The Alchemy Laboratory was located in the sub-basement of the Spire of Arcanum, a place where the air always smelled of sulfur, crushed herbs, and the metallic tang of mana.

  Svane is standing guard outside that laboratory as Ray enters it.

  Ray arrived and stood at his workstation, wearing the midnight-blue coat of the College, his silver 1st Circle pin glinting in the magelight.

  At the front of the room stood Master Malin Mordan.

  She was a severe woman with steel-grey hair pulled back into a tight, practical bun, her robes stained with the residue of a thousand experiments. Her eyes, magnified by thick alchemical spectacles, were sharp and unyielding.

  The last time Ray had seen her, her usually immaculate bun had been coming undone as they stood side-by-side inside the Genesis Crystal Chamber, frantically calculating flow rates to stop the Sunstone Bloom from vaporizing the academy.

  When Ray entered the class, Malin didn't sneer like Osmin. She didn't question Ray's right to be there. She simply looked up from her ledger, met Ray’s eyes over the rim of her spectacles, and gave a sharp, subtle nod.

  It was a silent salute between veterans.

  I know who you are, Artificer. Your secret is safe.

  “Today’s assignment is Volatile Stabilization,”

  Malin announced, her voice crisp and commanding.

  “You will be refining Fire-Salts into liquid fuel. If you let the temperature variance exceed three degrees, you will lose your eyebrows. I do not offer extensions for injuries born of incompetence. Begin.”

  The class was a flurry of nervous activity. Fire-Salts were notoriously unstable.

  Ray worked with the calm precision of a machine. His Eccentric Scholar archetype calculated the exact thermal ratios, while his Arcane Scribe steady hands managed the delicate pour.

  While other students were frantically shielding their beakers from minor explosions, Ray produced a vial of clear, glowing orange liquid.

  Malin walked by Ray’s station. She paused, picking up the vial and inspecting it against the light.

  “Perfect viscosity,”

  Malin murmured, low enough that only Ray could hear.

  “You have a knack for stabilizing dangerous things, Novice Croft.”

  “I’ve had good teachers,”

  Ray replied smoothly.

  Ray leaned in slightly while cleaning his equipment.

  “Master, I have a request. My… condition… causes significant joint pain after cultivation. I noticed you have a jar of Frost-Root Analgesic on the supply shelf. The military-grade stuff.”

  Malin paused. She looked at Ray. She knew Ray didn't have joint pain. She knew Ray was up to something. But she also knew that if Ray was asking for a specific tool, he had a reason, and usually, that reason involved solving a problem no one else could handle.

  “That is a restricted compound,”

  Malin said loudly, for the benefit of the eavesdropping students. Then, in a whisper:

  “Take it. I will mark it as a sample for analysis. Do not waste it.”

  She slid the heavy ceramic jar across the slate table.

  Ray palmed the jar, slipping it into his belt pouch next to his tools.

  “Thank you, Master,”

  Ray said.

  “I’ll be sure to analyze it thoroughly.”

  Later that day, Ray is back in the Menagerie, and it was stiflingly hot. The air was heavy with humidity and the musk of a hundred different beasts.

  Ray stepped inside, adjusting his collar.

  Behind him, Captain Svane followed. The big man was still clad in the thick, grey wool tunic of a servant, a fabric utterly unsuited for the tropical heat. Within seconds, sweat began to darken the collar of his tunic and bead on his broad forehead.

  But Svane didn't flinch. He didn't wipe his brow or loosen his collar. He simply took up a position at the perimeter of the clearing, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, as immovable and stoic as a granite boulder in a sauna. To the Gold Aegis, physical discomfort was irrelevant; the mission was the only thing that mattered.

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  Ray glanced at him, impressed.

  The man is melting, but he hasn't blinked.

  Ray walked into the clearing where the Zoology class was gathered. The whispers started immediately.

  “There he is,”

  a student muttered.

  “The Snake-Charmer.”

  “Bet he tries to use a tuning fork again,”

  another giggled.

  Viktor Garrick stood near the front, looking bored. He shot Ray a look of pitying amusement, then glanced dismissively at Svane. To Viktor, the sweating servant in the background was invisible, just another piece of luggage Ray dragged around.

  Ray ignored them. He felt a strange buzzing in the back of his mind.

  The Primal Naturalist was waking up.

  Naturalist: “Oh, smell that, mate! Damp rot, ozone, and… is that Wyvern guano? lovely. Proper air, this is. Not like that sterile lab.”

  “Quiet!”

  a voice cracked like a whip.

  Master Teralyn stalked into the clearing.

  She was a terrifying woman. Clad in dragon-hide leathers that had seen better decades, with skin weathered like old teak and eyes the color of a hawk’s, she looked less like a professor and more like a survivor.

  “You are here because you think magic makes you the top of the food chain,”

  Spero said, her voice raspy.

  “Today, we test that theory.”

  She walked to a massive, reinforced steel cage at the edge of the clearing. She kicked the lever.

  The heavy doors groaned open.

  Something massive stepped out.

  It was a bear, but the size of a carriage. Its fur wasn't hair; it was a dense, shimmering coat of metallic bristles that clicked softly as it moved. Its claws were long curved scythes of black iron.

  An Iron-Hide Matriarch.

  The class gasped and took a collective step back. Even Viktor looked wary.

  “Iron-Hides are magically resistant,”

  Spero explained, crossing her arms.

  “Throw a fireball at her, and she’ll just get warm. You cannot bind this beast with a formula. You must prove you are the Alpha.”

  She looked at the students.

  “Garrick. You’re top of the class. Show us how a ‘real mage’ handles a predator.”

  Viktor straightened his robes. He stepped forward, his chin high.

  “With pleasure, Master.”

  Viktor didn't approach the bear. He stood twenty feet away and flared his aura. A wave of blue, oppressive mana, his signature domination pressure washed over the clearing.

  The Iron-Hide Matriarch stopped sniffing a tree stump. She turned her massive head toward Viktor.

  She didn't cower. She didn't whimper.

  Her eyes narrowed. To a creature with high magic resistance, Viktor’s aura wasn't a crushing weight; it was an annoying buzz. It was a challenge.

  ROAAAAR!

  The sound was deafening. The bear charged.

  Viktor’s eyes went wide. His hand was very fast writing symbols in the air.

  “Scutum!”

  He cast Shield instantly.

  CRASH.

  The bear swiped one massive paw. The shield shattered like glass. Viktor was thrown backward, landing hard in the mud, his fine robes ruined.

  Spero stepped in, cracking her whip once. The sound was like a thunderclap. The bear halted, huffing, but kept her eyes on Viktor.

  “The bear votes ‘No’, Garrick,”

  Spero said dryly.

  “You tried to bully something that doesn't feel fear. Next, Croft,”

  Spero barked.

  “You’re up. Try not to die.”

  At the perimeter of the dome, Captain Svane tensed. His hands unclasped from behind his back, his muscles coiling under the wool tunic. He looked ready to intercept a freight train.

  Ray caught Svane’s eye. He gave a microscopic shake of his head.

  Hold position.

  Svane hesitated, looking at the massive, agitated bear, then at Ray. Slowly, painfully, he forced himself to stand down, though his eyes remained locked on the beast’s throat.

  Ray stepped forward.

  He was unarmed. He wore no armor. He didn't even have his gloves raised.

  The class held its breath. Whispers of,

  “He’s going to get mauled”

  rippled through the group. They expected the ‘cripple’ to be flattened in seconds.

  Ray closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. He resisted the urge to let the wild, loud persona take the wheel. He needed control, not chaos.

  He activated the Primal Naturalist ‘Natural Camouflage’ skill.

  When he opened his eyes, his expression remained focused, analytical, but his presence underwent a radical shift.

  To the students watching, Ray seemed to… fade. He didn't turn invisible, but his presence became lighter, softer. He moved with the swaying rhythm of the foliage, his footfalls silent on the mossy earth. He stopped projecting ‘human intruder’ and started projecting ‘part of the scenery.’

  The Primal Naturalist’s voice bubbled up in his mind, sounding like an enthusiastic commentator in a booth.

  Naturalist: “Woop woop! Would you look at the size of her! That is an absolute unit of a bear. Look at that metallic sheen on the shoulders, pure ferrous-organic plating! She’s gorgeous!”

  Ray ignored the commentary on her looks and walked past the safety line. He was now within the ‘kill zone,’ the reach of those massive iron claws.

  The Iron-Hide Matriarch roared again, a sound that shook the leaves off the nearby trees. She swiped the air, warning him back.

  Ray didn't stop.

  He activated the Primal Naturalist’s ‘Primal Empathy,’ skill.

  A wave of sensation washed over him. He felt the bear’s emotions as if they were his own.

  Fear? No. Hunger? No. Aggression? High, but defensive.

  Ray focused on the data. He was still new to the skill; he theorized that the bear was agitated because Viktor had threatened her. She was expecting another fight.

  Ray adjusted his tactics. He then activated Primal Naturalist’s ‘Beast-Speak.’

  He didn't make eye contact yet. He averted his gaze slightly, angling his body sideways, a universal sign in the animal kingdom that says,

  I am not challenging you.

  He kept his hands open and low.

  The effect was subtle but powerful.

  The Iron-Hide Matriarch stopped mid-roar. She blinked, her massive head tilting to the side. She sniffed the air loudly, her nostrils flaring.

  This small, two-legged thing wasn't flaring mana like the other one. It wasn't posturing. It moved like the wind through the grass.

  Is it prey?

  No, it wasn't running.

  Is it a threat?

  No, it wasn't challenging.

  Ray stopped ten feet away. He let out a low, soft exhale, matching the rhythm of the bear's own breathing.

  The Iron-hide Matriarch lowered her paws to the ground. She didn't retreat, but the tension in her shoulders dropped. She watched Ray with intense, confused curiosity, her ears flicking back and forth.

  Ray slowly turned his head, finally locking eyes with her, not with a glare, but with a soft, blinking gaze.

  “That’s it, girl,”

  Ray said, his voice dropping to a low, rumbling timbre that vibrated in his chest, a tone suggested by the Naturalist.

  “We’re just having a look.”

  Master Spero’s eyebrows shot up. She leaned forward, her whip dangling forgotten in her hand. She had seen students freeze beasts with fear, but she had never seen a student de-escalate a raging predator simply by breathing correctly.