"Your Holiness? It's time for breakfast. Lady Nuere is bound to arrive soon."
The door creaked open with the hesitant dread of someone used to battlefield casualties. Understandable, really, considering the battlefield that was Iris's bed.
She lay sprawled like a fallen goddess—limbs splayed wide, blanket tangled around one leg, hair performing an avant-garde interpretation of a hay bale mid-tornado. Her nightgown was half-ridden up her side, and one sock had migrated to the pillow like it had defected.
The maid took one look, exhaled with the weight of a veteran, and stepped inside anyway.
"If Lady Nuere sees you like this," she said, voice neutral, "she may attempt to call for an exorcism."
Iris cracked an eye open and groaned. "Tell her the demon won this round."
The maid did not laugh. She never did. Probably trained by an ancient order of stone-faced grandmothers. But Iris swore the corner of her lip twitched—a microscopic victory.
"Tea or coffee?" the maid asked as she laid out clothes that looked criminally formal for a Saturday.
"Tea. Coffee makes me twitchy. I'm already suffering, no need to ascend to another plane."
"Very well. Your lecture begins in one hour."
"One... hour..." Iris muttered into her pillow like it had betrayed her. "Why does Saturday feel like Monday in this world? Where are my weekends? My sacred rite of 'accidentally' waking up at noon?"
"Your Holiness is a living Saint," the maid replied, voice dry as bleached parchment. "Weekends are reserved for tutoring and discipline."
"I didn't even sign up to be a Saint," Iris groaned. "I got scammed..."
⋆⁺₊✧༚˚. ᗢ .˚༚✧₊⁺⋆**
By the time Lady Nuere arrived, Iris was at least presentable—not majestic, not holy, but sufficiently less haunted. Her hair had been subdued into something resembling order with pins and ribbons, her clothes smelled of lavender instead of regret, and, most importantly, she was vertical.
Lady Nuere, a noblewoman in her late forties with the energy of a dagger wearing pearls, entered the study like the air was too lowborn to brush against her sleeves.
"Good morning, Your Holiness," she said with a bow so stiff it could've been used as a ruler.
"Morning, Lady Nuere," Iris mumbled, stifling a yawn. "So, what am I going to suffer migraines over today?"
Lady Nuere narrowed her eyes. "Today's subject is magical classifications."
"Oh good," Iris said, perking up slightly. "Time for fantasy exposition. Hit me."
Nuere blinked slowly, the faintest edge of long-suffering fatigue behind her perfectly sculpted expression. "As you wish. Listen carefully. The difference between magic wielders lies not merely in power, but in origin, discipline, and cost."
She unrolled a scroll with a practiced snap. "There are three primary classifications."
"Pop quiz style or bedtime story?" Iris asked.
Nuere blinked again.
"Shutting up," Iris said quickly, sitting straighter.
1. Sorcerers
"First, Sorcerers. These individuals begin formal magical education in early childhood—typically around age six, or as soon as they learn to read and write. Their magic is not innate; it is forged through tireless study, mental discipline, and sheer force of will."
"Sounds... exhausting."
"It is," Lady Nuere confirmed. "Sorcery relies on precise incantations and complex magical calculus. A single miscalculation—be it arithmetic, geometric, or conceptual—can cause catastrophic failure. Hence, Sorcerers must study magical theory, linguistics, and higher mathematics extensively."
"Like wizards who moonlight as accountants," Iris muttered.
"Exactly. But the reward for this rigor is flexibility. Sorcerers are not bound by their birth. They grow stronger through study and practice. They can break past their limits. Some even develop unique techniques or spellcraft entirely their own."
"That sounds fair."
"It is also cruel," Nuere said, voice cooling. "Most Sorcerers burn out by their mid-thirties. Mana erosion, cognitive fatigue, and spiritual corrosion are common. Those who last into their fifties are exceptional, but often hollowed by the effort."
"So… it's like being an athlete," Iris said with a wince. "Brilliant young, tragic old."
"Precisely."
2. Magicians
"Second, Magicians. They are born with their mana already unlocked. It flows naturally, effortlessly—even instinctively."
"Like the magic system's golden children."
"In a sense," Nuere admitted. "They do not require complex calculations or formulas. Spells come to them as easily as breathing. Their connection to mana is organic, not mechanical. Their spells often emerge through emotion, imagery, or intuition."
"Let me guess. There's a catch?"
"Their ceiling is determined at birth," Lady Nuere said. "They are as powerful as they will ever be the moment their gift awakens. There is no growth—only refinement. They cannot increase their mana pool, only learn to use it more efficiently."
"So it's like pulling an SSR and being stuck with that character forever," Iris said, nodding sagely. "No re-rolls."
Lady Nuere stared at her for a moment. "I will assume that is a metaphor."
"You're learning."
3. Liches
"And finally," Nuere said, her voice dropping half an octave, "there are Liches."
The room seemed to quiet. Even the candle flames gave a nervous flicker.
"Liches are Sorcerers who abandoned mortality in pursuit of limitless magic. They turned to forbidden arts—dark rituals, necromancy, soulbinding, blood pacts—to prolong their lives. They traded their humanity for time and power."
Iris leaned in, genuinely intrigued. "So... they're fantasy horror villains."
"They are heretics," Nuere said coldly. "Reviled by all faiths, feared by all nations. Their bodies rot slowly across centuries, held together by willpower and warped spellwork. Their minds degrade just as slowly—some vanish into madness, others become cold, calculating predators."
"Charming."
"One of the most infamous was known only as She of the Countless Graves," Nuere continued. "Her true name is lost. She commanded the dead and carried plagues said to date back to the era before the Empire. She is believed to have changed names, faces, and allegiances a dozen times across history."
"So she's been around since… what, the invention of bread?"
"If not earlier," Nuere replied grimly. "Some Liches are said to have taught the first Sorcerers, then killed them to keep the knowledge secret."
Iris exhaled. "Yeah, okay. Mental note: don't become one of those."
"An excellent decision," Nuere said with a sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Please, Your Holiness, take this seriously."
"I am! I swear. Look at my serious face."
Nuere gave her a long, resigned look. "There are, of course, exceptions. Some practitioners defy all three categories. Knights, for example, often wield magic resonating with the concept of Justice—less formulaic, more conceptual. And Saints..."
Her voice slowed slightly, looking at Iris.
"...resonate with Truth. But that is a lesson for another day."
Iris sat back in her chair, chin in hand, staring out the tall window beside her desk.
The sun had climbed higher, warming the edges of the city. Birds wheeled in lazy arcs over Virellia's towers. Somewhere, bells rang.
And yet...
She felt it—that hollow space in her chest. Her mother. Her old life. Her unreachable future.
All of it, behind a glass she couldn't shatter.
But she was learning the rules now. Even if Saturday felt like Monday.Even if she didn't ask for this.
Maybe, just maybe...
That was a start.