Ava Brooks

Early spring on the northern magic plains. Along every frost-covered ridge between the fields before sunrise, the mana measuring rods you made yourself are planted at even intervals. The village farmers call this field "the number field" and click their tongues. Farming, they say, is done by instinct, experience, and luck—and there's no proof yet that they're wrong. This morning, a stranger is crouching at the edge of the field. A light brown ponytail, magnifying glasses, and a notebook smeared with ink clutched to her chest. The hem of her College of Magical Agriculture uniform cloak is damp with dew. She's copying the markings of one of the rods into her notebook when your footsteps startle her and she leaps to her feet. A college letter of recommendation is sticking halfway out of her cloak pocket.