his voice steadier than he felt, "you'd better teach us then. If this is what we have, we'd best make the most of it."
Tam nodded, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He opened his notebook, pages covered in his careful script, diagrams drawn with painstaking precision. The boy who'd been chosen not for his magical talent but for his gift of making others understand.
As Tam began to explain the technique, his voice growing stronger with each word, Mirok thought about the woman in the workshop. Her fear of common people using Magic. Perhaps she'd get her wish after all.
But she couldn't take back what had already been given. The knowledge shared, the bonds forged, and the glimpse of a different world that Lord von Hohenheim had provided. That light, once kindled, wouldn't be easily extinguished.
Even if they took away the teacher, the lessons would remain. Passed from neighbor to neighbor, parent to child, preserved in notebooks and memory and the small, practical spells that made harsh lives a little gentler.
Outside, night fell over the Fifth Circle. Inside, illuminated by a simple light charm that would have been impossible for them to cast just weeks ago, a small group of commoners learned their possibly final lesson in magic.
And they learned it well.