The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 643: The Color of Unfinished Thoughts (2)

Time passed slowly in Amberine's workshop, as though even the shadows had forgotten their purpose. Amberine didn't notice at first—her focus was locked entirely on the orb in her hands, fingers tracing the runes with practiced, mechanical rhythm. Her mind wandered freely, no longer guiding her hands consciously. Minutes dissolved quietly into hours, marked only by the orb's slow cycles of gentle light.

Her fingertips began to ache subtly, and soon that ache grew into a sharp cramp that forced her back to reality. Amberine paused, frowning down at her hand as she flexed it slowly, feeling the pins-and-needles sensation pulse through her fingertips. The orb hummed softly as if sensing her discomfort, its pulsing rhythm gentle, patient. She shook her hand, stretching her fingers wide before curling them again.

Beside her shoulder, Ignis was barely noticeable now. The lively, sarcastic spirit had shrunk into nothing more than a small pulse of warmth, a faintly glowing ember nestled comfortably beneath the collar of her robe. He was snoring softly, an occasional tiny puff of smoke rising in lazy curls. She smiled faintly at that—Ignis always acted tough and sarcastic, but Amberine knew how deeply the little fire spirit cared, even if he'd never admit it.

Amberine rubbed her eyes, suddenly aware of how tired she felt. Her gaze drifted aimlessly around her workshop, catching sight of small details she'd overlooked: the thin cobwebs hanging in the corners, the parchments curling at their edges from months of neglect, the abandoned tools scattered haphazardly across tables and shelves. Somehow, despite the chaos—or perhaps because of it—the room felt more comforting in its disarray. Amberine was never good at order; she found it rigid, unnatural, stifling. Chaos had always suited her better.

As she rotated the orb again absentmindedly, she thought about Draven once more—his cold composure, the unbreakable calm that had stirred whispers across campus. How effortlessly he kept secrets and how easily those around him let go of their curiosity. She wondered if she'd ever be able to master such detachment herself, or if she even truly wanted to. Amberine had always been passionate—sometimes too much so. To her, emotions were not puzzles to be hidden away, but vibrant colors to be explored openly. Draven's calmness both fascinated and frustrated her; how did someone live that way, so closed-off yet so captivating?

The orb pulsed a deeper purple, matching her contemplative mood. She let out another heavy sigh, shifting on her stool as she ran a thumb gently over the surface of the sphere, feeling its warmth and resonance beneath her skin. The sensation comforted her, reassuring her in some quiet, indefinable way.

Then suddenly—a soft creak shattered the silence.

Amberine jolted upright, her breath catching as the orb nearly slipped from her grasp. She clutched it tightly, heart hammering in her chest as she turned swiftly toward the door.

Standing in the doorway, framed by the dim corridor beyond, was Elara. Her usually pristine bun was slipping, strands of hair escaping to frame a face marked by faint ink smudges. Her sleeves were rolled up, her fingers stained slightly by hours spent gripping quills and poring over dense arcane texts. Yet despite these small signs of weariness, her eyes remained sharp and focused, clear as polished glass.

"Still here?" Elara's voice was as calm and collected as always, yet Amberine caught the barest flicker of curiosity behind her friend's stoic gaze.

Amberine blinked rapidly, her sense of time suddenly rushing back to her. "Wait," she stammered, glancing desperately toward the wall clock, its hands positioned mercilessly forward. "What time is it?"

Elara merely tilted her head slightly toward the clock, one eyebrow raised in mild amusement.

Amberine felt a flash of panic shoot through her as she read the hour. She sprang upright so quickly she nearly knocked over the stool. "Shit," she swore sharply, the orb humming anxiously in her grip as her mood spiked. "It's already time?!"

Elara gave a gentle, understated shrug. The movement was slight, graceful, and utterly Elara-like in its quiet amusement. "You lose track when you're obsessed."

Amberine shot her a quick glare, defensive instinct flaring. She grabbed the reinforced pouch from the table, stuffing the orb securely inside and flicking her fingers quickly across the surface to activate the protective ward. "It's not obsession," she muttered, sounding far less convincing than she intended. "It's emotional refinement."

Elara's lips twitched into a brief, barely-there smile, eyes subtly mocking. "Uh huh. Whatever helps you justify it." She stepped aside, waiting patiently by the door.

Amberine shot her another glare, but couldn't quite suppress a reluctant grin as she hurried after her friend. She felt Ignis shift slightly beneath her robe, waking briefly before settling again with an indifferent flicker. Amberine rolled her eyes—useless spirit—then focused on catching up to Elara's measured strides.

They didn't take the main stairs—no, they never did. Instead, they slipped quickly down a dim back corridor, one that smelled faintly of old herbs and unused storerooms. Their footsteps echoed faintly against stone walls, swallowed up by shadowed recesses that rarely felt footsteps.

Emerging from a half-hidden door at the back of the apothecary wing, they carefully navigated around crates stacked precariously, weaving through alleys that rarely saw daylight. Amberine kept her eyes fixed on the ground, stepping carefully over mossy cobblestones slick from recent rains. The city above was bustling and vibrant, yet here beneath the aqueducts, time and the eyes of the city seemed to overlook them entirely.

Amberine glanced sidelong at Elara, whose gaze remained forward, steady and unreadable. "Do you think anyone else knows about this internship?" she murmured quietly, her voice barely carrying above the muted trickle of water nearby.

Elara remained quiet for a moment, expression thoughtful. Then, in a voice both calm and faintly wary, she replied, "Not unless he wants them to."

Amberine nodded slowly, letting the implications of that statement sink in. She studied the graffiti along the narrow walls, scrawled symbols in fading colors—slum mage marks, mostly meaningless, left by novices or hopeful kids imitating magecraft. But as they passed a particular section, Amberine slowed slightly, eyes narrowing sharply.

"That sigil," she said softly, pointing at one glyph that shimmered ever so faintly in response to their passage. "It's newer than the rest. It's been altered."

Elara glanced briefly, showing no surprise. "Draven," she said simply, as though that explained everything.

Amberine frowned deeply, frustration and curiosity swirling uneasily within her chest. "Why does he go this far?" she wondered aloud, not really expecting an answer, yet hoping nonetheless.

Elara kept walking, her silence stretching longer than usual. Amberine almost thought she wouldn't reply at all, when finally Elara's voice came softly, carrying an edge of quiet certainty. "Because he's playing a long game."

Amberine felt a chill run down her spine, though she couldn't quite say why. Draven's quiet intensity, his meticulous preparation, the way he managed every detail—what long game could be worth all this secrecy, all this painstaking effort? What did he see that they didn't?

Amberine frowned but said nothing, her thoughts spinning quietly as they walked. The air around them gradually transformed, the harsh scents of decay and neglect giving way to a warmer, more human blend of aromas. There was still dust and the faint underlying sourness of poverty, but above that now floated softer scents—spices from cooking fires, freshly baked bread drifting from unseen bakeries, and even the occasional perfume of herbs drying in window sills. It was subtle, gentle; a reminder that even here, life bloomed stubbornly through the cracks of poverty and hardship.

Amberine allowed herself a slow, careful glance around as they neared their destination. Each step took them deeper into the genuine heart of the slums, where walls leaned precariously inward, patched with whatever materials residents had at hand. A mix of pride and shame was visible everywhere: windows neatly cleaned despite their broken shutters, doorways swept carefully clear of debris, even as roofs sagged ominously and walls buckled. Amberine felt something tighten in her chest—a strange mix of empathy and admiration for people who managed to carve out dignity in such desperate surroundings.

Then they reached it—the building at the heart of their journey.

It rose from the ground as though reluctant to stand, half-sunken into the earth, its facade patched haphazardly with mismatched wood and tiles scavenged from ruins. From the outside, it seemed ready to collapse at a whisper's touch, its walls cracked and pockmarked, giving it an appearance of profound weariness. Amberine's first instinct was always to pause, just for a heartbeat, to brace herself against the discord between expectation and reality.

But as soon as they stepped through the worn doorway, the feeling shifted completely.

Inside, the building was remarkably clean and orderly, in complete contrast to its battered exterior. Amberine's eyes widened subtly as she took it in—the floor swept neatly, the patched walls scrubbed and tidy, carefully maintained despite their humble state. The warmth was palpable here, not merely in temperature but in atmosphere, as if crossing the threshold had carried them into a space protected by more than just physical walls.

Children's laughter suddenly echoed down the hall, bright and carefree. Amberine felt herself relax involuntarily, the corners of her lips twitching upward in an instinctive smile. The sound was lively, joyous—unburdened by the weight that pressed down so heavily on everything beyond these walls.

A boy suddenly sprinted past them, his bare feet slapping rapidly against the polished tiles. Amberine chuckled softly as she watched his wild mane of hair bounce with each frantic stride, his oversized shirt billowing comically around his thin frame. He vanished around a corner, trailing peals of delighted laughter.

Further down the corridor, another child sat cross-legged on the ground, eyes narrowed in fierce concentration. Amberine slowed her pace slightly, curiosity getting the better of her as she watched the girl carefully. The girl's small hand was outstretched, fingers trembling lightly, and hovering inches above her palm was a tiny stone. It floated shakily in mid-air, wavering under the girl's uncertain control.

Amberine held her breath, rooting silently for the young mage, feeling oddly invested in the moment. But just as the girl managed a triumphant smile, the stone abruptly plummeted downward, landing with a dull clatter. Rather than tears, though, the little mage burst into delighted giggles, looking genuinely pleased by her near-success.

Amberine leaned slightly toward Elara, voice lowered thoughtfully. "They're not strong," she murmured, her tone filled with quiet wonder, "but it's like… something's waking up in them."

Elara's response was a calm nod, her expression distant yet understanding. "Draven sees things we don't," she said softly, her tone carrying a weight of certainty Amberine couldn't quite grasp. Amberine's eyes narrowed slightly as she glanced at her friend; Elara had always seemed more attuned to Draven's strange methods, accepting without question the professor's seemingly random acts of kindness and intervention. Amberine herself was never quite comfortable with not knowing, never fully able to trust without evidence, and it gnawed at her subtly now, leaving an itch of curiosity she struggled to suppress.

The main room soon came into view, and the scene there washed away her darker thoughts instantly. At their entrance, faces turned toward them, lighting up with recognition and excitement. Smiles—wide, bright, and unburdened—blossomed quickly, lighting the room with their sincerity.

"Teacher Elara! Teacher Amber!" several voices called eagerly, overlapping in their excitement. Amberine couldn't suppress the small flush of happiness that bloomed warmly in her chest, tempered only slightly by a bashful wave she gave in reply.

One small girl, younger than the others with untidy curls and round, hopeful eyes, sprinted forward with a determination that surprised Amberine. The child grasped the hem of Amberine's coat in tiny, insistent fingers, tugging lightly to get attention. Amberine glanced down, startled, then smiled kindly at the eager face peering upward.

"Is that a fairy heart?" the girl asked, pointing enthusiastically at the gently glowing pouch holding the orb. Her voice held genuine awe, reverence mixed with a child's boundless imagination.

Amberine blinked softly, caught off guard by the question. She hesitated only a moment before lowering herself to kneel at the girl's level, meeting those bright eyes with gentle seriousness. "Something like that," she whispered conspiratorially, a faint smile teasing her lips. The child's face lit up with joy, eyes sparkling like twin stars. Amberine felt the tightness in her chest loosen further, warming at the simple happiness her words had brought.

Yet as she straightened, Amberine's eyes caught sight of something strange. In a shadowed corner of the room, hidden away from casual glances, glyphs pulsed dimly—a brief flare of silver-blue before fading again. Amberine's gaze sharpened immediately. Those weren't protective wards, nor the comforting enchantments she might expect in a place like this. They had a subtle pulse, one of quiet containment rather than defense. She suppressed a frown, the familiar curiosity flickering once again—why containment? What exactly was Draven trying to hold within these walls?

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And then the memory washed over her, vividly, without warning.

Once before, Amberine had arrived earlier than intended, expecting to find the orphanage quiet and empty. Instead, she had paused in the doorway, frozen in surprise at what she saw.

Draven had been there, walking slowly between the children with a silent, watchful grace. She'd been unable to look away, stunned to see him outside the controlled atmosphere of the university lecture halls. His presence here felt impossibly different—gentle yet commanding, cold yet somehow reassuring.

A child had been weeping softly in frustration, struggling to form even the simplest spell. Amberine remembered clearly the fragile sobs, the way the girl's small shoulders had trembled beneath the weight of failure.

Draven had crouched down beside her without hesitation, reaching out a hand to gently pat the girl's head. His voice had been quiet yet firm, carrying clearly across the silence of the room. "You're already stronger than half my students," he'd told her plainly, not sugarcoating his words. "Cry later. Train now."

Amberine had stood rooted in place, breath caught in her throat, watching as the little girl's tears slowed, determination flaring again in her eyes. Draven's words hadn't been comforting in the traditional sense, yet they had given the girl exactly what she needed—acknowledgment, respect, and a push toward self-belief.

It had been in that moment, Amberine realized now, that her view of Draven shifted fundamentally. Before, she'd seen only the cold professor, distant and impenetrable. But watching him quietly encourage that child, Amberine had glimpsed something else entirely—a man deeply aware of potential futures, of fragile hopes balanced against harsh realities. Someone who, despite his icy exterior, truly cared about shaping lives beyond mere lessons and examinations.

She blinked away the memory, heart beating just a little faster. Her eyes lingered again on the faint, pulsing runes in the corner of the room. What exactly was Draven's long game, she wondered yet again. What futures did he see hidden here, among children who had been born with nothing yet might grow into something remarkable?

Because clearly, Amberine realized, Draven did see those futures. He cultivated them carefully, quietly, relentlessly.

Even in the slums.