Chapter 11 - A Desk of Her Own
Korth was not a city designed for dreamers.
It was heavy with history, built from stone and steel, and stitched together with towers that pierced the sky. Skycoaches hummed overhead, ferrying the important and the impatient. Soldiers in deep red moved with measured steps through the main streets, the House Deneith crest glinting on polished pauldrons. The air held a lingering trace of soot, damp parchment, and fried spices from an alleyway vendor whose food still made Neia’s stomach grumble.
And yet, despite it all, she smiled.A city like this should have felt cold. Impersonal. But Korth had its own kind of warmth. Shutters were painted in muted tones that softened the sharp lines of the buildings. Hand-lettered signs dangled above herbalist shops and tinkering stalls. Rooftop gardens overflowed with leafy vegetables and bright blossoms, spilling into view like nature’s quiet rebellion against iron and stone.
People didn’t linger in Korth. They moved with purpose, shoulders squared, eyes ahead. But even the harsh rhythm of their steps carried its own beauty. The city breathed around them, full of stories not waiting to be told, but content to exist.
Neia adjusted her satchel and continued walking, careful not to let herself get swept into the flow of people too quickly. She was headed just beyond the inner districts, toward one of the city’s most renowned academic institutions: Morgrave University.
While its main campus had originally been established in Sharn, this Korth branch had flourished over the past few decades, especially its smaller departments focused on practical and applied magical research. Nestled near the edge of the academic quarter, the local Morgrave halls were woven into the old foundation of what had once been a watch garrison. They were rumoured to be disorganized, eccentric, and cluttered with genius. Her kind of place.
The only problem was getting there.
She had directions. Sort of. They were scribbled on a folded letter and slightly smudged from the light morning drizzle. Twice she circled the same stone obelisk in the central square, certain it hadn’t been on the map. Once she accidentally wandered into a glassblowers’ guild hall and was politely but firmly redirected by a woman holding three molten rods. By the third wrong turn, she was muttering to herself and considering turning into a squirrel just to get a better vantage point. Eventually, she found a pair of older flower sellers arranging bouquets near a shaded awning. They gave her directions with the practiced rhythm of locals who had explained the same path dozens of times, with a few side notes about their favourite tea stalls along the way.
It took another ten minutes — and one unexpected detour through a skycoach hangar — but finally, she saw it: the Morgrave University annex in Korth, set into the slope of a narrow hill, its outer courtyard blooming with frost-resistant herbs and bluebell ivy. Arcane lanterns lit the entry in shifting hues, and brass signage gleamed from beneath a thick curtain of vines. Inside, the halls were warmer than expected. The smell of old parchment, crushed herbs, and something faintly cinnamony hung in the air. Neia followed the signs toward her assigned department until she reached a door that read Department of Botanical and Restorative Arcana.
She knocked once, then stepped in.
Her new supervisor was waiting, seated behind a desk piled high with journals and open books. He looked up and stood immediately, a man in his early fifties with kind eyes behind his spectacles and the posture of someone more comfortable in greenhouses than boardrooms.
“You must be Neia,” he said with a gentle smile. “No worries about the time. Honestly, if you’d managed to find this place without getting lost at least once, I would’ve been suspicious.”
She exhaled a soft laugh. “I went through a glassblowing guild, two bakeries, and possibly a skycoach garage.”
“Perfect,” he said, motioning her in. “That’s the standard orientation route. You’re already ahead of half the faculty.”
She stepped further into the office, shoulders relaxing as she took in the plants lining the windowsill and the teacup that had clearly been forgotten mid-sip.
“Asalor Tain,” he introduced himself, shaking her hand with a soft grip. “But please, just Asa is fine. I don’t stand on titles unless I’m yelling at a thesis draft.”
Neia chuckled, already grateful.
“Welcome to the department. We’ve had a gap in druidic research for some time now, and your background brings exactly the kind of perspective we’ve been missing. Especially considering your focus.”
His tone shifted just enough to carry weight but not pity. Neia nodded. She didn’t need to say it. He already knew. The curse. The hope. The long road that had led her here. She’d made it. She was in the right place.
Neia’s new office at Morgrave sat along a quiet corridor where the sunlight filtered through coloured glass in soft shades of gold and blue. Dust caught the light in lazy spirals, and the scent of old wood and dried ink lingered in the air. It was a small, shared space, tucked into the back wing of the Department of Botanical and Restorative Arcana, where four other researchers already sat hunched over scrolls and leaf-pressed folios. They offered her polite nods and quiet greetings, already lost in their own work. She didn’t mind the silence. After everything, it was the kind of peace she welcomed.
Her desk stood by the window, broad and sturdy, made from old oak with its age worn proudly in the grooves and faded varnish. The moment she ran her hand across the surface, she froze. The grain was warm and familiar. Her chest tightened.
It reminded her of home.
Of the great oak at the centre of her childhood grove, roots reaching so deep they hummed beneath the earth. Of humid air rich with moss and wildflowers. Of her mother’s gentle voice calling her in for dinner, the scent of roasted mushrooms and herb-stewed grains thick in the air. Of her father’s quiet laugh as he took her hand and walked the length of the lakeside when either of them needed to think.
And of Daer, the dryad who had stepped into the role of older sister long before Neia had even known to miss having one. Daer who taught her the names of the trees and how to listen when the wind shifted through leaves. Daer who would braid Neia’s hair and hum ancient lullabies that only the grove remembered.
She hadn’t returned since she left. Not once.There had always been a reason. A new journey, another lead, another page of research that just might bring her closer to a cure. But now, sitting alone at this desk in a university far from the grove, far from her family, far from everything green and alive in the way the forest had been… she felt it. A deep longing, so quiet it barely stirred the surface, but unmistakable.
Neia blinked hard and exhaled.With care, she began unpacking her things. A collection of reference books, their covers marked with dried petals. A bundle of parchment tied with twine. A chipped pale green mug that looked like a curled leaf. A small tin of herbal balm. And a stack of letters from home, folded and tied with faded orange ribbon.
Later that day, her supervisor walked her through the maze-like hallways of the university, explaining which labs and lecture halls belonged to which department. They passed students hunched over scrolls, spell diagrams scrawled on chalkboards, and aromatic clouds from alchemical experiments left to steep. Eventually, they reached the library, its high windows casting long beams of afternoon light across the stone floor. Asa led her to a staircase tucked behind a set of carved shelves.
“Up there is the rare collections section. The section’s restricted to senior researchers and faculty, but you’ll have full access under my clearance. Some of the older texts on regenerative arcana might be helpful. Let me know if you need translations. Several are in older dialects.”
Neia followed him, her eyes wide as she took in the vast shelves and spiralling archive ladders. The smell of old parchment and faint lavender ink clung to the air.
Across the hall, two men sat amid a clutter of open books, quietly exchanging notes.
Devon, halfway through a line of reading, glanced up — then paused. He recognized her instantly. That same long brown hair, tied loosely into a ponytail this time. That same open but unreadable expression. She was the stranger who had crashed Gideon’s quiet teatime not long ago at Inkwyrm & Co. The one who had ordered the sweet tea. The one who had somehow managed to fluster Gideon Thorne. Not many people could say that.
Devon tilted his head slightly and narrowed his eyes in interest. Caelan, reviewing the next assignment scroll beside him, didn’t notice the shift until Devon elbowed him.
“What now,” Caelan muttered.
Devon nodded toward the other side of the room, a half-smile playing on his lips. “That might be a face we’ll be seeing more often.”
Caelan followed his gaze, but by the time he looked, Neia had disappeared into the stacks with Asa, unaware of the eyes on her.
Devon let out a low hum. He didn’t know her name. But something told him this wasn’t the last time he’d see her.