Witch Hat Atelier || Great Hall

The door to Beldaruit’s study had been left open a crack, which was unusual enough to make Qifrey hesitate in the corridor, one hand half-raised to knock. Olruggio, who had been trailing behind him complaining about a botched warming charm and the draft in the east tower, nearly walked into his back.

“What?” Olruggio grunted, peering over Qifrey’s shoulder.

Qifrey didn’t answer. He pushed the door inward with the toe of his boot, his tall turquoise hat tilting forward to shadow his face. The black ribbon at its end swayed.

Inside, the study was empty of its owner. A half-formed smokesculpture drifted near the ceiling, slowly unraveling into blue-grey tendrils that smelled of bergamot and burnt sugar. But the Wise in Teachings was nowhere to be seen.

In his place, a guy sat perched on the edge of the cluttered mahogany desk, swinging their heels against the wood.

At least, Qifrey thought it was a guy. The figure was slight, hair in a short ponytail that left delicate features ambiguous and sharp. Their eyes regarded them from above a half-eaten honey-cake, utterly calm. Crumbs dusted the surface of the desk, sprinkling over a stack of apprenticeship evaluations and a rare, open map of the Serpentback Mountains.

Qifrey went very still.

Olruggio stepped inside first, the gold ornaments on his black hat catching the light as he glanced around. “Huh. Beldaruit’s not here.”

His gaze landed on the stranger. Then on the pastry box. Then on the desk.

“Who are you?” Qifrey asked. His voice was quiet, almost soft, but it carried the flat edge of a drawn blade. His single visible eye—pale blue, cold—fixed on the intruder with immediate, bristling suspicion.

Olruggio crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe with the blunt confidence of someone who knew he belonged here. “Didn’t think the old man let anyone touch his sweets. Let alone sit on his paperwork.” He tilted his head, black hair falling across his forehead. “You lost, kid? This isn’t the kitchens.”

Qifrey took another step into the room, his cream cape rustling. The smell of sugar and smoke was thick, but underneath it, Qifrey caught something unfamiliar—soap, and the faint, foreign scent of an Outsider. Someone who didn’t belong in the Great Hall. In Beldaruit’s private study. Sitting on his desk like they owned it.

“Get down,” Qifrey said. Not a request. “Now. That’s not a seat.”

He glanced at the ruined parchment, at the careless scatter of crumbs across wood that Qifrey himself had always been too careful to scratch. A strange, hot twist of resentment coiled in his chest. He didn’t know this person. Didn’t know why they were here, or why they looked so comfortable in a space that had only ever felt conditional to Qifrey himself.

“Does Beldaruit know you’re here?” Qifrey demanded, his voice dropping lower. “Or did you just wander in?”

Olruggio pushed off the frame, moving to Qifrey’s side. His posture was less hostile than Qifrey’s, but no less imposing. “If you’re running an errand, you’re doing it wrong. Nobody touches that desk, and nobody—” he gestured at the pastry crumbs with a sharp jerk of his chin, “—eats the old man’s private stash. Who sent you?”

Qifrey’s jaw tightened. The room felt smaller. Wrong. He had come here to ask Beldaruit about a reference in the Tower of Tomes, to feel the solid ground of his master’s authority beneath his feet. Instead, he found a stranger swinging their legs on the desk, wearing an expression of perfect, maddening ease.

He didn’t like it. He didn’t like them.

The Great Hall hummed with the perpetual, muffled rhythm of the ocean currents pressing against the massive magical barrier far above. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment, ink, and the faint sweetness of pastries that always seemed to cling to Beldaruit’s robes.

In the Wise’s personal study, the atmosphere was typically one of hallowed quiet, broken only by the scratching of quills or the rustle of turning pages. Today, however, the heavy door creaked open with an uncharacteristic amount of haste.

Beldaruit wheeled himself in, his sealchair’s ram-like legs clicking softly against the polished floor. His white and sky-blue robes were disheveled, and there was a distinct, mischievous glint in his grey eyes that usually preceded a lecture on the wonders of magical theory—usually one that would take three hours longer than necessary.

But it wasn't the eccentric Wise One that caused Qifrey to freeze in the middle of sorting a stack of grimoires.

Qifrey, dressed in his pale cream and turquoise apprentice attire, stared from behind his round glasses. His one visible eye widened, the white hair falling over the right side of his face doing little to hide his expression of sheer disbelief. He stood rigid, his hand hovering halfway to the next book, his breath catching in his throat.

Perched somewhat precariously on a stack of books on Beldaruit’s lap—or perhaps being cradled like an oversized, scaly cat—was a creature that had no business being inside the stronghold of the Pointed Hats.

It was small, yes, but the scales glinting with the bioluminescence of the deep sea, and the sharp, predatory glint of their vertical-slit eyes were unmistakable. A dragon.

"Qifrey, my boy!" Beldaruit chirped, oblivious to the tension suddenly stiffening his apprentice’s posture. He wheeled further into the room, the sealchair’s horns nearly knocking over a stack of ink bottles. "Don't just stand there gaping. Close the door, quickly! We can't have the Knights Morals snooping about just yet."

Qifrey finally found his voice, though it came out strangled and higher than usual. "Master... Beldaruit." He took a hesitant step back, his gaze darting from the Wise to the beast. "Is that... is that a dragon?"

"A remarkable find, aren't they?" Beldaruit beaming, reaching out to scratch the creature under the chin with a fondness usually reserved for his favorite confections. "I found them near the surface ruins during my outing. They're just a fledgling, all alone. Can you imagine the potential? The raw magical resonance in their scales alone!"

Qifrey stared at the sharp teeth visible in the creature's maw. His mind raced with the regulations regarding dangerous beasts, the security risks to the underwater bubble, and the sheer, unadulterated danger of sitting within arm's reach of a predator known for decimating entire villages. The recklessness was staggering.

"Master," Qifrey said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as he stepped forward, his brows furrowed deeply. "That is a dragon. They are territorial, dangerous—even the young ones. You’ve brought it... them... into the Great Hall? Into your study?"

He looked at the scales again, his heart hammering against his ribs. This wasn't just a forbidden text; this was a living catastrophe waiting to happen. "Have you lost your mind?"