Stumbling into the campus cafe Cymir could not help but take in the warm scented brews. A much needed reprise against a lingering headache from yesternight. Whatever happened then faded till the faintest of memories, and so did the morn's lesson. It felt awful. Akin to a siren of yells that would deafen ears.

  Hand to the head the youth made his way past tables. Led by starvation he followed its intent towards the front counter and the line to it. He should have eaten breakfast, but dared not to arrive tardy that morning. Those before him ordered their meals to what seemed to take forever. Shuffling forward at an ever slower pace.

  A banquet of spices and smells filled the air. Under the sluggish tempo a chalkboard with listed items hung. Naming a vast arrangement of dishes. From fried to steamed to dried. Ah, that was right. He had forgotten the diverse dishes this nation held. All from experimentation and cultures afar- he ordered the first thing on the menu.

  Sandwich. Labeled a meal to go. It was long. Filled with a delectable food paste while wrapped in a parchment. No plates or utensils were provided. He had not stood at the counter for more than a minute before being pushed away a few coins poorer. It seemed the chefs had several baskets pre-made. Pondering the reason behind such quick processes led to no solution. Then a memory of the Amble Adieu came to. Maybe that was how things worked?

  Taking a bite of the new-found food his gaze began to venture unimpeded by hunger. Spacious. Unlike the cafe on Dining Street, the atmosphere felt lax despite the crowd. Perhaps the exhausted individuals around helped paint the scene? Warn-colored wood covered the walls. In contrast to the oceanic themes outside, this cafe's furnishing was of woodlands. Like a cabin. Even the salty air held little dominance against the herbs growing upon the windowsills.

  Some folks carefully slipped passed his idle stance. Hm? Ah, probably should move. Walking around the wooden-topped tables he took in the lunch-time chatter. Unfortunately those around spoke in foreign words, but they definitely spoke the same language he knew. Could such be a vocabulary discrepancy? After orbiting around, admiring, several suspicious glances shot towards him. Nervousness forced a wary chuckle.

  With a scuttle he rounded the nearest corner and out a pair of doors. A memorable scent of history and leather replaced the warm air. Scanning the new location he found no change in capacity. Oddly enough an eerie silence replaced the prior joyfully-tired chatter. Perhaps an unspoken division between the rooms? No, the countless bookshelves answered.

  Stuffing the remaining sandwich into his mouth curiosity took hold. Steps rang on the wooden floor as Cymir's feet took him past rows of bounded literature and papers. How modest. What stories could be found here? Stepping up to the second floor those wandering eyes noticed a spot of repose and grinned. Tiptoeing around the sleeping and dazed students he recalled the prior day's ambition. A familiar face read documents alone.

  "Ah it's Noren right?" asked Cymir sitting down.

  Dark eyes glanced up from the file. Annoyance filled that stare. With a brief correction Menor returned to the paper. Cymir thought the two names were close enough. Were they not?

  Taking the free seat he pondered at the stack of documents near the window. Each held a differing widths and lengths. Even those pale folders were used, he thought. Intrigued, Cymir reached out. Only for his hand to be swatted. Confidential apparently. Shaking his hand he could not help but pout that curiosity was brutal.

  "So about my offer?" Cymir asked, "I think I... showed you-?"

  "Library," said Menor.

  "-Ah," Cymir continued in a whisper, "I know people of the Peninsula admire magic, especially new ones."

  "That's Orcer."

  "Same thing."

  "It isn't."

  "If you trust me, I can promise you knowledge beyond imagination."

  Not replying, Menor scribbled a few sentences, pinned it to a file, and grabbed a new folder. Somehow paperwork appealed more? Disappointment colored Cymir's face as he began to tap the wooden table. Questions grew in his minds. What would grab his peer's attention? Perhaps knowledge of potential discoveries? Maybe the truth of would be crimes? He needed bait.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Looking around, those sitting near held quiet, wrathful gazes. To those faces the youth smiled and gave an awkward, yet quiet, laugh. Even in a library simple discussions should not be annoying. His voice was barely audible, maybe. Continuing on he whispered the benefits and reasons for his requests. A repeat of prior evening's theme, yet with coherence. Despite no change in action nor a single motion of interest, Menor entertained the idea.

  Cymir's eyes sparkled. Starting with combat authorizations he explained a plan that displayed nothing more than a flimsy outline. Persuasion had left. Leaving only arbitrary details with "trust me" synonyms. For every double dozens of eager words spoken the other side would say vastly fewer. Not until a half an hour later the joyful student realized the one sided conversation. By then Menor reached the last file.

  "Oh come on," Cymir spoke, "Are you even listening?"

  "Mhm," Menor replied.

  "But Annabella will surpass you."

  Muffled laughter and giggles erupted. Such an outburst caught a librarian's lethal eyes. As a result all felt the temperature drop. Once the area hushed Cymir leaned in and explained. Knowing her character she surely challenged those who stood at higher heights. In those bouts Menor should have at least recognized the woman's abilities.

  "How disheartening," Menor said, while writing, "Her bite and narcissistic persistence are commendable. To think she would suppress me, perhaps, but I never wanted the primary-school title. If she desires it she can have it."

  "But so many people would kill for that title," Cymir sighed, "What will get you to even consider agreeing?"

  "There's one way."

  Perking up, the youth quietly repeated with intrigue. With silence the man smiled and made a circle with his fingers. Coin, money, cash. The one true object that runs the world. Taking a deep breath it could work. Albeit some arrangements needed reordering. However a tree's shade hid a foliage of thorns.

  "WHY DO YOU NEED SO MUCH- ACK," Cymir cried, as a woolen ball smacked his face.

  "ANOTHER WORD AND I'LL SEND YOU TO THE GALLOWS!" a librarian threatened.

  Rubbing the sore side of his face, the student lamented. Although not knowing the exact expenses, the general list of items provided by the night-haired acquaintance would ridicule the longest of chores. From lab usage to resource acquisition and research. Such were financial responsibilities of higher education. At least tuition was free at Eastline- A cough interrupted. Cymir jumped.

  A man in a black jacket bordered by purple embroidery stood silently next to them. Where did he come from? How long was he standing there? Those questions were ignored as he handed a wax-sealed letter to Menor. Who accepted with a raised eyebrow. Feeling the matte texture of the mail, and the golden cursive up on, a frown appeared on his face. With a flick of the wrist the wax seal fell off and the missive removed. Resting his chin on against his free hand all emotions vanished once he began reading the multiple, page-long letter.

  Towards such an event Cymir could not help but ponder. Something more important than those files? Was it a letter from some rich aristocrats or nobility beyond the Magus Wall? Maybe some nasty plots? Menor looked the type. Unfortunately the envelope had been placed face down. The sender's address hidden. Any attempt to flip it led to an unwatched slap of the hand. With nothing to do the youngster turned to the black-jacket man.

  Before a single sound the man flashed his badge, Tacheo's Association: Courier Department. With a grumpy voice the courier demanded no prying questions. Cymir nodded a few times in silence. That ended quickly. With fleeting interest the student turned to the surroundings finding those many stares hidden. Some looked away while others pretended to sleep. Even the librarians had vanished.

  Despite the envelope within reach, the man's presence chilled the building. Slumping into his chair, Cymir's sight looked skyward past the ceiling of skylights and tapped the table. So Bothersome. Then Menor took a quick glance at him. Oh? Did the letter involve him? Straightening his posture the youth presented a bold smile. Only to be met replied with silence. Why was it always silence? At least denial could be accepted!

  Double checking the letter's contents and it's provided copy, the Menor inquired about the response deadline. Hearing the necessity of urgency he pulled out two pieces of blank paper and wrote.

  "This is my counter-offer," Menor said, "The terms shall be the same, but with additional compensation. Seeing the urgency of the matter, my additional requests should be fair. Signature is pre-sighed on the counter-offer. If I don't get a response within a day, from now, I'll assume it's accepted and a carbon copy delivered soon.

  Folding the papers, with a copy of his offer, into the envelope he watched for gestures of confirmation. A single nod answered. Satisfied Menor handed over the letter. The courier sealed it and walked away with a smile. Mentioning how bold the student was.

  "So, what did you do to get them on your back?" Cymir whispered.

  "Let's go," Menor replied.

  "Eh? Where?"

  "The Cadastral Association. Combat authorizations. The big bad scare you enough to forget?"

  Cymir retorted harshly, yet fist pump showed other thoughts. Jumping to his feet he sped towards the exit. Not too fast to avoid the wrathful staff. His acquaintance, on the other hand, took his time to clean up. Making sure to stow away the letter's duplicate. Gathering the files Menor stood up and stretched. The people around followed suit. With quiet chatter and sighs of relief they gave their greetings and thanks. One by one he handed out the files along with a line or two of advice. A few coins in return for each exchange.

  A flurry of steps came up the wooden stairs as Cymir appeared with an sheepish smile. One would expect full confidence after achieving their goal, but he needed directions once more. Half-expecting the situation, Menor beckoned. Attempting to divert his embarrassment the youth glanced at bag of coins. To such answered transit expenses and the man will not be paying again.