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Prompts in text file
Page 1
Beotrix groggily awakens in her Mage Guild dorm room, knocking an empty wine bottle from the bed as she struggles upright. Her long red hair is tangled and strewn across the blankets, and an unfamiliar arm draped over her waist quickly reminds her that last night may have been more eventful than she remembers. Pushing the arm aside, she glances over to find a sleeping man beside her—someone she can't quite place.
A look at the nearly spent candle on the nightstand sends a spike of panic through her. Mariel's lecture on War Magic is about to begin, and she's already running late. As she scrambles out of bed in search of her clothes, she throws another puzzled look toward her mysterious companion, wondering what she ever saw in such an otherwise average-looking fellow.
Then, while gathering her things, she catches sight of a rather revealing clue that answers the question almost immediately - a large appendage sticking out from under the blanket. "Ah," she says out loud with a crooked grin. With that mystery solved, Beotrix hurries out the door, secretly hoping he'll still be there when classes are over.
Page 2
Beotrix slips quietly out of her room, easing the door shut behind her with painstaking care, making sure not to wake her potential midday snack. Only once she's in the hallway does the reality hit her—she's running out of time. "Damn."
Of all the classes to be late for, it had to be Mariel's.
The "Ice Queen" wasn't exactly known for her patience, especially with students who strolled in after the lesson had already begun. Worse, Beotrix desperately needed the class. Ever since discovering her affinity for fire magic, controlling it had been an uphill battle. Her flames were powerful, but without discipline they had a nasty habit of flaring up in intensity at the worst possible moments. If she wanted any hope of mastering her gift instead of letting it master her, she couldn't afford to miss another lesson.
Page 3
Beotrix lunges through the classroom doorway just as the enchanted ward flares to life. The heavy door slams shut behind her with a resounding thud, sealing itself as the lesson officially begins. The spell tolerated no late arrivals. A heartbeat later, another young sorcerer rushes up the hall, only to stop at the closed door. He peers through the narrow window, sighs in defeat, and trudges away, already resigned to missing today's lecture.
Page 4
Beotrix barely has time to catch her breath before she feels it. She looks up.
Mariel stands at the front of the room, arms folded neatly across her chest, gazing down at her with the faintest curl of a smile. It wasn't warm. It wasn't welcoming. It was the sort of smile that seemed to delight in someone else's discomfort.
Elves had long regarded goblins as little more than uncivilized nuisances, but Beotrix's wild goblin heritage seemed to amuse Mariel in a way none of her other students ever could. There was something intoxicating about the contrast between the disciplined elven professor and the impulsive little pyromancer constantly fighting against her own nature. Every failed spell, every frustrated groan, every singed sleeve seemed to feed that subtle sense of superiority.
Mariel would never admit it aloud—perhaps she wasn't even fully aware of it herself—but watching Beotrix struggle carried an oddly satisfying sweetness that lingered just beneath her otherwise composed demeanor.
Page 5
Tiribeth let out a slow, defeated sigh as her hand slid up her face, pinching the bridge of her nose before settling into a full facepalm. She peeked through the narrow gap between her thumb and forefinger, just enough to watch Beotrix's latest catastrophe unfold. It was somehow worse than she'd imagined.
Being a goblin at the academy was already difficult enough. Every lecture, every practical exercise, every whispered conversation carried the unspoken burden of proving that goblins belonged alongside humans and elves. They were expected to work twice as hard just to be judged half as fairly. Every mistake, no matter how small, seemed to confirm prejudices that had existed for generations.
And then there was Beotrix.
A one-goblin argument for every awful stereotype the academy held.
Late. Loud. Reckless. Slutty. Covered in soot more often than not. If there was a graceful way to enter a classroom, Beotrix would somehow discover the exact opposite. Tiribeth had spent months trying to convince her classmates that goblins weren't all impulsive troublemakers, only for Beotrix to barrel through the doorway as some transfer arrangement at the last possible second and hand everyone fresh ammunition.
Around the lecture hall, the reaction was immediate. A few students exchanged amused glances before lowering their heads to hide crooked smiles. Others weren't nearly as subtle. Quiet snickers rippled across the tiered benches, punctuated by the occasional muffled laugh. One human nudged his elven classmate, both of them grinning as they watched Beotrix catch her breath beneath Professor Mariel's icy stare.
Tiribeth's ears flattened against her head.
"Wonderful," she thought bitterly. "There goes another month of trying to convince everyone we aren't all complete disasters."
She knew Beotrix wasn't malicious. If anything, she was earnest to a fault, always throwing herself into everything with more enthusiasm than caution. But intent didn't matter to the people around them. They wouldn't remember the talented young woman struggling to master a difficult discipline. They would remember the spectacle—the goblin who arrived late, stumbled into class, and somehow managed to become the center of attention before the lesson had even begun.
With another weary sigh, Tiribeth let her hand fall just enough to glance toward Beotrix again.
"Please," she silently pleaded, "just get through one lesson without setting something on fire."
Page 6
At the front of the room stood Mariel, exactly as she had been before the interruption—arms folded neatly across her chest, posture immaculate, her expression unreadable save for the faintest arch of one eyebrow. Her gaze lingered on Beotrix's tangled crimson hair, the hastily straightened robes, and the unmistakable look of someone who had sprinted the entire length of the academy.
"...Apprentice Beotrix," Mariel said after a measured pause. "How fortunate."
The words were perfectly polite. Her tone was not.
Page 7
"It would seem you've managed to outrun the ward. An impressive feat. I'm sure whatever battle you had been facing before you entered was worth wagering your attendance" A ripple of restrained laughter moved through the classroom. Mariel inclined her head just enough to indicate the empty seat waiting for Beotrix.
"If you would." Without uncrossing her arms, Mariel shifted her attention back toward the blackboard. Resting upon its ledge, a single stick of chalk shivered before lifting effortlessly into the air.
The chalk hesitated. It quivered as though something unseen had wrapped icy fingers around it before reluctantly obeying. Floating toward the board, it began to write in elegant, practiced strokes while Mariel remained perfectly still, never breaking the composed stance she had held since Beotrix entered.
Only the brief, unnatural shudder of the chalk betrayed that invisible forces—not hands—were at work.
Page 8
Beotrix quickly spotted Tiribeth in the second row, doing her best to hide behind her oversized robe. Wasting no time, Beotrix hurried over and slid into the empty seat beside her one-sided friend.
It was always comforting to see another goblin in the lecture hall. They might not share the same shade of skin, but that hardly mattered to Beotrix. There was an unspoken understanding between them—a familiarity born from being the same kind of people. Some things simply didn't need explaining when the person beside you already knew where you came from.
Unfortunately, that sense of kinship wasn't shared equally among goblins. Their kind had never been particularly accepting of anything that strayed from what they considered normal. Differences were often met with suspicion long before they were met with understanding. Tiribeth had suffered that prejudice more than most. Born with striking blue skin instead of the familiar shades of green, she had been treated as an abomination by her own family, who had wanted her dead simply for existing. It was a cruel reminder that goblins were quick to fear what they didn't recognize, even when it came from one of their own.
Beotrix remembers feeling the same way not that long ago. But that's not important right now. Beotrix looks over at Tiribeth and whispered "Tiri, can i look over on your tome? I forgot mine..."
Page 9
Beotrix flips through her "friend's" tome, squinting at Tiri's meticulously written notes. She stares at the page for a long moment before scratching her head.
"These are... um..." she mutters. "I... don't actually know what any of these words mean."
Tiribeth leaned over and whispered, "That's because you can't read shorthand, B. We've been over this."
They bicker for a moment and then the screen drifts away to an adjacent kingdom.
Page 10
[The screen breaks to a chase scene, a green foot scrapes against the cavern floor as dust is hurled from the ground.]
Bellani's pulse thundered in her ears as instinct took over. Every muscle tensed, her breath came in sharp bursts, and adrenaline flooded her veins with blinding intensity. She couldn't tell what she was fighting—only that it moved with terrifying speed, striking from the darkness before vanishing again. Every shadow became a threat, every sound a warning. She reacted on pure instinct, her body moving before her mind could catch up, driven by the desperate certainty that hesitation would mean death. The unknown was far more frightening than any monster she could have named, and with every heartbeat, the feeling grew that whatever hunted her understood exactly what she was long before she understood what it was.
Page 11
[a muffled voice of Mariel speaking can be heard from behind the scene playing out, as though the two events are happening simultaneously.]
Her reflexes had been forged through decades of relentless training for moments exactly like this. In a single fluid motion, she ducked beneath the attack, pivoted on her heel, and transformed from prey into predator. As she twisted, her dagger slipped effortlessly into her grasp, its blade catching the light while her eyes swept across the abomination's grotesque form in search of a flaw. Then she saw it.
There.
Page 12
[muffled sounds play out from a the classroom, as the camera shows fragments of Bellani's wetwork]
The creature's blood was revolting, thick and foul, carrying the rancid stench of an ox wagon left to rot beneath the summer sun. Bellani lowered herself to the ground with a weary sigh, methodically wiping the putrid sludge from her twin daggers before it had a chance to ruin the steel.
She still had no idea what the thing had been. Some kind of insect, perhaps? Whatever it was, she could only hope its head—or whatever remained of it—would fetch a decent reward.
The encounter had cost her precious time, but there had been no avoiding it. Sometimes the only path forward was through whatever nightmare decided to stand in the way.
Page 13
[The camera returns to the classroom]
Mariel stops and addresses the room, the chalk behind her continues to write what she speaks to the class.
"To understand mana, imagine dipping your hand into a jar of golden honey. As you lift it away and let the honey fall onto another surface, it does not separate cleanly. Long, delicate strands stretch between the honey left behind and the honey that has fallen, binding the two together until the connection finally breaks.
Mana flows in much the same way.
Every soul blessed with the gift of magic remains tethered to the Divine by invisible strands known as "mana threads". These ethereal filaments act as conduits, allowing the limitless power of the heavens to trickle into the mortal vessel. A mage does not create mana from within themselves—they merely draw upon what continues to flow through these sacred threads.
Most beings, however, possess no such connection. It is as though the honey had already fallen and the final strand snapped the moment it touched the ground. They remain whole, yet forever separated from the source, unable to draw even the faintest drop of divine power. Only those whose mana threads remain intact can feel the current of the Divine passing through them, channeling that unseen river into spells, blessings, and miracles."
Page 14
Beotrix raised a hand to her mouth, desperately trying to smother a laugh. The image of sticky strands stretching between two globs had reminded her of something decidedly less scholarly, and the more she tried to banish the thought, the funnier it became.
A quiet snort escaped before she could stop it. She clamp a hand over her lips, shoulders trembling as she fought to contain herself. Beside her, Tiribeth slowly turned her head. She didn't utter a single word. She didn't have to. The icy glare she fixed upon Beotrix conveyed a message clearer than any lecture.
Don't. You. Dare. 👁️
Beotrix squeezed her eyes shut, biting the inside of her cheek with all the discipline she could muster. Somehow, against every instinct urging her otherwise, she managed to swallow the laughter before it could erupt and doom the entire lesson.
Page 15
[Camera shifts to another scene as Mariel's voice is muffled into the background again. Tiribeth's glare lingers in the air for a moment. There seems to be a pattern here.]
Paulos raised his sword, the abricite woven through its steel flaring as it absorbed the torrent of magic crashing against it. Across from him, Elias continued his relentless incantations, layering spell upon spell as he searched for the slightest weakness in Paulos's guard. The pressure was immense. Beneath his grip, the enchanted blade groaned, its once-rigid steel beginning to warp under the strain. That wasn't just a warning—it meant the weapon was nearing its limit.
"Elias!" Paulos shouted, struggling to be heard over the roar of crackling arcane energy. He tried again, louder this time, but the mage offered no response. Cloaked in black, Elias stood motionless save for the rhythmic movements of his hands, his crimson eyes fixed ahead as though trapped within the spell itself, lost in a trance from which he could no longer hear his friend's voice.
"If you break my sword with this new spell o' yours, I'm gonnae make ye eat that bloody hat!" Paulos barked, his thick Scottish brogue cutting through the clash of steel and magic.
