Time functions differently inside an Ardoz Academy classroom.

My eyelids flickered and fluttered under the weight of my own fatigue. I had chosen my seat by the window, as I always had at the time, and for whatever reason, the sun refused to continue its arc over the city of Ardoz. I dipped a quill and even without its lid, my inkwell had not gone dry or congealed whatsoever.

In front of the class of twenty young students in the Academy of Ardoz, the Professor Emeritus rambled on about illusions and how to discern whether or not an object is real. It had been hours since class started, surely, and I still couldn't discern the point of what the professor had sought to prove - he had gone on in circles on the importance of knowing the difference, but not on how exactly to do so.

The professor dismissed the class and so I stood up to collect my overcoat from the rack on the wall.

A curious piece of expensive looking parchment tumbled out of its pockets and onto the floor. I stooped low to retrieve it. The parchment was new and rolled up neatly into a cylinder; I kept all of my parchment in my messenger's bag, and this definitely wasn't one of mine. I unrolled the parchment and found scrawled writing which read, "More to come. Danger close. Keep safe."

I raised an eyebrow and scanned the classroom. The professor was packing his materials into a leather bag, similar to his own. Some of my classmates were gossiping and talking about plans to drink and to celebrate a lifeday. Ivy, my personal interest at the time, stood by the window, something having evidently caught her eye. Nobody in the room seemed to be interested in his reaction to the peculiar piece of parchment that had been stuffed into my overcoat's pocket. I figured it must have been some sort of odd joke.

I drew the overcoat over my back and stuffed the message back into my pocket. The sun was nearing its resting position over the horizon, and I wanted nothing more than to buy a copy of the day's Ardoz Tattler, find a quaint, out-of-the-way tavern to recline in, and drink away the day.

The Ardoz Tattler was by no means the biggest publication in Ardoz, nor was it the most prestigious. It didn't sell as much as the Standard or print out as many stories as the Jatta Standard, but I had bought an issue every single week for the past two years that he had spent in the city because the Tattler had a whole section devoted to adventuring guilds. The Tattled covered the state-run guilds of Parrin's Kingshill and Norderland's Frostgreaves, the roving religious groups of Zealton Haka and the Inquisitors, and the mercenaries of Golden Shield and Risk & Sons. The Tattler held their own exclusive stories, opinion pieces, and even inside interviews with adventurers themselves - and at only a Civic and fifty Spurs for an issue.

Ivy approached me while I was fiddling with the buttons on my overcoat.

"Are you coming later?" she asked.

I assumed she was referring to the lifeday of one of his classmates. "I'd love to, but I have plans, actually." In reality, of couse, I hadn't been invited to begin with.

"Oh," she seemed taken aback. "What do you have planned?"

"The river," I replied off the cuff. The answer surprised even myself.

"The river?"

"Yeah, I figured I'd take a quick row with some friends over the Mazares. Enjoy the night, you know?"

"I didn't know you row."

"It's worth learning."

"I see." Ivy paused. "Maybe next time, then?" She headed for the door, canvas bag slung over her back, when I called after her.

"Maybe I can teach you some time!"

"Excuse me?"

"Rowing," I said, "maybe we can go rowing sometime?" I winced. What was I thinking?

"Sure." Ivy smiled. "Maybe we can row sometime."

She turned and left the classroom. I was left biting my index finger in between my lips. Great, I thought. Now I have to learn how to row.

At the same time, Ivy didn't seem to be averse to spending time with me outside of the classroom. That was a big positive to take from the day at least.

The Academy of Ardoz housed two floors, the ground floor for its galleries and symposium rooms and the second for its classrooms and faculty. I battled a throng of departing students and professors making their way down to the ground floor - all I wanted was peace and quiet and light literature at his leisure. Aside from my class on the arcane, the Academy had courses on history, religion, and medicine, among many other sciences and arts. It was a wonder that the Academy could fit as many courses and lessons as it did on a sidestreet in Central Ardoz as it did in the first place.

While overcrowded, the Academy was gorgeous to say the least. The upside of offering from arts to architecture was that the Academy had astounding alumni to draw talent from long after they had graduated. It's different now, I'm sure, but back in the day, the pure pearl white marble floor gleamed with intricate plaster trim connecting it to the walls. There were these two statues by the entrance, but they hung up from the sides, suspended by metal rods in a way that seemed to defy the laws of nature. I wasn't a student of the sciences, so I don't know how they kept them up, and I wasn't a student of the arts, so I don't know how they chipped at a marble block to produce such breathtaking, such perfect statues, but I knew enough to appreciate them.

The left held Virtue. She was an angel, the marble representing every small powdered detailed of down on her wings, and she carried a shield in one hand as the other gestured upward to the heavens with an open, welcoming palm.

The right held Excellence. He was a Winged Victory, sleek armor from head to toe, and a simple but robust sword in one hand and a pointed finger to the earth in his other.

Virtue and Excellence. They used to say that there are only two kinds of classes in the Academy of Ardoz - the kind that teaches you how to make a living, and the kind that teaches you how to live. Even in my later years, I would draw on that mantra, Virtue and Excellence, and I would like to think that it had done me well.

I passed by the two statues on my way out, and I pressed two fingers to my lips as I did. It's a sort of ritual I do, a reminder, a symbol that I acknowledge and realize the meaning behind something I pass by. I did it by the Virtue and Excellence, and I do it by memorials, cathedrals, burials, all sorts of things.

The day was brisk and chilling, so I drew my overcoat tighter about myself and kept my hands to my pockets. I had a neckscarf stowed in my messenger's bag, but I had left my gloves in there too, and I didn't want to expose my hands to the biting cold, so I made do. On the way to the tavern, I passed by a newsboy, and I quickly exchanged two coins with him, one Civic and a fifty Spur, for a copy of the week's Tattler, which I kept tucked between my arm and side.

After a brief fifteen minute walk, I was at the Wandering Souls. It was my roost of choice at the time. I had become a sort of regular there, because it had everything I wanted in a resting place. It wasn't crowded, the music was alluring but not overbearing, and I could order a cup of amaretto without having my arm gnawed off of me. The Souls was a rustic sort of tavern, but not run down. The owner, Marten, was a quiet man, much unlike any other tavern owner in the city. I had the impression that he opened the place not to get rich, but to get old. He was only in his late forties, but from the quick conversations I had had with him over the past year, I had learned that he used to be a big merchant of some sort in Marasko.

I entered through the hardwood doors of the Wandering Souls and was greeted by low torchlight, cushioned chairs, and the musk of old cigars. In a corner there was a man, just about my age, strumming away on a lyre, the music slow and steady, his eyes closed shut the whole time. Including Marten by the counter, there were nine other people in the Souls, and I had recognized three of them.

One was Mr. Peters. He was with his wife, and they talked over two cocktails, concoctions Marten had learned how to make in Marasko.

The other was Old Russel. He was a lonely old man, and about a step or two from becoming a raging alcoholic. As he stood, however, he was doing okay, and he gave the Souls good business.

The third was Mattias. He was my friend from the dormitory and a fellow student of the arcane in the Academy. He was a year ahead of me in terms of the courses he was taking, but he was good companion and a kindred spirit. He spotted me and shot me a smile and a wave. I smiled back, and he motioned for me to take a cushion next to him. I nodded. I had told Mattias about the Souls a few months back and he had become a sort of regular himself. I enjoy Mattias' company quite a bit, but after he had taken his own place in the Souls, I hushed up about my little roost. I like having my own place to just be.

Mattias sat by the torchlight and he was reading a hefty leatherbound book that I could only figure was for the Academy. The book looked old, dusty, and it was falling apart at the spine - all the marks of a book for the arcane. "Studying hard, then?" I asked as I took a seat.

"That's what the alcohol's for, my friend."

I chuckled and motioned for Marten to serve me the usual. "What's this week's lesson about?"

"Something applied, thank the Light." Mattias lifted the book to show me the cover. Its title was short and succint - "Conjure."

"A spell?"

"A spell, though a simple one I think." He dipped his little finger into his drink and dabbed it onto the table, leaving a small puddle of liquid. "Let's pretend you're here. In this puddle. You want to go up. Higher. What do you do?"

I rubbed my chin and mulled it over. "Not a flying spell, surely?"

"Not quite, but close."

"A rope trick of sorts?" I guessed.

"More impressive." He waved his right hand over the small puddle and kept his other off to the side as a sort of cautionary guide. With a steady stream of green sparks emanating from his fingertips, the small puddle of whiskey and tonic shook and sputtered before grouping to form a column of liquid, about two inches tall. He held it up for a solid second or two, before the stream of sparks gave way and the liquid fell back into a tiny puddle on the table again. "You form a water bridge!" he grinned, pleased with himself.

"Such a showoff," I teased.

"You only think so because you can't do it, my friend." He took a sip of his whiskey. "Give yourself a few months and your bridge will be three feet tall and made from the flowing water of the Mazares, I'll wager you."

"I'd take that wager," I replied.

Marten set a small glass of amaretto and ice on our table and I thanked him. I sat back on my cushion and took a long, deep sip of the sweet liqueur. The musician on the platform by the corner finished his song, and Mattias and I offered some applause, a consolation in a tavern of this size with such few people present. He eased into another song with a similarly slow and deliberate melody.

I opened my broadsheet.

"Reading some more of your fiction, my friend?" Mattias asked me.

"It's not fiction," I responded. "The Tattler has its own stories of the guilds and their contracts, but they don't just make the whole thing up. They have their sources and connections."

"Yeah?" Mattias' eyebrows were raised. "And says who?"

"The ten thousand people everyday who read it!" With nearly a million people in Ardoz, I realized that my point hadn't come across as I had hoped it would. "Besides, if they just blatantly lied about the guilds, I'm sure the guilds would have the Tattler taken down. Light knows they have the power."

"Ah, I don't think so, my friend. Your stories all paint the guilds in such glory, such greatness. Look, look." He poked at my copy of the Tattler. "This story. 'Risk and Sons Saves Alipoli Town from Roving Wyvern?' Lies, you know there must have been a few bags full of Royals when it comes to getting Risk on a contract."

"Ah Mattias, you're cherrypicking! Here, look at this one. 'Zealton Fails to Prevent Murder in Alcala.'" I pointed out another story printed on the front page. My eyes caught the name of the victim, George Fischer, and my eyes widened. I put down my cup of amaretto. "By the Three Hells," I swore. "That's my uncle."

"Your uncle?"

"I never knew him much, I grew up with my parents' friends, but yes. George Fischer." I read through the rest of the article. "In Alcala. My hometown. Three Hells."

"My friend, are you alright?"

"I am. Just surprised is all." I read on. The article painted my uncle as somewhat of a shut-in, a paranoid man in his middle age. He had hired two of Zealton's men to protect him for three weeks, but they too were killed.

"Does it say who killed him?"

"No suspect," I answered. "No clues, either, just that it was violent and quick."

"My condolences, my friend." Mattias looked awkward. In Tuskano, where he was from, death was solemn, sacred thing, meant only to be mourned with families. He knew that here, in Ardoz, I was without family. I had been without family my whole life.

"I'm sorry, Mattias, but I think I'll have to go back to the dormitory." I fished out four Civics from my pockets and gave it to him to pay Marten. "I just need to be alone for a while. I think that's the last blood relative I had."

"Of course, of course, my friend." He pocketed the coins. "My door will always be open if you need me."

"Much appreciated." I drew my overcoat around myself and slung my bag across my shoulder as I walked out of the Wandering Souls. I still held the copy of the Tattler under my arm. I'm not quite sure why, but I felt like it was my last, final connection to any semblance of a family member.

On my walk back to the dormitory, I kept expecting for a tear to form, or a wave of panic to draw over me, but none came. My breathing stayed steady, but very shallow - I was in a state of disbelief. My parents had died when I was little and they had given me to friends of theirs to raise, fellow farmers living by a nearby field. Over the years, I had aunts and uncles and cousins I had only met less than half a dozen times die out for various reasons, but only now did I realize that this uncle - this George Fischer - was my last relative. The last Fischer besides me.

I did not mourn nor did I panic, instead, an intense, lonely wave of isolation overcame me as I walked through the overcast Ardoz streets on the way back to my dormitory. Suddenly, I was alone in the world, though nothing had changed. I had only met this uncle twice in my life, once when I was small and another when I had just become a teenager, yet now I felt completely changed. Nothing was different. Nothing would be different. I would still go about finding my way in Ardoz, I would still write back to my foster parents in Alcala, I would still have my few handful of friends from the Academy. But somehow, I felt different.

It was a curious case of grief for me. I struggled to remember what I could of Uncle George. He was a tanner. He owned his own shop in the centre of Alcala. I knew that he changed his surname to Tanner, even, rather than Fischer, so as to drive more business to his trade. The people knew him as a George Tanner, though the Tattler referred to him as a Fischer. Odd.

Moreover, he had gathered the coin to hire two Zealton Haka men, even for a few weeks. Also quite odd, as even for a religious guild, hiring men from Zealton Haka for an extended period of time must have been two or three Royals a head, easily. That would have been a fortune for any tanner in the small city of Alcala.

I considered visiting Alcala and attending his funeral, but then I shook away the thought. I was living on what my foster parents had given me, and joining a caravan to take me from Ardoz to Alcala and back would just about use up all of my finances. Besides, I didn't have any family left in Alcala. His funeral would be for remembrance from his friends and wife exclusively.

I perished the thought. I only had the coin for the trip there, and nothing else.

I reached the student's dormitory. I nodded to the doorman, and entered the sandstone building. It was warm inside, at least, from the warmth of a hundred students studying by torchlight. The left wing housed the male students, and there I found myself by my door.

Most rooms in the dormitory were under lock and key. I have a habit of losing the most important things, however, and so I hired an older student of the arcane to inscribe a Locking rune on my door handle. He charged me a whole fifty Civics for the thing, but I obliged - the rune paid for itself in savings for locksmiths and time spent locked out of my room. I whispered my Command word, "Deserar," and a small speck of blue light sparked from the snap of my fingers. The rune on my door illuminated itself for a brief second, and I turned the knob and entered before the light died back down and locked itself.

My room was cramped, to say the least. It was dim with only light from the city streaming in from the window. I grabbed the box of flint and tinder I kept by the table next to the door, and with a scratch, I lit the torchlamp which I then set onto my study table. I was safe even with rolls and sheets of parchment strewn all across my desk as the lamp protected me from any stray cinders or embers.

I reclined on my mattress and kept my copy of the Tattler onto the bedside table.

With thoughts of my last blood relative swimming around my head, I closed my eyes and rested.