CHAPTER 259: THE TRUE ART OF CHROMOMANCY

Days slipped past swiftly. Eleanor had only a single week to catch up with all her theoretical classes before the practical training began. After that, she would have to prepare for the journey to Vanaheim, where her awakening awaited.

Yet Eleanor did not fear. She was closing the gap, slowly but surely. She would have been on par with her peers already, had she not insisted on working through every reference book recommended by the professors. In her hunger for knowledge, she pushed both body and mind to the limit, determined to absorb all the academy had to offer in the short time granted to her.

By day, she attended her mandatory courses, each held on alternating days. Ophelia proved an unexpected ally, lending her the meticulous notes Eleanor had missed. It was not in Ophelia’s nature to take notes for herself, let alone for another... but she had done so all the same. Eleanor was quietly grateful.

Rest of the mornings were devoted to study under Professor Jiro or Professor Seren. Fortuitously, Instructor Arrichion, seeing the dark circles deepening under Eleanor’s eyes, granted her a week’s leave from his training. If only he knew how she spent it... not in rest, but in further labour. She studied the academy curriculum through the day, then, after dinner, retreated to her room where she devoured the texts Nora had uncovered from the academy servers. She read almost until dawn, stopping only when exhaustion forced the book from her hands.

Professor Jiro, mercifully, had paused his lessons until Eleanor could catch up. With only two students... Eleanor and Ophelia... he now resumed his classes after the mandatory morning lectures, carrying them through until lunchtime.

Theirs was not a comfortable syllabus. He taught them how to endure when stripped of civilisation, of food, of fire, of tools, of communication. Lessons began with the simplest of tasks... dozens of ways to conjure flame without flint or tinder... and climbed to the intricate, like charting courses by the silent glow of starlight.

They learned quickly that Vanaheim bore no resemblance to Midgard’s skies. There were no fixed constellations across the realm... no North Star to anchor one’s bearings. Each region carried its own scatter of stars, a chaos of shifting skies that defied the making of a single, unified map. Only three constants existed... the three moons, visible to all corners of Vanaheim.

By day, navigation was simple enough. The solitary sun allowed Midgardians to mark landmarks or follow its steady path, though storms and driving rain could hinder even the keenest eyes. By night, however, survival demanded more than instinct. The only way to find one’s path was to know the moons... their phases, their positions and to read them not only for direction, but also for time. And time mattered, for night in Vanaheim was a curse.

Almost every creature of that realm lived beneath the ground by day, shunning the sunlight. At night, the land crawled with them. To Midgardians, every last one was deadly. The waters were poison, the air itself often treacherous, and the beasts were worse. Even the Tecton... an ant-like super gentle creature that fed only upon the dead and never struck at the living... could spell disaster. One careless step upon its carapace, one thoughtless crush, and the hive-mind would stir. Thousands, then millions, would rise with single-minded vengeance. One ant might seem trivial. An army of them was death itself.

Fortunately, Professor Jiro possessed a vast album filled with drawings... detailed illustrations of the realm’s fauna. With these he taught them how to recognise each creature, how to avoid them, and, if avoidance failed, which ones could be killed and which ones must never be engaged.

These lessons fell under the cultivation course, the term’s focus being Ascendance and Vanaheim. Yet Jiro’s teaching turned them into something far more rigorous than the syllabus required. He explained not only what these creatures were, but why they behaved as they did... their instincts, their weaknesses, their patterns. It was his nature to go in-depth, often painstakingly so. But thanks to that habit, Eleanor and Ophelia gained more than theory. They acquired the beginnings of readiness... the ability to meet the unknown with knowledge sharp enough to cut fear itself.

Even the lessons in dead languages... subjects Eleanor had at first dismissed as useless, proved far more fascinating than she could have imagined. She had assumed the academy’s translator nanobots would carry her through any language barrier. Yet Vanaheim was riddled with tongues long fallen silent, fragments of speech and inscription with only a handful of surviving words. The nanobots faltered there, unable to supply meaning where no complete structure remained.

By studying the remnants herself, Eleanor found she could make sense of scattered remarks and half-forgotten records. Every language in Vanaheim, no matter how broken, shared the grammatical skeleton of the ancient rune tongue. Professor Jiro drilled them in its foundations until they could begin to piece together meanings from fragments, to bear sense where others might hear only noise.

For Eleanor, the experience was strangely exhilarating... like uncovering the whisper of a world long buried. For Ophelia, it was something else entirely. Having never been a serious student, she found the process of absorbing so much theory strange, numbing, and exhausting. She yawned through nearly every class, her eyes glassy from the weight of symbols and syntax. And yet, she never stopped paying attention. However tedious the work felt, she knew one truth... knowledge of survival, whether linguistic or otherwise... might be the only thing standing between her and death in the month to come.

***

Eleanor’s lesson with Professor Seren went surprisingly smoothly. She discovered that the Department of Mental Arts was not, in fact, hostile to its own students... only to outsiders. The clashing neon pink walls set against acid green panels were not a matter of eccentric taste, but deliberate design. Their sole purpose was to irritate visitors, driving them away without a word being spoken. And it worked. Since the colours had been introduced, no one from other departments came here twice unless duty absolutely required it.

"Colours influence us," Professor Seren explained, her voice carrying that calm authority Eleanor had come to admire. "They shape us through psychological, biological, even cultural associations. They can sharpen or dull concentration, raise or steady heart rate. They can stimulate or soothe the nervous system. Red and orange agitate. Blue and green soothe. Yellow sparks cheer. Pale tones expand space; dark ones shrink it."

Once past the jarring reception, the corridors changed entirely. Muted shades of soft blue lined the walls, wrapping the space in a hushed serenity. Here the air felt calmer, inviting students to breathe, to reflect, to gather themselves. Eleanor learned that blue, above all, was the colour of safety. Its tie to sky and water made it instinctively reassuring, and clinical studies even confirmed its ability to ease anxiety.

The department library offered yet another shift in atmosphere. Most of the walls were a warm taupe, but one accent wall had been painted a deep forest green. Rich terracotta pillows softened the chairs, while a vase of sunflower-yellow blooms brightened the centre of the great oak table. Professor Seren called it a "harmonious analogous scheme" ... colours that sit beside one another on the spectrum. Green sharpened focus. Taupe steadied the eye. The tiny bursts of yellow kept the mind from sinking into sluggishness.

Even the department’s common room was a careful composition. Students and staff could collect free snacks and canned drinks there by scanning their devices at a kiosk, food sliding from a hidden vault like treasure from a conjurer’s chest. The space itself was arranged with equal care... deep sapphire sofas against warm beige walls, their cushions a vibrant burnt orange. Professor Seren described this as a complementary scheme... blue and orange, opposites across the wheel. Balanced together, they created a room both dynamic and alive. The blue calmed the body, the orange sparked the conversation.

Professor Seren’s chamber was painted in soft shades of green. Green is the colour of balance and harmony. It is restful to the eyes, known to improve reading speed and comprehension. It creates a calm, stable environment conducive to long stretches of focus without ever dulling the mind. Many call it the colour of concentration.

As she taught, Professor Seren’s voice carried the weight of one who had not merely studied colours, but lived among them. "The true art of Chromomancy," she said, "the manipulation of mental and emotional states through colour, lies not in the broad strokes... but in the subtleties. The hue, the saturation, the composition. It is not enough to know a name. One must know the spirit within the shade."

She gestured to a tapestry woven in rich violet threads. "Purple is the bridge. It holds the calm stability of blue and the fierce energy of red. In its deeper tones... aubergine, royal purple... it becomes the colour of introspection, of wisdom, of the mystical. That is why we use it in our meditation chambers. Yet, soften it into lavender or lilac, and it shifts. It becomes nostalgic, delicate, soothing... balm for the anxious mind. The colour of transition, gentle but inevitable."

She moved to a small painted panel of sunlit hues. "Yellow is the mind’s stimulant. It wakes the left brain to logic, the right to creativity. In a golden marigold, it sparks innovation and nimble thought. But saturate it too far... let it burn as bright lemon... and it turns harsh, even cruel. It fatigues the eye, frustrates the spirit, provokes anger. Remember, the mind cannot bask too long in brilliance without being scorched."

Another panel bore a deep, earthen red. "Red is the body’s alarm," Professor Seren intoned. "It quickens the pulse, raises the breath, rouses heat in the blood. It is raw energy, passion, danger. But temper it with earth, and it yields terracotta, burnt sienna. No longer panic, but warmth. Protection. A hearth-fire instead of a blaze."

She let the words sink in before continuing, softer in the end. "A colour is never just its name. It is its shade, its saturation, its weight of light and shadow. A pastel is a whisper; a saturated hue, a shout. Dark shades enclose a space for intimacy or intimidation. Pale tints open it, for freedom and clarity. Alone, a colour is monotone. Oppressive. But when woven together... colours sing."