Sibylle

Sibylle's rise from a humble Charon to Legion Chief is as rare as it is astonishing, even in the vast annals of the Empire.

Her story has inspired many Charons to join the Legion, each hoping to mirror her success, risking their lives on the battlefield in pursuit of glory. But for most, their efforts end in futility.

After all, achieving Sibylle's stature, respected, powerful, influential, requires more than mere ambition. It demands strength, cunning, and a ruthless edge that few can ever hope to match.

Ask around the Hyperborean Empire about Sibylle Mason, and you'll hear a thousand different stories.

Historians in their ivory towers will tell you she's the first Charon-born ever to rise to the rank of Legion Chief, a milestone of great significance in the Empire's long history.

Aspiring Charons, eager to claim their place among the Laurelled, see Sibylle as an icon of inspiration, a figure who rose from meagre beginnings to wield a sceptre traditionally reserved for the Solarian.

But among the bitter and resentful Charons, those who harbour a deep hatred for the Empire, she is scorned as a traitor who abandoned her own kind for a scrap of power. They brand her a lapdog of the regime, reviled and cursed by many.

Her peers in the Legion are similarly divided: some admire her decisive methods and unwavering loyalty, while others whisper behind closed doors, viewing her as a dormant threat, a coiled viper, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Yet despite these varied narratives, one piece of advice holds true: crossing Sibylle Mason is a perilous game.

Sibylle's favoured weapon is a custom-made razor whip, a complex and high-maintenance instrument. Yet, despite its intricacies, she insists on personally attending to its care.

To her, one belief remains firm: people may betray you, but a well-tended weapon never will.

In Sibylle's memory, the skies of the Empire only truly brightened the day she stepped into the Alchemy Academy. Before then, her life had been inextricably linked to filth, ragged clothes, the foul stench of rubbish, and the incessant buzz of flies. She never bothered to look up at the sky, knowing that all that hung overhead was a heavy, oppressive gloom, with nothing worth seeing.

By the age of ten, Sibylle had already mastered the art of survival. She would fold her legs into specially designed trousers, posing as a crippled beggar, crawling through the streets and moaning pitifully in hopes of coaxing coins or food from the well-dressed passersby. Those who showed kindness soon found themselves victims of her ruse: in one swift motion, she'd spring to her feet, snatch their belongings, knock them down, and vanish into the labyrinthine alleys, leaving her pursuers cursing in the dust.

Sibylle was well aware of the brutal reality behind her actions. The food she stole was the reward for her speed, her cunning, and her ability to outwit the misguided compassion of the kind-hearted. A full stomach was the prize for her victory in a world ruled by survival of the fittest.

And if the day ever came when she was too slow, or when her hiding place was uncovered and she was beaten to death by those she had wronged, just like the crippled black cat that once prowled the alley, Sibylle would have no complaints. After all, that too was the natural outcome of the law of the jungle.

In the sprawling capital city of Dismania, the heart of the Hyperborean Empire, no one claims a deeper knowledge of its labyrinthine layouts than Sibylle. Beyond the architectural splendours and bustling streets, she knows the secret passageways and hidden nooks where rare flora thrive.

As a child, she often traversed these concealed paths, sometimes to outwit the paupers who tried to rob her, other times simply to find a quiet corner where she could savour a stolen meal without having to constantly watch her back.

When Sibylle recounts those seemingly unpleasant memories, there's little emotion in her voice. After all, the very streets that once concealed her are now where she tracks down spies, fugitives, and smugglers with unmatched efficiency. In a way, her childhood had gifted her the tools that set her apart from her peers.

It's said that the perpetually stern-faced Sibylle harbours a surprising soft spot for weak or injured animals. Should a wounded cat or dog cross her path, she orders her medics to tend to them, despite their frequent reminders that they aren't trained to care for animals.

To this, the aristocrats who detest her often sneer and remark, "Our dear Chief Sibylle may be ruthless to both her enemies and her comrades, but she seems to have a soft heart for beasts. Fitting, I suppose, since beasts do tend to look after their own."

Sibylle knows the Empire's laws inside and out, which ones you'd break by smuggling spirits, robbing wealthy merchants, or trafficking arms. She can also intuit where criminals might exploit legal loopholes. It isn't mere guesswork, but a nearly rehearsed understanding of how to stay one step ahead of the law, leveraging every possible advantage to benefit oneself while evading consequences.

Yet, it seems she ultimately realised that instead of remaining a despicable manipulator of loopholes, she could ascend to a position of power, where she could influence, reshape, and even create the rules.

As a child, Sibylle once cared for a raven.

One day, the raven plummeted from the sky, crashing into the dirt in front of her shabby shack. Startled, Sibylle found the bird injured, its teary eyes gazing up at her. Her kind heart led her to take it in. She bandaged its wounds, fed it, and cared for it as best she could. As its wounds slowly healed, the raven began to peck gently at her palm, then to walk, and eventually, to fly, awkwardly at first, but still, it flew. Seeing its recovery filled Sibylle with genuine joy. "Even the ugliest of ravens," she thought, "even one that's fallen into the mud, can one day soar in the skies again."

One evening, a group of street children, about Sibylle's age, knocked on her door, begging for food. Like the raven, they were teary-eyed. With the same kindness she had shown the bird, Sibylle shared her modest meal of bread and water with them. However, once fed, they didn't leave. Instead, they forced their way into her home, taking what little food she had left and even her parents' keepsakes. Sibylle tried to fight back, but the children overpowered her, dragging her down and beating her until she was covered in bruises.

Sensing the danger, the raven flapped its wings and attacked the intruders, pecking at their heads in a desperate attempt to defend its home. But the bird, still recovering, wasn't strong enough. The ringleader grabbed it tightly, sneering, "A feisty little thing, aren't you?"

"Please, let her go!" Sibylle's voice cracked with desperation. "Take everything you want, just don't hurt her!"

Her frantic pleas fell on deaf ears. Pinned to the ground by two stronger kids, her tears mingled with the dirt as she watched in horror.

Through bloodshot eyes, she saw the raven slammed into the ground, followed by the sickening crunch of boots crushing its fragile body.

When the intruders finally left, Sibylle, battered and bruised, crawled over to the raven. Cradling its lifeless body in her arms, she kissed its cold feathers. She could not tell how much blood it had lost, the bird's jet-black plumage hid the stains. A tiny life had slipped away into the shadows, its death as silent as its suffering.

Years later, as a graduate of the Spathatoi Alchademy and a rising star in the Legion, Sibylle returned to that shack. She thought she heard the flutter of raven's wings, but perhaps it was just a trick of memory, the house was empty, save for the echo of her footsteps. Distant memories flooded back. That night, she had wailed miserably, mourning both the loss of a fragile life and her own helplessness. It was the last time she ever cried. The darkness had swallowed her tears, and no one had heard the sobs of that powerless eight-year-old girl.

Sibylle is renowned for her frequent presence on the frontlines, a rarity among legion chiefs.

While many remain confined to the war room, Sibylle commits the battlefield's terrain to memory long before the battle begins. She prepares for every possible contingency in advance, allowing her to move freely among her soldiers and observe the battle firsthand.

For Sibylle, these visits to the frontlines are not just strategic but performative. She fights alongside her troops in the heat of battle, personally bandaging their wounds, and delivers rousing speeches amidst the rising chants of "Chief Sibylle." These acts not only bolster morale but also solidify her legendary status. Sibylle is well aware of this and wields such theatrics as yet another weapon in her tactical arsenal.

Yet, it remains uncertain whether these actions are purely calculated or driven by genuine emotion. When Sibylle sees soldiers fighting fiercely for glory and recognition, she cannot help but see a reflection of her younger self in their struggles.

Even among the ranks of the Empire's legion chiefs, not all are equals. Some owe their positions solely to noble lineage, bearing little merit on the battlefield. Others, like Sibylle Mason, have earned their place through sheer military prowess, wielding influence not only on the battlefield but also within the Empire's political landscape.

Sibylle's meteoric rise from an ordinary legion chief to her current exalted position is mostly a result of her exceptional military achievements. Her combat strategies are more agile and inventive than those of any chief the Empire has seen before.

According to the Empire's time-honoured traditions, a soldier's greatest glory is earned in direct confrontation: troops march forward with unwavering courage and iron discipline, undaunted even as they close in on the enemy. Chiefs, however, are expected to oversee the battlefield with a sharp, predatory gaze, bearing the burden of the rising death toll, waiting for the perfect moment to make a decisive move, a bloody gamble where soldiers' lives are the stakes and fate itself is the dealer.

Glory, pure and undeniable, is the dream of every chief, a single, monumental victory that would immortalize their name. To have a warship, a street, or even a city bear your name was the ultimate prize.

But in the face of the rebellion by The Forsakens, such lofty aspirations became little more than a pipe dream. These insurgents, relying on "Daimons" as their main force, rarely engaged the Legion head-on. Instead, they used magic and superior mobility to wage guerrilla warfare, striking from the shadows with hit-and-run attacks. They even weaponized Filthoids to devastating effect. The Legion's traditional combat methods proved futile, and those chiefs who clung to their notions of glory were left swallowing the bitter draught of defeat.

Sibylle, however, was not one of them. Born on the streets, with deep knowledge of alchemy and Charon magic, she knew exactly how to counter these elusive foes.

She requisitioned as much grain as possible, starving the rebels of their supplies.

She sent Charon citizens as false defectors, infiltrating The Forsakens and poisoning their rations before ordering surprise attacks.

She staged strategic retreats, leaving behind booby-trapped supplies, spreading terror throughout enemy ranks.

She offered noble titles to enemy leaders in exchange for their allegiance, only to slaughter them all once victory was assured.

This is how Sibylle claimed victory after victory, battlefield after battlefield. Her Charon heritage never hindered her rise.

Though her methods were often criticized as dishonourable..."What else would you expect from someone of such lowly birth?" her detractors sneered, none could deny the truth: Sibylle is the Empire's most reliable legion chief. She casts aside mercy, ethics, and even honour, values others hold dearer than life itself, and she always wins.

Now, who would dare to make an enemy of Chief Sibylle?

A dagger pressed tightly against Flamel's throat. The scholar, more accustomed to the quiet of her laboratory, sighed deeply.

"Children," she said calmly, "I hope you understand what you're doing. Any harm you inflict on me will spell doom for you and those you hold dear."

Her captors paid her no mind, gagging her with a musty rag and binding her tightly with rough rope before discarding her like cargo in a dusty corner. The warehouse door slammed shut with a resounding thud, the mouldy stench of the rag nearly suffocating her, muting her last persuasive offer: "Let me go, and you'll be paid more gold than you could ever imagine."

Flamel closed her eyes, conserving her strength for what might come next. Later, under the cloak of night, faint sounds from the skylight hinted at a visitor. She looked up to see a figure dropping agilely to the floor. By the faint starlight, she discerned a grubby girl with short purple hair and piercing eyes.

"Shh," the girl whispered, removing the gag. She handed Flamel her stolen backpack. "Don't worry, they're asleep. I'm here to get you out. Sorry about my brothers... they lost their heads seeing a big shot from the capital like you."

"Thank you, but I still have unfinished business," Flamel responded. "Could you lead me back to where I was taken yesterday? I'll pay you ten gold coins for your trouble. I'm a scholar, and I can't leave without completing my research."

They ventured through the valley under the starry night sky, the uncharted terrain requiring several hours' trek to the nearest town. Flamel wouldn't have dared venture this far alone if not for reports of an undiscovered species of Filthoid in the area.

The chill of the autumn night made Flamel falter, prompting the girl to stop more frequently to wait for her.

"Have you ever heard of a type of Filthoid called Physalis Filthoid? Flamel asked. "The locals might know it by a different name..."

We call it "Claw Flower," the girl replied. "It looks like a plant but devours anything that comes near. Are you sure you want to find them?"

Flamel nodded. They turned towards the western forest.

"You're not afraid of Filthoids," Flamel remarked, clearly impressed. "You're a Daimon, aren't you?"

"I am. And I find Filthoids fascinating," the girl replied, glancing back, her eyes sharp. "If you've read Maxima Flamel's Study of the Origins of Filthoids and the Charon People, you'd know what I mean... Oh, wait, you're here to study Claw Flowers, so you must've read it! That book mentions the Claw Flower as the oldest known Filthoid species."

Flamel smiled but said nothing. They weaved through the rocky terrain of the western woods. As they neared a large boulder, the girl suddenly threw out her arm, halting Flamel. The still night air was suddenly split by the crackling sound of electric arcs across the space before them.

"The Claw Flower just retracted into the ground. If we had kept going, it would've killed us. But don't worry, it's stunned now. You can proceed with your investigation," the girl said, calm despite the sheen of sweat on her forehead. The effort had clearly taken a toll on her.

"Thank you," Flamel said, retrieving tools from her backpack. "Since you've read the book, you know that the author's discovery of Helix proved all Charons share origins with Filthoids," she continued as she expertly dissected the Filthoid, storing its tissues in vials. "Doesn't that frighten you? It's not just the Deteriorators, every Charon has Filthoid blood flowing through their veins. Including you."

"There's nothing to be afraid of. I don't care about what I was. I care about what I'll become," the girl replied, her violet eyes gleaming with determination. "Besides, you can only master your power once you understand it."

"I'm finished," Flamel said, packing her tools. "Thank you, this is a rare sub-species of Physalis Filthoid. Now, can you escort me to the nearest town?" She paused. "What's your name?"

"Sibylle Mason," the girl replied.

"Very well, Sibylle Mason," Flamel smiled, her coat flapping in the valley's night wind. "I have an address for you. If you're interested in Filthoids and the power of the Daimons, come to this residence and say your name. I'll be waiting."

"Blasted traitor! Sibylle, you told us to grab that woman, and now you're the one lettin' her go? What the hell are you tryin' to pull!!?"

"Wasn't ten gold coins enough for you?"

"But you said she was some big shot from the capital! Said we'd get a huge score! Now you're backin' out? If we're only gettin' ten coins, we shoulda just offed her and been done with it!"

The two bandits, tied back-to-back on a rickety bench, thrashed and cursed as empty bottles rolled around them. "Bloody hell! Only got the guts to act tough when we're out cold, huh!? You sneaky little rat, always the last to step up and first to chicken out. Just you wait, we're gonna kill you, like we killed that damn bird of yours!"

Sibylle stood, rolling her eyes in disdain as she forced open the mouth of the loudest one. A deft twist, and a snap filled the air, the unmistakable sound of a jaw breaking. One by one, she stuffed the gold coins into their mouths, their curses turning to muffled gurgles.

"Morons. This is where your pathetic lives end. Mine is just beginning."

Clutching the scrap of paper Flamel had torn from her notebook, Sibylle turned and began her journey back to Dismania.

Sibylle has never been a sound sleeper. Frequently waking in the middle of the night, she often finds it difficult to drift back to sleep. Her late-night presence, hunched over military paperwork, has become a familiar sight.

Her nerves are always taut, ever vigilant, especially aboard the airships. It's a lasting scar from a war long past, one that ended in failure but left its mark nonetheless.

While renowned for numerous victories, it was a battle Sibylle "lost" that elevated her to the emperor's favour and led to her promotion to legion chief.

Historians recorded that battle as the Divine Elegy Offensive. As the name suggests, it was a war between mortals and the divine. Throughout Hyperborea, from street ballads to grand operas, the tale of this battle is consistently retold with awe. Though technically a failure, it marked the first time since the Great Migration that mortals had once again set foot on the ancient lands of Elysium. This time, they didn't merely walk the earth, they ascended its highest tower and aimed their arrows at the gods of old.

Yet, the finer details of this legendary battle are shrouded in mystery. Historians may never acquire a firsthand account, for only two survivors returned from the divine tower: Sibylle, who has never uttered a word about what transpired, and a shadowy figure who mysteriously appeared to lead the forces, then vanished without a trace afterwards, as if they had never existed at all.

Sibylle now commands the Emperor's 13th Legion, an elite force that answers solely to His Majesty's will. They are the Emperor's most loyal and trusted hounds. Her loyalty is so highly esteemed that the Emperor has granted her the unprecedented privilege of carrying weapons within the palace walls, an honour no Charons before her had ever achieved, something that once existed only in their wildest tales. But Sibylle has turned that fantasy into reality.

Naturally, the Emperor's trust and favour have only intensified the resentment from the Senate, who scorn her for her humble origins and assertive demeanour.

Yet, deep down, Sibylle knows that the widely sworn oath of allegiance across the Empire..."All glory to our Emperor" is little more than a formality. The only one truly deserving of her loyalty now is herself.

Sibylle believes herself a survivor of what can only be likened to hell.

What does hell look like? It's an expanse of flame that surges toward you no matter how desperately you try to escape, engulfing everything. Scalding air seeps into your nostrils, viscous, oppressive, while it crackles and roars around your ears.

Above this fiery sea, any bird brave enough to soar becomes a blind raven, plummeting into scorched earth, stirring ripples of flame.

The operation was meant to be highly classified. The commander had run through countless scenarios before departure, yet no one truly grasped the defensive might at the heart of the enemy stronghold.

After three days and nights of contemplation, the commander decided to roll the dice. A small but elite team would be deployed via the Empire's newest airships, aiming for a swift, decisive strike at the enemy's core, to "decapitate" their force.

It seemed a desperate gamble, but also their best shot at victory. Thirteen Daimons, clad in the same uniforms as ordinary soldiers, were quietly dispatched without farewell or ceremony, sent off as plainly as one might deliver rations to the front, on what might well have been a one-way mission.

Though mentally prepared for the worst, it wasn't until they stood beneath the gaze of the divine that they truly understood the terror of facing the gods.

Beams of searing light tore through the night, burning as they streaked across the sky like eternal fire, devouring everything in their path.

At that moment, Sibylle stood at the edge of the inferno. The most she could make out beyond the blaze were charred branches, or the remains of what might once have been wildlife, though she no longer had the strength to tell them apart.

Sibylle was fortunate not to be part of the strike team, she had been held back as their last resort. If all went according to plan, once the others reached the tower's heart and completed their task, she would spirit them away under cover of shadows, before the enemy ever took notice. And if the mission failed, she would carry off as many of the wounded as she could, to lessen the toll.

She didn't know what her comrades had faced deep within the tower, but the hellish scene before her could only be the worst of all their countless reckonings.

Of the twelve who had entered, only three emerged. Behind them, a dreadful light pursued relentlessly: wherever it fell, flames erupted, even stone was pierced through. Yet that radiance was no knight's weapon; it was as though the gods themselves had cast down divine punishment.

Two comrades thrust the unconscious, grievously wounded commander into Sibylle's care, then dragged their battered bodies toward the distance, choosing to stay behind and cover the rear.

Thanks to the Daimons' resilient constitution, the two could still, barely, draw their swords to support themselves.

As the flames around them subsided, their laboured breathing eased slightly, and they no longer spat hot blood with every breath.

But as the fire faded, a battalion of heavily armed knights appeared. Their footsteps alone, echoing across the battlefield, spoke of their elite status, soldiers sent not to take prisoners, but to eradicate every intruder.

Ordinarily, Daimons could scatter foes like rabbits before a hound, but incapacitated, they were helpless prey.

Gunfire tore through the air, ripping apart the already feeble arcs of their blades and tearing through their bodies.

Initially hesitant, the Elysian knights advanced, growing bolder with each step. Within moments, they were close enough to drive their blades into the spines of the wounded Daimons.

Watching the brutal scene unfold, Sibylle felt a surreal detachment. These were her comrades, soldiers who had trained alongside her mere days before. Now they stood at death's door, as she watched from afar.

With the last of their strength, they leaned on each other for support, their bodies swaying, their gaze turning, perhaps by chance, perhaps by will, toward Sibylle's airship.

Sibylle's rational mind, honed by years of discipline, told her to obey orders, to let her comrades die. But deep within, a faint voice desperately protested.

They had never treated her poorly. Like her, they were fiercely loyal to the Empire, determined to earn glory, each burdened by their own troubled pasts. Many nights had passed in the dim barracks, filled with stories of the past and dreams of the future. For someone who claimed to have no friends, they had come the closest.

And now, these almost-friends stood before her, gazing at her as they faced death.

But what did their gaze mean? A plea for help? Doubt? Resentment? Or something else entirely?

Sibylle knew she should ignore these thoughts. She had to follow orders without question, to snuff out the last remnants of emotion within her, emotions that shouldn't have existed in the first place.

But... could she? Could she stand by and let her comrades, her almost-friends, die?

In a futile attempt to escape the weight of her decision, she closed her eyes, hoping the nightmare would disappear.

But in that very moment, her comrades made the decision for her. They drew their daggers and, with grim determination, plunged them into each other's throats. No hesitation. No second thoughts. As if they had made this choice long ago. Smiling, they fell. At that same moment, Sibylle set the airship's engines to life.

Amidst the roar of the machinery, she let out the breath she had held for so long. Blinking, she found a tear upon her cheek, a tear no one had ever seen from her. She did not know what it meant, just as she did not know what their final gaze had meant.

Perhaps it was relief, that she hadn't needed to wrestle with breaking her orders. Or perhaps... it was something else entirely.

For setting foot upon the tower of the gods, the Empire declared the mission a victory. In the official obituary, it was written: of the thirteen who had gone, only Sibylle returned.

She was soon elevated to Legion Chief, and ever after she would call the operation her "Survival from Hell."

"May peace someday come to this land."

The crude inscription was roughly etched into a weathered brick on the outskirts of Dismania, the uneven strokes suggesting it was written by a child. Despite years of exposure to the elements, the stone faithfully preserved the naive wish.

Sibylle let out a faint laugh. It was hard to tell whether she found the sentiment amusing or simply foolish. You, however, found nothing laughable about the words. When you voiced your disagreement, she merely shrugged.

"My mentor and a fellow student once expressed similar sentiments. Sadly, their naivety took a toll on them, and they were crushed beneath the relentless march of time."

You remained silent.

"That being said, and you might find this hard to believe, I actually agree with that ideal," she continued.

With a casual flick, she shattered the worn brick, reducing the remnants of that wish to dust. Her final words lingered faintly on the wind, barely audible:

"And I shall fulfil it."

Sibylle once shared her life with a few close friends, but those days are long behind her. There was a time when she would laugh and commiserate with them, sharing in their joys and pains. But now, she has come to believe that such emotions are distractions she no longer needs.

"Those who treat knowledge as a mere stepping stone to power will never acquire truths."

That was the only comment Sibylle's revered mentor, the chief alchemist, left on her graduation certificate, despite her having graduated as the top student. The room was steeped in an eerie silence, filled only with the sound of Sibylle's measured, restrained breathing.

Several ravens perched on the windowsill, preening their glossy black feathers. Flamel couldn't help but recall their other moniker, harbingers of death. Signalling misfortune had always seemed the raven's grim duty.

Due to the secretive nature of the research at the Alchemy Academy, the institution's rooms rarely had windows. Instead, they were illuminated by constant, artificial light, like the pallid, perpetual sun of a land in eternal twilight. Yet Flamel had stubbornly insisted on having a window in her office. Perhaps it gave her a fragile sense of connection to the outside world.

Today, however, the narrow window was overtaken by dark-feathered visitors.

Sitting upright at her desk, her hair meticulously coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck, Flamel ignored the knocking at the door. Her calm gaze remained fixed on the window, not sparing a glance for her visitor, her former student, the legion chief, Sibylle Mason.

"Ms Maxima Flamel," Sibylle's voice broke the awkward silence, "I am here to formally notify you: due to actions considered an indirect betrayal of the Empire, your positions at the Spathatoi Alchademy, including your title as Chief Alchemist, are hereby revoked." Sibylle looked at her former mentor, speaking in a measured tone as she delivered the pardon she had painstakingly secured, having sacrificed her pride in the process. "In light of your past contributions to the Empire, you will not be incarcerated in the Royal Military Prison. Should you choose to continue your research, you may retain a laboratory here, albeit under strict surveillance."

Flamel remained silent. After a long, tense pause, she sighed deeply and finally turned to face her interlocutor.

"Is that all you have come to say, Chief Sibylle?"

Sibylle averted her gaze, refusing to meet her mentor's eyes. "Yes, that is all."

"The first time I met you, you were just a child. I was already your prisoner back then, much like today." Flamel's tone was calm. "The kidnapping, it was orchestrated by you from the start, wasn't it?"

Sibylle shook her head. "There's no point in dwelling on the past, Ms Flamel. What matters is the present."

"The Alchademy was meant to be a sanctuary for the pursuit of knowledge, but you and Julius have turned it into a disgrace for the Empire." The ageing scholar met her former student's gaze, making one last, futile attempt to evoke some semblance of regret. "Knowledge exists to make the world a better place. Yet you..."

"I treat knowledge as a mere stepping stone to power," Sibylle interrupted, finishing the sentence for her. "Yes, I remember your words. Your ideals are noble, and my pursuit of knowledge is disgraceful, I've never denied that. But has it ever occurred to you that having such lofty ideals is a luxury afforded only to those born into privilege, like you? Your life has always been filled with options and safety nets. But for the ravens on that windowsill? There are only two possibilities, to fly with all their might or be shot down by a child's slingshot."

Sibylle continued. "And there's another thing you don't understand, ravens, too, have their ambitions. Once they fly high enough, they can see things that creatures tethered to the ground never will. And with that, they can do things no one else can, things that might truly change the world."

"Chief… no, Sibylle, tell me the truth!" Flamel suddenly stood, knocking her chair to the floor. The ravens fluttered in alarm, taking flight from the window.

"That day, at the Tower of the Elysian Church, what did you see?"

Sibylle remained silent, the setting sun slanting through the window, casting a glow on her face. For a brief moment, Flamel thought she saw something akin to divine grace in her student's expression, like a serene icon carved by Elysian artisans.

"Nothing, Ms Flamel," she finally spoke. "Let's return to the matter at hand. If you wish to stay and continue your research here, just sign this agreement. You have three days to decide."

Without waiting for a response, Sibylle turned and walked away. She strode down the long, dimly lit corridors, never once looking back. Only when she was well out of sight, far removed from the office, did she pause. She turned around and bowed deeply towards the room.

"Farewell, Ms Flamel."