Chapter 22 – Favor and Faith

  The evening light poured softly over the ivory walls of the Marilon Institute of Creative Futures, catching the edges of glass corridors and polished stone with the warmth of a fading sun.

  Lucien stepped through the main gates, the familiar crest of the institute gleaming overhead. Students lingered across the courtyard, some sitting on the steps, others hurrying between classes. The air hummed with quiet conversation — and somewhere in those drifting words, he heard it.

  “Ashborne.”

  “The writer.”

  “That’s him.”

  He gave a polite nod to those who glanced his way, his expression a mix of calm and disbelief. Recognition was still something he hadn’t learned to wear comfortably. The box in his hands — sleek, dark, and full of freshly bound books — grounded him more than the murmurs ever could.

  As he crossed the quad, five familiar figures came into view near the sculpture court.

  Riven waved both hands dramatically. “Look who finally decided to bless the Institute with his presence!”

  Seliora folded her arms, smirking. “And only carrying a box of treasure, no less. I see your fame comes with delivery service.”

  Lucien set the box on a low bench beside them, his lips quirking. “I prefer to think of it as hand-delivered gratitude.”

  Kaelen adjusted his glasses, leaning slightly forward to inspect the bindings. “High-quality finish. Matte varnish, precision-trimmed edges... Riven wasn’t exaggerating about the craftsmanship.”

  Riven puffed his chest with mock pride. “Naturally. The art makes the book.”

  “Sure,” Dorian said dryly. “Right after the words.”

  Evelis smiled softly, resting her chin in her hand. “It suits you, Lucien — the way you thank people through work instead of words.”

  Lucien’s expression gentled. “It’s the least I could do. You all stood by me long before the story ever had a name.”

  Riven peeked into the box. “So these are our copies?”

  Lucien chuckled. “Yes. Numbered, signed, and personalized — so if any of you sell them later, at least do it for a good price.”

  Kaelen deadpanned. “Noted. I’ll open bidding next semester.”

  Laughter rippled through the group, easing the last of the formal tension. Lucien handed each of them their books one by one — a small gesture, but one that made the evening glow a little warmer.

  When the laughter faded, he straightened. “I still need to meet Professor Drovian and Chancellor Voss before they leave for the day. Thought I’d give them their copies in person.”

  Seliora smiled knowingly. “A wise move. Professors have long memories for courtesy.”

  Dorian nodded. “They’re both still on campus. I’ll walk you halfway — I’m headed toward the Chancellor’s office myself.”

  The group followed together until the paths split — the others peeling away with waves and teasing reminders to “behave politely” and “not charm the faculty too much.”

  ---

  The corridor leading to Professor Drovian’s office was quiet, lined with framed artwork from past exhibitions — muted hues and old paper that smelled faintly of varnish and time.

  Lucien knocked once.

  “Enter,” came the familiar voice.

  Professor Aelric Drovian sat behind a wide oak desk, surrounded by organized chaos — stacks of essays, paint-stained sketches, and a mug of tea that had long gone cold. His sharp eyes lifted from a manuscript, softening slightly when they met Lucien’s.

  “Congratulations,” Drovian said, leaning back with a quiet nod. “You turned promise into proof. Not every student manages that.”

  Lucien smiled faintly, setting a book before him. “Copy No. 9 of 100. I thought it belonged here.”

  Drovian adjusted his glasses and read the inscription aloud.

  > “For the one who taught me that genius is discipline disguised as madness.”

  For a moment, silence hung between them. Then, the old man chuckled — low and genuine.

  “So you did take something from my lectures,” Drovian said with a small grin.

  Lucien chuckled. “A dangerous amount, apparently.”

  Drovian flipped through the pages, running a finger along the crisp paper. “You’ve done well, Ashborne. But I expect you to keep pushing — complacency dulls talent faster than failure.”

  Lucien nodded. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  The professor waved a hand, dismissing him with the same gruff affection he always had. “Go on. I hear the Chancellor’s been waiting to see you.”

  ---

  The Chancellor’s office sat high above the central atrium, all marble and light — floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens below.

  Elira Voss looked up from her desk as Lucien entered. She was elegant as ever, her composure a perfect balance of warmth and command.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Mr. Ashborne,” she greeted with a faint smile. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  Lucien inclined his head politely and placed the book on her desk.

  “Copy No. 10 of 100,” he said quietly.

  Elira opened it, her eyes pausing on the neat handwriting inside. She read aloud, softly:

  “For the vision that allowed mine to grow.”

  The Chancellor studied the inscription for a long moment before closing the book gently. “You’ve always had a way with words — on and off the page.”

  She gestured toward the wall-mounted display beside her desk. The institute’s official bulletin glowed faintly — one of the day’s announcements already cycling across it.

  > A Study in Scarlet — by MICF student Lucien Vale Ashborne — selected for inclusion in the Institute’s Literary Showcase Collection.

  Lucien blinked. “You—you included it?”

  Elira smiled. “Of course. The Showcase is meant for voices with promise — and yours deserves to be heard.”

  Elira smiled faintly. “Of course. Some works belong there — yours felt like one of them.”

  She paused, then continued, her voice measured. “And that’s not all. The Institute will also issue a campus-wide wristlink bulletin — a feature highlight for A Study in Scarlet. It will go out with this evening’s updates. I’ve also arranged a few other placements — the library’s recommendation feed, the student newsletter, and a faculty spotlight. It should ensure your book reaches everyone here, and then some.”

  Lucien stared, momentarily at a loss for words. “Chancellor, that’s…” He trailed off, unable to decide between too much and unbelievable.

  Her tone softened, though her eyes stayed sharp. “I know what you’re thinking — that others might call this favoritism. But talent that inspires deserves visibility, Mr. Ashborne. And your work reflects the spirit this institute was meant to nurture.”

  He had no idea how to answer. So many students, even alumni, published their own works — many brilliant — yet few ever received a push like this. It was a privilege beyond anything he’d expected, and the weight of it settled quietly in his chest.

  After a long pause, he managed, softly, “Thank you.”

  Elira inclined her head. “Then honor it — not with gratitude, but with writing your next story Mr. Ashborne. And remember — prestige follows passion, not the other way around.”

  ---

  Later, when Lucien told his friends, their reactions came fast.

  Riven let out a low whistle. “The entire university? That’s not a feature — that’s a broadcast!”

  Seliora leaned back, eyes wide. “You realize this will make you impossible to ignore, right? Students, faculty, alumni — everyone’s feed will have your book.”

  Kaelen smirked faintly. “There will be pros and cons. Expect envy, admiration… and about a hundred subtle death glares from literature majors by tomorrow.”

  Lucien sighed. “Wonderful. I always wanted to be an academic lightning rod.”

  Dorian chuckled. “It’s what happens when the Chancellor herself takes notice. You’ll manage the attention — you always do.”

  Evelis smiled softly. “And you’ll deserve every bit of it.”

  The sky outside had deepened to violet by the time they left the institute grounds.

  The streets around the campus were alive — rows of food stalls glowing beneath strings of colourful lights, the air rich with the scent of spice and roasted snacks. Students crowded every counter, laughing between bites, swapping news about the day’s announcements.

  Lucien’s group moved through the bustle until they found a quieter stall at the edge of the lane. The owner waved them toward a long wooden table, half-hidden beneath the awning.

  Riven grinned, sliding onto the bench. “I swear, no matter how much changes, this place never does. Best noodles in Marilon.”

  Seliora nodded. “And probably the only meal we can all agree on.”

  Lucien set down the empty book box beside him and let out a slow breath. “Feels strange, being back here after everything.”

  Kaelen glanced up from the menu display. “Strange, but timely. Because we need to talk numbers.”

  Lucien blinked. “Numbers?”

  Dorian folded his hands. “He means production. The Chancellor’s announcement changes everything. Once the wristlink bulletin goes live tonight, every student and faculty member will see it — that’s tens of thousands of potential buyers.”

  Riven leaned forward. “Translation: whatever you printed so far won’t last till morning.”

  Lucien frowned slightly. “We only did two thousand copies for the first batch. That means—?”

  “—you’ll need at least ten times that,” Dorian interrupted smoothly. “And even that might just meet the initial wave of curiosity. Remember, some people will buy just because the university’s promoting it. Others will want to buy just to know what’s the fuss is all about.”

  Seliora nodded thoughtfully. “He’s right. The buzz alone will drive demand, even from students who don’t usually read mysteries.”

  Kaelen added, “If supply doesn’t scale fast enough, you’ll have a bottleneck — empty shelves, delayed orders, frustrated readers.”

  Lucien leaned back, thinking aloud. “That would hurt momentum. We can’t afford long gaps between digital interest and physical availability.”

  Dorian smirked faintly. “Now you sound like a publisher.”

  Lucien sighed. “Don’t tempt me. I’m barely keeping up as an author.”

  Riven chuckled. “Congratulations — you’re officially in logistics now.”

  Lucien gave a half-smile, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. I’ll contact the Rendons tonight. If they can handle an expanded run, we’ll triple output first, then see how the numbers move.”

  Kaelen nodded approvingly. “Good start. You can always scale again if it spikes further.”

  Evelis set down her cup and leaned slightly forward, her tone soft but steady.

  “Lucien, remember — even if the physical copies can’t keep pace, the digital version is still out there. Readers will find you either way. Don’t push yourself too hard trying to meet every bit of demand overnight.”

  Her eyes softened. “Sleep. Eat. Let the Rendons handle the presses — that’s their craft, not yours.”

  Riven nodded, unusually sincere. “Yeah, even if a few readers can’t get the book right away, they’ll wait. Hype doesn’t fade that fast.”

  Seliora added, “Exactly. Anyone who really connects with your work will want a physical copy eventually — that’s how true interest works.”

  Kaelen adjusted his glasses. “And if someone loses patience and skips it, they weren’t your audience to begin with. Better to grow steadily than burn out chasing every buyer.”

  Even Dorian inclined his head. “Agreed. Let the momentum breathe — forcing it only ruins the rhythm. You’re already ahead of schedule.”

  Lucien smiled faintly, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. “I’ll try. No promises.”

  As the group’s laughing about a joke, Dorian’s wristlink pulsed faintly. He glanced down, eyes narrowing briefly before tapping the incoming call. A holographic feed flared to life — Gareth and Theo Rendon, both wearing tired but unmistakably proud smiles, their workshop faintly glowing in the background.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” Dorian greeted smoothly. “You’re both still at it, I see.”

  Mr. Rendon chuckled. “We were just finishing a quality check. Did you send a message about a surge in demand?”

  “Exactly,” Dorian said, tone crisp but pleased. “Lucien’s book is about to see a surge. Prepare to increase output as much as possible — expect large orders within the next few days.”

  Theo’s eyes brightened. “Already ahead of you. We hired a few part-timers already guessing that situation— if demand spikes, we can run shifts through the night. We’ll keep the presses running steady.”

  Lucien, leaning closer into view, smiled warmly. “You two never miss a beat. Thank you — really.”

  Mr. Rendon waved a dismissive hand. “You’ve done your part, Mr. Ashborne . Let us do ours. Our press has been waiting for this kind of rush — don’t you worry about us.”

  Riven grinned from across the table. “Listen to the man, Lucien. They sound more excited than you do.”

  Theo laughed. “We are, honestly. It feels good to see the workshop this lively again.”

  Lucien chuckled, nodding. “Then I’ll make sure it stays that way. Expect a big bonus once the first wave settles.”

  Gareth smiled faintly, his eyes softening. “You focus on writing, Mr. Ashborne. Leave the noise to us.”

  Dorian ended the call after a few final words of coordination, the holographic glow fading into the warm hum of the food street.

  For a moment, the group sat in silence — the scent of spices in the air, the chatter of nearby students — until Riven raised his cup with a grin.

  “To stories that refuse to slow down — and the hands that keep them moving.”

  Lucien laughed, tapping his cup against his. “I’ll drink to that.”