By the end of the lesson, Orion expected to have at least an idea of how all this “magic” business actually worked. However, he needed to eliminate as many external variables as possible first.

  He craned to watch the other students. Pelian, the lemon head, seemed to be taking his sweet time with the stirring. While he had added the ingredients in the correct order after Asteria’s gentle scolding, his potion was nowhere near the required shade of lilac and actually seemed to verge more toward red. Does stirring have such a significant effect?

  To his surprise, Bethany seemed to be stirring only at a slightly higher pace, yet her mixture shifted from red-grey to magenta without issue. Orion's limited experience told him that such a difference didn’t really make sense.

  Hypothesis: More attuned Classes tend to yield greater results, despite relatively similar actions. The observation lacked instrumentation, but his eyes would have to suffice. If Bethany has a Potioneer class and Pelian a regular Wizard one, it would make sense, in their twisted world, that performing the same actions results in a better brew.

  But how was that actually possible? Orion suggested that it was a matter of the System’s ability to interpret their intent. If the potion was only partially dependent on ingredient interaction and instead relied heavily on the brewer’s intent and “magical” ability, then someone with a clearer connection to the System—in this specific instance, with potion-making—would seem to have superior talent.

  He also catalogued variations in prayers, despite wanting to dismiss them. Some kids used chants that directly referenced sleep, while others merely narrated a story about the Moon going to sleep at the end of the night.

  Asteria drifted between the benches, correcting their choice of words.

  “Your aim is to pacify, not to put to sleep,” she chided one over-zealous girl ladling bile too early. “If you imbue the potion with that much desire, you will break the balance and have unexpected results.”

  The religious overtone framed what vaguely resembled actual rules in a way that was easy to understand.

  Orion respected that begrudgingly.

  A squeal echoed across the tiles as a cauldron bubbled too quickly. Green steam puffed, and the culprit, a scrawny girl, stepped back, her cheeks aflame. Asteria quenched the brew with a gesture that produced frost along the floor.

  She addressed the entire class, radiating disappointment. “Remember, children: trying to speed up the process to catch up with the others will result in a lesser harmony within the brew.”

  Under the cover of the collective scolding, Orion nudged his spoonful of valerian root into the miniature cauldron. Bubbles rose, lazy and uniform, as heat climbed from the magnesium blaze. Asteria’s eyes swept to the left, and he flattened himself against the stone, painting innocence across his cherubic features.

  He allowed himself a fractional smile when her gaze went past him, before returning to his stirring. I suppose that there might be an upside to being a child again. As long as you seem busy and are in sight, adults don’t ask themselves too many questions.

  Cauldrons burbled. Students murmured chants. The chalk scribbled a final reminder: Stir counterclockwise thrice, sunwise once; temper with faith; steep till moonrise.

  Orion took note of the temperature gradients, compared flame hues across stations, and mapped chant intensity to potion opacity. He did all this quietly, with his spoon dipping rhythmically to maintain appearances.

  He didn’t know what would end up being relevant. It was possible that the whole brewing process was completely irrelevant and one merely needed a clear connection to the System to convert water into the Sapping Brew, but his gut told him it wasn’t that easy.

  He tapped twice against the cauldron, counting his heartbeats, then let the cadence of his stirring match the rest of the class.

  Magnesium hydroxide clouded the water’s surface, so he skimmed it with his spoon and added the berries. Indigo juice bled into the bubbling liquid, with the pigment swirling like ink.

  So far, so good. Now for the real thing.

  He was tempted to look around to ensure that nobody was watching him, but he knew better. At that moment, he resembled any other toddler trying to mimic older children. However, if he allowed himself to seem like he was hiding something, he would be discovered.

  Therefore, he kept his head down and stirred. Paradoxically, this focused action served as his best shield.

  Next, he crumbled the rest of the valerian root and added three careful drops of bile. The last produced iridescent rings that broke and reformed. He withheld the salt for now, as that was supposed to go in after the chanting.

  The Sanctum taught that words and intent mattered as much as any actions. Around him, teenagers whispered prayers, hoping the Moon would grant stillness to their work.

  Orion didn’t care for the invocations, but he could not deny that something responded. He thought back to what he’d seen three years ago, to the magnificent machine known as the System. If anything could be considered a god, it was that, not some personification of the moon. Whatever magic was going on in this world had to be caused by the System.

  It is hard to believe that such a magnificent thing would care to respond to prayers. Perhaps it was less about what was spoken and more about the certainty and knowledge behind the speech.

  “That's a good dissolution stage, Alberta. Take your time with the prayer, and you’ll have a great potion. Just make sure to enunciate the words clearly—nobody is rushing you!” Asteria said as she looked toward a girl in the front row.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  She was heavyset and sweaty, but the smile on her face in response to the praise was blinding.

  “Class, remember to place your full trust in the potion. If you doubt, the outcome will suffer!” Asteria continued before retaking her seat.

  He refused to entertain the notion of praying over the potion to a goddess he didn’t believe in. Even if he lowered himself enough to do so, he doubted it would be effective. His mother had made it clear that belief was necessary.

  But what if it was something I did believe in?

  The idea felt absurd. Who had ever heard of someone praying to science? No, Orion wouldn’t do that. But what would happen if he simply recited some of his observations? Technically, it should suffice to satisfy the “belief” factor.

  As for how one transformed that into action… Well, from what he’d been able to overhear, mana was something of a constant. A permeating force that reacted to sufficient willpower or faith. It seems too simplistic, but it’s not as if the kids are doing anything but mumbling prayers.

  Eyeing the potion, he sighed and decided to get on with it. It hadn’t changed color again, and it clearly wouldn’t improve on its own.

  Alright, this is supposed to slow down things. What does that mean?

  Could it be referring to the Deceleration parameter? But how could a dimensionless measure of cosmic acceleration fit in this context?

  No, that wasn’t it. I should start from the basics. This is supposed to be the simplest potion.

  He lowered his head and spoke scarcely louder than a breath, letting syllables fall directly into the steam, “Acceleration equals force divided by mass.” Nothing flowery, no rhyme. A principle as unyielding as granite. It was a cosmic truth.

  The surface flashed, like sparks between oil and water. The color became darker, if only a tiny bit.

  Interesting. So I should go in the opposite direction.

  “Alright,” he murmured, stirring clockwise with his wooden spoon. “If this Sapping Brew is meant to slow things down, then there must be something to resist motion…” His eyes were fixed on the shimmering liquid as he began to recite work through a possible formula.

  “First, I should account for all factors involved… let’s go with a = F/m = ?(γ/m)?v, where F is the retarding force, γ is the drag coefficient, m is the mass, and v is its velocity.”

  The potion drifted toward pure lilac, and he was emboldened.

  “Next,” he continued, “I posit an initial condition v(t) = v?. This would basically lead to an exponential speed decay, even if it never quite reaches zero, essentially as close as one can get to describing slowness.”

  The liquid brightened until it glowed softly. Orion could hardly keep the grin off his face. It’s working.

  A rational description—spoken with conviction—affected the brew as the others did with prayers.

  He added a single grain of salt as the recipe dictated, apparently meant to lock in the balance. A shimmer ran through the brew and settled into the desired pastel.

  All the while, he kept the posture of a child lost in make-believe, stirring and humming tunelessly. Across the aisle, Pelian grumbled over his cloudy sludge. Bethany got a comforting pat from Asteria for managing a respectable hue. Her attention swept right past Orion when another cauldron started bubbling ominously.

  “That leads me to the last conclusion. To describe something like slowness, I need to put every piece together. Something that would distinguish it from true stillness.”

  The potion continued to bubble and shift, its color now teasingly close to the optimal lilac hue Orion had been aiming for.

  A brief smile betrayed his satisfaction. The gradual lightening of the potion was now evident. “v(t) = v??exp[??(γ∕m)?t?]. Such a formula would even counteract opposing forces, while never allowing for complete stillness.”

  As he finished stirring meticulously as instructed, the potion reached a perfect, soft lilac.

  When the class ended, each student poured their attempts into labeled vials and set them on the instructor’s rack. Orion used his sleeve to conceal the action, then filled an unmarked vial from the supply table. He wiped the glass clean to avoid leaving fingerprints and placed it among the others.

  The crush of departing children rattled the tables and then gradually faded away. Asteria remained behind to inspect the results, while Orion padded to her side, yawning for effect.

  “Twenty-five?” she murmured, counting bottles. “I swore I had twenty-four students.” She lifted the extra vial and held it to the torch. “The color is perfect. The viscosity is a bit too thin, but that’s to be expected without enough experience.” She uncorked it, tapped a drop on parchment, and watched how it spread. “Better than I usually see from first-years. They must have been thinking about slowing something down rather than tranquillity or stillness…”

  Orion gazed up, wide-eyed. “It’s pretty,” he offered, and meant it.

  Asteria laughed under her breath. “It is pretty. Whoever brewed this trusted the Moon-Mother in full.” She crouched, bringing the vial down to his level. “See how the light barely refracts? That tells me they knew what they were doing. Perhaps one day you’ll make potions like this.”

  It still makes no sense that it worked, but in this world’s twisted logic, using real science is obviously superior to prayer.

  “How?” He asked, quite honestly.

  Asteria twirled the stopper between two fingers, considering how much explanation to give a child barely old enough to feed himself.

  “Well,” she said at last, “think of your body as a lamp. As you grow and the Moon sees your efforts, She pours more oil into you. With more oil, you can burn brighter and shape the flame better. It is as much a matter of dedication as it is of aptitude.”

  To demonstrate, she whispered a single syllable. A pearl of white light blossomed from her palm, extending into a ribbon, then transforming into a silver serpent that licked sparks from the air. It coiled around her wrist, its scales reflecting the glow of the torches.

  Orion forgot to breathe for a moment. He knew magnesium burn, plasma jets, phosphorescent salts; this was none of those. No heat brushed his cheek, and there was no smell of ozone. Yet the luminosity had weight, like moonlight one could cup in both hands.

  The serpent coiled, bowed its shining head to him, and vanished as Asteria closed her fingers. “A simple spell to master once you’ve a class and some practice,” she said lightly.

  His face must have been amusing because she let out a peal of laughter. “Oh, that was so precious! You were always a serious baby, so you haven’t seen this before, but it’s a common application for mothers. A flame that doesn’t burn and is easy to manipulate makes for quick entertainment.”

  Orion’s mind raced as he tried to understand how she had done that. While the potion he had brewed clearly defied normal chemistry, there was still cause and effect. A specific understanding led to particular reactions, and ingredients needed to be paired in the correct order to avoid negative consequences.

  He realized then and there that his experience with “magic” had been far too limited. His mother was a potioneer, and she frequently used “enchanted” items in their apartment, but those did not appear or behave significantly differently from the mundane electrical appliances he was accustomed to.

  Asteria placed the unnamed vial back with the others. “This will be a master sample once it’s done cooling,” she decided. “I’ll show it next lesson as proof of what faith can do.”

  Orion swallowed a laugh, feeling both pride and nerves. Faith indeed.

  She lifted him and balanced him on her hip as the torches dimmed one by one. He did not resist; small bodies grew tired quickly, and the vantage point allowed him to survey the benches, noting who had left residue and whose cauldron still steamed. Data was everywhere if one kept looking.

  They ascended the spiral staircase that connected the classroom to the cloister walkways leading to the main route to their apartment. Through slit windows, Orion observed the sky glowing violet beyond the outer wall, with the first stars emerging through the dusk. A fresh breeze drifted in, carrying mountain air and resin.

  Asteria hummed an old cradle tune that sounded half prayer, half lullaby.

  Orion rested his head on her shoulder and pretended to doze. When she believed he was asleep, she often muttered plans aloud: which storeroom needed restocking, which shipment of glassware was late, and which feast day rehearsal would borrow her apprentices.

  Tonight, she murmured about obtaining more valerian, noting that last winter’s crop had dried poorly. Orion listened, cataloged, and matched her remarks to his mental map of supply chains.

  Below them, deep in the lab, the vials turned cold as the last flicker of heat departed, signaling that the process was complete.

  What?