“Who are you, and where are you from?”
You begin to explain, hesitant at first, recounting details that seem so ordinary to you but leave him with a furrowed brow and a growing look of incomprehension. Just as his words make little sense to you, it’s clear yours make even less sense to him. His expression flickers between frustration and disbelief before he cuts you off with a sharp wave of his hand.
“Enough.” His voice is firm but laced with exasperation. “I don’t know if you’re from another world or simply deluded, but it doesn’t matter. You’re here now, and that means you’re bound to the rules of Fablewood Academy. The ceremony cannot wait.”
Before you can protest or ask what any of this means, he conjures a scroll from thin air with a fluid motion. The suddenness of it makes you flinch, and he seems to notice, though he says nothing about it. He unfurls the parchment with a practiced snap of his wrist and begins reading aloud.
“Hatterick Marchhare,” he calls, his voice echoing in the vast hall.
One of the students steps forward from the gathered crowd. He appears perfectly human, though there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes that suggests otherwise. His light brown hair is slightly tousled, and his grin seems as though he’s perpetually amused by some private joke.
Hatterick strides confidently to the edge of the strange circular pond at the center of the room. You watch him with curiosity, your attention briefly drifting to the walls. Now that your initial shock is wearing off, the surroundings pull your focus. The walls are alive with murals that seem to glow faintly in the dim light, each one a masterpiece of vibrant colors and intricate details. They depict moments frozen in time—some you recognize, others you don’t.
To your left, a castle made entirely of shimmering glass stands tall against a backdrop of twilight, its spires reflecting fragments of a golden sun. Beside it, a figure sits hunched over a spinning wheel, golden thread glinting in their hands as if spun from the very stars themselves. Further along, a woman cloaked in the night sky holds a crescent moon in her palm, her gaze serene yet commanding.
Each mural is separated by swirling motifs of vines, scrolls, and mysterious runes that seem to dance in the flickering light. The images are overwhelming, their sheer scale and detail making you feel both small and captivated. There’s an undeniable familiarity to some of them—stories whispered to you as a child, pages turned late into the night—but others are completely foreign, hinting at tales you’ve never heard.
You’re so lost in the mesmerizing details that you almost miss Hatterick taking another step forward, his movement drawing your attention back to the ceremony unfolding before you.
To your amazement, he doesn’t sink into the pond. Instead, he walks on its surface as if it were solid. You squint, trying to discern its true nature. Is it water? Or perhaps a mirror? The surface shimmers faintly, reflecting not only the surroundings but also something else, something deeper.
Solon speaks again, his tone now ceremonious. “Ethereal Mirror, reveal the resonance within this soul.”
For a few seconds, nothing happens. The stillness hangs heavy in the room, and you almost begin to think this is some elaborate performance, a prank, or perhaps even a very vivid dream. The silence presses in, broken only by the faint murmur of the other students shifting in anticipation. Then, the surface of the Ethereal Mirror begins to shimmer faintly, like ripples spreading across a glassy pond.
Suddenly, a glow emanates from its depths, soft at first but rapidly intensifying. Threads of light spiral upward, twisting and curling in intricate patterns like ribbons caught in an invisible breeze. The light wraps around Hatterick, swirling faster and faster until it forms a dazzling vortex of color.
Within the glow, shapes begin to emerge, their forms flickering into focus. Teapots of all shapes and sizes pour streams of glittering liquid that disappear before they hit the ground. A wide-brimmed hat spins slowly in the air, its brim adorned with whimsical trinkets. A long, impossibly wide table materializes, draped in mismatched tablecloths and set with an absurd array of teacups, saucers, and platters piled high with pastries. You recognize it all instantly, the chaotic charm of the Mad Hatter’s tea party from Alice in Wonderland.
The images shift and dance, replaying fleeting fragments of the Hatter’s story. You catch glimpses of a hare with wild eyes, a watch forever stuck at six o’clock, and the Hatter himself, grinning in his peculiar, manic way. Each image feels alive, vibrant with energy, as though pulled directly from the pages of the story.
Hatterick’s grin widens as he watches the spectacle unfold, his mischief-filled eyes reflecting the swirling lights. He doesn’t seem surprised by what’s happening; in fact, he looks utterly delighted, as if greeting an old friend. The glow around him pulses once, and the images swirl together, blurring into a foggy shape. The Mad Hatter himself takes form, his smile wide and his eyes alight with mischief. He doesn’t speak but extends a hand toward Hatterick, who accepts it without hesitation. The light intensifies, and the surface of the Ethereal Mirror begins to ripple and rise, swirling around them in a spiraling cascade.
You can’t look away as the light condenses on Hatterick’s outstretched hand, spiraling inward like a funnel of pure energy. It gathers at the back of his hand, coalescing into a single point before flaring brightly. The sharp intensity of the glow makes you squint, but Hatterick doesn’t move, except for a slight wince, his expression remains composed, even exhilarated.
The glow lingers for a moment, searing itself into his skin, its edges crackling faintly like a brand pressed to flesh. When the light finally begins to fade, you catch sight of the mark left behind. What first resembles a raw burn softens almost instantly, the vivid redness giving way to deep black lines that form a striking tattoo.
The design is intricate, almost alive in its detail: a canine paw at the center, its pads marked by sharp, elegant curves, encircled by thorny vines that twist and coil as though caught in an eternal snare. The tattoo gleams faintly in the remaining light, a final trace of the magic that formed it.
As the last remnants of the light and the fogged form of the Hatter disappear, the room is enveloped in an almost reverent silence. Even the other students, many of whom seem nonchalant, appear briefly captivated. Solon steps forward, his commanding presence drawing all attention to him.
“Hatterick Marchhare,” he begins, his voice calm yet resonant, “your Resonance has been revealed: the Mad Hatter, a figure of chaos, creativity, and unyielding defiance against the ordinary.” He pauses, his sharp gaze sweeping the room, as if ensuring everyone grasps the weight of his words.
Solon’s voice deepens slightly, his tone formal and decisive. “As such, the Ethereal Mirror has determined your place within Scarletfang.”
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