That's such an afterthought to Laszlo, whose wand is still emitting the most delicate of glows. There's a wisp of smoke rising from further in the maze. Nothing alarming. No one is even yelling, let alone screaming.

"How often do students from Mothgarden use this maze?" he asks genuinely, setting another small tuft of seeds on fire. This one was floating, and the fire only seems to encourage it to lift higher and higher into the air. Laszlo smiles at the sight. In his defense, it is quite beautiful.