ã€ŠA Sharper, More Lasting Painã€‹


 Prologue

    The following is the last recordings of Dr. Chloe Duval, transcribed in accordance with the applicable sections of the Laws for Miasmic Interaction. Copies of the transcribed vocite provided with permission by the Academic Coalition for Arcane Study (ACAS)

    Recording #1

    Gods willing, we will be up-river and studying the ruins of Idune by the end of the fortnight. There¡¯s a wealth of miasma there, ripe for the sampling.

    [A long stretch of static broken by the snapping of twigs and the sniffling of noses.]

    I¡¯m hoping these new preservatives prove useful.

    As am I, Laurent. The last samples proved too volatile to give more than a cursory scan. Without them, it¡¯s difficult to determine the success of the preservatives¡­ but I maintain faith, regardless.

    We developed them on guesswork alone.

    But perhaps the gods will be kind this time.

    Professor Duval, do you think we¡¯ll find success out here?

    Time will tell, I suppose. At the very least, the advancements in Abjuration should make our trek leagues safer than the last one.

    The gods willing.

    The gods willing, indeed.

    Recording #2

    The forests in Elrick are trickier than I gave them credit for.

    It¡¯s easy to get lost, to be fair. The first day, I found myself trampling a circular path around the same set of bushes. [A soft chuckle.] How many times did we do that, Laurent?

    Four or five, I think.

    That sounds right. [A cough, followed by a sniffle.]

    We¡¯ve been walking for a couple of days now with the map Doctor Gu¨¦rin provided for us. It seems the path has seen some changes since their last expedition. That¡¯s nature for you, I suppose. Still, I have ensured the appropriate updates get made as we go.

    [Papers rustle. Twigs snap in the background.]

    Professor Duval?

    Hmm?

    It¡­ I feel like we¡¯re being followed.

    Ah, yes. [The rustling of papers continues.] Nature, for all its beauty has a way of making you feel paranoid. This is your first expedition, is it not, Dominique?

    Well¡­ yes.

    As I thought. The feeling will pass.

    [Footfalls trail off in the background. Moments later, heavy crunching.]

    I¡¯d be remiss if I did not confess to you I felt similar, Chloe.

    We all do¡­ even myself. It gets easier to ignore. The wildlife gets curious, takes to poking around a bit. So long as we ignore them and keep our wards in place, we will be find.

    It feels different this time.

    [A sigh.] Go speak to Professor Kontos, then. Perhaps between him and Agnis, some extra preventative measures can be taken.

    [Stomping and snapping twigs fade into the distance. A long pause punctuated by static.]

    I would be remiss if I did not confess to feeling the same¡­ but the gods would not allow their most holy of sites to fall to corruption. Though the trek is long and full of brambles, I am not so eager to retire from it. The chairwoman would have my head for wasting funds.

    [Another sigh.] Laurent¡¯s paranoia is getting to me. That¡¯s all this is.

    Recording #3

    I¡¯ve updated the map to an incomprehensible degree at this point. Laurent has had to make copies for the sake of legibility. Keeping the interns at bay, though, has proved to be a challenge most unique.

    Dominique continues with her insistence on there being something in the woods. Our zoologist, Professor Kontos, assures me they¡¯ll remain out of our path. [Harsh metal jangling.] But, as a precaution, they¡¯ve distributed clackers to keep us from stumbling upon things we shouldn¡¯t.

    Still, our fumbles have delayed the timeline considerably. I was banking on the extra time arriving early would grant.¡ªthe more I can study the miasma, the better. Alas...Where the gods give, they also take away.

    [Distant jangling stops.] Professor?

    What is it now?

    Look.

    [Clanking continues.]

    Ah. It seems you¡¯ve come across the remains of something¡¯s dinner. Interesting. Laurent, dear, get a look at this.

    [A long pause, filled with crackling static and jangling clackers.]

    Seems too neat to be a prey-kill. And it¡¯s still intact.

    I thought similar. It¡¯s unsettling. Dominique?

    Yes, Professor?

    Take some samples and a few photos, if you please. Professor Kontos is still a ways behind and I¡¯m sure they wouldn¡¯t want to miss this.

    Recording #4

    I submitted Dominique¡¯s sample to Professor Kontos and found the... whatever it was had been covered in miasma, not blood. This struck me as odd, though, given every miasma sample I¡¯ve recovered from Idune looks the same. It¡¯s viscous and black and inky. These new samples seemed more like a halfway stage, something between miasma and blood. Does this mean blood can turn miasmic? Can blood be so easily corrupted?

    Enlightening and troublesome in equal measure.

    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Another interesting discovery is the sample collected appears to have limited activity. It was practically alive when we rested for the night, straining against the glass. I¡¯ve never seen a sample behave this way.

    There¡¯s been slime molds that look like this before. Lindbladia tabulina comes to mind, known for its dark color and dense clusters. Still, slime mold wouldn¡¯t kill a larger organism. Not by itself, anyway.

    [Glass clinks together.]

    Looking at it now, this sample has lost much of its animated properties, but I¡¯m unsure if that¡¯s due to decay or something else. Gods willing, I can keep it preserved enough to compare to samples in Idune once we arrive.

    Recording #5

    The Gods aim to keep me vexed. The miasma we collected has lost its color and reduced itself to a sort of grime at the bottom of the tube. This decay, at least, is a constant with all other samples I¡¯ve ever observed. It seems any research I¡¯m capable of doing will need to be immediate and harsh.

    I¡¯m still not certain what to classify this fluid as, though it is reminiscent of miasma. A subtype, perhaps? I wish the sample was still viable, so I could better compare.

    There¡¯s no time to turn back, alas. It¡¯s been almost a fortnight since we landed on Elrick¡¯s shore and we¡¯ve barely made it halfway. The chairwoman will not be pleased at our tardy return.

    Recording #6

    Dominique was right. I¡¯d scarcely admit it to myself, were it not for the horrors we¡¯ve faced.

    We had made camp for the night, as usual. I had Laurent and the group do chores while I continued my (unsuccessful) port-mortem observations of the material we collected. It was while doing so Dominique herself came to visit me. ¡°I¡¯ve felt it again,¡± she told me. I told her it was the paranoia of an amateur explorer.

    But, by the Gods, she was right.

    Not long after her visit to my tent, I heard them. I don¡¯t even know what to call them. Monsters, I suppose. Creatures reminiscent of humans, wearing what looked like insect carapaces and dripping with pitch. It¡¯s easy to describe them in retrospect, I suppose. In the moment, I could only focus on how absolutely wrong they looked.

    The hunt was already on when I emerged from my tent. Dominique¡¯s blank expression focused on me across the clearing, eyes staring at nothing. A mix of blood and black slime seeped from the wound in her side. Dead before she hit the ground, I assume. I pray the gods were merciful and took her swiftly.

    Most of the research team was killed in the attack.

    It¡¯s just three of us left. Myself, Professor Kontos, and Laurent. I still don¡¯t know how to describe the full depths of what happened.

    [A long pause. Low, pained groaning in the background.]

    I will stop the recording here. It appears Laurent is coming back to.

    Recording #7

    Laurent, my dearest friend, my loyal partner in science, is dying.

    The wounds they sustained during the attack have festered in a way I¡¯ve never seen before. Each time they¡¯re leeched, the fluid is brackish and putrid. The scent that rolls off them is equally as foul.

    ¡°Leave me here,¡± they said last night. [Shuddered breathing.] I had half a mind to comply.

    But¡­ I can¡¯t. Professor Kontos succumbed to his own wounds a couple of days ago. If Laurent dies, I¡¯m alone. I can¡¯t bear to try to continue this journey on my own.

    [More shuddered breathing, accompanied by sniffling.]

    In a sick twist of fate, Laurent¡¯s injuries have allowed me another look at the fluid we recovered from the deer corpse last week. It appears this same fluid surging through Laurent¡¯s system now is what we sampled and recovered before. It¡¯s behaving in similar fashion, animated and reaching. I have no doubts now as to what caused it. There are monsters stalking these woods. Are they related to the miasma we¡¯ve studied in Idune?

    By my new counts, we will be in Idune within a couple of days. I have to keep us moving.

    Recording #8

    This recording will remain brief. Laurent passed on overnight. I am now, more than I ever have been, utterly alone.

    There is nothing to distract me from this truth, and that terrifies me. Worse still, the samples I harvested from Laurent died with them.

    Laurent, my beloved. [Heavy sighing and sniffling.] I¡¯m terrified. More than I can possibly say. But I am determined. I will finish this expedition. Your death can¡¯t have been in vain.

    [Several seconds of sobbing, followed by crackling as the recording suddenly stops.]

    Recording #9

    If I didn¡¯t know what I was looking for, I would¡¯ve missed it.

    Idune has become naught less than an overgrown hovel in the years since its formation. Nature in Elrick, it seems, is aggressive and quick to reclaim any stolen land. The statues here look more like poorly-trimmed hedges.

    But, at last, I¡¯ve found it.

    I don¡¯t know how I¡¯m getting out, if I¡¯m being honest. The exploration team has been reduced to... me. Can I truly brave the wilderness all by myself?

    Ah, well. I am wasting time thinking of my own mortality. For now, it is just me and the wealth of miasma bubbling around me. I should get to studying.

    [A long pause punctuated by static.]

    Laurent should have been here for this. It was their department that backed the expedition, not mine. I¡¯m just the woman with the measuring instruments and the knowledge of miasma. I¡¯ve been at this for longer than I¡¯ve had any right to.

    It¡¯s just... it¡¯s just not fair.

    Recording #10

    The pools of miasma here have grown considerably in the last two years. I tried to take measurements to compare to the old notes and ran out of tape for most of the sites. The smallest mass of it I¡¯ve found thus far is an impressive five feet. It swallowed the stick I used to try to measure depth, however. For now, the notes just say ¡°very deep¡±. An unscientific approximation as any.

    Another feature of note is the activity. Much like the small samples I¡¯ve obtained on the way, the pools here gurgle constantly. If I turn my back for too long, I find they¡¯ve shifted position, like they¡¯re reaching for something.

    It¡¯s difficult to quantify their makeup, but it¡¯s reminiscent of slime mold. Only... more sentient. I set traps and fed a couple of the sites what small vermin I managed to catch. They consumed the offerings. Or perhaps, like the stick I lost, the animals drowned in their depths and are fermenting somewhere below.

    A final, strange observation I¡¯ve had, the whole of Idune - miasma and all - becomes incredibly active whenever I cast a spell. Being the byproduct of said magic, I cannot say I¡¯m fully surprised, but it feels different than the notes I¡¯ve made previous. It¡¯s not that more miasma forms when I cast a spell. For example...

    [A hiss like a match being struck.]

    Here, I have produced a wink of evocation magic. Despite the weakness of the spell, the puddles around me have reacted in an instant.

    [Another hiss.]

    I¡¯ve tested this theory with all the avenues of magic available to me. The result is the same. Somehow, this is all connected. I just hope I have time to decipher it all.

    [Distant groaning.]

    I¡¯ll have to pick this up la¡ª

    [Growling in the background. The sound of a pistol cocking.]

    [A single gunshot, followed by an astonished shout. Static slowly builds to a crescendo before the audio suddenly cuts.]

 One

    <h2>Simone Allard || After</h2>

    Across the desk, Simone¡¯s Intro to Glyph Design professor reads their thesis proposal with a thoughtful furrow in his brows. In the silence that follows, the standing clock in the corner of the room ticks in time to Simone¡¯s heartbeats.

    Then, with a soft chuckle, he says, ¡°This is quite ambitious.¡±

    He sets their proposal down with a slap, sending his small army of pens scattering. Their title stares back at them, Archaeogeology of Idune and Neighboring Holy Sites. True, they won¡¯t have to worry about their thesis¡ªor the accompanying spell tome¡ªfor another few months, but they like to be prepared.

    Clearing their throat, Simone says, ¡°I wanted to start early.¡±

    Professor Darzi gives another soft laugh. He is a graying man, strong in the jaw and wearing his age the way one might a favored coat. Many of the students in his class swoon when they see him, their affection painfully obvious. Simone can admire the smattering of white in his goatee and the brown patches on his elbows. However, it is his earthy lecturing voice and his perspective on glyph design they appreciate the most.

    Design in general, it seems, is his strong suit. Hints of his aesthetic pepper the office: a seventh century map of the world, color-coded with political relations of the time; books along every shelf, wrapped in leather and wrinkled with age; an incense burner which exhales a soft stream of lemon-tinged smoke.

    Professor Darzi clasps his hands over their thesis. ¡°I¡¯m impressed, Mx. Allard. It¡¯s all too often we have floundering third-years still trying to get themselves together, so I find your eagerness refreshing.¡±

    The pause after his words is a knife at their neck. ¡°But?¡± Simone prods with a swallow.

    ¡°I must admit concern. Relations with Elrick are quite tenuous as it is. I wouldn¡¯t want to send a student into more than they could handle.¡±

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t be.¡± Simone shoots up, spine rod-straight, and jabs a finger into the desk. Their whole body rattles. ¡°See my records, Professor, and the recommendation letters. I¡¯m quite capable.¡±

    With a soft smile, Professor Darzi shifts their thesis to regard a brown folder underneath. He lifts a corner and thumbs through, expression never changing. ¡°You are,¡± he says as the folder closes with a whisper. Then, hands again clasped, ¡°I just want you aware of your options. You¡¯re about to end your second year, after all. Sometimes, interests change.¡±

    Simone¡¯s stomach clenches. Sucking on their cheeks, they shift focus to the window. Outside, the rising sun casts shards of golden light across the campus. Casters mill about in the expansive courtyard in small groups, wearing the capelets of their grade and specialization. Simone adjusts their own capelet, cobalt for second year Abjurors. In a few months, they¡¯ll don the powder blue capelet like other third-year Abjurors¡ªif they can keep their classes and thesis in order.

    ¡°We¡¯ll start with this.¡±

    Their attention flicks back to Professor Darzi fast enough their neck muscles protest. They watch as he pulls a stamp pad closer, flips open their folder, and presses a stamp into the top page, hard enough to make it crinkle. Simone reads the words as he pulls away: Discussion Needed. Their breath catches.

    ¡°The idea of it,¡± he says, replacing the stamp, ¡°is a fine one. But¡­¡± His next words lack the soft, baritone lilt they¡¯ve carried the whole conversation. Hesitance makes itself known in the crinkle of his thick brows.

    ¡°But?¡±

    ¡°Mx. Allard, I will be frank: the concept you¡¯re presenting is dangerous. The last students we sent into Idune did not return.¡±

    Simone bows their head. One year ago, a group of scientists and their interns traveled to Idune to investigate the wealth of miasma there. Monsters of unknown origin slaughtered most of the group along the way. A single professor made it to Idune at all, but she¡¯d been killed within days of her arrival. Simone remembers the vigils Voterique College had held when word came back, and how lost in the sea of sorrow and disparaged shrieking they¡¯d become, though they hadn¡¯t known anyone who had gone on the voyage.

    ¡°I¡¯m aware of the risks, Professor,¡± Simone says, head bowed. ¡°They do not sway me.¡±

    The soft smile he wears tightens around the edges. ¡°Very well. Do keep an alternative or two in mind, just in case.¡± He slides their thesis forward, mouth a thin line, before leaning back with a sigh. His leather chair squeaks with the movement. ¡°For now, I believe we¡¯re out of time to discuss.¡±

    Simone¡¯s hands tremble as they take their folder back. With it planted against their bound chest, they rise on doe-like legs and give a jittery bow. Anxiety hums in their blood. ¡°Thank you very much, Professor,¡± they say before nudging the chair back in and stepping away. It takes unearthly restraint to keep from bolting out of the room.

    Out in the hall, Simone¡¯s composure crumples with the rest of them. They take shallow gasps, slumped against the wall and slid into an uncomfortable sitting position. Blood roars in their ears. They hold their thesis close, sure the moment they let go it will disappear.

    They¡¯ve been accepted. Barely.

    #

    Bikers and pedestrians pass Simone by. The commons are active with students, most having emerged from their final class of the day. Capelets of various colors and shades catch their eye, distracting them from their notes.

    With a sigh, they set their stylus down and read the single sentence they¡¯ve wrote. Trying to think is doing them more harm than good. The page before them remains mostly blank, with dribbles of enchanted ink clinging to the edges.

    I don¡¯t want to submit anything else.

    Sure, they could, given more time. They have a whole year more to think of alternatives to their submitted thesis. Still, as frustrating as Professor Darzi¡¯s feedback is, Simone¡¯s determination burns all the brighter for it. What was science if not a¡ªoften dangerous¡ªpursuit for answers?

    Nadia will know what to do.

    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    Their joints pop as they rise. Pain stirs to life in their hips and knees. Each day, their mobility seems to get more and more limited, the way it has in Nadia.

    Their satchel bounces off their side. The eight towers loom over Simone as they begin their trek for the dorms. They recognize a few of the students heading the same way¡ªthere¡¯s Basile, a classmate in the same advisory group as Simone, zher face hidden a mountain of books. Simone would¡¯ve missed zher, if not for the telltale cloud of brown hair. A few minutes later, Simone passes Alienor, recognizable by her shock of pale blonde hair and ebony cane. She¡¯s the head of the graduating Abjuror class this year, which makes her Simone¡¯s¡ªand all the other second-year Abjuror¡¯s¡ªadvisor. The smile she offers is all sunlight, enough to warm Simone from the inside out.

    After a moment to fawn, they keep moving.

    The dormitories are eight buildings in a tight octagon, three stories tall. Security towers fence them in, a desperate bid to keep errant students from wandering too far. Simone eyes their own apartment building as they walk passed. Blue banners flap in the wind, with a shield embroidered in white in the center.

    As they approach Nadia¡¯s building¡ªpurple banners with a simple, darker purple sphere¡ªthe lamps along the courtyard flare to life. Is it already close to sundown? Simone surveys the sky with narrowed eyes, watching as blue shifted to gold, with tinges of pink creeping through. Winter draws nearer, it appears.

    The warden at the door lets them in as soon as they flash their patch. As a first year, they hadn¡¯t been granted this freedom. Visits between them had been done with escorts, or inside Simone¡¯s apartment, but permissions became more lax as they progressed. Now, they can visit during daytime hours. Too bad Nadia would be graduating before they could legally share a night together¡ªnot that this stops Nadia from sneaking into their room as it is.

    Inside, plush carpets make each step uneven. Portraits along the walls gaze down at them with eyes of charcoal and acrylic, their minor animations fighting for Simone¡¯s attention. They hobble the stairs up to the second floor, on the verge of gasping at the top. A dull throbbing keeps their knee in an uncomfortable grip. Once again, they consider scheduling a visit to the doctors or revisiting their notes.

    But it can wait. Their thesis is more important.

    Twice, Simone has seen the frenzy students whipped themselves into as they decorated their rooms. Walls, carpets, doors, nothing is spared from exorbitance, undone at the end with the flourish of a spellbook. Unlike her peers, however, Nadia has never been one for spectacle. Simone nudges her blank door open with a couple harsh bumps of their hip¡ªshe really should talk to the administrators about getting the latch fixed¡ªand stumbles into the darkness beyond.

    ¡°Nadia?¡±

    No response. Simone eases the door shut behind them and taps the lamp to their side. Golden light floods the room, illuminating the worn upholstered couch and scratched-up table. The rug beneath them is grayed with dirt.

    ¡°Nadia? It¡¯s me.¡± They set their notes down on the table, wincing as it creaks. Everything about Nadia¡¯s apartment is as fragile as she is. Still no answer, they note with a frown. She must still be out. I¡¯ll wait for her. It¡¯ll be a nice surprise.

    A half-wall separates the main room and the kitchen. On top, a jar of herbs catch Simone¡¯s eye. They can¡¯t decipher the scrawl, aside from a line at the bottom highlighting its purpose. Nausea and pain relief. Their stomach twists in sympathy. Based on the fine dusting remaining in the jar, Nadia¡¯s symptoms have been getting worse.

    I¡¯ll revisit the notes this weekend. They put the jar down with a sigh. There¡¯s some answer we¡¯re not seeing.

    Simone¡¯s jaws parting in a yawn. Nadia won¡¯t be offended if they nap while they wait, will she?

    They consider sleeping on the couch, but the high rise of the armrests promise a sore neck. Instead, they tiptoe for her bedroom. Like the rest of her apartment, the room is bare, save the necessities. A small bed is pushed to one wall. Beside it sits a desk with a small stack of papers on top. A water and food bowl are tucked underneath. A pile of clothes at the foot of the bed has grown since Simone saw it last.

    With a frown, they gather the clothes up. The items with more of smell drift back to the floor. Everything else they sort further: a corduroy skirt; a button-up blouse with a faded brown stain; a cream scarf with fraying edges. Once everything is sorted, they set to work putting it all away.

    As the last drawer shuts, they give Nadia¡¯s room another slow spiral. Rays of afternoon sun illuminate the dust drifting in the air. Must have been a while since she cleaned. I¡¯ll need to talk to her again.

    But that can wait. She still isn¡¯t home, they note with a sigh. Had she mentioned being somewhere after classes? They can¡¯t recall, but it¡¯s possible they¡¯d forgotten. Lately, their memories have been hazier than normal.

    ¡°Well,¡± they say, gaze landing on the threadbare cat doll resting on Nadia¡¯s pillows, ¡°she¡¯ll come back when she comes back. In the meantime¡­¡± A sudden yawn overtakes them. Rubbing their eyes, Simone slides under the blankets, holding Nadia¡¯s doll close. It smells of sweat and Serenity and dust, a bouquet all Nadia¡¯s own.

    #

    The screech of the wall phone tears Simone from their dreamless sleep. Eyes wide, they shoot upright at the sound, stuffed cat tumbling away. Their heart beats wild in their chest.

    Perhaps it¡¯s Nadia.

    Still groggy, Simone stands, the ground swaying underneath them. The pits of their stomach coil tight. Despite their optimism, something feels off in the too-still air. They take a step for the living room and falter as the phone cuts out mid-ring, replaced by crackling static.

    Then, after a moment of silence, it rings again.

    The rattle of the receiver jerks Simone from their stupor. After a breath to collect themself, they approach. The receiver is leaden in their hand.

    ¡°Hello?¡±

    ¡°Nadia, what the fuck?¡±

    They recoil from the lash-sharp voice on the other end. ¡°I¡­ don¡¯t know,¡± they say between yawns. ¡°She isn¡¯t here.¡±

    ¡°Where the fuck is she, then?¡±

    Simone searches their thoughts for a name matching the harried voice. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± they say again. ¡°I¡¯ve been waiting for her. Is everything all right?¡±

    The caller¡¯s next words chase the remainders of drowsiness from Simone¡¯s mind.

    ¡°Wherever she is, tell her when you see her to come to the hospital ward. Etienne is hurt. Bad.¡±

    They don¡¯t give themself time to hang up. The receiver twirls as they drop it and slams against the wall. Trembling anew, Simone bolts for the exit.

 Two

    <h2>Nadia Dupont || Before</h2>

    The week begins as many of them have recently, with violent vomiting. Pregnancy is out of the question¡ªshe hasn¡¯t touched a dick since the awkward handjobs in primary school, and she isn¡¯t fond of them besides¡ªand she¡¯s spent one too many mornings hunched over porcelain to blame her problems on an ill-cooked meal. A lesser person could attribute it to her frequent misuse of Serenity, but such opinions aren¡¯t worth listening to.

    Nadia¡¯s stomach churns like an upset sea as she dares a glance at what she¡¯s expelled. The liquid is as dark as mashed licorice candies, a maelstrom of ink. Staring at it makes her want to vomit again. Instead, she clings to the porcelain with leaden limbs.

    If she¡¯s being honest, there is no real cause to blame. This is part of the pattern she¡¯s found herself in for months. Each day bleeds into the next, a rolling ball of agony. Between her inability to have a settled stomach and the creaking her joints make constantly, she can¡¯t remember the last time she¡¯s been well and truly healthy.

    The medics really need to get their shit together.

    She¡¯s still hunched over when the front door closes. Through the haze building in her brain, she catches the sound and stiffens. The click of Etienne¡¯s heels calm her once more.

    ¡°Nat, are you home?¡± As he speaks, she hears his jacket drop, buttons clacking against the wood.

    As she opens her mouth to speak, a new wave of bile churns and threatens to spill. With a deep breath, she calls, ¡°Yeah.¡±

    The slap of his bare feet draws closer. Nadia reaches for the toilet lid, hands shaking, before reconsidering. Etienne has seen her in worse states before. He¡¯s been in worse states before with her.

    ¡°Class is gonna star¡ª oh.¡±

    She doesn¡¯t look behind her¡ªnot that she can, given her sudden lack of strength. Instead, she raises a trembling hand and flashes what she hopes is a wave before slumping back down.

    ¡°Too much Serenity last night?¡±

    Another wave of bile curdles her stomach. ¡°I would¡¯ve preferred that.¡±

    He drops down beside her, hand on her back. ¡°You look like shit.¡± Then, reaching over her, he hits the lever. She shrinks back as the water swirls and gurgles. Bracing herself against the wall, she throws her head back and examines the flickering blue light of the lamps overhead.

    ¡°Is this¡­?¡± Etienne starts before falling silent. Then, after a beat, he finds his courage. ¡°Are you sick again?¡±

    Nadia folds her arms, wincing as her muscles tense. I¡¯ve been sick and didn¡¯t get better, she wants to say. Instead, with a resigned sigh, she says, ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±

    ¡°Do you want me to copy today¡¯s notes? Have you stay home again? I can brew you some tea and get you settled.¡±

    Nadia shakes her head. ¡°No.¡± Then, wobbling all the while, she stands. Her stomach takes a hard dip and she again reconsiders. Still, as she meets Etienne¡¯s widened eyes, she says, ¡°I think I will be okay for now.¡± She hopes he can¡¯t hear the undercurrent of doubt in her own words.

    She flinches when she catches her face in the mirror. Thick black rings frame her sunken eyes. Greyness has sucked the vibrancy from her skin. Her soft, rounder stomach has deflated somewhat. Rubbing the dimpled skin as she thinks, she laments the changes to her body.

    Etienne meets her gaze through the mirror. ¡°You¡¯re starting to worry me.¡±

    A harsh laugh spills free before she can stop it. ¡°I¡¯ll be fine, Etienne. Nothing can hold me under for long.¡±

    ¡°Stubbornness will not sustain you forever.¡±

    She continues her half-hearted preening, reaching without looking for the jars on the sink. With two fingers, she swipes soft powder under her eyes. Her reflection is more lively at once.

    Nadia is working cream into her cheeks when Etienne draws closer and takes her wrist. ¡°Nadia.¡±

    She stills, cheeks tightening with unworked product.

    ¡°I¡¯m serious,¡± he says.

    ¡°I¡¯m serious, too.¡± With a snort, she shrugs Etienne off. ¡°Soon enough, we will know what ails me.¡± And if I could, I would make them tell me faster. As she pinches her cheeks to redden them, she gives him a pointed stare. ¡°Do not grab me like that again.¡±

    His mouth opens, releasing a soft sigh and a fraction of a word before closing once more. ¡°My apologies.¡± Then, collecting her jars into a neat pile, ¡°We should get going.¡±

    Nadia doesn¡¯t remove her gaze from her reflection. Pink cheeks and a light dusting of color around her eyes has given her a life-like appearance. The shadows of her sickness still looms beneath the surface, but Etienne¡¯s insistence tells her she doesn¡¯t have enough time to clean up more. At last, she moves to the jars on the sink and replaces them one by one. What she¡¯s accomplished will have to do.

    #

    She thinks their name is Simone, but it¡¯s hard to remember with their fingers deep inside her.

    They have her propped against a pillar, her favorite black skirt bunched around her hips. Their mouth burns against hers as they kiss, frantic and hungry. Nadia clenches around them. The vanilla and orange musk drifting from their skin sends the rational part of her brain scrambling.

    For the first time in weeks, someone livens her in a way Serenity never can.

    She¡¯s known they wanted her from the moment they shared looks in the waiting line for the tram. While their professor of the day was droning on about historical sites in Vahn, Nadia had worked every subtlety she could think of into their brief glances to show her interest. Soft scratching of her neck. A coquettish smirk. Though her stomach is still a raging sea, the ache in her joints is dull today. She can afford to be adventurous. Besides, sex always beats out a lecture.

    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    Nadia nibbles the stranger¡¯s neck, a rare sensible thought coming to her. ¡°If we get caught, we¡¯re fucked.¡±

    ¡°Best hurry, then.¡± As they speak, the stranger¡¯s fingers spread apart, rubbing her in a way that sends stars skittering across her vision. Head thrown back, she arches into them and moans again. It¡¯s a shame this encounter is a one-off.

    Their thumb circles her, decimating her capacity for lucid thought. Warmth pools in the base of her stomach. Then, as she approaches the precipice, their hand slows. ¡°Do you know the history of this place?¡±

    Their words slice sudden clarity through her. Tight around them, she feels the heat dissipating. ¡°I¡­¡± She fights the urge to smash her mouth against theirs and help them coax her over the edge. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Not the ground we¡¯re standing on, obviously, but the place they¡¯ve modeled it after. Latuka.¡±

    ¡°N-No, I can¡¯t say I have.¡± With the slight roll of her hips, she bites back a whine. ¡°Is this the best moment for¡ª¡°

    ¡°It¡¯s fascinating, really.¡± Just like that, they resume their pace, brown eyes twinkling. Nadia loses herself in the sudden swell of heat, so consumed she almost doesn¡¯t catch their next words.

    ¡°It¡¯s said this city was the homeplace of a famous historian a couple hundred years ago. Did you know that?¡±

    Between soft moans, Nadia chokes out, ¡°If I wanted a lecture, I¡¯d have stayed back.¡± Still, even as she speaks, there is something about them that makes her heart skip. What kind of person talks like this during sex?

    They hum, eyes narrowed and dark like overbrewed coffee. ¡°But you¡¯re here.¡± With quick flicks, the stranger has her dancing on the edge of orgasm. ¡°With me. Getting fucked within an inch of your life. You should still learn something.

    ¡°It¡¯s said that this historian went on an adventure which stopped the country of Vahn from plunging into war,¡± they continue. ¡°Quite fascinating, don¡¯t you think?¡±

    She doesn¡¯t have time to think of a rebuttal as, legs quaking, the world falls out beneath her. Nadia bites the stranger¡¯s lip, hard enough to draw blood, to muffle the scream. They¡¯re better than her hand or any toy she has half a mind to conjure, and for a heart-stopping second she fears she¡¯ll be caught in this state of bliss forever.

    As the hum in her ears starts to fade, she feels their hand withdraw.

    ¡°It was nice to meet you.¡± As gentle as possible, the stranger lowers her to the ground, arranging her skirts just so. They smooth back her hair. Light frames them from behind, reminiscent of a painting Nadia saw once, Dakota¡¯s First Encounter with Maka.

    Soft murmurs escape as she gazes up at them. She can only watch, dumbfounded, as they wipe their hand against their slacks.

    ¡°My name¡¯s Simone, by the way. Not sure if I told you that.¡±

    ¡°Pleasure,¡± she replies before chuckling at the pun. ¡°I¡¯m Nadia.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll see you around, Nadia.¡±

    They¡¯re gone before she can processs it, leaving her a heap of twitching limbs and shaking breaths.

    Gods, it really is a shame she¡¯ll never see them again.

    #

    ¡°Let me be sure I understand,¡± Etienne says that evening as he passes the goblet on. ¡°You eloped during a field trip?¡±

    Beside him, Chantal laughs. ¡°I¡¯ve done that before,¡± she says, taking the goblet with the shake of her cloud-like hair. A soft, silken headband keeps her cluster of curls out of her face. Nadia watches her take a slow sip, grey liquid clinging to her lips, and hates herself for the twinge in her gut that makes her want to suck the liquid free.

    ¡°Same,¡± says Luc, taking the goblet next. ¡°The thrill of it all is more than enough, I think, even if the sex itself is bad.¡± Then, mouth grey, they pass the cup along. Their grey eyes turn dark, pupils consuming the iris whole. They throw their head back and let out a low growl. ¡°Fuck, that¡¯s strong.¡±

    Chantal¡¯s smile is wicked, all teeth like a predator¡¯s. ¡°I have a contact in Elrick, up the Foxtrot. A hefty price for certain, but this is as pure as it gets.¡±

    Nadia bows her head in the rare moment of silence that follows. A couple of months ago, Professor Duval had gone on an expedition to Elrick with some of their classmates, intent on exploring the once-holy site of Idune. Everyone, Professor Duval included, were killed. Whether it was monster attacks or the Elrish militia is still uncertain. All Nadia knows is now, it¡¯s a bitch and a half to get mail to and from the country as a result.

    The goblet continues its rotation when the moment has passed. ¡°I can feel the universe,¡± Etienne says, quiet enough only Nadia hears. She gives his thigh a soft squeeze in response.

    Her thoughts flick back to earlier in the afternoon and she clears them with a stiff shake of her head. What is she doing, pondering over someone she doesn¡¯t know? This campus is one of the larger institutions in Mertaln. Chances are they¡¯ll never see each other again.

    Before she knows it, the goblet is back in her hands. She dares a look into its inky depths. This batch of Serenity is thick and sluggish, leaving a grey slime trail in its wake. She doesn¡¯t have to sip it to know Luc is right. In small doses, Serenity floods its user with euphoria, but this seems the kind of dose capable of much, much more. It reminds her of her disjointed morning hunched over in the bathroom, though, and with that revelation, she hesitates.

    ¡°Don¡¯t drink all of it, Nat,¡± Etienne says beside her. He reaches for the goblet with trembling hands, the veins in his eyes dark. She sees her reflection in his blown-out pupils. Is this what they all look like when they¡¯re high? How has she not noticed before?

    ¡°S-sorry.¡± She passes it along without drinking, for once unnerved. As Etienne sinks deeper into the drug¡¯s thrall, she gives the group another appraisal. Chantal is on her back now, tracing shapes into the ceiling. Sparks of magic dance off her gloved hands. Luc is curled around her, stroking her hair and purring.

    On a normal day, she¡¯s deep in the throes of ecstasy with them. It¡¯s so strange, then, to be a sudden outsider.

    ¡°Nat.¡±

    The words he¡¯s spoken come from inside her skull now, another benefit to Serenity. And if they¡¯re both high, they can share much more.

    She looks at Etienne from the corner of her eye. ¡°Hmm?¡±

    ¡°You didn¡¯t drink.¡± He holds the goblet up in offering, leaning hard against her, and ¡°I can¡¯t drop alone.¡± Through the channel he¡¯s burrowed into her brain, she feels traces of his apprehension.

    ¡°Everyone else is with you,¡± she says, eyeing the cup.

    His fingers thread through hers, so chilled it makes the hairs on her neck prickle. His pulse beats through their joined fingers, slow but strong. He doesn¡¯t need to speak, mentally or otherwise, to make the point known. I can¡¯t without you.

    She gives the goblet a sniff, stomach curling. Normally, she¡¯s the first to drop in these blissed-out moments. When is the last time she was an outside observer? As she struggles to recall, she swipes at the dregs around the rim with her tongue. The room turns frigid in an instant.

    Dropping into Serenity is like stepping into a blizzard, she thinks¡ªone of her last lucid thoughts as the room spins away. She takes another sip as the room darkens before setting the goblet somewhere behind her.

    Etienne¡¯s presence brushes against her mind again, slow enough to catch this time. ¡°Ready?¡±

    Nadia blinks. The world is black, and then it is nothing at all.

 Three

    <h2>Simone Allard || After</h2>

    Simone has never been one for running.

    They come to this realization as they gasp in the courtyard, their heart a pinned butterfly in their chest. As they fight to catch their breath, a cluster of third-years give a wary eye and scrub their index fingers together. While the gesture is likely an insult, Simone can¡¯t find it in them to care. They need as much bad luck as possible carved from them.

    When they can breathe again, they resume their harried sprint.

    Glints of the world below flash by as they race through the main courtyard. In the distance, the trams make their rounds, picking up or dropping off prospective casters at the edge of the mesa. Red lights flash off the cabs, coming from the medical ward. Simone finds themself making their own ward against bad luck until the joints in their fingers refuse to cooperate.

    The medical ward attaches to the administrative offices like an unwanted growth. It juts out on its own at an awkward angle, an amalgamation of crooked shingles and rotting wood and sickness. Twice the building has burned down in the college¡¯s recent history. Each time, it returns with a vengeance.

    Even as Simone approaches, their stomach twists at the red magelights flashing over the entrance doors. They mean one thing: Emergency in progress.

    White walls form a dizzying maw around them as the medic ward swallows them whole. Buoyant in their own skin, they are barely aware when a nurse takes their hands and says, ¡°Are you hurt?¡±

    Simone looks her up and down, taking in the bloodstained smock and the grey ring in her eyes. Gods-touched¡ªso the rumors say of anyone with such a feature. They try to catch their breath. A nurse like this, Gods-touched or not, means they¡¯re in good hands.

    ¡°Why don¡¯t we sit down?¡± she says. She must have picked up on the panicked flicking of their eyes and unstable breathing. Or perhaps she can see the waves of pain radiating from them.

    ¡°Etienne.¡± The word comes out in a froggish croak. ¡°I¡¯m here for Etienne LaChance.¡±

    Her gaze is quizzical, then serious. She pulls back, mouth twisted in a poorly-repressed grimace, before exhaling. ¡°Come with me.¡±

    They look for Nadia in the crowd outside of Etienne¡¯s room, but she isn¡¯t there. The rest of her friends are, some sobbing, some clustered in tight circles and wringing each other¡¯s hands. None give Simone any mind as they approach.

    ¡°You¡¯ll have to wait out here,¡± the nurse says, as if it wasn¡¯t obvious. How is he, Simone wants to ask, but she¡¯s gone by the time they¡¯ve turned.

    They strain to see through the thin window of Etienne¡¯s room, unable to get a good view over everyone else¡¯s heads. Instead, half-aware, they plunge into the crowd of students.

    Chantal is the closest, her hair pulled back in a tight puff. She¡¯s chewing on the nails on one hand and pacing as best as the friends cloistered around her will allow. After a beat, she must catch sight of Simone, because she stops pacing and darts over.

    ¡°Still no sign of Nadia?¡± she asks in way of greeting.

    Simone¡¯s stomach sinks. ¡°No. Have you heard anything?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    Before Simone can ask more, someone claps Chantal¡¯s shoulder and pulls her away. They lose themself to the dull hum of voices.

    ¡°Monsters? On campus?¡± says a trembling girl nearby. A man holds her like a hand of cards to his chest. With wide eyes and pupils the size of tea saucers, she trembles, reminding Simone of the small hunter dogs of Hadorae.

    Simone¡¯s breath catches. ¡°Monsters?¡± they ask.

    The dull hum dissipates. Every head turns their way. They shrink against the onslaught of attention.

    ¡°You didn¡¯t hear?¡± asks Luc, now visible over Chantal¡¯s head.

    Chantal covers their hand with her own. ¡°I¡­ didn¡¯t have time to tell them.¡±

    ¡°Tell me what?¡±

    ¡°Etienne¡­ he¡­¡± At once, Chantal¡¯s composure shatters. She turns into Luc¡¯s chest, whole body heaving as she sobs. Hers have been the driest eyes in the room¡ªuntil now.

    Luc rubs circles into her back as they meet Simone¡¯s stare. ¡°Etienne was attacked,¡± they say, wincing at their own words.

    ¡°By a monster? On campus?¡±

    No one says a word.

    Simone¡¯s fist clenches. ¡°How did this happen?¡±

    ¡°We don¡¯t know.¡± Luc¡¯s voice is a broken whisper.

    ¡°And where did it go?¡±

    Holding tight to Chantal, Luc doesn¡¯t respond. Simone closes the distance and helps guide her to a chair.

    ¡°W-we¡¯re taking watch i-in shifts,¡± she says between harsh hiccups. ¡°When they let us, anyway. Oh, gods. What if he¡ª¡°

    ¡°He won¡¯t.¡± Simone represses a wince as they speak. They can¡¯t remember the last time they¡¯ve heard of a monster attack with survivors, but if Etienne is still alive, that¡¯s as good a sign as any. ¡°Most attacks,¡± they continue, voice soft, ¡°end before they even get this far. He¡¯ll be okay. He has to be.¡±

    As they wordlessly smooth back Chantal¡¯s hair, they wonder if they are trying to convince her or themself. At the end of the day, they suppose it doesn¡¯t matter. As they said, the odds are in Etienne¡¯s favor.

    Or, at least, Simone hopes they are.

    #

    Hours pass. Some of the clustered students get tired of waiting and return to their dorms, mumbling to each other as they leave. Simone sits in the same chair they¡¯ve been in since their arrival, rear end numb and spine tingling. Across the waiting room, Chantal and Luc lean into each other with matching tear-tracked faces, hands tangled together.

    Nadia still isn¡¯t here.

    Simone has asked for every time a member of faculty passes by. Each one gives a sad shake of their head, nose buried in their clipboards, before walking away. It¡¯s enough to make Simone spit.

    Where the fuck is she?

    Their emotions are an hourglass in their chest. Deep concern sits in the bottom half. Grains of anger dribble down through the warped glass and settle. Etienne is supposed to be Nadia¡¯s best friend, but she can¡¯t be bothered to be here?

    Simone chews on their bottom lip, relishing the taste of their own blood and how it distracts them. ¡°Still no word?¡± they ask in Chantal¡¯s direction.

    She gives them a glassy stare, brown eyes rimmed with red, and shakes her head.

    She could be strung out somewhere, a faint voice goads. You¡¯ve seen her that way, more than once.

    But wouldn¡¯t Etienne have been with her, in that case?

    The thought gives them pause. Etienne and Nadia have done most things together since Simone has known them. Perhaps they¡¯d been together during the attack. Perhaps what got to him had¡ª

    Simone grinds their palms into their eyes and groans. It¡¯s not worth thinking about. It¡¯s bad enough Etienne is so badly hurt. If Nadia had been with them¡ªif Simone was losing them both¡­

    Lost in their thoughts, Simone almost misses the distinct sound of a door sliding open. Numb, they lift their head and look towards the source. A nurse steps out of Etienne¡¯s room¡ªthe same nurse who escorted them hours ago, they realize¡ªclipboard pressed to her chest as she clears her throat.

    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°He¡¯s stable,¡± she says. ¡°Badly wounded, but stable.¡±

    The relief that fills the waiting room is thick enough to choke on. Simone slumps forward with a sigh. Finally, some good news.

    ¡°You¡¯ll have to go one at a time, but you¡¯re allowed to see him if you would like.¡±

    Simone and Chantal meet eyes. She starts to open her mouth, but Simone is quicker. ¡°You should go.¡±

    Chantal¡¯s eyes widen, but she doesn¡¯t argue. Nudging Luc, she settles their hands in their lap and follows the nurse inside. Seconds later, her sudden sobs are cut off as the door slides shut.

    Any news is good news, they tell themself as their stomach drops. He¡¯ll live. The nurse suggested as much. He¡¯ll live, he¡¯ll live, he¡¯ll live.

    ¡°It was kind of you to come,¡± Luc says in the silence that follows.

    Simone takes in their unruly pompadour and stained lapels. The hems of their sleeves have been worried to an unironable wrinkle. Etienne¡¯s state has worsened them, too, it seems.

    ¡°It was the least I can do. I just¡­ wish Nadia was here.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m surprised you haven¡¯t seen her. After her and Etienne, the two of you are near-inseparable.¡±

    ¡°I suppose we are.¡±

    Simone counts along to the ticking of the clock over their head. Several minutes pass. The hourglass in their chest flips over once again. Worry comes to feast on their innards. Could Nadia have been attacked, too?

    #

    Chantal leaves the room an hour later, knees knocking together, and gestures for Luc to go. As they leave, she takes their hand and holds it tight enough her brown hands pale.

    ¡°Be prepared,¡± she says in a choked whisper. ¡°He¡¯s¡­ he¡¯s really bad.¡±

    As they depart, Chantal gestures to the seat beside Simone. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. Then, eyes wet with tears, she sits down.

    ¡°He¡¯s¡­¡± she takes a deep, shuddering breath. ¡°Oh, gods.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t have to talk about it, if you don¡¯t want to.¡±

    ¡°Thank you.¡± Then, sniffling, ¡°I can¡¯t believe Nadia isn¡¯t here.¡±

    ¡°Neither can I.¡±

    ¡°You haven¡¯t been with her?¡±

    Simone shakes their head.

    Chantal picks up a pamphlet from the table and thumbs through before setting it back down. ¡°To be honest with you, I¡¯m starting to think she was involved.¡±

    They manage a dry swallow, heart skipping. ¡°Oh?¡±

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t it make sense?¡±

    It does. Simone bites the words back, hesitant to add to Chantal¡¯s raving. Though her words have the jilted cadence of fear, they can¡¯t decide if she¡¯s declaring Nadia the monster or a fellow victim.

    ¡°Etienne is found almost fucking dead. Nadia is nowhere to be seen. You don¡¯t think the two are related?¡±

    ¡°They¡­ could be,¡± they say after a long pause. Their palms bead with sweat. Chest tight, they take the pamphlet Chantal glanced at, Learn the signs and symptoms of Sanguina Malefica, and pray it¡¯s enough to end the conversation.

    ¡°They¡¯re going to find her body next, you know.¡±

    Simone winces mid-word. Apparently, it¡¯s not. ¡°Don¡¯t say that.¡±

    ¡°My apologies. I forgot¡ª¡° Chantal sighs before trying again. ¡°I should have thought more.¡±

    Their attention returns to the pamphlet¡ªbarely. Her words are needles in their side. As much as Simone is loathe to admit it, there¡¯s a strong chance she¡¯s right. With a stiff lip, they stare at the pamphlet until the words swim and force themself to focus.

    Sanguina Malifica¡¯s cause and cure are currently unknown. Ask your physician if you experience the following symptoms: lethargy, nausea, joint pain, chest pains, unsteady pulse, headaches, change in blood color or texture (especially in menstruating folk), and disorientation.

    Nadia had a lot of these. Simone wraps a braid around their finger. Almost all of them, actually. But all of their work has so far led to the same dead ends. All solutions Simone has crafted have been of minimal success. Where did Sanguina Malefica come from? Why can¡¯t they cure Nadia of it?

    With a heavy sigh, they set the pamphlet down once again. ¡°I¡¯ll come back.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re leaving?¡±

    ¡°I left my coursework at Nadia¡¯s. It¡¯s possible she¡¯s come back by now and isn¡¯t aware of what happened. She could have not heard the news, or¡­ and, besides, I need to make sure her cat is fed.¡±

    Chantal lunges for their hand, brown cheeks dusted with pink. Her voice is faint as she says, ¡°You will return, though?¡±

    It would be divine timing for Nadia to come through the doors now, they think, frozen as they are in Chantal¡¯s grip. Their gaze flicks towards the hallway, disappointment all-consuming when they realize no one is there.

    ¡°Of course I will.¡± Their lip stiffens as they swallow the urge to cry. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t let you and Luc watch him alone.¡±

    ¡°I appreciate that.¡± Though hesitant, she releases them. ¡°Try to return soon.¡±

    The lump in their throat thickens. They don¡¯t trust themself to talk, so they nod instead.

    On their way out, they pass the front desk. Simone recognizes the woman from earlier, the one who had mentioned Etienne¡¯s attack to begin with. Her pale skin borders on translucent under the harsh lights. Her blonde hair is a cruel halo. The variety of flower arrangements on the desk and in her hands are enough to dwarf her. The moment she sees Simone, her panicked expression dissipates.

    ¡°You¡¯re one of Etienne¡¯s friends, right?¡±

    They pause to read the card on the nearest arrangement. The paper is wrinkled, the handwriting reminiscent of a child¡¯s. Simone is unable to tell who it is from.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to startle you,¡± the woman continues. The dark green cape over her shoulders advertises her introduction to the realm of Enchantment. Perhaps Etienne was a tutor to her?

    ¡°I¡¯m a friend of his, yes.¡± Not an entire lie. Him and Nadia were thick as thieves, after all¡­ but he had never taken a liking to them for reasons they still don¡¯t understand.

    ¡°How is he?¡±

    Her doe-brown eyes glimmer with hope, and Simone almost wants to lie to preserve it. The moment their expression falters, however, she seems to catch on. Tears spill freely down her cheeks.

    ¡°He won¡¯t survive,¡± she says in a voice like broken glass, ¡°will he?¡±

    ¡°Nothing is certain yet.¡± Over and over, they repeat in their mind their own words to Chantal earlier. He¡¯ll be okay. He has to be.

    ¡°But monster attacks are¡­¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s beaten the odds thus far. Most victims don¡¯t make it to the hospital, after all.¡±

    As if someone had shut off the faucet behind her eyes, the woman stops crying. ¡°You¡¯re right. He¡¯ll be okay.¡± She stops to fumble through her bag. ¡°He has to be.¡±

    Poor thing. She wouldn¡¯t last a day on the battle field. The thought passes through them before they have a chance to catch it.

    ¡°Here.¡±

    When they look up, she¡¯s offered them a wrapped package. The bow on top is lopsided, one side twice the size of the other.

    ¡°I made this for him. I¡¯m still so new to magic, but it might help. I would bring it myself, but¡­¡± Red washes over her face and she looks away. ¡°I don¡¯t¡­ do good with gore.¡±

    Simone takes the package from her with a sad smile. ¡°I understand. I went into Abjuration for similar reasons.¡±

    ¡°I thought about that, but¡ªit doesn¡¯t matter. Please send him my regards. If he wakes up, that is.¡±

    With this, the girl spins on her heel and is gone. From behind the desk, a nurse with black-rimmed glasses pokes her head over the cluster of flowers.

    ¡°Comin¡¯ or goin¡¯?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m leaving for now.¡± Then, as they start to leave, they reconsider. ¡°Have any third-year Diviners come through here?¡±

    The nurse disappears behind the flowers once more, humming with thought. ¡°I¡¯ve seen a couple, but not recently. My apologies.¡±

    ¡°Thank you, regardless.¡±

    Simone clutches the package tight as they emerge onto the courtyard once more. Cold night air kisses their cheek, freezing the tears that well to the surface. A single lamp flickers over their head. They stare into the dark for wayward students and, finding none, sinks to their knees. A maelstrom of questions rise to the surface.

    With a noticeable pop, the lamp overhead flickers a final time and is dead. Simone¡¯s sobs bounce off the bricks and are lost in the darkness beyond.

 Four

    <h2>Nadia DuPont || Before</h2>

    Still hungover and more sore than she thought possible, Nadia is glad when her final class ends.

    The sharp ring of the bell is enough to stir her from her pain-addled haze. Everyone else has already stuffed their satchels and are in the midst of leaving as she comes back to. Etienne pats her shoulder as he passes, the touch setting her nerve endings on fire.

    As per usual, she¡¯s the last one in the room.

    Professor Favreau looks up from her desk as she too packs up. She¡¯s a monochrome woman: grey coat, black scarf, white hair. The brightest things about her are the chunky rings she wears, a rainbow of gems gleaming in the watery sunlight coming through the window behind her.

    As Nadia rushes by, she clears her throat the way a stern parent does to start a lecture. On instinct, Nadia freezes, heart thudding as she regards the coin-sized ruby perched on Professor Favreau¡¯s extended finger.

    ¡°Ms. DuPont, is everything okay?¡±

    No, she wants to say. Everything in her body has screamed to go home since she opened her eyes this morning. No amount of willow bark tea or pain patches Etienne has crafted for her are enough to curb the sting. On the way to lunch, she debated the logistics of diving off the side of the mesa, if the fall would be enough to kill her or only disable her further. She¡¯s so tired, she wants to say. So tired of having to consume Serenity to cope and ending up hungover. So tired of waiting for answers. So tired of the pathetic, pitying looks people give her, the same kind of pitying look Professor Favreau gives her now.

    Admitting any of this would be enough to send her to the psychiatric wing, though, and going there means kissing graduation goodbye. She bites the sharp words back. Instead, thumbing through the books in her satchel, she says, ¡°I¡¯m just somewhat distracted today.¡±

    ¡°Clearly.¡± Reorganizing the books on her desk, Professor Favreau gestures to the empty chair before her. ¡°Would you like to talk about it?¡±

    If I sit down, I might not get up again. ¡°Thank you for the offer, Professor. Really, though, I just didn¡¯t sleep enough last night.¡±

    Professor Favreau¡¯s smile tightens. ¡°And that¡¯s all?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s all.¡±

    She hums, lips a thin line, and returns to her notes. ¡°Very well. In the future, it would behoove you to pay attention, sleep-deprived or not.¡±

    Nadia thinks back through the class. The pain had obscured her memory in a dense, dissociative fog. What did she miss?

    ¡°You are dismissed, Ms. DuPont.¡±

    Throat tight, she leaves the classroom as fast as she can without limping. Then, as soon as she¡¯s out of sight, she slumps against the wall. She allows herself a moment to cry, hiccups muffled behind a palm, before she attempts to recollect herself once more. Then she shifts her satchel to her non-aching hip and resumes walking. The sooner she can get home and get high, the better.

    Soft autumn wind catches her hair as she steps outside. Twin sycamore maples, trimmed to keep errant branches at bay, form a natural arbor over the class hall entrance. Stray leaves tinged with yellow spiral on the breeze, catching in her hair. Her knees are throbbing by the time she reaches the bottom of the staircase. It will be a miracle if she can make it to her room, elevators or not.

    With a sigh, she adjusts her capelet and begins the trek back. Before long, the signature clicking of Etienne¡¯s heels is the sole warning she gets before he falls into place beside her.

    ¡°Nat.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t fucking say it.¡± Warmth blooms under her collar. She hopes he can¡¯t see the smudged evidence of her tears. With a subtle swipe around her eyes, she maintains her offset stare and continues her awkward hobble.

    ¡°You really should go home,¡± he says after a pause.

    ¡°That was the plan.¡±

    Etienne¡¯s steps falter. Then, ¡°Good.¡±

    He means well, she knows, but that doesn¡¯t stop the irritation bubbling under her skin, seeking a way free. She focuses on the sting of her nails in her palms to keep her tongue at bay.

    ¡°What did Professor Favreau want?¡±

    Like hunting dogs set free, her agitation bursts forth. ¡°What does it matter to you, anyhow?¡±

    The heat of dozens of stares prickles along her back. It¡¯s enough to make her want to slink into the nearest corner and sob anew. Instead, chin tipped in what she hopes is defiance, she stares Etienne down until he shrinks.

    ¡°Nat¡­¡± He holds both palms out in a universal placating gesture. Brows drawn into a thin line, he takes a step towards her, then another.

    ¡°I-is everything okay?¡±

    Nadia stills. The voice is low and soft and, somehow, familiar in a way that makes her stomach warm to hear. It cuts through the overwhelming irritation running rampant in her veins. After a beat to glower at Etienne some more, she turns.

    The stranger before her knocks the wind from her lungs with a single look. ¡°You¡¯re¡ª¡°

    Their hair is pulled into numerous small braids, all tied back with a leather cord. The capelet around their shoulders is cerulean¡ªan Abjuration Major, then¡ªand pulls apart enough to reveal their buttoned sweater underneath. With a slight pout, they look her over.

    ¡°Do I know you from somewhere?¡± they ask.

    Despite the aching in her knees, despite Etienne, despite everything, Nadia feels a wave of warmth consume her. The ghostly remains of their hand on her thigh comes to mind. She bites her lip, scanning her scattered brain for a name she can match to them.

    ¡°We, uh, met once,¡± she says as she thinks. ¡°On a field trip.¡±

    The ring on their thumb rattles as they snap their fingers. ¡°Right! A few days ago when we saw the diorama of Latuka, right?¡±

    For half a second, she thinks they¡¯ll continue, that they¡¯ll remind her of how they had fucked her against the trees. She can¡¯t decide if the thought of being exposed embarrasses her or not.

    But they don¡¯t. Instead, they arch a thick brow, head cocked as they wait for her response.

    She jerks at Etienne¡¯s elbow lodging into her ribs. ¡°Right,¡± she says.

    Etienne remains glued to her side. ¡°A friend of yours?¡±

    ¡°More like a wayward ship,¡± the stranger replies. ¡°Two stars crossing in the night.¡±

    The quote is familiar to her, but she can¡¯t place where it¡¯s from. Instead, she nods. ¡°Right,¡± she says again.

    ¡°Is everything okay?¡±

    The crowd around them has continued, to Nadia¡¯s relief. The three of them are at the epicenter of an ever-moving whirlwind. No matter her response, it¡¯s unlikely anyone will eavesdrop on her. ¡°An unruly conversation,¡± she says. ¡°Nothing more.¡±

    Before they can respond, the stranger¡¯s stare shifts past her. ¡°Ah, I should get going,¡± they say, tossing a cluster of their braids over their shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m glad to see you again, though. Nadia, was it?¡±

    Flinching, her cheeks turn warm again. How the fuck did they remember her name? Better yet, why can¡¯t she remember theirs?

    ¡°Yes. And you were¡­?¡±

    They chuckle, smothering the sound behind a sepia-toned hand. ¡°Simone. Until we next meet.¡±

    She can¡¯t help but admire the sway of their hips as they walk away. What she wouldn¡¯t give to have their legs wrapped around her head, to have them pulling her hair and telling her¡ª

    ¡°Are you even listening?¡±

    She snaps back to with a gasp. Etienne waves a hand over her eyes, forehead wrinkled in a way she knows he¡¯ll complain about later. Shaking herself free of her lust-addled daze, she sighs. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Etienne. What were you saying?¡±

    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    ¡°Nothing.¡±

    Now it¡¯s her turn to frown. ¡°Are you sure?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡± The sigh he gives deflates him. Eyes downcast, he takes her hand and starts for the dorms. ¡°Let¡¯s get you home.¡±

    #

    ¡°You know, you didn¡¯t answer my question earlier.¡±

    Nadia bundles up tighter in her blankets, listening as Etienne shuffles about in the other room. ¡°Which one?¡±

    ¡°About Professor Favreau. After class, you were, well¡­¡±

    She waits for him to fill in the silence, but nothing comes. The itching of her irritation resumes under her skin, so deep-seated she doesn¡¯t think she¡¯ll ever be able to claw it out. Still, she fights the urge to act on it and instead replies, ¡°She wanted to talk about my attendance.¡±

    The roar of a dust sweeper in the plaza outside fills the silence. Her thoughts flick back to Simone.

    Simone. Why had she never seen them before now? And why, after a single, sweaty afternoon, are they all she can think about?

    ¡°Somehow, I doubt that¡¯s the whole truth.¡±

    Her jaw sets. With every last shred of her control, she chokes down a bitter response. Instead, she strains an ear to the sound of ceramic clinking together.

    ¡°I think our professors would understand by now your predicament,¡± he continues before the sputter of her sink faucet drowns him out.

    Nadia waits for the noise to die out before speaking. ¡°You would be surprised.¡± Despite her efforts, barbs cling to the edge of her words.

    Etienne says nothing. The silence between them stretches impossibly thin, interrupted by their individual shuffling and nothing else. For a few minutes, she¡¯s almost convinced he¡¯s left her to stew in her own toxicity. But then, as her eyelids begin to shutter closed, he enters her room with two steaming cups. He balances one on her knee, keeping the other to his chest.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± she says as she brings her cup closer. The ceramic does little against the searing heat, but she refuses to let go.

    Etienne remains silent save for his soft breaths. It¡¯s not until he¡¯s halfway through his cup that he speaks.

    ¡°Are we okay?¡±

    It¡¯s the most uncertain she¡¯s ever heard him. They¡¯ve fought before, and for worse reasons. Nothing has ever made him sound like he does now, like he¡¯s a mouse she¡¯s cornered and is about to trap.

    Nadia thinks his words over. A mouthful of tea, bitter and watery, swishes between her teeth and goes down with a harsh gulp.

    ¡°Of course we are,¡± she says at last.

    ¡°Then why¡­¡± He stops to set his cup aside. Raking through his mop of brown curls, he tries again. ¡°Why were you so at my throat this afternoon?¡±

    Is that all this is about? Nadia would laugh if he were anyone else. She grips his chin and forces him to meet her gaze. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to.¡±

    ¡°And what about with that person? In the courtyard? It was like I didn¡¯t exist to you.¡±

    She squirms with the heat building in her stomach. ¡°I¡­ we¡¯ve met before.¡±

    His green eyes are hardened chips of emerald. He says nothing, but his brow quirks.

    She understands the implied question at once. ¡°Gods damn it, Etienne.¡± Her face warms. Releasing him, she sets her cup aside. ¡°That¡¯s the person I met a few days ago.¡±

    ¡°From the field trip?¡±

    ¡°From the field trip.¡±

    Etienne throws his head back with a sharp, hawkish laugh. ¡°Ah, no wonder.¡±

    At once, the wall of ice between them melts. Nadia feels it in the ease of Etienne¡¯s smile, in the way he rubs her knuckles with a soft thumb. How stupid of him to think anything could tear them apart.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she says, to further ease the tension. In truth, she thinks his persistence and her aggravation had justified her reactions, but it¡¯s not worth fighting with him now.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, too.¡± His brows furrow. ¡°We¡¯ve had a rough couple of days, so I was beginning to worry and¡ª¡°

    ¡°Favreau reprimanded me for being sick.¡±

    His jaw remains open. The lump at his throat bobs. After a pause, he shuts his mouth.

    ¡°Rather,¡± Nadia says, ¡°she was upset I wasn¡¯t paying attention. Because I¡¯ve been feeling so sick.¡±

    ¡°And because you won¡¯t do coursework.¡±

    Her gaze flicks to the satchel she abandoned at the base of her bed. Now that Etienne¡¯s tea has started its course through her, she debates grabbing the bag, just to prove a point. The moment her foot touches the floor, she decides against it. The pain is ever-present nowadays, reduced now to a dull hum.

    ¡°Perhaps you are right.¡±

    ¡°Still, it was cruel of her to point out.¡±

    ¡°It was.¡± Her body trembles as she sighs. ¡°And I guess I then took it out on you, so¡­ I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    Etienne takes her hand again. ¡°It¡¯s already forgiven.¡±

    #

    They¡¯re leaving from Harding Hall when she sees them.

    ¡±Simone!¡± she calls before she can stop herself. In this moment, it doesn¡¯t matter that dozens of their peers are glaring at her. It doesn¡¯t matter Simone freezes like a spotted deer. In a way, that¡¯s all the better.

    She crosses the courtyard in the blink of an eye. Simone¡¯s shocked gaze melts into something warmer.

    ¡°Hey, Nadia.¡±

    The way they say her name makes her want to shove their tongue down her throat, but she refrains. Even their first meeting had started with manners.

    ¡°It¡¯s nice to see you again,¡± she says. At once, she wants to kick herself. What kind of line is that?

    Their smile is all sunlight. ¡°Of course! It¡¯s nice to see you as well.¡± They motion for the door. ¡°Were you coming in?¡±

    She can¡¯t stop staring at their mouth, at the delicate bow of their top lip. More than anything, she wants to suck on the soft flesh like an orange slice. A blush creeps onto her cheeks at the thought.

    ¡°No,¡± she says after a moment to recollect herself. ¡°I, um¡­ I was looking for you.¡±

    Which isn¡¯t a lie. Between pacing by the phone or attending classes (or pretending to), she¡¯s found herself drifting through the courtyard like a wayward ghost. Perhaps it is by divine design she has found them today.

    Simone stills. This close, their wide eyes are two disks of red obsidian. ¡°You were?¡±

    Her throat is too dry, so she nods instead. Her stomach flutters at the slight smile on their face.

    They step out of the doorway and lean against the railing. ¡°Sure. What did you need?¡±

    Make me feel alive again, she wants to say, but the words are caught between her teeth. She hadn¡¯t thought this far ahead. A clumsy collection of sounds tumble free.

    Simone laughs at her sputtering, the sound like the ringing of a dozen bells. They flip a cluster of braided hair over their shoulder before running their fingers through it.

    ¡°Go out with me?¡±

    Their hand stops. A soft gust of wind blows through them both, carrying with it the scent of Simone¡¯s skin¡ªorange and pine and a soft vanilla undercurrent.

    Still they say nothing.

    Fuck. Nadia¡¯s skin crawls under the heat of their gaze. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she says. ¡°I don¡¯t know why I¡ª¡°

    ¡°When?¡±

    Their cheeks are as bright as Nadia¡¯s feel, their smile overwhelmingly radiant. Nadia eyes the leagues of distance between their hands.

    ¡°I¡­¡± Didn¡¯t think I would get this far. ¡°What are you doing tonight?¡±

    A softer, deeper chuckle. Simone sweeps closer and brushes against her hand. ¡°With any luck, you.¡±

    By the Gods. Her legs turn to gelatin.

    ¡°Your apartment,¡± they continue, seemingly unaware of her shock. ¡°Right?¡±

    ¡°Third floor of the Diviner¡¯s tower,¡± she replies. ¡°The plainest door in the hall.¡±

    ¡°See you then.¡±

    She follows them across the courtyard with her eyes. Her breath comes out in fluttering gasps. With a hand on the railing to support herself, she slumps down and watches them enter Harding Hall. Then they are gone. Her breath catches with the closing of the doors.

 Five

    <h2>Simone Allard || After</h2>

    Simone has never considered themself a religious person. Not in a ¡°priest in the temple¡± sense. True, the Gods walk the earth still, and they¡¯ve seen enough Gods-touched people in their life to know the hand of the divine in everyday places. Still, Simone has never had reason to pray.

    Until now, that is. On the walk back to the dormitories, the names of Gods they half-remember tumble free, earning Simone a fair amount of glances. If a divine ear is among the listeners, all the better, they think.

    Their harried recitation stops only when they reach the Diviner¡¯s tower. Their resolve carries them forward, even as their breath rattles at the third floor landing. Impatience scuttles under their skin.

    All their prayers have amounted to nothing. Nadia¡¯s apartment is as empty and untouched as the last time Simone stepped inside it. The name of Tifar turns to ash on their tongue.

    The moment the door shuts behind them, their bury their face in their hands and scream.

    Their throat burns when they¡¯ve finished. Tears, sudden and hot, spill down their cheeks in twin rivers. A second, quieter shriek fills the apartment, straining their vocal chords to their limit.

    Warmth wraps around their ankles. Hiccuping, they meet eyes with the all-white cat nuzzling them. Dio¡¯s eyes are a brilliant gold, like divine ichor. The closest Simone will get, they think, to a divine presence.

    ¡°Hey there.¡± Simone sniffles and drops to their knees. Dio rubs against them with more fervor now, leaving a cloud of fur in his wake. After a beat, they scratch him behind the ears.

    ¡°Have you seen Nadia?¡±

    Dio¡¯s eyes remain wide and unblinking. How foolish of them to expect a cat to talk, no matter how many stories they¡¯ve read. Their fingers tangle in his snow-white fur as they give a sad sigh.

    ¡°Of course you haven¡¯t.¡±

    Between the confusion and the anguish twisting knots in their chest, their hand stills. What if Nadia never returns?

    As if sensing their turmoil, Dio chirrups and twists between their legs. Tail fluffed, he marches into the bedroom. They don¡¯t follow him¡ªnot at first. Instead, they dwindle in the living room, a wayward ghost in living skin.

    They sag into Nadia¡¯s couch. Their gaze drifts over her spotted carpet and cluttered table. A bundle of pamphlets sits on top of a wobbling tower of books. From the page staring back at them, Simone knows it¡¯s about Nadia¡¯s Malifica diagnosis.

    The bundled pages hit the floor. Simone shifts focus to the books underneath. A tattered leather cover greets them. A quick flip through proves it to be a textbook from her Divination and Mysticism class. This too, they set aside.

    Their heart lurches at the tome underneath. The spine is one wrong tug away from disintergrating. The pages inside are scattered, comprised of various different mediums; receipts and shredded envelopes and old book pages have been repurposed now. Each of them are covered in sigils.

    Some of the pages Simone understands. Though their time studying Divination has been brief thus far, they can make out some of the spirals and lines they see, though many of them are intermingled with other sigils or twisted in a way Simone cannot define. Their thumb rubs over a sigil for clairvoyance. If only they hadn¡¯t left their casting glove at home.

    They turn the page once more. This deep in, the sigils are more advanced. Deep-seated pencil grooves retain their shape despite the shreds of eraser that tried to sweep them away. In places, Nadia has drawn the same line over and over again with minimal change. Some sigils are still half-formed, Nadia¡¯s tiny scrawl crawling in the spaces around them to denote their use.

    Simone shuts the tome with as much care as they can muster. Nadia¡¯s spellbook is as tattered and incomplete as she is. She¡¯ll have to come back for it, right?

    They turn back through, making another pass at deciphering Nadia¡¯s handiwork. The translations are just as clear as before. With a sigh, they press the book to their chest. The clock on the wall chimes to signify the hour.

    Simone shrinks when they see the position of the clock hands. It¡¯s three AM? They have classes in the morning and¡ª

    Etienne. They still have to take their watch over Etienne.

    They rub the back of her spellbook the way one might a fussing child before setting it back down. They should leave before it gets any later. Still, the moment they turn away, the book nags at them. It creeps into their nest of thoughts and settles there, a constant weight.

    Before they can think, the spellbook slides into their bag and settles against their hip. Nadia shouldn¡¯t mind, especially when she isn¡¯t here to use it. Besides, as far-fetched as they know it sounds, perhaps Simone can find some clues within her work.

    #

    Simone wants more than anything to focus on Professor Favreau¡¯s lecture, but their mind continues to drift.

    This is a first for them. All their life, they¡¯ve prided themself on their steel-clad attention span. It had aided them in everything from reading to homework to the grueling entrance exam to Voterique to begin with.

    But now, Professor Favreau¡¯s voice is a garbled whine at the back of their skull.

    Lost to their thoughts, they don¡¯t register the class has ended until someone shoves past them in their attempts to leave. Simone snaps back to with a start. The page before them is woefully blank. Stomach sinking, they realize they¡¯ll have to consult their study group for notes.

    Professor Favreau is at the front of the room still, wiping away her lecture from the blackboard. Clouds of chalk dust hover around her and drift away. The rings on her fingers are covered in a fine film. She rubs them clear one by one.

    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    ¡°Ah, Mx. Allard,¡± she says when their eyes lock. ¡°Is there something you needed?¡±

    They sling their bag over their shoulder and approach her desk. A tower of papers sits to one side. An emptied mug sits on the other. In the ocean of space between the two, her desk is bare of decoration save for the splotches of ink. It¡¯s these splotches they focus on, trailing a path around them with a finger, as they ask, ¡°Do you ever do sigil translation work?¡±

    Professor Favreau quirks a brow. ¡°Sometimes, yes. If it¡¯s not Divination or Necromation, however, I am afraid my expertise is limited.¡± She sets her chalkboard eraser down and pins Simone down with the full weight of her stare. ¡°Why do you ask?¡±

    ¡°Well¡­¡± After a beat, they lift Nadia¡¯s spell tome from their bag, placing it on the desk with a sheepish grin. ¡°I have some of these a friend showed me and I wanted some help decoding their meaning.¡±

    She takes a step closer. The tattoo on the back of her hand, an inter-connected circle of squares, glows a brilliant orange as she presses it to a tattoo on her other wrist. Then, after a beat, the glow fades.

    ¡°This is someone else¡¯s handiwork, then?¡±

    ¡°It is.¡± They flip open the cover, revealing the scrabbled title page inside. Professor Favreau studies it without a word, pulling the tome closer and riffling through.

    ¡°I see elements of Illusion and Enchantment in these,¡± she says, lips pursed. ¡°They seem more minor elements, however. This one, for example.¡± She points to one, waiting until Simone is studying it to continue, ¡°This is a sigil for some kind of recollection.¡± She flips a page. ¡°Meanwhile this one, despite its crude shape, seems to be the beginnings of creating an avatar for communion. It¡¯s incomplete, however.¡±

    ¡°I see.¡±

    Professor Favreau closes the spellbook with care. ¡°They¡¯re impressive works, for sure¡­if whoever wrote them could get them to a functional state, they would be a force to contend with.¡±

    Simone trails their fingers over Nadia¡¯s spellbook, chest aching. ¡°I see,¡± they say again.

    ¡°But that¡¯s for them to solve. Is there anything else I can help you with?¡±

    They hold the tome to their chest, sure if they let it go, it will crumble into dust. With great hesitance, they say, ¡°Do you know anything about Nadia?¡±

    ¡°Who?¡±

    Their stomach twists. ¡°Nadia DuPont. She was a student of yours last semester.¡± They¡¯ve found themself subjected to her rants about their Professor from time to time, too. Professor Favreau is a raging bitch¡ªher words, not Simone¡¯s¡ªbut that doesn¡¯t stop them from admiring her strictness and collected air. She is the perfect Professor for certain sorts of minds.

    ¡°Oh, Ms. DuPont. I can¡¯t say I¡¯ve heard of or from her since the change over. She should be doing mostly independent study now, I would think. Why?¡±

    They swallow the growing lake of saliva in their mouth as they think. ¡°I just¡­ haven¡¯t seen her lately is all,¡± they say at last.

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t be too concerned on that front, dear.¡± Now, Professor Favreau leans close, the silver bells around her neck clinking. ¡°Not the most¡­ reliable sort.¡±

    Simone bristles, thankful they have at least enough restraint to keep from snapping back. What does she know about Nadia, anyway? True, she is often capricious, built more on whims than discipline, but that doesn¡¯t give a Professor the right to profane her.

    After a beat, they straighten, running anxious fingers through their cluster of braids. ¡°I¡¯ll¡­keep that in mind, thank you.¡±

    With this, they turn to leave, but a sudden inhale makes them pause.

    ¡°I heard there¡¯s a student in the hospital.¡± Professor Favreau sets a wrinkled, ring-laden hand on their shoulder. ¡°A friend of yours. For that, I do apologize.¡±

    Throat thick, they blink back the tears swarming behind their eyes. ¡°Thank you.¡±

    ¡°I pray he is granted mercy soon.¡±

    They give wordless nod before scurrying away.

    #

    Etienne, already one with a penchant for avoiding the sun, is the palest Simone has ever seen him. The blue of his veins form a garish roadmap up his arms, disappearing into the blood-crusted cuffs of his sleeves.

    And the blood. There¡¯s so much blood. The nurse who let them in to his room warned them of such.

    ¡°It¡¯s too dangerous to move him,¡± she had said, ¡°so he¡¯s going to be¡­ messy.¡±

    An understatement. A polite one, but an understatement nonetheless.

    Now Simone sits at his side, his limp hand in theirs. Sigils crisscross his skin in varying shades of green and gold, moving in time to his breaths.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know how this could have happened,¡± they say, though they know he can¡¯t respond. ¡°What were you two doing? And where is Nadia?¡±

    They fall silent as the door slides open. It takes a beat to recognize the grey-eyed woman who enters. That is, until they notice the clipboard clutched to her chest.

    ¡°Everything okay in here?¡±

    Her phrasing is poor¡ªbut they can¡¯t fault her for it, they think. ¡°As¡­ good as it can be.¡±

    ¡°Ah, right.¡± Her cheeks brighten. Then, more solemn, ¡°He¡¯s going to be asleep for a long while.¡±

    ¡°I understand.¡± Their gaze rakes over his features. His Enchantment cloak has been shredded to ribbons, splotches of blood turning the green the color of rust. His stomach and chest have been tightly bandaged, but even now specks of red bleed through.

    ¡°It took a while to stabilize him,¡± the gods-touched nurse steps to the foot of Etienne¡¯s bed.

    ¡°To be honest, I didn¡¯t think he would make it,¡± Simone replies. ¡°Once I heard it was a monster attack¡­¡±

    ¡°He may still not. Time will tell.¡± The nurse¡¯s eyes reflect in the low light like a cat¡¯s. ¡°I didn¡¯t tell the others this, but you seem to have a decent head on you. There¡¯s still a sizable chance he will die in this room¡­but we are doing all we can.¡±

    Simone tightens their grip on Etienne¡¯s hand. ¡°That¡¯s all we can ask for.¡±

    She hums, gaze unfocused. After several moments staring into an empty corner, she speaks again. ¡°Perhaps the gods will show this one mercy yet.¡±

    It is the closest thing to good news Simone can hope for. While most gods-touched remain within temple walls, spending their hours studying or praying, some still drift through the wider world. No matter where they find themselves, the voices of the gods reach them all the same.

    ¡°Whichever god has chosen you,¡± Simone begins, the words coming one jumbled syllable at a time, ¡°I pray they guide your hands in his favor.¡±

    She nods, the sole acknowledgment they receive before she leaves the room again. Beside them, Etienne¡¯s sigils continue to glow.

    ¡°As soon as you wake up,¡± they say under their breath, ¡°you¡¯re going to tell me everything you know.¡±

 Six

    <h2>Nadia DuPont || Before</h2>

    The moment Nadia enters her apartment, her heart is a butterfly pinned within her chest. A date. With Simone. What was she thinking?

    She¡¯s never been one for dating. In primary school, no one was enough to catch her interest. It wasn¡¯t until the gap years she found a need for romance and sex at all. Casual affairs only, of course. She¡¯d seen how her mothers, though in love and destined for each other, had been torn apart in the end.

    Even now, in her third year in the Diviner¡¯s program, she hasn¡¯t gone beyond a date or two, let alone anything more than a meaningless hook-up.

    She¡¯s getting ahead of herself. With a groan, she regards herself in the mirror hanging from her bedroom door. The surface is smudged enough to give her a sort of warped aura around the edges. Still, it suits its purpose as she holds up shirt after shirt, dress after dress, determined to find just the right outfit.

    Nothing fits or looks quite right, though. In a huff, she calls Etienne.

    He¡¯s there minutes later, perched on the edge of her bed. She stares at him through the mirror, a floral-print dress pressed to her chest. His lips purse as he inspects the fabric. Finally, ¡°Too dark.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re right.¡± She tosses the dress aside and scours the mountain of clothes surrounding her for a new one.

    ¡°You¡¯re putting¡­quite some effort into this one.¡±

    Nadia straightens with goldenrod fabric in her grasp. ¡°Am I?¡± she asks as she unfurls the turtleneck¡ªwhen did she get this one? Where?¡ªand examines herself in the mirror. ¡°I think this might work with that one dress I have.¡±

    Then, before Etienne can reply, she¡¯s stripping to her undergarments. Even this she had agonized over¡ªnot that she¡¯ll ever admit such to Etienne¡ªand finally settled on a simple sheer slip. There is a chance, however slim, Simone won¡¯t get to see it. So, Nadia picks something comfortable and hopes for the best.

    ¡°Besides, you¡ªAre you even listening to me?¡±

    She stiffens. Perhaps she¡¯s putting too much thought into her garment options. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Etienne. I missed that. What did you say?¡±

    An unusual darkness flits across his features. Arms crossed, he says, ¡°Nothing.¡±

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t sound like nothing.¡± Nadia positions the neckline just so and twists back and forth. Though she wants to focus on how the fabric falls, Etienne¡¯s glower distracts her.

    She stops twirling and turns around. ¡°What.¡±

    He chews on the inside of his cheek. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t try to bullshit me. This.¡± She gestures to him with a hand. ¡°Why are you being so sour?¡±

    Etienne¡¯s knee bounces, a tell-tale sign of anxiety. What does he have to be anxious over? Sighing, he leans forward so his hair obscures most of his face.

    ¡°I thought you didn¡¯t like dating.¡±

    She quirks a brow. That¡¯s what this is about? ¡°I don¡¯t. But that doesn¡¯t mean I won¡¯t go on one¡ªjust to see what all the fuss is for.¡±

    ¡°And¡­¡± His knee continues to bounce. Thin fingers rake through his mud-brown hair. ¡°What if you decide you like it?¡±

    ¡°Then who cares?¡± She throws the sweater on, just to have something to wear. She feels too naked without it. ¡°It¡¯s not like we need to write the campus newspaper. Look out, everyone, Nadia got some good sex for once. This might be the one to settle her down!¡± Then, examining herself, ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous.¡±

    Etienne¡¯s cheeks brighten. ¡°That¡¯s not what I¡¯m saying at all.¡±

    ¡°Then what are you saying?¡±

    He stamps his foot into the carpet. Though it stops shaking, his knee trembles. ¡°What if¡­ you decide you like being with them more than with me?¡±

    A snort escapes before she can stop it. ¡°We¡¯ve never been romantic.¡±

    ¡°Of course not!¡± Then, quieter, ¡°I just mean¡­ what if you stop being friends with me?¡±

    Sighing, Nadia crosses to the bed and slings an arm around his shoulder. ¡°Why would that ever happen?¡±

    He remains stiff against her. ¡°It¡¯s happened before.¡±

    ¡°Not between us. Not everyone is Aleksi.¡±

    ¡°I know that.¡±

    ¡°Then don¡¯t worry. Be happy for me! I¡¯m seeing someone for the first time in¡­¡± She stops to count and, failing to conjure a number to mind, says, ¡°I guess it¡¯s been a while.¡±

    In the silence that follows, her bedroom is a hunched beast waiting for battle. Once Nadia (finally) settles on her date ensemble¡ªyellow turtleneck, a soft black dress with thin straps, and a pair of earrings made to represent orbiting stars¡ªEtienne takes his leave. For once, Nadia is all the more glad when her front door clicks shut.

    She debates makeup for a while after that. She¡¯s never felt the need to paint her face, especially when her skin makes its protests incredibly obvious after the fact, save for enough concealer to make her look as lively as anyone else. Still, she ruminates in front of her cracked bathroom mirror with a bottle of yellow eye paint. She¡¯s still staring at herself, haggard and exhausted but nevertheless trembling with excitement, when there¡¯s a knock at her door.

    Nadia sets the bottle down and meets eyes with Dio, perched on the edge of her tub. ¡°Well, this is it. Wish me luck.¡±

    Dio offers her a soft mewl before tucking his head into his paws and falling back asleep.

    Another knock. Nadia gives herself a final look in the mirror. Thick dark circles rim her eyes and her bangs are a roughly chopped curtain over her eyes, but it¡¯ll have to do.

    Whatever expectations she¡¯s set in herself of Simone are immediately blown away. A small wicker basket hangs from one arm. Blue beads cap the ends of their braided hair. Beneath their soft blue capelet, they¡¯ve changed into a yellow button-up with narrow sleeves that billow before tightening at the cuffs. Their teeth gleam like fresh-farmed pearls.

    ¡°May I come in?¡±

    Words evade her for several seconds. Then, ¡°Of course.¡±

    They sweep past her with a wave of orange and vanilla musk. Her toes curl at the scent. With a rapid pulse, she watches as Simone takes a slow circle around her apartment. Too late, she notes the dishes half-cleaned in the sink, the soft blanket pooling on the ground in front of the couch.

    ¡°I, um¡­¡± Nadia¡¯s cheeks grow warm. ¡°I haven¡¯t had much time to clean lately. I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    Simone lowers into her couch cushions with a smile. Setting their basket in their lap, they say, ¡°I¡¯ve seen worse.¡±

    The breath she exhales rattles her choppy bangs. With a bump of her hip, she forces the front door closed.

    ¡°Stuck door?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s picky.¡±

    Their lips purse. ¡°You should talk to the groundskeep about that.¡±

    She shrugs, failing to conjure a better response. Crossing to the kitchen, she allows her gaze to leave Simone at last. ¡°Would you care for a drink?¡±

    ¡°Something warm, I hope. Isa¡¯s breath is warmer than the campus is right now.¡±

    Nadia chuckles. ¡°Tea it is.¡±

    #

    The stove won¡¯t light. Then the water in her sink comes out grey and refuses to clear. Finally, when the lamps flicker in unison, Nadia buries her head in her hands and, from her spot on the couch, says, ¡°Maybe you should leave.¡±

    ¡°Nonsense. We¡¯ll go somewhere together.¡±

    Minutes later, she finds her hand in theirs as they trek across campus. Though her ankles and knees voice their protest, Nadia doesn¡¯t have it in her to care. Casters-to-be pass them by in a blur. Though their gazes burrow into her skin, Nadia can¡¯t help but get a thrill from the stares.

    That¡¯s right. She clings tighter to Simone¡¯s arm. Nadia DuPont is capable of a date.

    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    The thought surprises her. Since when has she cared what others thought of her? Half of the third-years have scored themselves on her bedposts, after all. They know her reputation well enough.

    Before long, they¡¯re in line for the trams to the city below. With a harsh swallow, she recalls the last ride down she took. The feeling of weightlessness¡ªeven the memory of it¡ªmakes her stomach drop. For a moment, she considers telling Simone to find them somewhere on campus, but then she decides against it. What¡¯s another risk when they¡¯re already going so far?

    They flash their amulets in unison to the faculty running the trams, who nod before gesturing them into them the open car. At once, she is assaulted by the smell of other people and her gut lurches. It¡¯s a good thing I didn¡¯t eat yet, she thinks as the tram begins its descent, otherwise I would have vomited twice by now.

    In the midst of her panic, she¡¯s faintly aware when Simone wraps an arm around her and pulls her close. The jittering of her knee stills at once.

    When it¡¯s over, Nadia waddles out of the team like a sailor, legs bowed at awkward angles. The pain in her ankles worsens as she finds a spare wall to lean against and catch her breath.

    ¡°You don¡¯t leave the campus much, do you?¡± Simone asks.

    ¡°Can¡¯t say I do.¡± And it¡¯s the truth. Aside from the field trip a few weeks prior, Nadia can¡¯t remember the last time she was in the city of her own free will. Most days, it is consumed in soft mist, so when she can brave a glance down there isn¡¯t much to see. Now, she admires the intricacies in the brick roadways. Large vehicles drive past, hunched like animals ready to pounce. Simone leads her through a maze of streets, hands soft in hers, before pulling her into a small cafe.

    ¡°My enbei and I used to come here when I was younger,¡± they say as a bell tinkles overhead. Nadia doesn¡¯t have the heart to mention how the smell of coffee makes her stomach curdle. Then again, what doesn¡¯t nowadays?

    They sit across from each other in a quieter corner of the cafe, warm cups of tea in hand.

    ¡°You¡¯ve been in school for seven years now.¡± Simone stirs their drink as they talk, gaze dark and unreadable. ¡°And, clearly, you¡¯re a Diviner-to-be. Why?¡±

    Nadia chokes on the last dredges of her cup. ¡°That¡¯s quite abrupt of you.¡± And in truth, she can¡¯t remember the last time anyone was willing to scrutinize her so. Perhaps during her entrance exam, when the likes of people like Professor Favreau had seen fit to quiz her to the point of frustration. That was nearly eight years ago, though.

    Still, after setting her cup down, she fingers the hem of her Diviner¡¯s capelet and says, ¡°For plenty of reasons. There¡¯s much exploration to be done within the dream realms we turn to in sleep, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±

    Their expression remains unchanged. Nadia¡¯s skin prickles.

    ¡°For example,¡± she continues in a softer tone, anxiety turning her fingers to gelatin, ¡°there are studies now to suggest dreams are how we process the events of the waking world. And, I think, it can be the safest place for people to dissect more¡­ traumatic events.¡±

    ¡°As a means to recover from them?¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡± Nadia coughs to clear the dryness in the back of her throat¡ªand the remains of her tea. ¡°Sitting across from you right now does not have me inclined to dive into your innermost secrets¡ªor to allow you to view mine. However, the dreamspace is¡­¡± Here she pauses, chewing on her lip as she thinks of how to continue.

    Simone¡¯s face melts into a comforting smile. ¡°I think I understand. It¡¯s a neutral ground of sorts, right?¡±

    She couldn¡¯t have been more shocked if they had pinned her to the chair and split her open for everyone to see. ¡°Well¡­ yes.¡±

    ¡°How fascinating.¡±

    Nadia crosses her legs and leans forward. ¡°There¡¯s plenty of interesting sides to me, I think you will find.¡± Then, dragging her spoon along the rim of her cup, she says, ¡°And what about you?¡±

    ¡°Pardon?¡±

    ¡°Abjuration.¡± She points to the soft blue capelet wrapped around Simone¡¯s shoulders. ¡°It¡¯s not flashy like Evocation. You don¡¯t get the fun reputation of the Diviners, or the strictness and danger of being an Enchanter. Some might even say that Abjuration is the most boring realm to become a Caster of. What about it appealed to you?¡±

    Now it¡¯s Simone¡¯s turn to go wide-eyed. The shock is momentary, however. After a couple of beats to collect themself, Simone sets their cup down. Their mouth curls into a soft smile.

    ¡°Are you familiar with Candide Allard?¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t say I am.¡±

    ¡°Fascinating.¡± Their dark eyes flash again. Then, ¡°They¡¯re my enbei and a prominent member of the ACAS. It is through their work I¡¯ve seen the true havoc that monsters are having on humanity across the world. As such, I want to do something about it.¡±

    ¡°The same can be said for many here.¡±

    Simone shakes their head, the beads capping their braids clacking together. ¡°Not so. Not the way I wish to. Even now, as we struggle to grow more connected as a world, there are many pitfalls that separate us.¡± After a pause to sip their tea, they say, ¡°Take Hadorae, for example.¡±

    Nadia shivers. The northern country had sent its pleas for help a few months ago. Even here, oceans away, Nadia remembers the Hadoraec spokespeople who had visited the college. The vacant horror in their eyes had been enough to disturb her sleep for weeks.

    ¡°They got the aid they needed, but did it need to get that far?¡± Simone continues. ¡°There are ways to streamline communications worldwide, especially in the realm of Abjuration. In doing so, it is my hope we can quell this threat once and for all.¡±

    Nadia mulls their words over, impressed and shocked in equal measure. Their aspirations are so¡­ noble. Selfless. So unlike her in every way.

    ¡°Quite ambitious,¡± she says at last.

    ¡°That¡¯s the truth of it, though.¡± Now, Simone sets their spoon down and straightens in their chair. The person regarding her has morphed; gone is the flirtatious air and gentle smile. They examine her the way the deans had all those years ago. What is it they seek?

    ¡°I don¡¯t waste time, Nadia.¡±

    Clearly. Momentarily, her thoughts drift to their first encounter, but she forces herself back to the present with a blush.

    ¡°Before we talk further, I would like to know there won¡¯t be any¡­ complications.¡±

    How abrupt. ¡°All¡­right.¡±

    ¡°What are your aspirations after you graduate?¡± Their head cocks. Their gaze rakes again over the lilac purple of her capelet. ¡°You¡¯ve mentioned working with dreams, yes. I find that answer to be lacking.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s the truth of it, though,¡± she says before chuckling. Without meaning too, she¡¯s mirrored something Simone said earlier.

    ¡°Part of it, I¡¯m sure, but not the whole truth.¡±

    She¡¯s had these kinds of dates before, had her fill of arrogant partners-to-be who wanted nothing more than to make her a trophy. At this point, she normally tells them to go fuck themselves and leaves the date at that, but something about Simone¡¯s no-nonsense air makes the pit of her stomach grow warm. Dampness settles between her thighs.

    ¡°It¡­ it depends on my final grades, I suppose,¡± she says at last, hating how the warmth in her face is all-encompassing. ¡°Ultimately, I think it would be nice to use what I learn in a therapist¡¯s setting.¡±

    ¡°Through dream work?¡±

    ¡°Through dream work.¡± A strange giddiness bubbles to life inside of her. Bouncing in her seat, she continues, ¡°Because where you see a monster epidemic and the potential to forge new communication avenues, I am seeing all of the hunters who come home afterwards. They¡¯re tired. They¡¯re in pain. They¡¯re traumatized.¡± Again, the haunted faces of the Hadoraec spokespeople comes to mind. ¡°And what is being done about their trauma? Nothing.¡±

    It¡¯s as close to the truth as she¡¯s willing to get. Of course her methods could be expanded to the monster hunters set abroad¡ªin due time. Her thoughts are more local, though. And, with shame rolling down her back, she realizes she¡¯s thinking of herself most of all. She can¡¯t compare herself to the wealth of monster hunters, certainly, but she has her own traumas to sort through all the same.

    Simone¡¯s eyes narrow to slivers. Panting, Nadia waits for them to say something, anything.

    Then, ¡°A fair answer, Nadia DuPont.¡±

    They rise from their seat and extend a hand to her. She examines it with a quirked brow.

    ¡°We¡¯re leaving?¡±

    ¡°Our drinks are done, are they not?¡± Then, with a wink, ¡°I have the perfect dessert in mind to round out our night.¡±

    She can¡¯t help herself. With a wicked grin, Nadia takes Simone¡¯s hand in hers and drags them towards the exit.

    There¡¯s no urgency when they re-enter Nadia¡¯s apartment. There¡¯s a comfortable sort of quiet wreathing them as they slide their hands under each others clothes. Their capelets tangle together in a pile on the floor, blue over purple. Though Simone won¡¯t let her remove their shirt, she redeems herself when she undoes the button to their pants with her teeth. Having exhausted themselves of words, they instead explore each other in the quiet of Nadia¡¯s dusty apartment.

    Afterwards, for the first time in a while, sleep claims Nadia swiftly and without mercy.

    #

    Awareness comes to her in snatches. Her chest aches when she reaches across the mattress and finds nothing but a fleeting warmth. Simone must have gone home for the evening. The final ring of the phone from the other room registers at last.

    Sighing, she pulls the blanket tighter around her. Whoever is calling can leave a message¡ªor else, call again. Otherwise, they have no reason to disturb her peace.

    Seconds pass. Then, as if it read her mind, the phone rings anew. The shrill peals are enough to make her ears ache. When she stands, Dio winds around her legs, white tail fluffed up, and chirrups.

    ¡°Hello, sweet boy.¡±

    A deep meow rumbles in his throat. Wide golden eyes regard her. His body trembles as he rubs against her.

    ¡°I¡¯ve missed you too.¡±

    Seemingly satisfied with the attention, Dio scurries away. The telephone resumes its piercing refrain. This time, she¡¯s quick to grab it.

    ¡°Hello?¡±

    ¡°Is this Nadia DuPont?¡±

    Her stomach flips. ¡°It is. May I ask who is calling?¡±

    ¡°Ms. DuPont, this is Aida of the Voterique medical ward. If you have some time today, could you please visit our office? Your test results came in.¡±

    ¡°O-Of course.¡± After a dry swallow, she says, ¡°Is everything okay?¡±

    ¡°We just need to discuss your results is all.¡±

    At this, she tenses. What did they find that must be said in person? Did they notice the Serenity lingering in her blood?

    ¡°Ms. DuPont?¡±

    ¡°Understood.¡± She forces calm into her voice. If she¡¯s to be expelled, so be it. ¡°I will come by within the hour.¡±

    It¡¯s only once she¡¯s hung up the phone that Nadia remembers she set a follow-up date with Simone. She eyes the clock on the wall. With any luck, her discussion will be brief and she¡¯ll return before they arrive. They¡¯ll never have to know.

    Or, at least, she hopes.

 Seven

    <h2>Simone Allard || After</h2>

    Etienne¡¯s skin glistens with the dozens of sigils the nurses have drawn, pulsing with dull light. Simone watches the slow rise and fall of his chest from their chair in the corner of room. It¡¯s their turn to keep vigil again. They brought their Intro to Glyph Design homework with, intent to get at least some work done, but the second they tear their gaze away from Etienne, the letters swim and refuse to still.

    At last, they give up, tossing the packet of papers to some forgotten corner of the room. Professor Darzi will forgive them, they hope.

    Their gaze flicks back to Etienne. If not for the tattered clothes and thick scab along his forearm, they could fool themself and think he¡¯s asleep.

    They can¡¯t imagine sleeping for an entire week, though.

    A mountain of coursework looms from his bedside table, enough to make Simone blanch. They¡¯re already feeling the stressful pinch of focusing on their own work in the wake of the attack. Their studies will stop for no one, though, the half-dead included.

    And in all of this, there¡¯s still no sign of Nadia.

    The realization makes their guts curdle. She¡¯d been mercurial in the past¡ªthey¡¯ve been on the receiving end of her mood shifts, as violent and unpredictable as the weather in the Isles, enough times to know. Still, they thought she would be done with whatever fancy has crazed her now. Especially where Etienne is concerned.

    The more they think on her disappearance, the more worried they get.

    Etienne¡¯s face twitches. They catch the movement at the last second, half-convinced they missed it. Breath fluttering, they set their homework aside¡ªthey weren¡¯t likely to finish it today, anyhow¡ªand wait with something akin to hope.

    After a moment, he settles.

    It¡¯s possible he¡¯ll never wake up. The thought turns their hope, so consuming and warm, to ash. The nurses have mentioned this fact more than once during their visits. Still, it¡¯s a painful thing to consider.

    His face scrunches again.

    Perhaps he is dreaming, they reason. A better sign than most. Can unconscious people dream? Do they have a conscious at all? If Simone spoke to him, would it reach him, wherever he mentally was?

    They¡¯ve almost convinced themself it was a fluke. Etienne could have felt something, even in his unconscious state, and had a minute reaction to it. The nurses have told them several times that such activities are normal.

    But as they decide to return to their work, they freeze. Etienne¡¯s eyes are wide open, staring at something far beyond them.

    They grip the arms of their chair. This is a dream. Some sad, pathetic, messed up dream. And yet, underneath their words, the glimmer of hope rekindles.

    The machine beside him beeps faster now. With rapid blinks, Etienne begins to move.

    ¡°Etienne.¡± Their workbook slaps the ground as they stand. ¡°By the gods.¡±

    His eyes rake the room in an unfocused arc, settling before long on Simone. Thin brows draw together. His nose wrinkles.

    ¡°What are you doing here?¡±

    It¡¯s not quite a question¡ªat least, not one asked because he¡¯s curious about the answer. Despite the croak in his voice, Etienne¡¯s words come out steeped in venom.

    Simone¡¯s skin prickles. They want to lie to themself, to convince themself he¡¯s only upset because he was nearly killed just days ago, or that he¡¯s angry because he¡¯s tired. Neither of these things are true, though. Deep down, they know it¡¯s because, for reasons they¡¯ve never understood, Etienne LaChance hates them. He¡¯s hated them from the moment they found Nadia on a field trip, and will likely hate them still when he dies.

    And yet, here they are. It¡¯s just the two of them in a cold hospital room. They¡¯ve stayed by his side in the hopes that he¡¯d awaken, even if his time asleep failed to provide a change of heart. He needs kindness right now, they tell themself. It¡¯s the tool they need to brush off his hostility.

    And yet, they can¡¯t hide from the question burning holes in their throat.

    ¡°Etienne, where is Nadia?¡±

    The look in his eyes turns to something colder. One of the machines at his side beeps at a more rapid pace. After a glance to the wires in his skin, he turns away.

    ¡°You need to leave.¡±

    Their jaw sets. ¡°I¡¯m not going anywhere.¡±

    His hand, thin and gnarled after his week unconscious, grips the bed frame. ¡°I¡¯m serious. Get out of here, Simone.¡±

    Irritation ripples through them. How ungrateful of him, especially when they¡¯ve spent every waking moment this week waiting on him. They¡¯ve forgone their study group to see him, spent nights half awake sick with worry, and this is how he treats them?

    ¡°You¡¯re delusional.¡± The words come out with more bite than they¡¯d meant, but they don¡¯t have it in them to be sorry for it. A week¡¯s worth of turmoil bubbles over. They turn to shout for attention. ¡°Nu¡ª¡°

    Their lips fuse together, voice dying in their throat. Sweat beads on Etienne¡¯s face as he glowers at them, a piece of paper clenched in his other fist. The glove he wears shimmers, the magic fading away as Simone watches it in disbelief.

    ¡°Don¡¯t say a fucking word,¡± he spits with eerie calm.

    They¡¯ve never seen the kind of grim resolution Etienne has on his face before. Not in anyone. As they start to slowly nod, he lets the paper free. They both watch its erratic spiral before it settles in his lap.

    ¡°Listen very carefully, Simone. This is not a safe place to talk.¡± He casts a quick glance to the door. ¡°You have to get me out of here somehow. Not now, probably, but soon.¡±

    They don¡¯t trust themself to speak. A million questions swarms their brain like bees. Shock has made the world fuzzy around the edges. Did he just use magic on them? Offensively?

    If he¡¯s aware of their curiosity, he doesn¡¯t show it. The resolve in his eyes hardens. ¡°You¡¯re going to pretend this never happened for now. If a doctor comes in, I am still comatose. Do you understand?¡±

    Before they can respond, he flops back against the bed, eyes shut tight. They hear the sound of heels on marble from the hallway.

    ¡°Etienne.¡±

    Eyes still closed, his hand pats his front and clasps the paper once more. Simone winces as the casting glove again brightens.

    ¡°Please. What happened to¡ª¡°

    They fight against the force at their throat when the door opens. Heart thudding, they turn for the source.

    ¡°Everything okay in here?¡± Doctor Aiza, the grey-eyed nurse who has visited them so often this week, balances the door against her hip as she surveys the room.

    The lump in their throat eases a touch. Though his eyes are closed, the heat of his stare burns them. Don¡¯t say a fucking word.

    He knows what happened to Nadia. He has to, considering he was the last person to see her. And now here he is, offering them answers they burn for on a silver platter. They would never forgive themself if they squandered the opportunity.

    And so, as much as they want to tell the truth, Simone steels themself and forces the falsehood out.

    ¡°Just fine,¡± they say through a set jaw. ¡°No real changes here.¡±

    The lie fills their throat with bile, but it¡¯s too late to take it back. Doctor Aiza nods as if she expected nothing less and ducks out of the room. The instant the door is shut, Etienne peeks through half-open eyes.

    It takes all of Simone¡¯s restraint to avoid rattling the bars framing his bed and shaking him for all he is worth. Instead, teeth grinding together, they swallow hard. ¡°What the fuck, Etienne?¡± Still their brain spins, unable to decide on what question to ask first.

    ¡°Get me out of here and I¡¯ll tell you.¡±

    They both freeze at the sound of footsteps in the hall, relaxing only when it passes. Then, leaning closer, Simone says, ¡°And how do you propose I do such a thing?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s for you to figure out.¡±

    In another lifetime, this would be the final strike to the tether around Simone¡¯s control. They entertain the notion¡ªjust for a second, they swear¡ªof grabbing Etienne by the throat and killing him themself. But that won¡¯t help matters. Nothing they can think to do will.

    ¡°Etienne¡­¡± Now their voice cracks, betraying the turmoil boiling underneath. ¡°Just tell me where she is.¡±

    The look he gives is all molten metal. ¡°Get me out of here. Then I¡¯ll tell you everything you want to know.¡±

    For a second, they swear they see tears rolling down his face, but then he¡¯s turned away. It was just an illusion, they tell themself. A trick of the light. If he really cared about Nadia, he would tell them, right?

    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°Fine.¡± The chair rattles as they rise, trembling with the force of their fury. ¡°Have it your way.¡±

    With this, they gather their books and pens and hug them close. They don¡¯t look at him as they head for the door, instead letting the silver knob consume their vision. Then, as they reach for it, a thought comes to mind.

    ¡°You could help us find her, Etienne.¡± The lump in their throat swells, but they press on. ¡°Just remember that. If anything happens to her¡­ if anything happens to her, and you are preventing us from being able to stop it? There¡¯s no force in the world that will be able to stop me killing you.¡±

    With this, they step out into the hall, making sure to slam the door on the way out.

    #

    They need to squeeze the answers out of Etienne.

    The thought thrums through them in time to their harried steps. Other Casters pass them by in a blur as they march for the towers. Normally, they like to lose themself to the wave of conversations washing over them from all sides, but not today. Not when so much remains unanswered. Not when they want to wrap their hands around Etienne¡¯s neck and squeeze until he¡¯s dead¡ªfor real this time.

    After all, it all leads back to Nadia.

    Nadia. Their jaw sets. She¡¯s a fool if she thinks they¡¯ll forgive her latest stunt. Over the last nine months, there¡¯s been plenty for her to apologize for as it is. Lying about her studies. Stealing from the campus store. All of the times they¡¯ve found her half-catatonic state, pupils the size of dinner platters¡­

    But not this. Disappearing in such a suspicious fashion, right after her best friend was nearly killed? Simone can¡¯t forgive her for this.

    By the time they bound up the steps of the Diviner tower, their vision is framed in red. Their anger is so all-consuming they almost don¡¯t catch what¡¯s so different about Nadia¡¯s apartment until they¡¯ve barreled through the door.

    What?

    Tape criss-crosses the entryway, held firm by sigils. Across the surface, wrote in everything from Elrish to Mertalc, is some variation of, ¡°Restricted.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± they whisper, ghosting over the words with a hand.

    Then they catch the paper flapping against the door itself.

    ATTENTION STUDENTS: Access to this dormitory is henceforth forbidden. If anyone attempts to enter the premises, or if student resident NADIA DUPONT is seen, please alert faculty immediately.

    Thank you,

    Voterique College Faculty

    ¡°No, no, no.¡± Their heart is a lion¡¯s roar in their skull. Simone¡¯s hands twitch. A strange hollowness blooms within them.

    ¡°Looking for her, too?¡±

    They almost miss the words, so low the static in Simone¡¯s brain overrides it. Mouth flapping, they are unable to form a response.

    ¡°I overheard some of the professors recently¡ªshe¡¯s gone missing.¡±

    These words are clearer, but still faint. Beneath the hollowness comes a twinge of irritation. ¡°I-I know that,¡± they manage.

    Now they dare a glance at the speaker. A lilac purple cape flutters around them, long enough to obscure most of their form. They have the higher cheekbones and narrowed eyes of someone from Ximuchi. A pair of wire-frame glasses balances on the end of their nose.

    ¡°Ohh,¡± they say, nose scrunching. ¡°I¡¯ve seen you around here before. You¡¯re her¡­¡± They wave a hand in place of saying anything further.

    ¡°Partner.¡±

    ¡°Right.¡± Their gaze shifts to Nadia¡¯s door. ¡°And you really have no idea what happened to her?¡±

    Simone shakes their head.

    ¡°A shame.¡± They crouch down beside them. ¡°If I were you, I would distance myself from her situation entirely. Rumor has it she¡¯s the reason that one man is hospitalized.¡±

    Their throat dries. ¡°Impossible. It was a monster. That¡¯s what everyone keeps saying.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps¡­ and perhaps not.. They were fighting right before he was found.¡±

    Perhaps that¡¯s why Etienne was so stern. Still, Simone shakes their head. ¡°They were closer than siblings.¡±

    ¡°Love turns to hate all too swiftly.¡±

    Simone has heard that line before, somewhere in a book of old poems. When they scour their brain for the title, it dissipates the instant they recall it.

    ¡°I appreciate the warning.¡±

    The stranger¡¯s stare turns distant. Chewing on their lip, they do nothing as Simone stands back up and turns to leave. Then, as they walk away, the stranger snatches their wrist.

    ¡°I might be able to get you in.¡±

    Simone stills.

    ¡°You¡¯ll have to be quick, of course. Once the sigils break, I¡¯m sure faculty will be coming along to investigate.¡± After a pause, they nod. ¡°They¡¯ll definitely be coming to investigate.¡±

    Simone examines the doorframe with a furrowed brow. At once, the stranger¡¯s meaning is clear. Twisted into the sigil meant to bind material together¡ªin this case, the ends of the tape to the door¡ªis the makings of an alarm sigil. Their knees buckle. Though the punishment is unclear, getting caught in any capacity could spell difficulty to Simone¡¯s career. Worse still, what would their enbei think?

    ¡°You¡¯re not going to have time to stop and examine things¡ªbut this isn¡¯t your first venture, is it? You were here a few days ago. In comparison, this will be a swift mission.¡±

    The words drag them back to. At the forefront, with stunning clarity, comes a single word. Nadia.

    It¡¯s all the incentive they need.

    ¡°What do I have to do?¡± they ask.

    The stranger snorts. ¡°You¡¯ll want a bag. I said you wouldn¡¯t get to stop and examine shit, didn¡¯t I?¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯ll be here when I come back?¡±

    ¡°If you¡¯re quick enough.¡±

    Simone rushes down the corridor.

    By the time they¡¯ve returned to the third floor of the Diviner¡¯s tower, they¡¯re panting hard. Sweat prickles along their brow. Still, determination keeps them moving. True to their word, the stranger is still waiting for them, looking up from their pocket watch at Simone¡¯s approach.

    ¡°I hoped you would be inspired,¡± they say, clicking the watch closed. They flip their ink-dark hair over one shoulder. ¡°Now. I¡¯ll get you in, and I hope what I do will get you back out. But if I find you back here again, I¡¯ll turn you into the dean myself.¡±

    Simone swallows. ¡°Then why help at all?¡±

    A soft shrug. ¡°I know what it¡¯s like to want answers. I hope you find what you seek.¡±

    From deep within their clothes, the stranger produces a small jar of paint and a brush. The brush is narrow and tickles when brushed Simone¡¯s skin. Then comes the chill of the paint, not unlike slime. The stranger draws a complex series of swirls and lines on any bare skin they can find.

    ¡°I am unsure how long the effects will last¡ªnot that I would waste much time here to begin with. That said, it should help.¡±

    With this, they enclose Simone¡¯s hand in their own. The Caster¡¯s mark on their glove glows a dim gold.

    ¡°I¡¯m Shae, by the way. Not that you bothered to ask.¡±

    ¡°Shae. Thank you.¡±

    With this, the glove gives a final, eye-piercing flash before dimming once more. Simone¡¯s skin is translucent, a faint outline giving away their general shape.

    ¡°I hope I need not repeat my warning.¡± Shae turns on their heel. ¡°Don¡¯t let me find you here again.¡±

    Then they are gone, leaving behind the faint smell of ozone.

    The tape splits without issue as Simone barges into the apartment. Though there¡¯s no audible alarm, there¡¯s a second, fainter hint of ozone. The tell-tale sign of a spell being cast. The race is on.

    Inside, they give the apartment a sweeping look. Everything appears to be as Simone remembers it, complete now with a thin veneer of dust. Their footfalls are less certain as they approach the coffee table. Nadia¡¯s spell tome is safe in their apartment, but perhaps there¡¯s something else of worth they can grab. Their search proves futile when they realize it¡¯s the same Sanguina Malefica pamphlets and tattered dream journals.

    They move to the near-bare bookshelf against the wall. Many of the books are ones Simone gifted her: devotional poetry, chintzy romance stories, the occasional textbook. Nothing about monster attacks or Etienne, though, unless he was the one to gift her the small glass-and-enamel sculptures sitting orphaned on the shelves.

    They¡¯ve moved on to a book about ancient health remedies when Dio¡¯s sharp meow startles them. When they look up, he¡¯s at their feet. They don¡¯t remember seeing him enter.

    The moment their fingers brush his snowy fur, he lunges away from them.

    ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing?¡±

    Nothing. Then, a second, quieter meow. Stuffing the book into their bag, Simone follows him. He weaves a path through Nadia¡¯s furniture, thick tail swishing, and bounds for the bedroom.

    Nadia¡¯s room is as messy as before, like Simone¡¯s attempts at cleaning hadn¡¯t had an impact. A soft, sour scent fills the room. Simone fights the urge to hold their breath.

    They find Dio under her bed, digging at one of Nadia¡¯s blouses. The evidence of his destruction is evident in the scraps of fabric in his claws. Simone swipes at him and groans. ¡°Stop that, Dio.¡±

    As beams of light illuminate his fur, he stops. Between his paws is a small black vial.

    ¡°What¡­ do you have there?¡±

    Dio grows statue-still, vial still nestled between his paws. With shallow breaths, Simone reaches for him. His spine bristles when they make contact, but he doesn¡¯t stop them from pulling the vial free and examining it.

    Simone doesn¡¯t have to uncork it to know it contains Serenity. Though their encounter with the drug has been brief, they¡¯ll never forget the way the liquid moved as they drank it¡ªlike it was alive. For all they know, it could be. The sample before them trembles, the liquid sloshing around before settling.

    ¡°Where did you find this?¡± they ask, more for their benefit than Dio¡¯s. Careful to keep the cork sealed, they study it in the afternoon light. The material is more slime than liquid, like fresh phlegm. Simone shudders at the thought of Nadia having such a substance on hand. Where does she even get it from? It¡¯s something they¡¯ve never understood through the course of their relationship, the one secret she¡¯s refused to let them in on no matter how many of her layers they peeled away.

    With startling clarity, a solution forms itself in the back of their mind. They shove the vial into their bag.

 Eight

    <h2>Nadia DuPont || Before</h2>

    She can¡¯t have heard right, so she leans forward in her chair and asks the woman to repeat it.

    ¡°The news is shocking. I understand.¡± Before her, the doctor caps her pen and tucks it behind her ear. It winds through her red-blonde tresses. ¡°We have some options, though, which with help make you more comfortable for the time being.¡±

    ¡°No.¡± She leans forward to look at the file, but the doctor snatches it back. ¡°That can¡¯t be right.¡±

    ¡°My apologies, Ms. DuPont¡­ but I¡¯m afraid it is.¡±

    If only she could burn her to cinders with her stare, or bend her body inside out. Alas, she majored in the wrong realm of magic. Instead, she gives the doctor the fiercest glare she can muster, chin tipped with the force of her defiance. Undoubtedly, the doctor has delivered this sort of diagnosis before to hapless, tired students with unknown illnesses. Perhaps some had acted the way she is now, armored with the scathing looks. Still, she¡¯s nothing like them. She can¡¯t be.

    ¡°I¡¯m not dying,¡± Nadia says at last.

    The folder in the doctor¡¯s hand tips, allowing Nadia a view of her name tag. Doctor Aiza. ¡°The results are quite clear.¡±

    In a flurry, she unclips her capelet and throws it to the floor. She gives her bruising forearm a harsh smack, wincing at the force of her own fury. ¡°So check again. Do more tests. Make your salary fucking worth something.¡±

    ¡°Ms. DuPont.¡±

    Now, her name is uttered without any warmth to it. She stills, heartbeat too loud in her ears. The pity remains in Doctor Aiza¡¯s grey-rimmed gaze, so intense it makes her want to smother her.

    ¡°I truly am sorry,¡± Doctor Aiza says, as if saying anything else would be enough to break her.

    But she doesn¡¯t. Nadia is stronger than this. She has to be, she tells herself as she bundles the maelstrom of emotions within tightly. If not for the tears burning her eyes, there would be no evidence of her being on the verge of collapsing.

    Hands folded in her lap, Nadia focuses on the mole between Doctor Aiza¡¯s eyes. ¡°So,¡±she says, ¡°what now?¡±

    The doctor blinks once, then again. The faint twitch of her brows betrays her surprise. ¡°Would you like a moment to process first?¡±

    ¡°I can process and act at the same time.¡± Nadia is almost proud at the briskness of her own words, of how she has wrangled the turmoil curdling her insides. ¡°Again I ask: what now?¡±

    Doctor Aiza leans back, eyes wider now. She sets her clipboard aside. ¡°Well¡­ With sanguina malefica, we like to keep an eye on the progression of the disease.¡±

    ¡°Progression.¡± She rolls the word around on her tongue. ¡°Does not sound like like there¡¯s a cure in mind.¡±

    ¡°I am afraid not, Miss DuPont.¡± Sighing, Doctor Aiza chews on her lip before continuing. ¡°The disease can be monitored. When you become too ill for normal function, we can re-assess. There are centers we can send you to. A sort of hospice.¡±

    ¡°So, for now, what can we do?¡±

    She drums well-manicured nails on her thighs. ¡°We have done trial runs with doses of Serenity for pain management. While not the most ideal, the results have been promising.¡±

    Something I already partake in¡­ not that you need to know. Nadia let¡¯s the thought fester in the back of her brain. ¡°Is that all?¡±

    Doctor Aiza frowns. ¡°It¡­ we have little else at this juncture. I can schedule meetings with one of the Evocators to help further mitigate the pain.¡±

    Her words hang in the fragile silence. Nadia turns the conversation over the way a child might an Akalese puzzle toy. As of yet, one detail has not been broached.

    ¡°How long do I have?¡±

    Doctor Aiza removes her glasses and folds them, plump bottom lip between her teeth. ¡°That, we are unable to determine. For now, I would advise you get your affairs in order. Ensure there¡¯s no loose ends when the end comes.¡±

    Nadia¡¯s chest tightens. The same sentiment had escorted her mother to an early grave. ¡°So then, I don¡¯t have long.¡±

    ¡°I cannot say for certain.¡±

    ¡°Do I have weeks? Months? A couple of years?¡±

    Doctor Aiza¡¯s grey-rimmed eyes flash like sun-warmed metal. ¡°To be frank, Ms. DuPont, you would be lucky to see graduation next year.¡±

    Nine months. Nadia¡¯s life, already so insignificant, reduced to nine months.

    ¡°I see.¡± The two words tremble under the weight of emotions she struggles to contain. She plays with the ring on her thumb to avoid looking at the doctor any longer. Then, breath rattling, she stands. A familiar pain traps her knee in a vice-grip.

    ¡°Do you have any questions?¡±

    Nadia shakes her head. ¡°Thank you for your time.¡±

    As she turns to leave, Doctor Aiza grabs her wrist. Her skin is as cold and smooth as wind-carved stone. Nadia pauses mid-step.

    ¡°Even in our darkest nights,¡± Doctor Aiza says in a whisper, ¡°there is light available. Remember that, if nothing else.¡±

    How strange of her to offer a parable after delivering fatal news. Nadia would laugh, had the words not come from one so obviously Gods-touched. For a split second, her heart twinges, and she again feels the heat behind her eyelids. Then the moment passes.

    ¡°I¡¯ll keep it in mind, thank you.¡±

    With this, she snatches her hand away.

    #

    Chantal answers on the second ring, just like she always does. She¡¯s barely said a syllable when Nadia cuts her off.

    ¡°Do you have those notes from your friend in Elrick?¡±

    She¡¯s never been so overt, she thinks. All the phones are monitored by operators. Having witnessed the expulsion of her peers, Nadia has learned over the last two years to speak in code. This is the most daring she¡¯s ever been.

    Chantal¡¯s breath catches over the line. ¡°Yeah, I think so,¡± she replies after several seconds.

    ¡°Can you bring them by in, say, twenty minutes?¡±

    The moment Chantal affirms, Nadia hangs the phone back on the cradle. Her heart beats at the pace of a hummingbird¡¯s wings. After a pause, she picks up the phone once again.

    ¡°Etienne LaChance, please,¡± she says into the mouthpiece. After a click, she hears his soft hum.

    ¡°Nat?¡±

    She should have planned what to say. Curse her over-active instincts. How do you tell someone you¡¯re dying?

    ¡°Etienne.¡± Her voice cracks, betraying her.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be right there.¡±

    He hangs up before she can argue. She guesses, in a way, she deserves it after her brusque discussion with Chantal. Replacing the phone, she steps away.

    The door trembles on its hinges with the force of his arrival. He doesn¡¯t knock. He doesn¡¯t have to. Before she can speak, he has her enveloped.

    It¡¯s in his warmth she finally shatters.

    He releases her when Chantal shows up, quick to send her away in Nadia¡¯s stead. When he returns, it¡¯s with a small paper bag. After he sets it between them, he takes her hand. Neither of them speak for a long while.

    The ticking of the clock digs its way under her skin.

    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    ¡°So.¡± Tick, tock, tick, tock. ¡°I got some news today.¡±

    Etienne adjusts his glasses as he looks up. ¡°I knew something happened.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m¡­¡± Her breath catches. The words form a dam at the base of her throat. Where to even begin?

    ¡°We don¡¯t have to talk about it.¡± He takes her hands in his, grasp limp in case she decides to pull away. How does he know her so well?

    It would be easy to bury the truth. A good cry and a dose of Serenity and it would be like none of this had ever happened. She could go on with the knowledge held close to her chest, and in nine months she¡¯d be gone and none of it would matter.

    She thinks about it, briefly, but the concern in Etienne¡¯s gaze fractures her resolve. He deserves the truth more than anyone else.

    ¡°Etienne, I¡¯m dying.¡±

    His hands tighten around hers, knuckles paling. When she tries to meet his gaze, he¡¯s staring off into the distance. The silence that falls is all-consuming. A chasm opens in the pit of her stomach.

    In a voice entirely too small, she says, ¡°Etienne?¡±

    He rubs a thumb along her skin. ¡°Are¡­ are you sure?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what the doctors told me today. They¡ª¡° The words fall short. She shouldn¡¯t be breaking up about it. Death is a part of life, after all. If the gods see fit to end her life so soon, who is she to stop it?

    After a deep breath, Nadia tries again. ¡°They said I will be lucky to see graduation.¡±

    Etienne¡¯s breath hitches. ¡°That¡¯s¡ª¡°

    ¡°I know.¡±

    His eyes squeeze shut. Despite his efforts, a tear slips free and rolls down his cheek. Nadia cups his face, desperate to wipe the pain from his face.

    ¡°Etienne¡­ I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    He¡¯s the one crying, thick sobs tearing from him and making them both tremble. Despite the way her throat closes, though, Nadia refuses to let her own tears fall. Her mind drifts to when her mother had shared similar news with her, the stony quiet that had enveloped them. Neither of them had been much for words or emotions. Even Nadia¡¯s mom had cried harder than either of them. She was losing her wife, after all.

    It¡¯s that way now. She¡¯s Etienne¡¯s closest friend. Now, in a twist of fate neither of them had seen, she¡¯ll soon enough leave him.

    ¡°Hey,¡± she says, tipping his chin. Water-logged green eyes consume her vision. She swipes a thumb over his cheekbone. ¡°We still have time. Not as much as I would like, but we have time.¡±

    He lunges into her arms with a choked sound, head pressed into her ribs. She rubs slow circles into the ridges of his spine. The sound of his sobs turns to unrelenting static.

    This is not how the conversation should be going, she thinks. She should be the one breaking down, right? She is the one whose life is coming to a close. Why is Etienne the one crying instead of her?

    She shoves him back, perhaps a bit too roughly, and hates the mix of hurt and confusion swimming in his eyes.

    ¡°I¡­ I need to be alone right now, Etienne.¡±

    She might as well have slammed a door in his face, the way tears well up and roll down his cheeks.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± A fist clenches in her lap, the most she¡¯ll allow her anger to show. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry. I just. This is a lot for me to have to take in right now. You understand, don¡¯t you?¡±

    He gives a dry swallow. ¡°Of course,¡± he says, the syllables sticking together. ¡°Just¡­ call me later, okay?¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    She guides him to the door, every bone in her body aching. If not for her watching him lumber down the hall, she¡¯s sure he would have stayed, which is not preferable in her current state. More than anything, she needs to slip into the oblivion Serenity can give her. Perhaps, wrapped in the drugged-out depths, she can find an answer to her plight.

    Or perhaps not. Perhaps she¡¯ll just be high. Either outcome is possible.

    #

    Serenity has her in its inky clutches not too long after Etienne leaves. The world is a haze of the past and the present and the possible. Any thought she conjures quickly distorts.

    A far-off knock disturbs her gentle trance.

    When her eyes open, she¡¯s in her bedroom still. The image around her wobbles, like she¡¯s viewing it through a scrying spell, but she knows her room from any in the tower. Perhaps on the entire campus. Unless she spontaneously managed to master teleportation. Ha.

    Getting upright is like swimming through stone, but she manages after several attempts. The effort has her gasping, each breath rattling her hollow lungs.

    The knocking sounds again. Nadia rises, stumbles, and tries again.

    Who the fuck is bothering me at¡­ She glances to the clock on her living room wall. Seven in the evening? Fuck. Each mental word is punctuated by an uneven step. One could mistake her for a drunkard, perhaps. At the very least, her movements lack the discomfort that often clings to them. This is blessing enough, she thinks.

    She plants herself against the door, the wood bending under her weight and threatening to cave. Standing on her tiptoes, she peeks one bleary eye through the peephole and immediately recoils.

    ¡°Nadia?¡± She watches as Simone raises a warped hand and knocks again. ¡°Are you in there?¡±

    The Serenity distorts every sense she has, but she gets the feeling they¡¯re talking loud enough to attract attention. With a hiss, she yanks the door open. They¡¯ve changed since she saw them last¡ªor perhaps the Serenity makes it so their clothes are more vibrant. Gone is the Abjuror¡¯s capelet, letting the soft cream of their button-up shirt breathe.

    ¡°Simone.¡±

    ¡°Nadia?¡± Their voice bounces around in her skull. Though she doesn¡¯t feel the usual tug of nausea, she thinks she might puke.

    ¡°Fuck. I¡­¡±

    Their brows knit together. Though they don¡¯t touch her, she feels their aura in the space between them. It guides her back as much as they do, a sturdy wall keeping either of them from making contact.

    As soon as they¡¯re in her living room, they shut the door. The sound of the lock makes her bones vibrate.

    ¡°What happened to you?¡±

    Perhaps if she was more sober, she could attempt to pull herself together and lie. The moment she has the thought, the ground sways. She couldn¡¯t fake it if she tried.

    ¡°I¡­¡± Her words make her tongue fuzzy. Then, in a rare moment of lucidity, she says, ¡°You shouldn¡¯t see me like this.¡± She lumbers forward to shove them out, to get them to leave, to do something, but the wall comes up between them again and she falls back.

    And then, with a gentleness that threatens to break her, they say, ¡°Let¡¯s get you in bed.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± she says, seconds too slow. ¡°I can handle myself.¡± And yet, she knows the way her words stick together like they¡¯re made of melted sugar.

    Their face is a mask, all smooth curve and thick lips. With the faintest twitch of their eyebrow, they hook her arm through theirs and guide her deeper into the apartment. Great, uncomfortable heat forms where they touch. Images flash behind her eyes: open books with words she can¡¯t decipher; a burly figure¡¯s pressed suit and leather elbow patches; Nadia herself, gray-tinged and haggard.

    She yanks back, desperate to sever the connection between them. Is that how they really see her? Still, the images keep coming. A figure, so like Simone and yet so different, scowling at her from across a yawning chasm. Sparks of magic. The smell of ozone.

    With a grunt, Simone¡¯s arm curls tighter around her.

    ¡°That way.¡± She weakly gestures with her chin before she realizes she¡¯s done it. If they won¡¯t let her go, they can at least put her to bed. ¡°To my room, I mean.¡±

    She must black out, because she finds herself falling back against the mattress before long. The stars on her ceiling dance to the tune of her twisting vision. A true, vicious wave of nausea roils her stomach.

    Her gaze falls on the bedside table. A black smudge mars the rim of her cup. She has half a mind to be panicked; her and Simone have barely interacted before now. Will they know what she¡¯s consumed? Worse still, will they tell?

    The fear is swept away in the next moments as Simone tucks the blanket around her and smooths the sweat-slicked strands of hair sticking to her forehead. Each movement vibrates through her body like a lake disturbed. The ripples continue to ricochet. This close, their fingers against her brow, dozens of images flicker in their dark brown eyes.

    She¡¯s hallucinating. She has to be.

    Nadia whips her head to the side, desperate to break the mental link between them, and her stomach lurches at the motion. Too fast, she thinks as she takes a deep breath to keep the bile at bay. Did she even eat anything today?

    ¡°Sorry.¡± Their voice bounces around in her skull. ¡°I should have asked before touching you.¡±

    Slower this time, she tilts her head to gaze at them from the corner of her eye.

    ¡°I¡­ um¡­¡± Simone¡¯s cheeks pinken a touch. ¡°I wasn¡¯t expecting this.¡±

    Some primal part of her screams is the back of her skull. You fucking idiot. You inconsiderate fucking waste. Your Serenity was more important than this person you barely know? You¡¯re so devoid of compassion and empathy you¡¯d allow them to waste their time on you?

    You stupid, stupid little girl.

    Nadia squeezes her eyes shut, hating the teardrops that slip through. Deep breaths do little to calm her. At any second, the dam will burst and she will be a bleeding sea of pain.

    ¡°You should go,¡± she forces out between clenched teeth. ¡°I¡¯m sorry to have wasted your time.¡±

    The silence is tangible, thick and waving and enough to make her dizzy. It¡¯s in this silence she waits, straining an ear for the sound of Simone¡¯s shoes on the floor. Leave me, she pleads from inside herself.

    There¡¯s nothing. Her gaze latches to the ceiling. Her mouth open, but her thoughts linger at the end of yawning tunnels and she finds herself incapable of speaking.

    And then, mercifully, their shoe squeaks on the wooden floor. Nadia knows without checking that she is alone. So utterly, terribly alone.

 Nine

    <h2>Simone Allard || After</h2>

    Of all the hare-brained activities Simone has found themself involved in, they¡¯re sure this is the worst. The thought cements itself as they scurry out of the Diviner¡¯s tower. As they do, a cluster of people march towards them. Faculty members.

    Shit, shit, shit.

    They flinch as several pairs of eyes rake over them, each lacking recognition. They gloss over Simone like they¡¯re an errant weed and focus instead on the entrance to the tower.

    True to Shae¡¯s words, the spell holds firm.

    Dio squirms in their bag, dragging them back from their paralyzing panic. Simone sidesteps the entourage, pulling their bag closer to avoid it brushing the crowd. They wait for the doors on the Diviner tower to bang shut before breaking into a sprint, not stopping until they¡¯re back within their apartment once again. Their heart roars like train in their chest.

    Finally, shrouded in darkness, they think they¡¯ve evaded discovery.

    Their joints pop as they stand. Just like how Nadia used to be¡ªa living sack of popped corn. The sound sends shockwaves down their spine and they wince.

    Dio looks up from his curled up spot on the bed at their approach. Grabbing him had been an act of impulse, but how could they leave him behind. The two of them had never been on the friendliest of terms. Even now, he pulls away from their touch, but relents at last with a slow blink of his golden eyes.

    They¡¯ll have to ask Chantal for advice on pet care. Scratching him behind the ears, they wiggle their satchel free from underneath him and rummage through their findings. A medical textbook on the thinner side of informative. Brochures on Sanguina Malefica¡­

    The vial of Serenity sits at the bottom of their bag, taunting them.

    They¡¯ve been under the drug¡¯s influence, but other than the time they¡¯d tried it¡ªa desperate attempt to comprehend Nadia better¡ªthey left such proclivities to Nadia. The feeling of being of multiple minds was something they weren¡¯t able to come to terms with.

    Even now, flashes of Nadia¡¯s memories bubble beneath the surface. How can one willingly subject themself to such an experience?

    And yet, if they want to use it at all to get to Etienne, they¡¯ll have to be the one to drink it.

    Simone picks the vial up without looking at it and turns for the bookshelf against the wall. While most of the books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves are legitimate copies, they find the one decoy hidden amongst them. A holiday gift from their enbei, with sigils overtop only they know how to decipher. The spine claims it¡¯s a collection of maps from the Coven Age, and true to the illusion is a map of eastern Elrick on the front cover. Most of the map is shrouded in trees. A single, skinny river snakes its way from the sea into the mainland.

    They turn the book on its side and click a loose bump on the spine. The cover flips open, revealing the box within.

    Their collection has grown over the years. Cuff links procured from their enbei. A pocket watch gifted to them from one of their first professors. A pair of six-sided die cut from agate. All of these cherished trinkets in one place, hidden in plain sight.

    Simone regards the vial in their palm. The liquid rolls around, straining for the cork stopper. They don¡¯t want to sully their prized possessions with contraband, but their alternatives are limited.

    This will be a last resort.

    With this, they set the vial in the box and slam the lid closed. The weight in their chest lifts with the click of the lock.

    #

    Morning comes without issue, much to Simone¡¯s surprise. They half-expected to be raided in the dead of night, the way they¡¯d heard other Casters had before. And yet, when their eyes open, it¡¯s to the creeping of sunlight on their ceiling.

    A soft sigh escapes them, the last acknowledgment they¡¯re willing to give of the day before. Then, stretching, they begin their morning routine.

    It¡¯s the same every day. It has to be In order for Simone to function. As a child, their enbei said a chaotic routine would lead to a chaotic personality. The research is still out on if this is true or not, but Simone had never thought to question it. Nowadays, their adherence to ritual is often enough to drive Nadia to chew her nails in frustration.

    They spend five minutes stretching their body. First their toes, then their legs, up the valley of their stomach, ending with the soft clicking of their vertebrae. Then they strip their nightclothes and set them in the basket in the closet. The faint salty smell reminds them they have yet to do laundry this week.

    Breakfast is a serving of yogurt topped with lemon curd and blueberries still cold from the refrigerator. They eat as they wait for the coffee to finish steeping and have moved on to a piece of bread toasted over the stovetop burner when a sudden, sharp pain rakes through them.

    Pain is not part of the routine.

    Simone leans against the kitchen counter with a soundless gasp. One knee burns like someone is attempting to pull the cap free of its socket. Their eyes roll. For several seconds, all they can do is let out a low whine and pray for the moment to pass.

    The timer for their coffee dings, a knife of clarity. Clenching the counter, they hobble towards the machine.

    At last, they collapse into one of their stools and stretch their aching leg. Already, the pain has abated some, but is still strong enough it keeps Simone¡¯s thoughts in a vice-grip. And yet, when they pull up the cuffs of their under-shorts, there¡¯s nothing. No swollen flesh. The skin isn¡¯t blushed like they struck it. It almost reminds them of the growing pains they underwent as a child, but with more intensity.

    How peculiar. They let the cuff of their shorts drop.

    For a heartbeat, they entertain the notion of staying home, but they decide against it. There¡¯s been enough chaos as it is, and they would rather not arouse suspicion after the situation in Nadia¡¯s room. They can muscle through the day well enough¡ªthey hope.

    They exhale hard and pour the coffee into their teacup.

    There¡¯s the meeting with Alienor. Their spoon scrapes the porcelain, forming a ripple in their thoughts, but they drag themself back to with a grunt. Defense through Modern Means, Intro to Glyph Design, Ethical Divination¡­

    They latch onto the final class in the list, thinking of the Serenity they¡¯ve tucked away in their room. It can remain as a last resort, can¡¯t it? They¡¯ll have to consult their notes.

    Before long, the pain lessens to a dull throb. Not ideal, but it will have to do. Finished with their coffee, Simone rises and resolves to see through the rest of their routine.

    #

    Alienor is waiting for them when they enter the bookstore, balancing her cane over one knee. Staring out the window, she pulls her powder blue capelet tighter around her and doesn¡¯t look up until Simone pulls their chair out with a loud screech.

    ¡°Oh,¡± she says, gaze vacant. ¡°You¡¯ve arrived.¡±

    Simone sits down and sets their satchel aside. ¡°I am. I apologize for my lateness.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡±

    On normal mornings, they launch into lively conversation at once, jabbering until the first bells ring. Magic, philosophy, their classes for the day¡­nothing escapes the wide net both of their minds cast. This morning, however, there is a storm of nerves brewing between them. Simone shifts in their seat, fighting to meet Alienor¡¯s eyes.

    ¡°Rough morning?¡± they ask when the silence grows too deep.

    Alienor scrapes her teacup around in its saucer. Under the table, her knee begins to bounce.

    ¡°Alienor?¡±

    ¡°I¡­¡± The sigh she expels whips her hair into a frenzy. ¡°Got some unfortunate news recently.¡±

    They take her hand in theirs, examining the splints on her fingers. ¡°How awful.¡±

    At once, guilt forms a weight in their chest. How could they have thought to stay home today?

    ¡°It put plenty into perspective, I¡¯ll say that much.¡± Then, adjusting the splints on her fingers, ¡°But I suppose it doesn¡¯t matter. How have you been?¡±

    The weight of her stare burrows under their skin. A soft heat flares in their cheeks. ¡°Better than yours, it could be said.¡±

    ¡°Indeed.¡±

    Alienor turns away once again, knuckles white where she clutches her capelet. She drums an uneven beat on her cane.

    ¡°Mx. Allard, if I may be so forward¡­?¡±

    They lean forward, pulse fluttering. ¡°Yes?¡±

    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    ¡°What is it that made you decide to pursue Abjuration?¡±

    Simone¡¯s brow furrows. ¡°Well, plenty, I suppose. With my enbei in the A.C.A.S., it feels¡­ almost expected. But aside from that, it¡¯s the field of casting which calls to me the most.¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯ve never had a change of heart? Not once?¡±

    Perhaps, when Simone had first began pursuing their Caster¡¯s degree a year prior, there had been the faintest inklings of doubt. To pinpoint your studies to such a finite degree is indeed a daunting task. And sure, towards the end of their first year they had made themself sick with worry over their career prospects, or if they had made the right decision.

    They can¡¯t say when exactly the cold chill of certainty had settled within them. Sometime before their thesis pitch to Professor Darzi. Perhaps it had been a culmination of numerous smaller moments¡ªmoments which, after their passing, had helped cement the notion that, yes, Simone was making the right decision.

    ¡°Never a change of heart,¡± they respond at last. ¡°An examination of my values, perhaps. Overall, I¡¯ve been quite satisfied with the trajectory of my life.¡±

    Outside, the courtyard is a rainbow of capelets. Alienor watches each one pass, statue-still for a good while. When she turns back, teartracks make a gleaming patchwork of her cheeks.

    ¡°My sister was killed last week. Monster attack, they said.¡±

    Simone winces. ¡°Oh. I¡¯m¡­ terribly sorry to hear that.¡±

    Alienor nods as if that¡¯s the reaction she¡¯s expecting. ¡°I just found out,¡± she continues. ¡°A whole week went by. We were making plans not too long ago to see each other after my graduation, you know. She¡¯s always wanted to go to Vahn and¡ª¡°

    Simone takes her hand again, unsure of what else to do.

    ¡°It just. It makes me angry, you know?¡± Her fingers curl tight around Simone¡¯s. ¡°Why wasn¡¯t I called? I graduate in a few weeks, anyhow. What difference would it make? We have phones, for shards¡¯ sake. Why wasn¡¯t I called?¡±

    All at once, her composure crumples. With quiet, whole-body shudders, the tears on Alienor¡¯s face flow anew. Unable to hide, she looks back out the window.

    ¡°I just¡­¡± She hiccups before continuing. ¡°I wish I had been there to protect her. That¡¯s what our realm of casting is all about, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    Simone nods. Then, realizing she isn¡¯t watching, they say, ¡°I suppose so.¡±

    The first bells ring, snapping them both to attention. Sharing a look, they rise in unison.

    ¡°Mx. Allard.¡± Alienor props the door open with her cane, letting Simone out first. Then, as she steps out after them, she says, ¡°Do you know what the word ¡®abjuration¡¯ originally meant?¡±

    They play with the strap of their satchel, pulse quickening when they realize they don¡¯t have an answer. After an uncomfortable pause, they say, ¡°I don¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°A renunciation of one¡¯s oath.¡± Voice cracking, Alienor rubs her thumb over the head of her cane. ¡°How far we have taken that, hmm?¡±

    #

    Etienne is asleep when Simone enters his room. For real this time, they think as they survey the steady rise and fall of his chest. The sigils over him are different this time¡ªor, at least, they look different.

    Just in case, Simone guides the door closed and creeps deeper into the room. They want to have the upper hand when he wakes up. As gentle as possible, they edge a chair closer to his bedside and sit down. Their hands shake at their sides.

    A lot of his color has returned, thank the Gods. Right after the attack, he¡¯d been so grey he¡¯d rivaled Nadia on her better days. Now, however, he¡¯s almost¡­ normal.

    Simone almost has enough pity in their breast to regret their next course of action.

    Reaching into their satchel with their free hand, they produce the vial of Serenity. A last resort, they remind themself with a gulp. Setting it between their knees, they snap their casting glove against their skin and finally look up.

    ¡°Etienne.¡±

    He doesn¡¯t stir beyond the scrunching of his face. It would be easier to see inside his mind if he¡¯s asleep, they think, but they owe him the pretense of inviting themself in. There¡¯s two ways this conversation will go. Perhaps he will choose the easier route.

    ¡°Etienne,¡± they say again.

    Still nothing. They take his hand in theirs and lean in closer.

    ¡°Etienne. Wake up.¡±

    His eyes snap open, taking them in at last. Flinching, he yanks his hand away, as if he expects their contact to poison him.

    ¡°What are you doing here?¡±

    His voice is still thick with sleep. Perhaps they can convince him to take the more humane approach before he¡¯s realized¡­

    ¡°Have you found a way to get me out of here?¡±

    Or perhaps not.

    ¡°Not entirely,¡± they reply, face filling with heat. Jaw clenched, they continue, ¡°But that doesn¡¯t matter right now.¡±

    His brows furrow. Without looking, he reaches for the bedside table¡ªand for his glasses.

    ¡°You need to tell me what happened to Nadia.¡±

    He stills. The muscles in his neck twitch, worms straining for surface. ¡°I already told you,¡± he says in a low tone. ¡°If you want to know anything, you need to get me out of here.¡±

    ¡°Not so.¡± Simone takes a deep breath and attempts to channel some hidden, colder part of them. They think of their younger years, how they¡¯d presented speeches in an unflinching, unchanging tone.

    No, that¡¯s too soft. They need something firmer to anchor to.

    Nadia. Think of Nadia.

    Simone focuses on the discolored spots on Etienne¡¯s face, on the angry pink scars running across one side of his face. It¡¯s all the incentive they need.

    ¡°There are two ways this can go,¡± they say. ¡°Firstly, you can volunteer the information willingly. I get what I need from you and I leave and we pretend this never happened.¡±

    He snorts. ¡°I don¡¯t have the patience for this.¡±

    ¡°Which leaves option two.¡±

    ¡°Get out before I call the nurses myself.¡±

    They pick up the vial of Serenity and hold it into his line of sight. At once, he pales.

    ¡°Wh¡­Where did you get that?¡±

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter, so long as you know what it is. I don¡¯t want to do this, Etienne, but I¡¯ll make the both of us drink it, right here and now, and I¡¯ll force the information out of you in a different way entirely. And who knows. The way you are, perhaps I will stumble upon some of your other secrets as well.¡±

    His throat bobs. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t dare.¡± Though his gaze is as cutting as acid, it doesn¡¯t keep the tremble out of his words.

    ¡°I¡¯ve had enough of being kept in the dark, Now that you¡¯re awake, I want answers.¡±

    He chews on his cheek for a long while, his glare icy. Still he says nothing.

    ¡°We don¡¯t both have to drink it. I¡¯ll make the sacrifice for both of us.¡± As they speak, they ease the cork seal loose. ¡°Either way, I¡¯m leaving this room with what I want.¡±

    ¡°Enough!¡±

    The single word bounces off the walls and back into both of their ears. In the silence that follows, Etienne shoots a panicked glance to the door, then to Simone. Shock slackens every inch of his face, replaced in a flash by ice-cold fear. His movements are clumsy as he tries to scramble back and, not getting far, he droops over in defeat.

    ¡°Fine.¡± He spits it like a globule of acid in their direction. ¡°Fine. Just¡­ put that away.¡±

    Their brow quirks. ¡°I thought you and Nadia consume it a lot.¡±

    ¡°We did.¡± A single tear rolls down his face. ¡°But¡­¡± Then, with an inhale and the cracking of several of his vertebrae falling back into place, he meets their stare with reddening eyes. Still, he doesn¡¯t speak.

    ¡°Etienne,¡± they say in warning, flashing the vial nestled in their palm.

    He swallows again. ¡°We¡­ had a fight,¡± he says, shoulders slumping. ¡°Over something so entirely stupid.¡±

    So Shae had been telling the truth, after all. ¡°Over what, exactly?¡±

    ¡°About you.¡±

    The world tilts. Eyelids fluttering, Simone leans closer. ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°After all of this time, you still ask?¡± Etienne picks at the skin around his fingernails, refusing to meet their gaze. Then, ¡°I wanted her to break up with you.¡±

    It¡¯s not the most hurtful thing he¡¯s ever said to them. Not by a long while. Still, the confession is a knife in their side. Their mouth forms a thin line as they think of how to respond.

    ¡°For once, it wasn¡¯t because I hated you, Simone.¡± And for once, his voice drips sincerity. ¡°Nadia¡­ she turned¡ªwas turning¡ªinto-¡°

    So caught in the moment, Simone hadn¡¯t heard the footsteps in the hall. Neither had Etienne, they think when his eyes grow wide. In unison, they turn at the creaking of the door.

    ¡°Oh, what a wonderful surprise!¡±

    Doctor Aiza regards them both from the doorway, face beaming.

    ¡°I was beginning to think you wouldn¡¯t wake up,¡± she continues. ¡°But this changes everything.¡± Then her focus shifts to Simone. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but I¡¯m going to have to ask you to leave.¡±

    ¡°Pardon?¡±

    ¡°Well, we have some catching up to do. Tests to run. I don¡¯t want our friend here to get more overwhelmed than he is, do you?¡± Doctor Aiza adjusts her clipboard, grey eyes flashing. ¡°If you would please come along?¡±

    Etienne is ashen when they look back, a pleading gleam in his eyes. Whatever his silent request is, however, they don¡¯t register it.

    Doctor Aiza props open the door and steps closer. ¡°Mx. Allard?¡±

    They stuff the vial of Serenity in their pocket, glad they¡¯d been positioned in such a way as to hide it from her view. Then, with a stiff lip, they replace the chair and step away. They¡¯ve waited this long, after all. As maddening as the thought makes them, Simone knows they can wait a little longer.

 Ten

    <h2>Nadia DuPont || Before</h2>

    Light stabs her through her eyelids, dragging her to consciousness.

    Waking up from Serenity is always like this. The crash is the worst part of the high¡ªthough she was lucky enough to sleep through it this time.

    Nadia sits up, the movement broken down into minute fractions to keep the swelling in her temples at bay. And then, fully upright, she takes stock of her surroundings.

    The pile of clothes at the foot of her bed has shrank. Or, at least, it had looked larger the last time she saw it, hadn¡¯t it? And gone, too, is the clutter on her bedside table.

    She¡¯s done plenty under Serenity¡¯s influence. Dance on tables like a drunkard, for one. Make out with Chantal in front of everyone. Other, equally mortifying acts she can half-remember. Clean her room, however? That is something entirely out of the ordinary.

    Her brows furrow, the epicenter of an impending migraine lurking between them. A white gap consumes her memory, like missing frames in a motion film. What the fuck did she do last night?

    Nadia¡¯s attention flicks to the blankets encasing her in bed. On a normal night, they¡¯re a trap to escape from. On the rare nights Etienne sneaks into her room, he¡¯s always teased her for kicking in her sleep.

    Today, however, she¡¯s been perfectly encased. Had someone tucked her in? Then, heart lurching, a worse thought presents itself. Was someone in her apartment?

    It wouldn¡¯t be the most unusual circumstance, she supposes. More than once, she¡¯s come back to herself in the embrace of a stranger, hands in places they don¡¯t belong. More often still, she will wake up in an apartment she doesn¡¯t recognize. In comparison, waking up alone and untouched is an oddity.

    Dio sits in the corner of her bed, one eye half-open to regard her. With a soft chirrup, he returns to his gentle snoring.

    The afterimage of a memory burns itself into her thoughts.

    Simone. Fuck.

    Her palm is halfway to her face when she forces herself to soften the blow. Even the brief touch sends a black wave of pain through her, strong enough to eclipse her vision. Nadia grits her teeth.

    You fool. You stupid, stupid fool.

    She has to apologize somehow. Given that it¡¯s the end of the week, though, there are no classes to contend with. They could be anywhere.

    The simplest solution would be to call, given the circumstances. But how to explain what happened? Especially with the operators listening in¡ªone wrong word and she can surrender all hope of graduating. Anything worse and she risks Simone¡¯s place in Voterique, too.

    Still, it would be a start.

    Nadia clings to the bed post as she rises, pain barreling through her. Each step makes her gut twist and her knees shake, but she presses forward.

    I have to fix this.

    It takes her another ten minutes to make it into the hall. By the time she¡¯s entered the kitchen, she¡¯s sweating like she¡¯s back in Perov in the dead of summer. The bottoms of her feet feel like they¡¯ve been stick with pins. Still, she has enough energy left to pick up the phone and hold it to her mouth.

    ¡°Simone Allard, please.¡±

    A faint crackle. Then, silence. She counts out the seconds under her breath until she hears the fizz of their lines connecting.

    ¡°Hello?¡±

    Nadia¡¯s heart leaps. ¡°Simone. Hi.¡±

    ¡°Hello.¡± A soft breath, then, ¡°May I ask who¡¯s calling?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ um¡­ Nadia.¡±

    Before she can say anything else, there¡¯s a harsh smack. The line clicks as it disconnects. Dumbfounded, she brings the receiver down to regard it.

    She expected that response, if she¡¯s being honest with herself. Any sensible person would have done the same. Still, her heart tears as she gently recradles the mouthpiece. It would have been better for them to scream at her, to call her every name imaginable. Instead, they¡¯d decided she wasn¡¯t worth a single word.

    With a soft sigh, she lumbers in the direction of her bedroom. She had to make things right between them somehow¡­but it will have to wait until she¡¯s physically able to.

    #

    The next day, she looks for Simone everywhere. Despite the gelatin feel of her bones and the unspeakable agony coursing through her, determination lights the way.

    What is about them that makes her pulse race? She¡¯s never let anyone get this close with her. Etienne is the one exception, forgiving the fact their relationship is not romantic, and even he gets kept at arms¡¯ length at times.

    So what makes Simone so different? She can¡¯t explain it. Perhaps it¡¯s the way they carry themself. She knows they¡¯re intelligent from the scant conversations they¡¯ve had. They¡¯ve a good head on their shoulders, as her mother used to say. She¡¯d be proud.

    With that heart-sinking realization, Nadia comes to a final conclusion. She has to make things right between them. She has to.

    Winter is making its slow decent on Voterique. It¡¯s the first day of the year she feels the need to wear a scarf with her ensemble¡ªand it certainly won¡¯t be the last. Hands buried in her pockets, she takes a gentle stroll through the plaza, praying for once her luck will be good enough she can stumble across Simone. A wealth of trees and bushes from all around the world frame the perimeter, most of them shifting from soft greens to brown-speckled oranges.

    She takes a deep breath, inhaling the sickly sweet aroma of decay. Winter is here, indeed.

    Simone isn¡¯t in any of the halls, nor in the administrative buildings she limps into and gives a cursory glance. They aren¡¯t on any of the eight floors of the library¡ªor, at least, she hopes not after the hour she spent scouring it. With every location she comes up empty, her heart sinks a little more.

    Finally, as she thinks to give up, she sees them.

    They¡¯re escorting a third-year Abjuror off the tram, arm linked through theirs. From this far away, the person with them is hard to identify, but there¡¯s something familiar about the shock of pale blond hair and the mahogany cane in their grasp. A mentor, perhaps. Then, with a twinge of jealousy, A fellow lover?

    True, the presence of another paramour is not an immediate cause for concern. In Mertaln, having relationships of all varieties is expected¡ªnot that things had been much different back home. Her mom and mother had taken separate lovers at times. It¡¯s not even that Nadia has an issue with having multiple partners in theory¡­ but it¡¯s definitely not something she has the time or the energy for.

    Her knees shake. It¡¯s not too late. She can turn around and return to her dorm and pretend this never happened. Besides, she¡¯s sure Simone has better things to do than to handle the disaster that is Nadia DuPont.

    With a final deep breath and a prayer for courage, she strides forward. The moment they lock eyes, Simone¡¯s grip on their companion tightens and they turn to leave.

    ¡°Simone, wait!¡±

    Their gate slows, but they don¡¯t stop. Despite the growing ache in her knees, Nadia pushes forward until they¡¯re close enough to grasp.

    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    Over their shoulder, Simone¡¯s companion gives Nadia a once-over. This close, their grey eyes flash in the thin sunlight. Recognition flickers in their gaze at the same time as it does within Nadia. This is Alienor, head of the third-year Abjurors. Nadia can¡¯t help the wave of relief she feels. This isn¡¯t a date. How could she have been so foolish?

    Her hope curdles at the dagger-sharp edge in Alienor¡¯s eyes.

    ¡°Keep thinking on what we said, Simone,¡± she says, patting their hand before stepping away. ¡°And let me know how it goes.¡±

    With this, she walks away, leaning a little heavier on her cane than before.

    Good. Nadia is unsure where the vitriol within her is coming from, but it hardly matters. She watches Alienor walk away until she¡¯s a spec across the plaza. Then she turns back.

    Simone¡¯s expression remains neutral. Taking a glance at their watch, they say, ¡°You have one minute before I walk away.¡±

    ¡°I¡­ I didn¡¯t mean you to see me like that.¡± As she speaks, she ducks her head down, cheeks bright with shame.

    ¡°Is that all you wanted to tell me? I have places to be.¡±

    Each word is a dart in her side. ¡°I don¡¯t expect you to forgive me,¡± she says without looking up. Her throat swells hard enough to make her next words an effort. ¡°Gods know I can scarcely forgive myself. But I am¡­ so unspeakably sorry.¡±

    She should have brought them a gift of some kind. At the end of the day, it¡¯s statement enough about her state of being that she hasn¡¯t. All she can offer in way of apology is herself, and she doubts it¡¯s enough to truly sway them.

    Simone¡¯s face is unreadable. Looking over the brick railing, they stare out into the nauseating depths of the world below. Nadia¡¯s heart teeters on the precipice of the silence between them.

    Then, softly, ¡°What was that, anyway?¡±

    Nadia rubs her sleeves. ¡°I was¡­¡± High. Inebriated. Fucking wasted like everything else in my life. And then, a strike of mercy, a gentle lie conjures itself on her tongue. ¡°I¡¯ve been prescribed some new medicine that had an adverse affect on me. I wasn¡¯t expecting it to be so bad, honestly.¡±

    Not too far from the truth, if you didn¡¯t squint too hard at the details. But when Simone turns back, the kernel of hope she¡¯s clung to shrivels in her gut. Though their face is still mask-like, the faintest quirk in their brow betrays the frustration underneath.

    ¡°I told you during our last true conversation that I do not tolerate my time being wasted. If you want to lie about it now, you should at least be more convincing.¡±

    Her throat dries to an uncomfortable degree. Before she can respond, they turn on their heel.

    No. I¡¯m not letting it end like this.

    ¡°Y-you¡¯re right. It was a shitty lie,¡± she says, scrambling to follow their hurried march away from her.

    ¡°I¡¯m done with this conversation.¡±

    ¡°Wait!¡±

    She looks down. Their wrist is so small in her grasp, each slim finger stiffening and then flexing as the shock wears off. Simone wrenches their hand free. Now, their mouth curls in disgust.

    She¡¯s too threadbare to keep the tears hidden. Instead, they stream down her cheeks in thick rivulets. Simone¡¯s figure blurs beyond recognition, but she catches their movement all the same.

    And then, as they resume their pace, she chokes out, ¡°I¡¯m dying, Simone.¡±

    They stop, so sudden their shoes scuff against the bricks.

    Nadia swallows. Now or never, I suppose. ¡°I¡­ I got the news after our date. And¡ªand so I was miserable, alright? And perhaps I might have been¡­¡±

    Silence. Nadia closes her eyes, feeling the way the individual muscles of her face crumple as she tries to reign in the tears. The attempt is futile. Within seconds, she¡¯s a breath away from sobbing.

    A cold hand presses against her cheek. Thin fingers flick the metal hoop dangling from her ear. Still she doesn¡¯t move, doesn¡¯t breathe. In this moment, anything can happen. She doesn¡¯t dare open her eyes.

    ¡°How am I supposed to believe that, Nadia?¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t have to.¡± Gently, she takes their hand in hers. Her tears dampen her skin. ¡°Sanguina Malefica. Some call it Idune Sickness. Are you familiar with it?¡±

    ¡°I am.¡±

    A soft, sad chuckle slips free before she can stop it. ¡°Years ago, I remember my mother coming home crying until she was dehydrated. I never understood why. Months later, doctors came for her. I never saw her again. That was what she had, they told me. Not that I was old enough to fully understand.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know why I¡¯m telling you this. It¡¯s not like you care.¡±

    When she opens her eyes, Simone¡¯s brows are knitted together. They chew on their lip, gaze drifting across the courtyard. Their hand remains, the heat of their skin seeping into her bones.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been sick for a while,¡± she continues, desperate to fill the silence. ¡°They said I¡¯ll be lucky to see graduation.¡±

    Their mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Scrunching their nose, they sigh. ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that.¡±

    She shakes her head. ¡°I understand why you¡¯re angry.¡±

    ¡°What even was that?¡±

    They don¡¯t mean the overall events. She realizes that the moment she stares into their eyes. For a heart-wrenching second, she recalls the feel of their memories cradled within her own. Then, stomach clenching, she says, ¡°Serenity. Medically, it¡¯s supposed to be good for pain management and is a good balm for psychological problems.¡±

    ¡°From my perspective, you were near-vegetative.¡±

    Nadia¡¯s lips curl in a sheepish grin. ¡°The effects of Serenity are more severe at higher doses.¡±

    ¡°And you take that¡­ how often?¡±

    Way too much. ¡°Enough,¡± she says, wiping a hand over her eyes. Then, ¡°I meant what I said that night, by the way... I didn¡¯t want you to see me like that, Simone, and I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    They suck in their cheeks. She wants to scream at them to say something. It doesn¡¯t matter if they tell her to leave them alone forever. At least the truth would be out there, no matter how messy.

    ¡°Nine months is a long time,¡± they say at last.

    Nadia flinches. ¡°Not long enough,¡± she says after a pause. Where are they going with this?

    ¡°And there¡¯s no sort of treatment aside from what I saw?¡±

    It¡¯s barely a treatment at all. It¡¯s putting gauze on a festering, necrotic wound. If anything, I¡¯m sure it limits the time I have left. Not that I care much about that. ¡°There¡¯s not much of a treatment at all.¡±

    The thoughtful look in their eyes flares like fresh kindling. ¡°I suppose I could never say no to a challenge, in the end.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    They look again over the brick wall. The afternoon sun paints their skin in shades of gold. ¡°I had a conversation with my enbei recently about Sanguina Malefica. They said they¡¯ve never seen a disease crop up so suddenly, or so fast. There¡¯s no common cause yet to be determined. Strange, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±

    ¡°I¡ªI guess.¡±

    ¡°And wouldn¡¯t it be incredible if someone was able to find a cure for it?¡±

    She¡¯s seen the gleam in their eyes before. Etienne wears it when he¡¯s elbows-deep in another art project. It¡¯s the white-hot flames of a person determined. Something tells her not even the gods could tell him no if he set his mind to something. She sees it again now.

    Something about it makes her knees weak.

    ¡°Nine months is a long time,¡± she echoes.

    ¡°It is. Especially if focused on the right things.¡± They turn back. ¡°So then, let us focus on it. Let¡¯s put it under a microscope and study it.¡±

 Eleven

    <h2>Simone Allard || After</h2>

    A week passes in the blink of an eye and still there¡¯s no word from Etienne.

    Not from Simone¡¯s lack of trying, of course. Every day, they return to the medical ward, hoping beyond hope the news will be different. Each time, Doctor Aiza¡¯s response is the same.

    ¡°We have to continue monitoring Etienne now that he¡¯s awake. I¡¯m sure you understand.¡±

    The first time, and perhaps even the second, Simone allows themself to believe it¡¯s the truth. On the third day, they take careful note of the way the doctor guards herself in their presence, the way she stays out of arm¡¯s reach and pins her clipboard to her chest like a trapped animal.

    They tell themself they¡¯re being overly paranoid. Voterique wants what is best for its students. And, if nothing else, Etienne is more a danger to himself than the doctors are. Still, they can¡¯t ignore the kernel of doubt buried deep in their stomach.

    The week ends the way most do, without fanfare or hurry. Though spring is giving way to a gentle, balmy summer, it¡¯s still chilly enough they hesitate to stay outside for too long. Still they don¡¯t see Etienne.

    Then, at the end of the week, something different.

    By now, they¡¯ve learned not to expect much from the nurses roaming the off-white halls of the medical ward. While they hope for good news¡ªan update, even¡ªthey know they¡¯re likely to be sent away. So when they see Doctor Aiza behind the front desk, they take a deep breath and brace themself for disappointment.

    ¡°Oh, Simone,¡± she says at their approach, smile warm but her gaze distant. She¡¯s preoccupied with shuffling through loose pages and envelopes. ¡°How nice to see you again.¡±

    Simone doesn¡¯t miss a beat. ¡°Am I able to see Etienne today?¡±

    ¡°Actually, he was discharged this morning, I believe.¡± Doctor Aiza pauses her half-hearted digging to flick through the clipboard at her side. Then, after a pause, ¡°Yes. Yes he was.¡±

    A frown twists their lip. The news would be good, if Etienne didn¡¯t hate them so explicitly. Having him back on campus proper makes it all the easier for him to avoid them.

    ¡°Are you sure?¡± they press.

    Her brow quirks. ¡°Etienne LaChance, right?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    She examines her clipboard again with a frown. ¡°He was discharged to his apartment as of dawn. Perhaps check for him there?¡±

    As if he would open the door to them. Still¡­

    ¡°I suppose I¡¯ll have to,¡± Simone replies with a stiff nod. ¡°Thank you for your time.¡±

    They should be elated, they think, no matter how unlikely they are to pin Etienne down now. Finally, after weeks of worry and sleepless nights, they can try to really their answers. But something about it all feels¡­ strange. It nags at them as they march back across campus, eager to think it over in the comfort of their own home. A soft pain lingers in the crux of their elbows.

    If they were a lesser person, they would let Etienne have the full force of their fury now. Best to strike while you have the upper hand, as their enbei is wont to say. But it¡¯s early. They¡¯re certain he¡¯s tired, and they¡¯ve already waited this long. Surely, a little longer won¡¯t hurt them.

    In the early hours Aridon morning, they grasp the phone mouthpiece in shaking hands. ¡°Etienne LaChance, please,¡± they say to the crackling static beyond. The phone rings and rings and rings.

    Finally, in a gentle tone, the operator says, ¡°I don¡¯t think he¡¯s quite awake yet, dear.¡±

    With a grunt, they replace the receiver and go back to bed.

    An hour before first bell, they come back to the phone to try again. The yogurt curdles in their stomach as they wait for the lines to connect. To their disappointment, he doesn¡¯t answer.

    On the verge of tears, they do the one thing they¡¯ve been dreading doing since Nadia disappeared. They call their enbei.

    The line rings for a long while before they pick up. ¡°Candide speaking.¡±

    Their gut sinks like a stone. Eyes watering, Simone holds the phone away to softly sniffle before saying, ¡°Good morning, bei-bei.¡±

    ¡°Simone?¡± At once, their voice is a touch softer, but still retains the hardness of a profoundly busy researcher. ¡°Won¡¯t your classes begin soon?¡±

    ¡°T-they will.¡± Now their stomach is a sea in the throes of a violent storm. ¡°I just¡­¡±

    Silence. Then, ¡°Has something upset you?¡±

    Plenty, they want to scream. Their paramour has disappeared and no one can tell them why. Her best friend loathes them with a passion they cannot understand. Everywhere they turn, doors are closing in their face, one after another.

    To confirm anything would be admitting defeat. They want to stiffen their lip, to spit in the face of the turmoil they struggle to hold back. Still, the realization they¡¯re being read so thoroughly crumbles the last of their resolve.

    ¡°Bei-bei, what am I doing here?¡±

    Their enbei sighs, the sound soft and distorted by miles of telephone wire. ¡°Studying,¡± they reply, terse but not unsympathetic. ¡°You¡¯ve spent your life following in my footsteps. Don¡¯t claim to have doubts now, so close to the end.¡±

    Simone¡¯s gaze wanders around their living room. Placards from primary school gleam on the walls, catching their attention. The years of academic achievements are splayed out like an autopsied animal. On good days, Simone finds solace in those placards, those reminders of how far they¡¯ve come. Now, they feel like a threat when coupled with their enbei¡¯s words. All of this will be for nothing if you turn away now.

    ¡°I don¡¯t have doubts,¡± they say at last, and they almost believe themself. ¡°I am fine with what I¡¯m doing and how I¡¯m performing.¡±

    ¡°And yet you sound displeased.¡±

    There¡¯s an edge to the words, a hard warning beneath the surface. Do you want to waste your life on something else? Would you rather suffer starting all over? Has all of my teaching of you been for nothing?

    There is no good answer. A tear rolls down their cheek. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, bei-bei.¡±

    A soft exhale, punctuated by the static. ¡°Simone, what spurned on these doubts?¡±

    ¡°I just¡­¡± Simone pauses again to drag one sleeve across their face. ¡°It¡¯s been a difficult month is all.¡±

    So quiet they almost miss it, they hear their enbei mutter, ¡°Aurelia has always been better at this than I.¡± Then, before Simone can comment, ¡°Press forward, Simone. Whatever plagues you will wash away soon enough.¡±

    While their enbei¡¯s words are meant to be encouraging, they know, Simone finds the platitude hollow. How easy it is to tell someone from across the world that they have nothing to worry about. How can one understand a crisis of thought when they themself are already secure?

    Of all the people to lend Simone an understanding ear, their enbei is not one of them. They could scream themself hoarse and it wouldn¡¯t make much of a difference. So, forehead pressed to the wall, Simone relents at last. ¡°Of course,¡± they say, praying the disappointed undercurrent of their voice is lost to the miles of static. ¡°Thank you.¡±

    ¡°My greatest hope is you continue to do well. For now, however, I must get going.¡±

    ¡°Thank you, bei-bei.¡±

    Before they can say more, the line disconnects. They re-cradle the phone with a soft sigh.

    This illuminates nothing.

    And yet, it shines a paralyzing light on everything.

    #

    As the final bell of the day tolls, Simone settles on a conclusion. Etienne must be avoiding them. Still, between classes, they scour the courtyard, desperate for a glimpse of his green capelet and his curdling sneer. To their disappointment, there is nothing.

    He is surely being bombarded, some rational sliver of them argues, and they shove the thought away. He should know better than anyone they¡¯re looking for him¡ªespecially now. Anyone else seeking answers regarding him can wait.

    Still, hunting him down will solve nothing. The more they persist, the more he¡¯s sure to slink away. It¡¯s a waste of time. Instead, their enbei¡¯s words echo in their mind: Press forward, Simone. Whatever plagues you will wash away.

    So instead, Simone dives back into their studies.

    ¡°Struggling with a problem?¡± asks Chantal from across the table. When they look up, she has her head cocked, black hair tied back with a silk scarf. She¡¯s bent the corner of the page she¡¯s reading, book half-closed in preparation. Despite her curiosity, there¡¯s a sullenness in her cheeks that everyone at Voterique seems to wear nowadays.

    ¡°Pardon?¡±

    She gestures to their clenched fist. The stylus in their grip groans at the force they¡¯re exerting on it.

    ¡°A lot on my mind, I guess,¡± they say as they drop the stylus with a clatter. A spiderweb of cracks run up the wooden surface.

    ¡°I think it¡¯s that way for all of us.¡±

    Nodding, Simone stares back at their notes. Over and over and over again, they¡¯ve scrawled out, What is Etienne hiding? Some of the iterations have carved deep grooves into the paper, on the verge of tearing. They frown. Gone are the notes they were supposed to be taking regarding their course, Ethical Miasmic Disposal and Consumption. How could they have blundered this badly?

    Chantal¡¯s jaws part in a sudden, loud yawn, snapping them back to. They regard her out the corner of their eye. ¡°I see your sleep is as disturbed as mine,¡± they say.

    She leans closer, her orchid perfume drifting from her in waves. ¡°I¡¯ve been to see Etienne today.¡±

    They still. So, he isn¡¯t avoiding everyone after all. Just them. It confirms their hypothesis, at least.

    ¡°Oh?¡± they ask after a moment to recollect themself. They slide an arm over the page to hide their scribblings.

    ¡°He looks¡­ better. I¡¯ve been worried about him, of course, but after the first couple of nights¡­¡±

    ¡°I understand.¡± Then, flipping the page, ¡°The good news is he was sent home this morning.¡±

    Chantal¡¯s smile is watery, but it¡¯s present all the same. ¡°So you¡¯ve been to see him as well?¡±

    They shake their head. ¡°I tried to see him in the clinic, but he had already left.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps for the better.¡± With a frown, Chantal continues, ¡°He seemed¡­ strange.¡±

    They snort. ¡°Of course he did. He¡¯s been asleep for days.¡±

    ¡°No, not just that.¡±

    They arch a brow in silent encouragement.

    ¡°He¡­ I hate saying this about a friend.¡±

    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡± they ask, irritation gnawing at their nerves.

    ¡°Well, do you remember Celio?¡±

    Simone swallow hard. A former member of the study group, Celio had disappeared after classes one day. Simone¡¯s knees ache at the memory of the vigils they¡¯d attended, the candles they¡¯d lit and bowed over despite not having faith in the gods they were supposed to pray to.

    And then, a miracle. Perhaps the gods had been listening, after all.

    Except, he had returned changed. It wasn¡¯t a simple matter of whatever horrors he had experienced in his time away. No, when Celio had returned, it was with no memories of his time away. No one could get him to speak of where he¡¯d gone, let alone why. Any time he did try to speak on events, his eyes glazed over and he would stutter endlessly until the topic was changed.

    Simone gulps. ¡°Yes,¡± they say as the last of the memories fade. ¡°I do.¡±

    ¡°Etienne behaved in a similar way when I tried to talk to him.¡±

    Under the table, Simone¡¯s fist clenches. So close to answers and they¡¯re being stripped from me. They chew on the inside of their cheek. I should just go visit him.

    They don¡¯t know why the thought hadn¡¯t crossed their mind before, but the moment it crops up, they grip it tight and don¡¯t let go.

    Their skin prickles. Chantal is watching them, head tilted as she regards them and a question in her eyes.

    ¡°How strange,¡± they say, if only to get Chantal¡¯s attention back off of them.

    She nods, apparently satisfied they acknowledged the information she¡¯s shared. ¡°Trauma is one thing.¡± She shivers. ¡°Shards, if I had been in his place¡­ I don¡¯t think I would have ever woken up. Still, it doesn¡¯t feel right.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps I should go see them for myself, then.¡± With this, they rise from their seat. ¡°Could I come by your apartment for tonight¡¯s notes sometime later?¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡±

    The moment they take a step, Chantal grips their hand. They pause mid-stride. Another flare of irritation surges beneath their skin.

    ¡°Perhaps I am wrong,¡± she says softly. ¡°And perhaps I am not. Either way, you will find the truth of things, won¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡± Then, shrugging her off, Simone continues their march towards the exit. Their heart beats strong in their chest, the thumping as loud and all-consuming as war drums.

    #

    It occurs to them as they reach the third-floor landing they¡¯ve never stepped foot inside the Enchanter¡¯s tower before. They¡¯ve passed by it every day for the last two years, and had seen it in the distance for years before then, but never once had they had a reason to enter it.

    It¡¯s the same as the Diviner and Abjuration towers, at least. Or, it would be if not for the portraits of famous Enchanters lining the walls. All of them brandish the back of one hand and the casting circle tattooed upon it.

    Simone stops to catch their breath before examining the hallway. This late in the day, there aren¡¯t any Casters outside of their apartments. All the better, they think as they examine the tags on the doors closest to them. Neither of them bear Etienne¡¯s name.

    Before long, they find the door they¡¯re looking for. Etienne¡¯s door is decorated with soft gold filigree, his name embossed in the center. It¡¯s as flashy and unnecessary as he is.

    A storm of possibilities come to mind. He could not answer. He could slam the door in their face. He could call the faculty on them¡ªthe worst outcome of all. All of these and more form a dizzying hurricane in their mind.

    With a deep breath, they knock. Their pulse beats strong in their throat, hard enough to make them dizzy. After several seconds and no response, they try again. Nothing.

    Well, that answers that. They shove a hand into their pocket. I was hoping to not have to use this¡­

    Getting into his apartment is easy enough. Slapping a square of paper against the doorknob, they focus on the current of magic running within them and channel it through their glove. The Caster¡¯s mark and the sigil on the page glow in unison, an unearthly yellow, before dimming.

    With a click of the lock, the door swings inward.

    A while ago, they had commissioned the spell from a Transmuter in their study group. They hadn¡¯t meant it for nefarious purposes¡ªmostly, it was to get into the library late at night, or into the restricted section within. Now, pocketing the slip of paper, they feel a twinge of guilt.

    This is for Nadia. It¡¯s all the incentive they need to quash their doubt.

    They¡¯ve never been inside Etienne¡¯s apartment before. They¡¯ve never had a reason to, they suppose, given the terse relationship between the two of them. Still, they aren¡¯t prepared for what lies beyond the plain wooden door. Three of the walls are a snowy white, streaked with a rainbow of paint. Thin wire criss-crosses the room. From it, pictures of all sizes hang from metal clips. A mural of a river spans the wall opposite them, so detailed that from this distance, it looks real.

    Did he paint this himself? From the scant information they¡¯ve gleaned from him, Simone knows Etienne has a proclivity for art. Nadia often fell back to talking about it and how excited it made her. On bad days, Simone allowed themself to feel bitter about it; there wasn¡¯t much the two of them talked about that made her as animated as Etienne did.

    Still, if this is his handiwork, it¡¯s no wonder why Nadia enjoys it so much.

    ¡°Welcome back, Etienne,¡± says a voice behind them. Simone jumps with a squeak. When they turn, they expect a fellow Caster to have followed them in. Instead, they stare at a life-like portrait of a taller woman, her black hair streaked with gray and fashioned into waves. To their shock, her eyes flutter closed as they regard her. A soft, golden beam of light shines through the trees overhead.

    Did he paint this, too? How could he even get it to move?

    They have a vague awareness of art movements thanks to Nadia, but none they can think of explain what they¡¯re witnessing. With a final impressed gasp, they turn back for the room beyond.

    A section of the floor has been lowered, forming a sort of platform. Orange couch cushions form a ring around the edges. In the center, an oak table stretches out. Save the small stack of books on top, it is devoid of decoration.

    With another glance around the room, Simone realizes they won¡¯t find their answers here. The space is too sparse. They head for the hallway stretching towards his bedroom. Then, at the threshold, they hesitate.

    Am I willing to cross so personal a line?

    Their lip curls at the thought. Still, if they can find any lead while he¡¯s away, they¡¯ll take it.

    What was once Etienne¡¯s bedroom has been torn to pieces. Though it¡¯s evident some sort of cleaning has been done in the aftermath, the space is otherwise decimated. Shredded pillows bleed their feathered stuffing. Liquid, black as pitch, has formed permanent stains in the carpet. It¡¯s difficult to pinpoint on area in the room to focus on, until they catch sight of his desk. A long, smeared handprint runs across the surface, rusted red in color. Blood.

    The pieces connect in their mind. This was the sight of the monster attack.

    With shallow breaths, Simone steps deeper into the room. The floor moans under their weight. Perhaps the second-year unlucky enough to have an apartment below Etienne¡¯s won¡¯t notice.

    They examine the desk. Aside from the garish handprint¡ªtoo smeared to determine who it belongs to¡ªthe surface is almost bare of decoration.

    And then they see it. A single page with a small collection of scrawled lines. The first couple of sentences recap Nadia¡¯s litany of symptoms. Strange, they think. We¡¯ve recapped her health several times.

    The next words steal the breath from their lungs.

    ¡°Does Sanguina Malefica cause transformation? Where do monsters come from? Could the two be related?¡±

    A vital clue, perhaps. Would Etienne notice if they took this to study?

    ¡°Welcome back, Etienne.¡±

    Their blood runs cold. Stuffing the paper in their pocket, Simone takes a cursory glance around the room. Two methods of escape await them: the window over the desk will alert him to their presence right away and looks too small for them to slip through. The doorway into the living room is their only other option.

    Simone grabs the first writing utensil they see and a loose scrap of paper. Fighting the panicked jitter of their fingers, they try to recall the sigils Shae had used in casting the invisibility spell on them. When they think they have it, they crumple the page up and will the magic through their gloves.

    Nothing happens.

    With a desperate hiss, they try again and find they¡¯re still as corporeal as before.

    Shit, shit, shit.

    A soft sucking sound comes from just behind them. Simone spins on their heel, expecting Etienne to have ambushed them. Instead, there¡¯s nothing. Their gaze sweeps over the room¡ªthe tattered pillows, the strange stains in the carpet, the scraps of cloth and paper all around the room¡ªand struggle to find what has changed.

    Then, with a soft exhale, it comes to them. The stains in the carpet have shifted.

    The click of Etienne¡¯s heels come from the next room, drawing closer. They don¡¯t have time to ponder the state of his bedroom anymore. Paralyzed, they can only watch as Etienne¡¯s shadow falls across the floor. He taps a lantern at his side. Blue light from the magicite within fills the room.

    Their eyes lock.

    Etienne limps deeper into the room with a frown, easing the door shut behind him. He looks at them with the same feral hatred they remember, but it is clouded by a strange vacantness all the same. Disbelief flickers across his face. Then, ¡°What are you doing in my apartment?¡±

    They clench their concealed fist. ¡°You should know the answer to that.¡±

    Without breaking eye contact, he shrugs his coat off and lets it drop. The multitude of buttons clack against the door. After a beat, he sucks in his cheeks and says, ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡±

    Despite his words, his brows are crunched together. He gives them a vague, pleading look, as if he¡¯s suggesting something but can¡¯t outright say it. Chantal¡¯s words float to the forefront of their mind. He seemed¡­ strange.

    They break eye contact, shaking their head. ¡°Etienne, what happened to you?¡±

    ¡°I was almost killed.¡± Despite his recent brush with death, his words drip sarcasm all the same.

    ¡°By what?¡±

    A soft sigh. ¡°I don¡¯t remember.¡±

    ¡°And what happened to Nadia?¡±

    ¡°She was¡­¡± The hesitation is multi-layered. Simone closes their eyes, waiting with growing impatience for the answer.

    Then, finally, ¡°I don¡¯t remember that, either.¡±

    They don¡¯t remember crossing the room, don¡¯t remember picking Etienne up by the scruff of his shirt and slamming him against the door so hard it groans, but then they¡¯re there, panting with exertion and the suddenness of their movement. Teeth grit against the pain lapping at their bones, they keep him pinned.

    ¡°Bull. Fucking. Shit.¡±

    Simone has never been an imposing figure. Bookish, perhaps or a wealth of knowledge, depending on the person they speak to. But intimidating? Never. Never has someone¡¯s voice quaked when speaking to them. Never has someone¡¯s eyes widened in fear at their presence.

    Until now.

    Etienne whimpers, trembling like a soaked cat. Something about the stench of fear wafting off him makes their chest swell. It¡¯s a high they know they¡¯ll never be able to replicate.

    ¡°I will not ask you again.¡±

    ¡°S-Simone, please put me down.¡±

    Their head tilts. A strange, cold calm settles over them. ¡°Tell me why you¡¯re lying first.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not!¡± As he speaks, he tries to wrench their hands free. ¡°Put me down and let me explain.¡±

    After a breath, they lower him, caging him in with their hands in case he attempts to flee.

    ¡°Can we sit down, at least?¡±

    Simone flexes their glove and gives him a pointed look.

    ¡°Fine.¡± He rakes a hand through his hair. ¡°I don¡¯t¡­ I don¡¯t know how to make you believe me, but my memory of the day has been shrouded.¡±

    They have half a mind to pluck the vial of Serenity from where they left it in their apartment and force it down his throat. Then there will be no secrets. Still, despite their rage, they won¡¯t resort to that. Not yet.

    Their muscles flex with the force of their fury. ¡°So unshroud it.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not that simple!¡± He crosses his arms, shrinking away from them and against the door. Then, quieter, ¡°I shouldn¡¯t even be aware of it.¡±

    ¡°What the fuck are you talking about?¡±

    The moment his mouth opens, his gaze loses some of its focus. He slumps against the door. Clasping his head in his hands, his whole body heaves and he lets out a low, pained moan.

    Chantal¡¯s warning. Celio. The erratic oscillation between clarity and confusion. All of it snaps into place. Of course. How could they have been so foolish?

    ¡°Someone altered your memory, didn¡¯t they?¡±

    Etienne stills. Stares at them from between his fingers. Slowly peels his hands away. Exhaling, he says, ¡°I always knew, despite my own misgivings, there was a reason I liked you.¡±

    And then, without further ceremony, Etienne¡¯s eyes roll back in his skull and he drops to the floor.

 Twelve

    <h2>Nadia Dupont || Before</h2>

    ¡°You will read this,¡± Simone says, expression soft but otherwise unreadable, ¡°until you can recite it from memory.¡±

    When they first proposed investigating her, Nadia had expecting giggling library dates and study sessions ending in a different sort of studying, lingering glances across cafe tables and endless flirting. Much to her dismay, however, she soon learns Simone¡¯s true meaning.

    She regards the book they¡¯ve offered her, brow quirked and bare skin buzzing. The cover is all worn brown leather, the title once gold-plated and now rubbed beyond recognition.

    ¡°I know you¡¯re a serious student.¡± Nadia pauses to finish reading the title, To Be Loved By Gods, with a snort. ¡°But I never took you for the religious sort.¡±

    Simone¡¯s mouth quirks. ¡°I¡¯m not. This is part of your Divination and Mysticism assignment.¡±

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t aware I had one.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±

    Nadia takes the book from them after a moment of hesitation, wincing at the sudden weight. Still, she doesn¡¯t let go. ¡°How did you find out what I was assigned?¡±

    ¡°I have my ways.¡±

    ¡°And I¡¯m supposed to read this whole book?¡°

    A playful twinkle lights up Simone¡¯s eyes. ¡°Of course not.¡± Then, more serious, ¡°You would know this if you¡¯d been paying attention in your classes.¡±

    This is another part of the deal they¡¯ve forged. Simone had looked on the verge of combusting when they learned of Nadia¡¯s awful attendance history, let alone her grades.

    ¡°We cannot continue this relationship,¡± Simone had said, much to Nadia¡¯s dismay. Then, as tears pricked her eyes, they had continued, ¡°Not unless you start performing better.¡±

    And so an arrangement was made.

    Simone¡¯s gaze is a persistent prickling between her shoulders for a long while. Between sly glances, she stares at the pages until the letters¡ªand she¡ªrefuse to sit still. Whenever she looks up, Simone brandishes their thin switch rod and arches a brow.

    After a couple of lashes, she learns to keep her eyes on the pages.

    Before long, she¡¯s lost in the rhythm of the words. The cadence rolls over her like water. The longer the session goes on, the less she feels the lick of Simone¡¯s switch at her back¡­and the more she aches for its sting.

    The end of the hour is punctuated by Simone¡¯s sharp, ¡°Stop.¡±

    The word comes to her from some faraway place, like a misted-over dream. It isn¡¯t until Simone is perched over her, delicate fingers caressing the rounded nub of her chin, that she registers their command at all. She wants them to touch her like that. Or, perhaps they could swat her until she cries.

    What is she thinking? She¡¯s been to the occasional session with people who direct her with a stern word, or stretch her emotionally and sexually, but nothing like this. And yet, she likes it. She craves it.

    ¡°Do it again,¡± she wants to tell Simone. ¡°Hit me again.¡± Would they think her odd if she begged?

    ¡°Stand.¡±

    Shrugging the post-meditative numbness and the ache in her hips, Nadia is quick to obey.

    ¡°Stay.¡±

    Her breath hitches as they cross the room and sit on the edge of their bed. The frame creaks as they settle into a comfortable position. Then, eyes shadowed, they flip to the beginning of the book. ¡°Tell me what you read. Summarize for me.

    Nadia¡¯s gaze swims. The words on the paper jumble together in her mind¡¯s eye and, for a moment, is lost behind a thick fog.

    Their voice sinks sharp claws into her conscious and drags her back. ¡°I gave you a command, Nadia.¡±

    She shivers, and not just because she¡¯s stripped bare in her room in the middle of winter. From her bed, Simone is reading through the book, quirking their brow every time they look up.

    ¡°It goes over the, um¡­¡±

    The lash of wood on her thigh stops her. ¡°Without the use of filler words. Again.¡±

    She struggles to conjure the pages in her mind¡¯s eye. How can she not remember the last hour she¡¯s spent, the words she¡¯d carefully packed into her memory?

    To Be Loved By Gods. She chews her lip. It was a study on the differing deities who had Ascended a couple of centuries prior, as well as the consorts They kept. Who amongst Them had she just read about?

    Simone sighs, tucking the book under their arm. ¡°Would it help if you read it again?¡±

    Though their tone is light, she notes the undercurrent of disappointment. Her stomach drops. Above all else, the last thing she wants is to waste more of their time.

    ¡°No,¡± she replies. ¡°Give me a moment longer.¡±

    The switch smacks her forearm and she hisses.

    ¡°¡¯Give me a moment longer,¡¯ what?¡±

    Her gaze lowers on instinct. ¡°Professor. Give me a moment longer, Professor.¡±

    ¡°Very good. Again.¡±

    #

    The next few weeks pass in this fashion. After the final bell for class, Nadia claws her way through the throngs of people and into Simone¡¯s arms, though more often she ends up on her knees, or balancing objects while trying to recite passages. To her amazement, though, and that of her professors, she¡¯s improving.

    She¡¯s getting ready one morning to meet Simone for tea when there¡¯s a knock on the front door. Her brows knit together. Was she expecting company today?

    Etienne stands on the other side, hands buried in his pockets. His hair, normally soft as bird down, is ruffled with sleep. Something must be bothering him. Etienne is renowned in their gaggle of friends for his preening. He would rather leap from the rooftop of the library than be seen in less-than-perfect condition.

    She smooths out the front of her dress to avoid staring at him. ¡°Etienne. I was wondering when I would see you again.¡± In truth, since she had started seeing Simone more, it had been some time since she¡¯d been to seen Etienne. Had she really let their friendship lapse?

    He steps into her apartment and shuts the door. ¡°Yeah,¡± he replies, smoothing back his hair. ¡°Me too.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡±

    His lips press into a thin line. ¡°You haven¡¯t spent as much time with me is all.¡±

    Nadia frowns. She guesses she hasn¡¯t been able to be around him as often, given how often she goes to work on homework now. Or, gods forbid, engage in Simone¡¯s study group¡ªpersonal or otherwise.

    ¡°I guess I haven¡¯t. I¡¯m sorry, Etienne.¡± She fingers the myriad of bracelets she wears and says, ¡°We¡¯ll have to do something.¡±

    ¡°Right now?¡±

    His eyes gleam with something not unlike hope. Her stomach clenches at the thought of quashing that emotion. Still, sighing, she says, ¡°I can¡¯t. I promised Simone I would meet them for tea before class.¡±

    A shadow crosses his face at once. His gaze drops to the floor. ¡°Do you fancy them?¡± he asks softly.

    ¡°Yes,¡± she replies. Warmth pools in the pit of her stomach. ¡°A lot.¡±

    ¡°I was worried you would say that.¡±

    Her stomach boils with indignation. ¡°Why?¡±

    He still refuses to look up, but his cheeks turn the color of a autumn moth. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re lying,¡± she replies without missing a beat. Lest I forget we¡¯ve had this fight before.

    Lest. She represses a snort and shakes her head. Simone is getting to her. Not that she minds. If they can keep making her toes curl and bring a halt to the tedium her life has become, then she welcomes their influence.

    ¡°Need I repeat myself?¡±

    Nadia¡¯s brows pull together. Incredulous, she takes his face in one hand and forces him to look up. ¡°Are you serious? You¡¯re jealous?¡±

    He tries to jerk away, but her nails keep him pinned. Then, ¡°Yes.¡±

    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    ¡°What is there to be jealous of, Etienne?¡±

    He rolls his eyes and breaks their contact. ¡°You know what, I shouldn¡¯t have come here. You¡¯re too busy for me, right?¡±

    Her fingers twitch. She has half a mind to slap him, to grab his shoulders and shake him until the foolish thoughts flow out of his brain. Doing either would make all this worse, though. ¡°That¡¯s not it at all!¡±

    ¡°Then what, Nadia? You are replacing me. That¡¯s clear enough to fucking see.¡±

    Another flex of her fingers. Shards, he makes it incredibly difficult to remain civil. ¡°Is that what you think this is?¡±

    This time, when he pulls away, she doesn¡¯t stop him. His fists curl and uncurl at his sides. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he says. ¡°Maybe.¡±

    The way his voice cracks sends shivers down her spine. How could she have become so self-absorbed so as to neglect him? How could she let him think he was being replaced?

    No, a different section of her conscious argues. The time I¡¯ve spent away has been to my betterment. Who is he to think he can stand in the way of it?

    Sighing, Nadia reaches across the chasm yawning between them. Though Etienne stiffens, he lets her take his hand. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she says. ¡°Please don¡¯t stay mad at me.¡±

    Etienne¡¯s pout deepens. ¡°Kind of hard not to be.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll-I¡¯ll redeem myself, okay? I¡¯ll tell Simone that I can¡¯t make it to their study group tonight. Just me and you.¡±

    He flinches at the mention of Simone, then slouches once more. ¡°Fine.¡±

    ¡°I mean it, Etienne. Just the two of us.¡± Nadia lets his hand drop, scanning her living room for her satchel. How strange, she thinks as she catches sight of it, the way I¡¯m changing.

    In the distance, a bell tolls, a warning to Casters all across the campus. Etienne stuffs his hands back into his pockets.

    ¡°Tonight,¡± he says. ¡°Be there in my apartment.¡±

    His mouth opens, like he wants to say more, but then he shuts it with the shake of his head. Before she can confirm, he stalks out of her apartment, leaving her to tremble like a mouse from her newfound spot on the couch. Her body refuses to still for a long while afterwards.

    #

    Her final class can not end fast enough. As soon as the bell chimes, she¡¯s stuffing her books in her satchel and walking as fast as her aching joints will allow her.

    Simone was surprisingly civil about her last-minute cancellation when she told them this morning. She had expected them to scoff at her, or to make a statement about her wasting their time again. Instead, they had smiled.

    ¡°Okay,¡± they had said, crossing one leg over the other. ¡°You have made good progress, after all. You¡¯ve earned some time away.¡±

    The way they had said ¡°earned¡± had made her blush, but it was permission enough and she wasn¡¯t about to argue.

    Still, despite her quickness, Etienne isn¡¯t waiting for her. On a good day, he would somehow be outside the building of her final class in time for her to meet him. Perhaps he¡¯s more upset than she thought.

    Tugging her capelet tighter around her, Nadia strides for the towers with a frown. We¡¯ll make up, she tells herself. We always do. Still, the first kernels of doubt sow themselves in her breast.

    She takes her time going up the stairs of the Enchanter¡¯s tower, but she still ends up panting at the top. Faculty has met recently regarding installing a lift to go between the floors, given the rise in disabled students in recent years. As she catches her breath, Nadia wishes they would hurry up and install the damn things. What are people going to do, fornicate in the lift? In front of everyone?

    Mood soured, she marches up to Etienne¡¯s door and knocks harder than intended. It takes a long while for him to answer. The kernels of doubt take root.

    The instant she sees his face, she throws herself into his chest.

    Etienne gasps, arms closing around her on instinct. Together, they take uneasy steps backwards into the room. The door swings closed.

    ¡°Welcome back, Etienne,¡± says a voice at her back, muffled by her capelet. Her heart clenches. Though the mural is a weak imitation of his mother, she knows as much as he does it¡¯s not as good as the real person. Still, he can¡¯t seem to get rid of it.

    Etienne eases her back after several moments. A soft frown tugs at his lips as he regards her.

    ¡°Say you don¡¯t hate me,¡± she blurts. Even as she speaks, the first of what she is sure is many tears come to her eye and threaten to fall.

    ¡°W-what?¡±

    ¡°Say you don¡¯t hate me. Say I haven¡¯t fucked up too badly. Please.¡±

    Etienne scoffs, shoving his glasses further up his nose. ¡°What are you talking about? Of course I don¡¯t hate you.¡±

    Had she imagined this morning, after all? Had it all been some strange, sour dream?

    As she¡¯s still ruminating, he continues, ¡°I mean, I was upset¡­ I still kind of am.¡±

    It¡¯s a shock of cold water down her spine. ¡°But I haven¡¯t done anything wrong.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Etienne says after an uncomfortable pause. ¡°I suppose not.¡±

    He¡¯s let her into his apartment. It¡¯s a start. Still, his expression remains guarded as they face each other. He crosses his arms tight across his chest. The soft clicking of his tapping heel fills the room.

    This is stupid. Her jaw sets. How is it my fault he¡¯s jealous of my¡­

    She stops. Are Simone and her partners? Kinky classmates? Would they consider the two of them a romantic relationship? They fuck her every so often, but does that mean they¡¯re dating?

    Nadia makes a note to have that conversation with Simone. For the moment, though she can¡¯t understand why he¡¯s so disgruntled, she needs to make things right.

    Disgruntled. Ha. Simone really has changed her.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she says at last. ¡°I guess entering a relationship did make me distant from you.¡±

    With a sigh, Etienne unfolds his arms. ¡°Thank you.¡±

    As soon as it¡¯s come, the gloom between them is gone once again. Nadia sweeps closer once more, the force of her hug more gentle this time. A soft sigh escapes as Etienne holds her to him. His fingers, like spokes on a spindle and all too cold, thread through her hair and tangle it.

    ¡°Promise you¡¯ll make more time for me, Nadia.¡±

    She buries her face into his chest, positioned just so to keep the buttons of his coat from injuring her. ¡°I promise.¡±

    After a second longer, Etienne shrugs out of her hold. ¡°Enough of this stoic shit.¡±

    When she meets his gaze, he¡¯s practically bouncing on his heels. An excited Etienne is a dangerous Etienne. ¡°What is on your mind?¡±

    He digs a hand into his breast pocket and produces a small vial, the contents black as pitch. Nadia¡¯s pulse quickens at the sight. Her throat dries.

    ¡°Serenity,¡± she says with a soft sigh.

    His grin turns wolfish. ¡°I¡¯ve kept this on hand for weeks.¡± Then, after a pause, he says, ¡°¡­For you.¡±

    It¡¯s all the invitation she needs.

    Minutes later, Etienne has his arms thrown across the back of his couch, eyes the size of tea saucers and impossibly dark. She smiles at the sight of him, at how at ease he seems to be in her presence. A pang of guilt lances her, not the first she¡¯s felt all day.

    Then her eyes close again and she is drifting within a strange, warm void. Sparks dance on her tongue. Her mouth fills with the scent of the earth. A hand closes around her own. It¡¯s not until Etienne¡¯s thoughts bleed into hers she recognizes him, but then it¡¯s as though a part of herself has been re-fused to her. It¡¯s the way the two of them should be, always and forever.

    That is, until a headache forms at her temples.

    The pain is a foreign enemy in her blissed-out state, an errant fly buzzing around her mental feast. She carves craters into the couch with her nails, clinging to the peace she¡¯s fought so hard for.

    In these moments of twisted desperation, the pain intensifies. It blooms into a storm of sensation behind her eyelids. The blackness she¡¯s previously been suspended in comes alive in a wash of oranges and reds and greys. A dull roaring like the approach of a storm fills the silence. After several seconds, she recognizes what she thinks are words.

    Meat. Consume. Food. Bite. Meat. Meat. Meat.

    Nadia snaps back to with a gasp.

    Etienne raises his head from the opposite couch with a giggle, his body wreathed in darkness. ¡°Are you okay?¡±

    ¡°I-I think so.¡± As she speaks, she runs a hand through her hair. With a hiss, she realizes she¡¯s dragged her nails too hard across her scalp. She untangles her fingers and examines them for blood.

    Before she can think, an ear-piercing shriek escapes.

    The skin on her hands is ink-black and gnarled like the bark of an old tree. Each finger ends in claws the size of daggers. The veins in her arms have blackened and pulse in time to her racing heartbeats.

    Etienne bolts upright. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    She holds her hands out for him to touch. When he brushes against her, a maelstrom of memories and thoughts surges through her brain. His memories. Her memories. Images from some foreign life she cannot recognize. A cold breeze rolls over her skin. Blood, sharp and metallic, coats her tongue.

    ¡°Am I supposed to be seeing something?¡± he asks.

    ¡°Yeah.¡± It¡¯s an effort to keep her voice level. ¡°My hand is¡ª¡°

    And yet, as Etienne rolls his thumb over her knuckles, she realizes her skin has returned to normal. Only the darker hue to her veins gives her a hint that anything has happened at all.

    ¡°It¡¯s what?¡± His thumb stills. ¡°A bit wrinkled, sure. You¡¯re growing up.¡± For now.

    The thought floats to her through the bond, a sharp, sudden reminder of her ever-dwindling lifespan. Nadia pulls her hand back with a harsh swallow, eager to sever the connection. Massaging the skin some more, she says, ¡°No. It¡­ I can¡¯t describe it.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re getting too into your psyche,¡± Etienne says with a half-hearted chuckle. Though he means to be encouraging, doubt clings to his words and flickers through the remnants of their link. Shocks of green light up the turmoil boiling behind her eyes.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Nadia replies, as equally unconvinced. ¡°That¡¯s all it was.¡±

    Reality waltzes away from her once again. When she closes her eyes, her visions are thick with disembodied shadows and the howling of dogs. Something dark and undefinable lingers in the fringes of her mind, disappearing when she focuses too hard on it. And then, when her mind drifts away, it looms over her once again.

    Whatever it is, it¡¯s enough to make Nadia shiver.

 Thirteen

    <h2>Simone Allard || After</h2>

    They drop to Etienne¡¯s side at once, scanning him for a pulse. ¡°Shards,¡± they hiss, skin clammy as they touch him. His heartbeat is weak, but by some small mercy, it¡¯s steady. He¡¯s alive.

    They give his face a testing pat with their palm, hard enough to make a sound but not enough to cause damage. He doesn¡¯t stir. Before they can think, they strike him again. Harder. A pink splotch blossoms across his pale cheek. Aside from a harsh inhale, Etienne still doesn¡¯t wake up.

    ¡°Shards, Etienne¡­¡±

    Digging their fingers under his arms, they drag him back towards the living room with a grunt. They make it a few steps before they have to drop him and pant. He¡¯s heavier than he looks. Or they¡¯re weaker than they believed.

    Okay. Think, Simone. They lean into his doorframe and survey their surroundings. Etienne remains sprawled out at an awkward angle beneath them. They can¡¯t drag him into the living room, clearly. They can¡¯t call the medic ward. What can they do?

    As the panic bubbles up within them, Etienne snorts as if waking from sleep. His eyes open, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings.

    A stifled gasp escapes as they survey him. ¡°Etienne.¡±

    He brushes the back of his head, the movement done in sluggish slivers. After an eternity, he sits up. ¡°That fuckin¡¯ hurt,¡± he says, staring up at Simone with narrowed eyes. His hands come away tinged with blood.

    ¡°Easy,¡± Simone says. He flinches when they get too close, but they don¡¯t let his fear dissuade them. ¡°You just¡­ collapsed.¡±

    He frowns. ¡°I did?¡±

    They nod. ¡°You were trying to tell me about Nadia when¡ª¡°

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, who?¡±

    Dread sinks into their stomach like a stone, heavy and cold. ¡°You know who.¡±

    And yet, when they search his face for any sign of recognition, there is nothing. Etienne¡¯s brow furrows as he continues to rub the back of his head.

    ¡°You know who,¡± they say again, more desperate this time. Their nails press harsh crescents into their palm. ¡°Nadia DuPont. Your best friend.¡±

    Etienne¡¯s nose scrunches. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but I¡¯m unsure who you¡¯re talking about.¡±

    Silence. Simone scans his face for any hint of recognition, any trace that he¡¯s joking, but his face is scrunched in confusion. Real, genuine puzzlement.

    Etienne cocks his head, brows drawing together as he studies them. ¡°And¡­ who are you?¡±

    A soft chuckle escapes, then another. How absolutely absurd, the situation Simone finds themself in. And yet, somehow, hilariously pitiful. Before they can stop themself, they are heaving with delirious laughter, clawing at their collar to get more air into their lungs. Tears stream down their cheeks unhindered. And then, with a painful scream, they throw themself to the floor and let out a low howl, keening until the sorrow threatens to swallow them whole.

    All the while, Etienne says nothing.

    Etienne. How can he sit here and toil with them like this? What gives him the right to play at idiocy? He¡¯s lying. He has to be. He¡¯s lied this whole time, hasn¡¯t he? They want to claw their way into the depths of his brain and hollow out the recesses of his memory. Who could forget something so painfully important?

    Simone forces themself off the floor. When they look up, Etienne¡¯s expression has shifted from confused to terrified.

    ¡°I-I don¡¯t know who you are,¡± he says, lip trembling, ¡°but you need to leave before I call the faculty.¡±

    They should care, but they don¡¯t. If they leave this apartment empty-handed, then all their weeks of worry and torment will have been for nothing.

    They launch themself at him, fists curling tight around his capelet, and slam him against the floor.

    ¡°I know the answer is in there, Etienne.¡± Their voice is a deathly growl. ¡°It¡¯s hidden, but I know it¡¯s there.¡±

    Etienne¡¯s breath catches. He stills beneath them, eyes unbelievably wide. Then, whimpering, ¡°Please let me go.¡±

    Their fingers curl tighter. ¡°Your name is Etienne LaChance. You are a third year Enchanter. Your best friend is Nadia DuPont and up until a few weeks ago, the two of you were fucking inseparable. And then she vanished. A monster tried to kill you both.¡±

    His pulse quickens against their fingers. ¡°I don¡¯t remember any of this.¡±

    They bring his face in close and slam him down again. ¡°Think very, very hard. Your name is Etienne LaChance. You are a third year Enchanter. Your best friend is Nadia DuPont and you two are inseparable. A monster tried to kill you both. Say you remember!¡±

    He licks his lips, breaths shallow. They scan his face for any flicker of recognition, some kind of sign to tell them he¡¯s playing a sick joke on them, but there¡¯s nothing. No awareness, no memory. Only fear. Pure, unadulterated fear, the kind they know he couldn¡¯t possibly fake.

    All at once, they crumple. They collapse on his chest with a choked sob.

    After a long pause, a hand comes to the small of their back.

    ¡°I¡­ I am sorry for your loss, and I am sorry for whatever part you think I would have had in that. But¡­ I don¡¯t know anything. I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    Gently, he nudges them off him and settle them against the door before picking his way across the apartment. Simone tries to watch, but their tears sting too greatly, reducing Etienne to a watered outline.

    Before long, he returns to their side. ¡°Here.¡±

    Hugging themself, Simone rises. They look from Etienne to the book in his hands. As they wipe their face, hiccuping, they say, ¡°What is that?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s all I can really offer you.¡± When they don¡¯t take it, he sets the notebook in their lap and steps back again. He doesn¡¯t stop until he¡¯s on the other side of the couches from them, keeping the sunken platform between them. Not that the extra space would protect him, if Simone truly desired to cause him harm. But they don¡¯t. Not know. Now, they¡¯re exhausted of it all.

    ¡°I won¡¯t ask you again,¡± he says as he edges for the phone hooked on the wall, snapping them back to. ¡°Please leave.¡±

    Simone holds the book to their chest. Whatever it is, they can read it at a better time than right now.

    ¡°I¡­ I¡¯m sorry,¡± they say, standing. Their anger abandons them in waves, replaced with stark embarrassment. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    With this, they feel for the doorknob and wrench the door open. They stare Etienne down as they step into the hall, and they keep staring as the view they have gets slimmer and slimmer. A woman¡¯s voice follows them down the hall.

    ¡°Goodbye, Etienne. Have a good day.¡±

    #

    They spend the rest of the day locked within their apartment. All they can think about is how painfully blank their walls are compared to Etienne¡¯s. Any time they drag their gaze to something else, it inevitably flicks back.

    Not that there is much to see, given they can¡¯t stop crying. For weeks, they¡¯ve remained strong, remained steadfast in their faith that, even if they wouldn¡¯t find Nadia alive, they would at least know what happened to her.

    Now that faith is gone, along with the rest of Etienne¡¯s memories.

    More than ever, they ache for the warmth of someone¡¯s arms around them, for their enbei to hold them close like they did when Simone was a child. Now, all they offer are short phone calls and empty praises.

    They stay curled in a ball in the corner of their apartment until shadows paint their room in shades of grey. Even then, wincing at how sore their muscles have become, it¡¯s an effort for them to rise. They manage, though, stumbling towards their bed and falling face-first into it, desperate for the lights within their mind to darken.

    They have half a mind to stay home the next morning. Bright light pierces them through their eyelids. As they come to, their mouth is a desert. And yet, as tempting as the offer is, they force themself upright, unsure what it is that makes them reconsider.

    The book Etienne gave them catches their eye from their desk. A glance at the clock tells them they have some extra time this morning. Surely, a quick flip-through won¡¯t hurt them.

    The book, as it turns out, is a copy of Etienne¡¯s notes from his Enchantment classes. The errant scan they promised themself quickly turns to determined scrutiny. They find themself making faces at the array of sigils scribbled haphazardly on every page. When were they last able to read something without comprehending it?

    Before they can blink, the first bells for classes ring from the clocktower across campus.

    Simone half-closes the book and regards themself. They¡¯re half-dressed as it is. Their morning tea has long since gone cold. As underprepared¡ªand exhausted, they realize as a sudden yawn wrenches their jaws apart¡ªas they are, attending classes today would not be to their benefit.

    Besides, they have Etienne¡¯s book to read. It¡¯s a clue. It has to be. They got through to him, somehow, and this was all he could offer in return.

    It¡¯s a stretch of a thought, they know, but they cling to it all the same. Etienne¡ªthe old him, the Etienne that hates them so intensely¡ªis trying to help them. They have to believe that. It¡¯s the only explanation with any sort of sense to it.

    They spend a long while looking over his sigils, tracing their finger over the deep-set lines and smudging the charcoal. The back of their casting glove glows as they try to decode the spells he¡¯s wrote. At times, they get a spark or two off the tips of their fingers, but nothing further.

    Then they flip to a section in the book titled ¡°Influences on the Mind¡± and their heart stops beating.

    Etienne¡¯s notes on this section are sparse, which makes Simone disheartened the moment they register it. Worse still, he writes in a cryptic shorthand. Each page takes Simone several minutes to parse. Would it have caused him harm to give them an Etienne-to-normal text translator?

    Still, at the end, he¡¯s left a list of citations.

    Snapping the book shut, Simone dashes for the hallway.

    #

    Voterique¡¯s library is a wonder of architecture and knowledge. Modeled after the old cathedrals in Hadorae, the building is topped with a spire tall and sharp enough to pierce the clouds. Stained glass images of historic events separate each of the eight floors, one for each realm of Casting.

    Simone strides towards it, book tucked under their arm, and shoves the front door open before marching up to the front desk and slamming their book down. An archivist with heavy circles around their eyes looks up at Simone¡¯s approach.

    They purse their lips. ¡°How may I assist you?¡± they ask in a voice suggesting they would rather impale themself than offer assistance.

    Simone flips to the list of books Etienne had wrote and presents it to the archivist. As they looks through the selection, Simone studies them more. A mop of curly brown hair hangs over their face, a good brush away from detangled. Their name is pinned to the collar of their third-year Evocator¡¯s cape: Cyril. Someone from Perov, Simone would guess, given the hawkish crook of their nose and the slight tawny hue of their skin.

    After several minutes reading and cross-referencing to different books around them, Cyril hands Etienne¡¯s notebook back. ¡°A lot of this will be on the eighth floor with the rest of the Enchanting texts¡­ And a couple of these are on the Diviner¡¯s floor.¡± They point to the last two books in the list. ¡°I¡¯m afraid you won¡¯t have access to these two, however.¡±

    Simone frowns. ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re restricted,¡± Cyril says, sucking on their cheek.

    Not a problem for me. The sigil they¡¯ve used one too many times flashes in the back of their mind. No problem, indeed. They tuck the book back under their arm, hoping the disappointment they flash comes across as genuine. ¡°Thank you for the direction.¡±

    ¡°Sure.¡± A beat, then, in the same disinterested tone, ¡°Anything else?¡±

    ¡°Not that I can think of, thank you.¡±

    For once, they take the elevator up to the floor they need. The thought of walking too much sets their knee to aching. They need to reserve as much energy as possible for their search.

    The gates of the elevator creak open on the fifth floor. The Diviner¡¯s floor. With a stiff nod to the students planning to board the lift next, they scan the first shelves for the books they seek.

 Fourteen

    <h2>Nadia Dupont || Before</h2>

    That night, when sobriety has settled back over her like a wet blanket, Nadia tosses and turns in bed. Her bones groan with every movement. Her body is a maelstrom of agony.

    Still, the pain is nothing compared to the whirlwind in her mind.

    Every time she closes her eyes, she sees her hands, blackened and monstrous. No matter how hard she tries to convince herself it was a trick of the light or an errant hallucination, the image remains. She¡¯s seen plenty on Serenity before, she knows. Despite her abuse of it, the drug remains a way to confront one¡¯s memories, to process events while (potentially) allowing a guide to see into your head.

    Nadia has never anything so¡­ dark, however. Is it a sign she¡¯s been corrupted? Some fragile, irreparable thing? Is this part of the deterioration Doctor Aiza had warned her about?

    Nadia stretches one arm to the ceiling, then the other. Her teeth grit when her elbows pop. If she doesn¡¯t think about it, she can pretend what she saw never happened. Really, couldn¡¯t she say it was a manifestation of how she feels about herself.

    That¡¯s just wishful thinking.

    Her arms fall to her sides once again.

    She spends the rest of her night this way, staring at the ceiling and lying as still as she dares. More than ever, she wants a drug-less reprieve, but she can¡¯t make herself get up. Not for all the Serenity in the world. Not when the pain wracking her is so immense, no matter how tempting the cure to it.

    The shadows on her walls move in slivers. Before long, the first lights of dawn stream into her bedroom. From his spot between her feet, Dio blinks one eye and then the other before rising. The rumble of his purrs thrum through her.

    ¡°Good morning, sweet boy.¡± She reaches to scratch him behind the ears, but can¡¯t quite stretch far enough.

    She slumps against the mattress and closes her eyes. In the silence that follows, a thought prickles her from the edges of her consciousness. Hadn¡¯t this last batch come from Chantal?

    Her eyes snap open once again. Chantal. Perhaps her Serenity source had gotten a bad batch this time. It could happen to anyone, couldn¡¯t it?

    She¡¯ll need to check with Chantal, though. Just to be sure.

    Nadia flexes her body one muscle at a time to prepare herself for the venture. As she works to adjust to the waves of pain, her alarm blares at her from the living room.

    She drags a hand over her face. ¡°Fuck.¡±

    Every subtle sound¡ªthe creeking of the cabinets, Dio¡¯s soft steps, the click of the alarm as she disarms it¡ªis another spike into her skull. Thank the gods she doesn¡¯t have classes today. She doesn¡¯t think she could stand to go, nor could she stand the disappointment Simone would flash her afterwards.

    Simone. The thought stills her as she reaches for the phone. Could they¡­ be in danger because of her?

    No. She shakes her head. Of course not. She will get this sorted out before it becomes any bigger an issue.

    ¡°Chantal Bellarose,¡± she says into the mouthpiece the moment it connects. Then, hugging herself tight, she waits for Chantal¡¯s tired sigh.

    ¡°Hello?¡±

    ¡°Hey, it¡¯s Nadia.¡±

    ¡°Nadia!¡± Is she imagining the brightness in her voice? ¡°How nice of you to call.¡±

    Guilt grabs at her stomach and wrings it like a towel. ¡°I¡¯ve been meaning to. Could I come over?¡±

    ¡°Right now?¡± Shuffling. Chantal¡¯s voice is deafened for several seconds. Static crackles across the line. Then, ¡°I think that would be okay.¡±

    Nadia thinks she hears Chantal go to say more, but she doesn¡¯t care. She slams the mouthpiece back onto its holster and spins. Teeth clenched, she pops the joints in her body one by one and prays for the pain to stop.

    #

    She can¡¯t remember the last time she stepped foot into Chantal¡¯s apartment. They¡¯ve passed each other by between classes, certainly. But when was the last time she spent any time with her, just the two of them? Weeks? A couple of months?

    The thought nags at her like the unsightly mole on her chin as she sits on Chantal¡¯s beige couch, cradling a teacup in one hand. The heat emanating from the porcelain is near-blistering, just enough of a distraction to ground her from the otherworldly groaning in her bones.

    Across the room, Chantal is pruning the variety of plants lining the shelf on the wall, errant vines from the ceiling catching in her hair. Her apartment is a gardener¡¯s paradise, arrays of plants meticulously placed throughout the mostly-white space. Her living room window has been fashioned into a stained glass portrait of orchids, a further testament to her passions.

    When Chantal turns to face her at last, a sliver of purple light falls across her face.

    ¡°So,¡± she says, setting down her plant mister, ¡°what brought you to me today?¡±

    Nadia bites her lip. She has dragged herself this far, but now a precipice yawns before her. Does she dare venture into a situation she doesn¡¯t know the outcome of?

    As she ponders, she traces the rim of her teacup. Finally, ¡°That last batch of Serenity¡­¡±

    Chantal frowns. ¡°Are you out of it? Nadia, perhaps you need to slow down your consumption.¡±

    ¡°No, no.¡± She waves a hand for emphasis. ¡°I still have a few doses left.¡± Not nearly enough. ¡°That¡¯s not what I wanted to talk about.¡±

    ¡°Oh?¡±

    Nadia¡¯s swirling finger stops. When she looks over, Chantal is regarding her with narrowed eyes. The purple light from the window shifts across her face. For a moment, Nadia allows herself to get lost in the beauty of it.

    When she doesn¡¯t speak, Chantal waves her on in encouragement. ¡°And¡­?¡±

    She sighs and sets her teacup down. Already, her hands are shaking.. ¡°Chantal, have you ever had¡­ nightmares when using Serenity?¡±

    Chantal¡¯s lips purse. ¡°I suppose, in a sense.¡±

    Nadia¡¯s chest loosens.

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    ¡°However, I wouldn¡¯t classify them as nightmares in the traditional sense.¡±

    She feels her lungs constrict once more. ¡°What do you mean by that?¡±

    ¡°Well¡­¡± Chantal steps closer, sandy-colored skirt swirling around her ankles like waves on the shore. ¡°Do you ever stay awake at night, thinking about past experiences you had that went wrong?¡±

    All the time. ¡°Yeah, I suppose.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s similar, but magnified if I start thinking too negatively.¡± With this, Chantal throws herself into the cushion opposite Nadia, tight curls swaying as she settles. ¡°It¡¯s none too difficult to get me back to a more neutral state, though. That¡¯s the beauty of Serenity: it¡¯s quite easy to reign my thoughts back in.¡±

    Nadia keeps her gaze locked on the table before them as she digests this information. After a long pause, she says, ¡°And you¡¯ve never¡­ hallucinated? Like what you saw was right there in front of you?¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t say I have. Why?¡±

    She slides her hands beneath her, desperate to keep them still. The image of them from last night, all blackened and gnarled, flashes in her mind. ¡°No real reason,¡± she replies with a harsh swallow.

    Chantal sits up once more, tucking stray curls behind her ear. ¡°You aren¡¯t as grand a liar as you think you are.¡± Though her words are blunt, the twitching in her cheeks is enough to betray her concern. ¡°What happened?¡±

    Where to begin? Rocking in her seat, Nadia debates the best place to begin explaining. ¡°Last night, I dropped with Etienne. Except¡ªand I don¡¯t know what prompted this¡ªat some point¡­It¡¯s as though I was having a daydream. I didn¡¯t feel like myself. And then I looked at my hands and¡ª¡°

    At once, the monstrous image assaults her. Nadia squeezes her eyes shut and shakes herself hard enough to make her brain rattle, but the image doesn¡¯t clear.

    ¡°What did you see, Nadia?¡±

    She pauses to take a sip of tea, eager to ease the sudden dryness from her throat. ¡°I was¡­ Something else. Something dark.¡±

    When she looks up, Chantal¡¯s face is scrunched in a thoughtful way, gaze far-off. She¡¯s seen that look before, the deep-in-thought, lost-to-the-world expression. Simone wears it sometimes when they read a challenging book or try to solve a Ximuchian number puzzle. ¡°You¡¯re making the face again,¡± she will often point out to them.

    ¡°What is on your mind?¡± The words spill out before she can stop them.

    Chantal doesn¡¯t respond right away, instead marching for her bedroom and slamming the door. Nadia jumps in place at the sound. Heavy thudding sounds from the other room, accompanied by the groan of wood on wood. She has half a mind to offer to help, but the itching under her skin makes her reconsider.

    Minutes later, Chantal emerges, hair untucking itself from her carefully-constructed puff. Wiping beads of sweat from her forehead, she comes to Nadia¡¯s side and sets down a small stack of books.

    "You¡¯re so like Simone,¡± Nadia says before she can stop herself. And it¡¯s true. Who else, when faced with a problem, would turn first to books? Still, though her compliment is meant to be genuine, Chantal¡¯s reproachful look tells her the meaning was lost along the way.

    Cheeks warm, she shifts her attention to the stack of books in Chantal¡¯s lap. The cover on top depicts an embossed image of a brain, the words ON MATTERS OF THE MIND circling it. Without a word, she flips through, the silence punctuated by the whisper of the pages running together. When she approaches the end of the book, she slows down. Then, with a grunt, she produces her find for Nadia to read.

    While Serenity is oft-regarded as a cure-all for even the most traumatized of patients, it should be known numerous side effects can occur while under its influence, including disorientation and hallucinations.

    Nadia¡¯s brow furrows. ¡°It wasn¡¯t a hallucination.¡± And yet, even as she says it, doubt settles in the back of her mind, an unwanted guest. Perhaps she had imagined the horror, after all.

    And yet¡­

    The sting of the claws in her hair pricks her again, a phantom memory. ¡°No,¡± she says, voice steadier than before.

    ¡°Okay¡­¡± Chantal¡¯s reluctance is evident enough, but she sets the book aside with a nod regardless. ¡°How about this one?¡±

    And so it goes, Chantal flipping through each book with growing impatience as Nadia refutes her suggestions. Before long, Chantal¡¯s impressive stack has been combed through, whittled to a single thin book at the bottom: MODERN FOLKLORE.

    Chantal chews on her lip as she flicks through, twirling an errant strand of hair with a well-manicured finger. For a moment, Nadia is transfixed at the sight of her.

    ¡°Perhaps it was one of these,¡± Chantal says, breaking the spell.

    Nadia looks down at the page she¡¯s presented. Most of the paper is wreathed in black, making the figure in the center stand out all the more. Though it¡¯s human-shaped, the flash of its eyes and the dagger-sharp claws jutting from its hand makes her heart lurch.

    ¡°Y-Yeah,¡± she says, voice strained as she tries to swallow down her brewing nausea.

    Chantal pauses, examining the image. She flips the page so only she can read the back, which she does with a worsening frown.

    ¡°What?¡± Nadia urges when she doesn¡¯t speak.

    ¡°You¡­ you¡¯re certain this is what you saw?¡±

    She jabs a finger at the ghastly image. ¡°This is what I was, Chantal.¡±

    Chantal closes the book without a word and sets it in the space between them. For several seconds, she chews on her thumbnail, face an ill-fitting mask over the turmoil brewing beneath. Then, as Nadia thinks she will end the conversation all together, she says in a voice so terribly quiet, ¡°Do you remember Professor Duval?¡±

    Of course she does. Some stubborn part of her keeps the memory of the woman close to its chest. ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Did you ever listen to her audio logs?¡±

    Nadia¡¯s nose wrinkles. ¡°What are you going on about?¡±

    ¡°The vocite, Nadia. Countless copies were made of the Professor¡¯s research. Perhaps it was not required listening for you, but weren¡¯t you ever curious?¡±

    ¡°N-no,¡± she says, something not unlike shame welling up within her. ¡°It never occurred to me to.¡±

    Chantal sighs, hand halfway through her hair before it gets tangled in her tresses. After a moment to unravel the mess she¡¯s made, she picks the book back up and finds the page again.

    ¡°Professor Duval was investigating miasma. Specifically at Idune.¡±

    ¡°I know that part.¡±

    ¡°Of course you do. But what you don¡¯t realize is there was a missing part to all of those recordings.¡±

    Nadia¡¯s mouth opens. How absurd, she almost says, but then stops herself. She¡¯s never listened, after all. What would she know?

    At last, Chantal has found the page again. She holds it up for Nadia to examine once more, tapping emphatically at the figure in the center. Now Nadia has a chance to regard it better, she notes the way the figure seems to emerge from the shadows themselves, skin so slick it drips. Not any kind of dew or blood, if the image is to be believed, but the same pitch clinging to its claws.

    ¡°In it,¡± Chantal continues, earning her attention once again, ¡°she speaks of these creatures. Living but not. Human but not. A-and it¡¯s with this last recording the ACAS came to understand the phenomenon we know of as monsters.¡±

    Nadia¡¯s chest tightens seconds before the words register. Then, blinking, she tears her gaze from the image. Heart in her throat, she says, ¡°You mean¡­?¡±

    ¡°What we know is not precise.¡± Chantal closes the book again with a snap. ¡°But¡­ yes, Nadia. If this book is correct, this is a monster.¡±

 Fifteen

    <h2>Simone Allard || After</h2>

    The restricted section of Voterique¡¯s library is a wonder unto itself. It¡¯s not a floor so much as it is a separate dimension, one which takes ample skill to access. A small section of the Enchanter¡¯s section has been cordoned off to accomodate it. Makes sense, Simone knows, considering how many of the books in that realm of Casting have been sequestered here.

    Getting inside this section is a wonder, too. Simone knows the general rotation of the library staff, thanks to errant comments they¡¯ve squeezed out of the faculty and Didier, who helps run the building part-time. Still, each time they enter the rift, it¡¯s with a racing heart and sweating palms.

    This time is no different.

    Like the rest of the library, the books here are sorted by division, then title. The rows of shelves tower over Simone as they pick their way through. They scan the spines with a lump of magicite in their fist, heart hammering.

    Before long, the watery blue light catches on the first title they seek. Memory: A Hidden Power of the Brain. A slimmer book by the looks of it. Simone frowns when they pick it up and thumb through. Plenty of times, the books Voterique has deigned ¡°unacceptable¡± has surprised them. They skim the first few pages, almost missing the section titled ¡°Memory and the Means to Alter It¡±, but it seizes their attention on a second look. A short read-through reveals to Simone its Restricted status.

    People alter memories every day in minor ways. If you¡¯ve had to convince yourself of a truth, that is an alteration. If you tell someone a small lie, just enough to nudge them towards your truth, that is an alteration. The realm of Enchantment treats memory no differently¡ªthough often, its approaches and results are more severe.

    Simone¡¯s hypothesis is all but proven in this single paragraph. Of course Enchantment would have a role. Lip between their teeth, they stuff the book into their bag without a second thought.

    The next tome they seek proves a more difficult search. The title alone is enough to tell Simone their quest will be harried¡ªEnchantment: The Art of Memory Magic. They hadn¡¯t paid as much attention when asking the archivist for assistance, but now as they check their notes again, they let out a soft groan.

    It had to be Enchanting. They shove their list back into their pocket. Eight realms of magic and Etienne was swayed by the most dangerous of all.

    Their footfalls reverberate throughout the space. The magicite in their grasp flickers. The scent of books old and new drifts to them from every corner of the rift, like crumpled paper and paper glue and aged leather. Scents that Simone normally finds comfort in, but now are enough to make the back of their neck prickle.

    They¡¯ve scanned every book in the Enchantment section twice before they find the second tome. It¡¯s much thicker than the first, more a textbook than a novel, and bears a respectable heft when Simone picks it off the shelf. The spine creaks as they lift the hard front cover and flick through.

    This will take some time to read.

    They¡¯ve just finished settling the book within their bag, grunting at the added weight, when they hear a faint fizzle. The pressure in their ears builds before releasing with a pop. From far away, someone hums, their footfalls echoing.

    Fuck.

    Simone shoves the magicite into their pocket with a sharp inhale. Turning it off is as simple as turning the lever on a faucet; at once, the stone dims. Darkness presses in on them with the absence, as heavy as lead. Their mind flicks to the time they¡¯d hidden in their enbei¡¯s closet during a meeting, how their own breaths had covered their skin in an uncomfortable dew, how terrified they had been to move lest they make a sound.

    Focus, Simone. They press their palm to the shelf closest to them, forcing a deep breath. The footfalls draw ever closer.

    They¡¯ve reached the end of the row when they catch the cold blue glow of a magicite stone in the distance. It¡¯s a small pinprick of light, hidden every so often as the holder disappears behind another row of books. Simone sucks in their cheeks.

    The entrance is somewhere in the dark beyond, they know. Some place past whoever is within this rift with them. If they can safely extricate themself¡­

    The stranger rounds another corner. The light bobs with their steps, painting the shelves in shades of blue. Simone stiffens as it draws nearer.

    I have to get out of here.

    All they have is their fingers against wood to guide them as, heart hammering, they take their first steps into the dark. The temperature around them gets warmer, then cooler. The smell of ozone tickles their nostrils, guiding them the rest of the way.

    Then, when they¡¯re so close to the entrance their entire body prickles, their hip slams against a shelf. The books at their side rattle, the sound enhanced by the distorted space.

    The blue light in the distance flashes. ¡°Hello?¡±

    They¡¯re so close, they could reach out and touch the exit. The hairs on their arms raise to attention. Before they can think, they take the final step. The world spins violent enough to make Simone¡¯s stomach twist. The pressure builds in their ears before again releasing with a pop.

    When they open their eyes, they are back on the eighth floor of the Voterique library, facing the door simply labeled RESTRICTED. Clutching their bag tighter, they spin on their heel and race for the exit.

    #

    Even before coming to Voterique, before taking their entrance exams and facing the panel of professors eager to interview them, Simone had known about the basics of magic. It was hard not to know them, given the lessons their enbei had instilled in them. From childhood, they have often been subject to their parent¡¯s lectures, been put through test after vigorous test. Magic, at this point, is as easy as breathing.

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    And yet, somehow, they find themself on their apartment floor, brow furrowed as they study the array of sigils before them. The books they¡¯ve collected¡ªlegally obtained or otherwise¡ªform a ring around them. They flick from book to book, flipping page after page, Caster¡¯s glove hovered over the parchment and waiting for something to happen.

    It would be easier with a subject to test on, they know, but the only choice in the apartment with them is Dio and the ethics of performing spells on an animal are nebulous at best. Still, the option is all the more attractive to them the longer they read and don¡¯t get results.

    As the prospect of testing the spells on Dio grows too tempting to ignore, a knock on the door disturbs them.

    Simone rises to their feet, grunting with the effort, and nudges the books under the couch with a foot. For good measure, they take the blanket Dio had been resting on, earning a chirrup of complaint for their efforts, and lays it over where the books are hidden. A good enough hiding spot¡ªfor now, at least. Another series of knocks urges them to abandon doing anything further.

    Alienor stands on the other side when they peer through the peephole, hugging herself close. She leans hard on her cane, looking the door up and down with a sour expression.

    They ease the door open to face her. ¡°Good afternoon,¡± they say with a respectful dip of their head.

    ¡°So you haven¡¯t taken ill, at least.¡±

    Before they can ask what she means, she barges her way into their apartment and shuts the door with the flick of her cane. Her eyes, a cold and piercing blue, rake over Simone before shifting to the rest of their apartment. She¡¯s never been inside their space before. She¡¯s never had to be, they think.

    ¡°You weren¡¯t in class.¡± She takes a step closer, straightening to her full height, as she speaks.

    Simone swallows, shame gurgling in their gut. ¡°I apologize if my absence caused you concern, Alienor.¡±

    Her cane thumps against the floor. She gives the room another appraisal, gaze settling before long on the lump of books by their couch.

    ¡°When did you get a cat?¡±

    Their blood runs cold. Dio. Still, a lie forms itself on the tip of their tongue. ¡°I was¡­ watching him for a friend for a couple of days.¡± Even as they speak, they pray Alienor won¡¯t feel the need to follow up on it.

    Alienor¡¯s gaze remains glued to the couch, even as she passes Simone by and takes a seat. She spins her cane between her palms, gaze finally going vacant in an expression Simone recognizes. She¡¯s thinking.

    Then, ¡°Simone, you do understand you¡¯re being watched quite closely, do you not?¡±

    The hairs on their arms raise. Floundering for words, they stuff their hands into their pockets.

    ¡°Every step you take out of line is being recorded,¡± Alienor continues, as if Simone hadn¡¯t reacted at all.

    Their throat dries. ¡°What are you talking about?¡±

    She still doesn¡¯t look their way. Instead, she continues thumping her cane against the floor.

    ¡°Why would faculty want to watch me?¡±

    ¡°You are directly involved with someone who recently disappeared, Simone. Our professors are not fools.¡±

    Simone swallows hard. ¡°But I didn¡¯t¡­¡±

    ¡°But you could have knowledge of where she went.¡± Now, her stare pins them where they stand. ¡°Not to mention your own personal exploits. You did not think you could get away with sneaking into the Restricted section, did you?¡±

    Their nails dig craters into their palms. Nadia is dead. And there¡¯s no way they could know about that.

    Jaw set, they check the lock on the door before striding to Alienor¡¯s side. She doesn¡¯t flinch from their hard stare, but they wish she would, if only to give them an iota of power over the situation. Instead, she arches a brow, chin tipped in defiance.

    ¡°You are very lucky, Simone, that it was I who found you in the library earlier.¡± Then, with a sigh, she sets her cane aside. ¡°You are luckier still I don¡¯t have the will to report this transgression.¡±

    Their jaw twitches. ¡°Why?¡±

    Now, Alienor tears her gaze away. ¡°You¡¯ve always been one of my favorite prefects, Simone. Your kindness earned you kindness in return.¡±

    ¡°And¡­ What do you want from me?¡±

    Her lip twitches in something not unlike a smile. ¡°Let go of this hollow pursuit. Lower your head and strive for the end of your second year with no further issue. Voterique has lost one student recently, after all. No need for it to lose another.¡±

    Despite the gentleness of her words, the meaning behind it is enough to knock the wind from Simone¡¯s lungs. Is she¡­ threatening them?

    As they ponder the purpose of her visit, Alienor rises again with a groan. ¡°Maintain caution. That is all I ask.¡±

    She limps back to the door, a gentle hiss escaping with every step. Then, at the door, she turns back.

    ¡°A final piece of advice, should you deign to take it.¡±

    Simone gives a stiff nod in encouragement.

    ¡°Reading books on a realm of magic is not the same as the practice of it itself. With that in mind, I might suggest you visit the campus Enchanter¡¯s council to get their insight. They will get farther with their spells than you will, after all.¡±

    Simone¡¯s brain swirls. Before they can think of a response, Alienor is gone, the door shutting with a click behind her.

 Sixteen

    <h2>Nadia Dupont || Before</h2>

    ¡°Simone, I can¡¯t let us continue to have a relationship.¡±

    Her haggard reflection stares back at her, brows furrowed in concentration. She tries to see beyond herself, to envision Simone standing in front of her, but can only get the image to settle for seconds at a time before it ripples and fades.

    She¡¯s practiced this conversation for hours. Ever since she returned home for the day. Simone had attempted to coax her into coming over, eager to put her through another rigorous study session, but she didn¡¯t have the stomach to see them today. Not after everything she¡¯d learned.

    ¡°You¡¯re a monster,¡± she whispers to her reflection. ¡°If not in body, then in spirit.¡±

    Her reflection frowns in response. It has the gall to even look¡­ hurt by her words. How can you deface yourself? it asks her. How can you go on pretending we are not the same?

    With a final, frustrated growl, Nadia spins on her heel and stalks out of the bathroom.

    She has to distance herself from Simone. Hallucination or not¡ªand she¡¯s less and less certain what she saw was a figment of her imagination¡ªshe poses a danger to herself and the people around her. She wouldn¡¯t be able to forgive herself if she caused Simone harm.

    If only she could get the words out.

    Planning never goes how she wants it to. If she wants to follow through at all, she will need to be spontaneous. And so, before she can think of the consequences, Nadia throws her bag back over her shoulder and stalks out of her apartment.

    The walk to the Abjuror¡¯s tower is a short one. Before she can blink, she¡¯s in front of Simone¡¯s door. No turning back, she thinks as she brings a hand up to knock.

    Before she can make contact, the door swings open.

    ¡°Somehow,¡± Simone says from the other side, ¡°I knew you would change your mind. Especially since you didn¡¯t come by yesterday.¡±

    Despite herself, a relieved sigh leaves her. It doesn¡¯t matter how her hair sticks to her sweat-slicked cheeks, or how she¡¯s sure her skin smells the wrong side of pleasant. As soon as Simone¡¯s face is in her view, she throws herself into their arms, allowing them to rub circles into her back.

    Focus.

    At once, the comfort she feels leeches from her. She pushes herself back and forces herself to look them in their eyes.

    They must sense the change in her. With a frown, their grip shifts to her shoulders. ¡°Is something wrong?¡±

    ¡°May I come in?¡±

    Without a word, they step back and allow her into their apartment.

    Simone¡¯s space is as organized as they are, all white space and severe angles. Several dark wood shelves line the walls, a contrast to the vastness of everything else. There is not an item out of place¡ªfrom what she can tell, anyhow.

    As she shuts the door, Nadia takes a breath and debates how to begin. Hey, Simone, I think I¡¯m turning into a monster. Is that too straightforward? It¡¯s a better explanation than, We shouldn¡¯t see each other anymore. Less likely for them to get upset.

    ¡°Nadia?¡±

    Simone¡¯s voice cuts through her, sharp and knife-like. She stiffens, back pressed flat against the door, a strange warmth gathering in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps they hadn¡¯t meant to, but their voice has a dominating edge to it.

    Perhaps she could let them put her through another lesson before she cuts them off. Would that be selfish of her? Would they hate her for it? Would they chase her out as soon as they knew?

    Their brows pull together. Concern fills their gaze. ¡°Nadia?¡± they say again, softer this time.

    She takes their hands in theirs, phrases of all sorts turning over in her mind.

    Finally, ¡°We cannot continue to see each other.¡±

    Their dark eyes flash. The frown they wear deepens as the full weight of her words sinks in. Their grip on her shoulders grows tight. ¡°What are you talking about?¡±

    ¡°Simone, I can¡¯t keep dating you. It isn¡¯t safe.¡±

    ¡°What are you talking about?¡± they ask again.

    Nadia traps her bottom lip between her teeth. How much can she explain? What would sound best?

    ¡°I¡­¡±

    ¡°Tell me you¡¯re trying to be humorous. Tell me this is a joke.¡±

    ¡°Simone¡­¡± Despite herself, Nadia¡¯s voice cracks. ¡°Why are you wasting your time on a dead woman?¡±

    Simone shakes their head with great force. ¡°You aren¡¯t dead. Not yet.¡± Then, after a pause, ¡°You won¡¯t die. I will make sure you won¡¯t.¡±

    Nadia chuckles sadly. ¡°You can¡¯t know that, Simone. This could all be for nothing. A waste of time. You warned me from the beginning how much you hate your time to be wasted.¡±

    Their mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Instead, they press her forehead to theirs, ragged breaths fanning across her face. Their warmth envelopes her, a sharp contrast to the door at her back. Nadia¡¯s resolve slips, just for a second. Just long enough for a single tear to well up.

    You are a weakling. If you were a better person, you wouldn¡¯t delay the inevitable.

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    She wants to shove herself away, wants to yank Simone closer and ride them through the waves of misery threatening to consume her. And yet, if she does anything, it will be her total undoing.

    They hover on the edge of this precipice for a long while, Simone¡¯s tears dampening her cheeks.

    ¡°Do not play with my heart like this,¡± they say at last. ¡°I beg of you.¡±

    As their lips hover over hers, her resolve hardens. ¡°Simone¡­¡±

    Before she can speak, they capture her in a kiss, body hiccuping against hers. Their tears mingle together as she closes her eyes and loses herself to the moment.

    Then, as they grab a fistful of her hair, she shoves them back.

    ¡°Don¡¯t. Please.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°You are blinding yourself to the facts. The facts here are this, Simone: I am dying and there is nothing either of us can do to stop it. And if I am not dying, I am turning into a monster.¡±

    Confusion clouds their gaze. ¡°You are the furthest thing from a monster imaginable, Nadia.¡±

    ¡°But it¡¯s the truth. Something is wrong with me. Something vile and twisted.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be absurd.¡±

    ¡°Look at me!¡±

    The shriek bursts from her before she can stop it, echoing off the walls. How does she look to them right now? Does she appear as desperate and distraught as she feels? Can they see the cracks forming in her human veneer?

    Simone scans her from head to foot. They¡¯re looking, but are they seeing? She doesn¡¯t know. Which is worse¡ªseeing the reality or buying the lie?

    ¡°You want to know where I was yesterday? You want to know why I called off our date? It¡¯s for this reason. I went to Etienne¡¯s house, we got high, and I¡­ I can¡¯t even describe it to you. It was like being someone else. Something else.¡±

    Their brows crinkle. ¡°You were high,¡± they say. A statement, and yet it feels like an accusation. ¡°Of course you couldn¡¯t process properly.¡±

    ¡°I turned into a monster, Simone. For several, heart-wrenching seconds, all I could think about was tearing out Etienne¡¯s throat. And I liked it.¡±

    For the first time this conversation, Simone¡¯s response is what she expects, all wide-eyes and a half-step away from her. Their outstretched hand begins to shake.

    Her resolve wobbles at their expression, but she presses forward. ¡°If I hurt him¡­ Gods, if I hurt you, Simone. Either of you. I could never forgive myself for that. You understand, now, why I am stopping our relationship? You understand why this thing between us ? Even now, you are afraid of me. Deep down, you know the truth as well as I do: you cannot love a monster.¡±

    She hates herself for the way their face crumples at her words. It¡¯s for the best, she tells herself as they press their face into their hands and shake with the force of their silent sobs.

    She can¡¯t let this conversation go on.

    ¡°I truly am sorry, Simone. I wish it wasn¡¯t this way.¡±

    Before she can stop herself, before she can watch their heart break further, she throws herself back out the door and towards the exit. Simone¡¯s anguished shriek follows her down the hall.

    #

    Nadia did what was best for everyone. She tells herself this over and over and over again, but she can¡¯t quite get herself to believe it. How can breaking Simone¡¯s heart be the best answer? Why did she date them in the first place? Why did she bother with any of it at all?

    If she was a better person, she could wipe away the traces of her existence entirely. Jumping off the edge of the mesa would be enough to take care of her, she thinks. As an alternative, she could fling open the door of the tram and plummet into the forests below.

    She could also keep her death more personal. Enough Serenity could numb her to the pain of however she deigns necessary to end herself. There is no need to get other witnesses involved, after all. It would be selfish of her to inflict her final trauma on them.

    With a shriek that strains her vocal chords, Nadia shoves her face into her pillows, tears flowing anew.

    For a couple of months, she has become an expert in forgetting her own mortality. The pain is ever-present now, true to Doctor Aiza¡¯s warnings, but it wasn¡¯t until the distorted visions she experienced she¡¯s realized she will die at all. And, if the churning in her gut is any indicator,

    The room is grey with the first lights of dawn by the time she emerges from her fugue. The dull slap of her feet echoes through the apartment as she drags herself to the bathroom. Then, as ice-cold water drips from her fingers, she lumbers towards the phone on the wall.

    The click of the line is sharp enough to draw the breath from her lungs. In the silence that follows, she teeters on the edge of collapse.

    Then, a voice, soft and thick with sleep. ¡°Hello?¡±

    Nadia¡¯s throat thickens. ¡°Maman.¡±

    A gasp, so faint she almost misses it. ¡°Nadia?¡±

    All at once, she¡¯s on the floor, heaving sobs tearing from her breast. She cradles the phone¡¯s mouthpiece like a child, keening into it until she has to stop to catch her breath.

    You have no one to turn to, her conscious goads. You¡¯re a danger to everyone you love. Everyone who is foolish enough to love you.

    ¡°Darling? What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    You never told her you were dying, did you?

    The thought sobers her, somewhat. With a sigh, she recollects herself, storing all of her grief and anger and pain into a jar somewhere deep inside herself and screwing the lid on tight. Wiping her eyes, she regards the mouthpiece in her hand.

    ¡°Nadia?¡±

    The voice inside her, no matter how insidious its intentions, is right. ¡°I am sorry,¡± she says in a breathless whisper. Then, before she can think, she slams the mouthpiece back into its cradle.

    She doesn¡¯t remember the march back to her room¡ªnot until her face is pressed into her pillows and fresh sobs claw their way out of her throat. The pillows tear under her nails, spilling feathers like animal entrails. Even this wanton destruction isn¡¯t enough to satisfy. It¡¯s too sanitized. Too neat.

    And yet, despite the lilting voice in her ear urging her to move, to find something new to tear apart, she cannot. Instead, she lays there, palms warm against her bare stomach, watching the time pass with the shifting of the shadows on her wall.

 Seventeen

    <h2>Simone Allard || After</h2>

    The Enchanter¡¯s Society. Simone¡¯s next clue. While the Enchanters have their dormitory tower, same as everyone else, the Casters therein more often spend their time elsewhere. Simone has heard whispers of it before, the Enchanter¡¯s Society, a sort of cult where the Enchanters of Voterique gather together. Really, Etienne is the only Enchanter they know who doesn¡¯t often take part.

    Simone doesn¡¯t know the full details of the goings-on within the Society. The members and the activities they¡¯re involved in could be anything. Extravagant orgies. A grey-walled prison. A chaotic pocket dimension. And, on the days Etienne had been more conversational, he had never been willing to share its secrets.

    In Simone¡¯s mind, it¡¯s an exaggerated, exclusive study group. Other students of Voterique¡ªand even a professor or two¡ªhave entered their offices seeking their guidance. Granted, of the eight realms, Enchantment has the biggest drawbacks to it, so it would make sense to seclude students who elect to specialize in it.

    Still, their reputation does the Enchanter¡¯s Society minimal favors.

    Much in the same way the medical ward is an unsightly growth amongst the faculty building, the Enchanter¡¯s Society lurks in the background like an unwanted guest. It curls into itself. Despite its impressive width, it¡¯s the shortest of the faculty buildings¡ªand yet, it¡¯s the one that makes Simone¡¯s skin prickle now as they approach. But perhaps it¡¯s not the building itself, but the way fellow Casters-to-be give them a narrow look and a wide berth as they approach, as if the building is diseased and, by entering, Simone will become the next bearer of its contagion.

    With a shiver, they pull their capelet tighter around them.

    The entrance doors, filigreed and gaudy, stretch open at their approach. From the darkness beyond, several blue pinpricks of light flare under Simone¡¯s assessing gaze. Despite the illumination, much of the interior still remains wreathed in shadows. And then, as Simone steps inside with a shuddering breath, a soft gust of wind catches their hair and the rest of the lanterns light.

    ¡°Welcome to the Enchanter¡¯s Society,¡± says a voice, and Simone scans the foyer. The bang of the doors startles them, and it¡¯s not until they¡¯re trembling, hand to their fluttering heart, they locate the source.

    The attendant at the desk stares at them with lake-still eyes. Brown curls frame their face like brambles on a bush. Their light green capelet gives their pale skin a nauseating hue. When Simone doesn¡¯t respond, they blink their too-wide eyes and tilt their head. ¡°How may we provide assistance?¡±

    Simone¡¯s knees lock. Though the attendant¡¯s lips move, the voice emerging from them has multiple sources. On impulse, they look around the foyer for other figures.

    ¡°I¡­¡± They pause, swiping their tongue over their lips. What had they come here for, again?

    The attendant blinks, some semblence of sentience settling over them at last. Adjusting the clasp of their capelet, they say, ¡°Either ask for what you seek or leave. We do not tolerate loitering.¡±

    Simone falters, just for a second, before standing up straight once again. They¡¯ve contended with far worse, been far worse. A multi-voiced attendant is manageable in comparison. ¡°I must consult the Society regarding magics of the mind.¡±

    The attendant¡¯s eyebrow twitches. ¡°This is what we are here for, after all.¡±

    Of course. Simone dares themself to step closer. ¡°Rather, it is about a friend of mine¡ª¡°

    ¡°How vague.¡±

    ¡°¡ªWho has been behaving¡­ in an odd manner.¡±

    They¡¯ve practiced this lie for hours in front of the mirror, and yet this iteration feels the most ridiculous. Warmth floods their face and they shuffle on their feet, unable to say more.

    The attendant¡¯s face remains unchanged. ¡°Seems it may be a matter for the medical ward, no?¡±

    Simone¡¯s jaw clenches, but they release it with another breath. Patience. ¡°It would be, under normal circumstances. Except¡­¡± As they think of how best to phrase it, they pull one of the textbooks free from their satchel. ¡°He¡¯s in some kind of strange daze. He went on a trip a week or so ago, but the next thing I know, he¡¯s returned and he cannot tell me a single thing from his time away.¡±

    At last, the attendant¡¯s eyes widen, just enough to tell Simone they have their attention.

    ¡°It¡¯s as though¡­ Well, here.¡±

    Simone slides the book across the desk, pointing to the header they found. The attendant leans forward to read through it. As they wait, Simone takes another look around the foyer. A high balcony overlooks the space, accessed by a wide marble staircase. Suspended from the ceiling is a massive skeletal structure, larger than life. It¡¯s a beast of some sort, Simone thinks at first, before catching sight of the large horns sprouting from the skull. A drake¡ªone from long ago, judging by the size. A set of wings sprout from its midsection, too small to be of real use. Over time, drakes had reduced in wingspan and size. The handful of living specimens Simone had seen were barely bigger than a housecat now.

    They¡¯re so enraptured by the skeleton they miss the attendant¡¯s next words until, in their stupor, Simone¡¯s gaze lands on them once again.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Simone says. ¡°Did you say something?¡±

    The attendant slides the book back in Simone¡¯s direction. ¡°I do not know what sort of situation your friend was in for certain. But, if it¡¯s anything like this, it is possible they are suffering from arcane amnesia.¡±

    What a technical term for something so vile. Simone represses a shiver. Now, at last, their hunch has been confirmed. ¡°I¡­ was afraid you would say that.¡± And, despite themself, they mean it. Taking the book back and replacing it in their satchel, they say, ¡°What can be done about it?¡±

    The attendant chews on their lip, a thoughtful gleam in their eye. ¡°I am afraid I am more of a¡­ spokesperson for the Society. Allow me a moment.¡±

    Before Simone can respond, they pick up the receiver at their side. Their voice drops to a whisper, so low Simone cannot make out what they are saying. Then, after several seconds, they hang up again.

    ¡°If you will wait here a few minutes, I will have someone down to assist you.¡±

    #

    A few minutes, indeed,

    Simone glowers as they leaf through one of the many books in the foyer. Though they are sure their growing impatience is evident to the attendant¡ªand to the person who takes their place before too long¡ªthey do not have it within them to care.

    And indeed, they are halfway through reading about the ravings of an esteemed writer of Prophet Prose¡ªsome phenomenon Simone never understood but would have Nadia rambling for hours¡ªwhen a shadow falls over them. When they look up, a figure with skin like a sun-warmed beach and eyes as dark as an inkwell stares down at them. Their downturned nose crinkles as they lock eyes.

    ¡°You aren¡¯t an Enchanter, so I suppose it is safe to assume you are the one whom requested assistance?¡±

    Simone replaces the book on the table at their side with a nod.

    ¡°As I assumed. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Professor Erestia Altonis.¡±

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    Their skin prickles. Of all the members of Voterique¡¯s faculty, Professor Altonis is one of the higher-ranking members. Even Simone, who don¡¯t care much for Enchanting or the intricacies surrounding it, know this much. And, if her penetrating stare and the scars across her hands and chest are anything to go off of, she is not a woman to be trifled with, let alone disturbed. Simone had read a work or two of hers, hadn¡¯t they?

    All at once, Simone¡¯s prospects of getting an answer turn grim. With someone as esteemed as her attending to them, it¡¯s only a matter of time before the rest of the faculty knows of their goals. Still, they swallow their trepidation. They¡¯ve come this far, right?

    ¡°Pleased to meet you,¡± they say before standing.

    Professor Altonis takes them in again with a sniff before spinning on her heel. Without a word, she stalks for the staircase, footfalls echoing with every step. Simone lingers for a heartbeat, uncertain if she¡¯s expecting them to follow. A sharp glance in their direction and the jerk of their chin is enough to convince them to fall in step at her side.

    They don¡¯t speak further as she leads them up the stairs and down a series of hallways, each turn as disorienting as the last. Portraits line the walls, each figure holding the exact same pose. It reminds Simone of the old cathedrals in Hadorae. The Scholars of the Lost had made their homes in said cathedrals, had dedicated themselves to the pilgrimage of a single man. Their reign spanned generations before his death, each member marked with a portrait in this exact fashion. The likeness makes Simone¡¯s stomach curl. They scan the hall for a portrait of the Professor, but they¡¯re moving too quickly to see for certain.

    Before long, they stop before a plain wooden door, an equally-plain nameplate hanging from the top. Professor Altonis produces a key and the door opens with a soft click.

    With a touch of a magicite lamp, the office beyond flairs to life. The Professor¡¯s small wooden desk gains a purplish hue. A tank sits atop the windowsill. Inside, a snake wriggles back and forth, stomach pressed to the glass. Posters of several enlarged sigils in various states of construction line the wall, all of them Enchantment-based in nature.

    The door shuts with the flick of her finger. ¡°Please have a seat,¡± she says as she rounds her desk and drops into a plain chair.

    Simone complies with a final, wary glance around the room. The chair they settle into groans at the added weight.

    ¡°Now, I have been told you suspect a friend of yours has been suffering from arcane amnesia?¡±

    ¡°Correct.¡±

    Professor Altonis reaches for a pen and uncaps it. As she lowers it into an inkwell to fill, she says, ¡°And why would you suspect such a thing?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s been acting strangely lately.¡±

    She waits, pen at the ready, eyebrows quirked like she¡¯s expecting something more.

    ¡°A-and, the other day, when I tried to speak to him, it took him a while to remember who I was.¡±

    She writes this down on a spare scrap of paper and pauses once more. When Simone doesn¡¯t continue, she says, ¡°And is there anything else?¡±

    They swallow down their rising irritation. Her voice carries a Vahnic lilt to it¡ªand likely, her matter of overspeaking is related to her origins. Still, they can¡¯t help but feel she¡¯s preparing to dismiss them.

    ¡°He went on a trip recently, and before he left, he was fine.¡± As they speak, they scrape the recesses of their memory for the lie they had told the attendant. It would be all the stranger if they couldn¡¯t keep their story in order. ¡°And then, when he came back¡­¡±

    Professor Altonis recaps her pen with a flourish. ¡°Your capelet suggests to me you are a second-year Abjuror. Is that correct?¡±

    They nod.

    ¡°Furthermore, you are unfamiliar with the general philosophy behind Enchantment?¡±

    Jaw set, they nod again.

    ¡°And did you not take a class regarding Casting theory in your preliminary schooling?¡±

    She speaks slowly now, accent thickening. Patience, Simone urges themself yet again as a near-blinding wave of rage crests within them. It would do little good to lose your calm here.

    They bite the inside of their cheek hard enough to taste blood. ¡°Yes,¡± they say at last. ¡°I did.¡±

    Professor Altonis¡¯s frown deepens. ¡°So then, you are familiar with a certain adage, I should think. How do you Mertish say it? Mundane over magical?¡±

    Their nails bury deep into their palms. Still, the only trace of anger they allow to show is the flair of their nostrils. ¡°That is correct, Professor.¡±

    ¡°With this in mind, had you made every attempt to disqualify the mundanities?¡±

    If I had assumed the cause was mundane, he would¡¯ve gone back to the medical ward. ¡°I believe so.¡±

    Professor Altonis purses her lips, taking them in with the slow drag of her gaze. ¡°And yet, you still suspect arcane amnesia.¡±

    Simone¡¯s grasp on their calm is fraying. Each word they think of to say is more foul than the last. At lat, in defeated silence, they nod a third time.

    ¡°So I see.¡±

    Professor Altonis rises from her desk, turning to the tank on the windowsill. Rubbing a nail against the glass, right over where the writhing snake¡¯s stomach is, she says, ¡°As much as I would love to lend Society resources towards your cause, I remain unconvinced.¡±

    The world drops out from beneath them. No¡­

    ¡°What I would advise you do is speak to the medical ward. Or, perhaps speak to one of the Divination professors. It is certain your friend has experienced a traumatic event, either in the physical or psychological sense. Asking the Society to go digging through his brain could cause more harm, and I do not have the patience to sit through a malpractice hearing if it can be avoided.¡±

    All of this. All of this was for nothing.

    ¡°But perhaps I am wrong. If you can have your friend provide some documentation, we would be willing to assist you. Until then, I would like to have all possibilities examined.¡±

    A scream bubbles in the back of their throat, but they force it down. Wait until you are alone. Throwing a fit will not behoove you now.

    Professor Altonis¡¯s head tilts as she regards them. ¡°Do you have nothing to say?¡±

    ¡°Thank you for your time.¡± They stand quick enough the chair rattles in place, but they stop it before it can fall over. Without looking up, they take their leave.

    They don¡¯t cry. Not yet. Not as the first tendrils of rage wrap themselves tight within Simone¡¯s ribcage. Not as they march themself back towards the exit, though it takes them several false turns. Not as they pass by a portrait of Professor Erestia Altonis¡¯s portrait at last. Their fingers twitch at their sides. How they long to jam the pointed tip of a pen into the canvas, to see the professor¡¯s visage torn from end to end.

    But they don¡¯t. They can¡¯t. And so they continue walking.

    They¡¯re halfway to the door when a warmth claps their wrist. Simone stiffens, each hair on their body pulsing with the need to flee.

    ¡°Did you find what you sought?¡±

    It¡¯s the attendant. The one who had helped them what must have been hours ago. Withdrawing their hand, Simone shakes their head, not trusting themself to speak.

    ¡°Then perhaps this will help.¡±

    Before they can ask what the attendant means, they open Simone¡¯s satchel and drop a handful of pages inside.

    ¡°I did some looking of my own.¡±

    The first inklings of hope find purchase in their breast.

    After a breath, the attendant drops to a whisper. ¡°Do not let on where you got this.¡±

    Simone¡¯s mouth dries. ¡°Right.¡±

    ¡°Now go.¡± With the jerk of their chin, the front doors swing open. ¡°The longer you wait, the more he suffers.¡±

    They don¡¯t need to be told twice. Without a word, Simone ducks out the entrance of the Enchanter¡¯s Society, the first gears of a plan turning over in their mind.

 Eighteen

    <h2>Nadia DuPont || Before</h2>

    Simone doesn¡¯t visit. They don¡¯t even call. Nadia still finds herself by the phone more often than not, praying for the telltale ring. And yet, day after day, it never comes.

    She wishes she had it in her to be angry at their dismissiveness. Anything would be better than the soul-crushing despair gripping tightly to her throat. A dozen excuses float through her subconscious, and on especially foul days she allows herself to entertain them. Simone decided she wasn¡¯t worth chasing. They weren¡¯t strong enough to handle this final antic of hers.

    On and on the excuses go, nipping at Nadia¡¯s thoughts like bugs, but they each ring hollow. Of course they would be through with her foolishness. Of course Nadia is not worth pursuing. Especially not now, bundled up tight in her bedsheets. In the days since the breakup, she¡¯s formed a cocoon of sorts. If not for the truancy notices piled up on her nightstand, she wouldn¡¯t bother leaving her apartment at all.

    And so she wallows in her depression nest, emerging only to attend classes and come right back home.

    How pathetic, she tells herself when she puts herself to bed for the weekend. As if you could have deserved anything better.

    It¡¯s the last thing she thinks before she closes her eyes for the weekend.

    #

    ¡°You¡¯re moping.¡±

    Nadia unpeels one crusted eye and peeks out from within the bundle of blankets. Watery blue light streams in through the hole she¡¯s formed for breathing. The warmth of Dio on her ankles comes to her next, light enough pain doesn¡¯t register yet.

    A throat clears from across the room. The clicking of heels draws closer.

    ¡°How did I know I would find you here?¡± Etienne asks. His weight settles next to her, forming a dip in the mattress.

    Her other eye opens to join the first. Through the gap in the bedding, she sees the ends of Etienne¡¯s brown hair. It¡¯s gotten longer, somehow. Has it really been that long since she¡¯s seen him?

    ¡°I know you¡¯re awake, Nadia. We¡¯ve shared a bed long enough; I know what your snores sound like.¡±

    With a grunt, Nadia nudges Dio off of her. Otherwise, she doesn¡¯t speak.

    ¡°I won¡¯t leave just because you ignore me.¡±

    Threads of pain weave themselves across her now-upright hip when she rolls over. Jaw clenched, she tries to find a more comfortable position. ¡°Go away.¡±

    Etienne scooches closer despite her groaning. The desire to kick him crosses her mind, but the spare energy she¡¯s mustered flees the instant she thinks to use it. Instead, she remains stiff against him.

    ¡°You know, I never thought you¡¯d be one to be knocked down by a breakup.¡±

    She sniffles. ¡°What are you talking about?¡±

    ¡°Oh, come on,¡± he says with a scoff. ¡°Both you and¡­ Well, you were both tight-lipped all week, by the sounds of it. And Chantal told me she heard it from the source. And since you haven¡¯t even seen me all week, well.¡±

    Sighing, Nadia throws the blanket off of her. A cold gust runs over her in an instant. She wants to sink back into the void the nest she¡¯s built has brought her, but she knows Etienne won¡¯t allow such pathetic measures.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think I even took breaking up with Aleksi this harshly.¡±

    Though her hip continues to ache, she curls in tighter to herself. ¡°Do you think telling me that is helping?¡±

    His hand settles on her thigh. ¡°If you wanted someone to coddle you, I know you could send me away and call someone else.¡±

    Nadia¡¯s jaw sets. ¡°You think you know what I need?¡±

    ¡°I did, once.¡±

    ¡°And now?¡±

    She knows she¡¯s being callous, but she can¡¯t help herself. Since she¡¯s awoken, irritation has scratched at her like stray grains of sand. Each word from Etienne worsens the sensation. Her skin tingles, each nerve a needle. What does he know about how she feels? Why should he even care?

    ¡°You¡¯re angry,¡± Etienne says. ¡°You¡¯re wounded. I understand. Driving the world away won¡¯t solve anything, though. Relationships end. Life continues. Just because Simone broke things off¡ª¡°

    At once, Nadia is upright. Fighting the waves of nausea threatening to drag her back down, she spits out, ¡°I was the one to leave them.¡±

    Etienne¡¯s eyes widen, just enough to notice. ¡°What?¡±

    She doesn¡¯t meet his gaze. Though she trembles, she has enough strength left to keep herself up right, just for a moment.

    ¡°You¡­Why did you do that?¡± Etienne¡¯s brows pull tightly together, like he¡¯s examining a particularly intricate puzzle. He reminds her so much in this moment of Simone, and the thought is enough to steal the breath from her lungs. Her throat constricts tighter.

    Another flash of her monstrous self comes to mind. She squeezes her eyes shut against the image, but another, more sobering thought crops up from the back of her mind. If Simone was in danger, Etienne surely is as well.

    ¡°You should go,¡± she croaks before she can stop herself.

    ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous.¡±

    She shoves him as hard as she dares, the ghastly vision granting her strength. ¡°Get out.¡±

    One of his pencil-thin brows arches. ¡°Not when you¡¯re in such a state.¡± Then, softer, ¡°¡­Don¡¯t close yourself off from me.¡±

    Her jaw clenches so tight it ticks. Anger, viscous and black, bubbles within her. ¡°As if you haven¡¯t done the same?¡± He opens his mouth to speak, but she surges forward. ¡°For weeks, you¡¯ve scorned me and pouted and thrown your childish fits because you can¡¯t stand not being the center of attention for once in your fucking life!¡±

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    He reels back as if she¡¯s slapped him. She almost wishes she had.

    ¡°I¡ªI¡¯m sorry,¡± he says at last.

    ¡°Don¡¯t give me that. You¡¯re just saying it because you know, deep down, I¡¯m all you have.¡±

    Red fills his face in one fell wave. ¡°Th-that¡¯s not¡ª¡°

    ¡°Isn¡¯t it?¡± Stop this, some small part of her urges. Don¡¯t shove him away, too. But she ignores it for the burning indignation consuming her. ¡°You follow me around like a lost dog all the damn time. Don¡¯t you know how annoying it can be, trying to placate you?¡±

    He opens his mouth again and Nadia tenses. They¡¯ve fought before, at times hurling insults like knives. Now, she sharpens her verbal barbs, ready for his retort. All the while, the smaller part of her screams at her to stop.

    But instead of speaking, Etienne shakes his head and rises. Before she can challenge him¡ªor apologize, some small part of her argues¡ªhe leaves the room.

    The only thing you know how to do is to destroy. A sentence she has told herself every waking moment she¡¯s had since her conversation with Simone. True or not, it¡¯s been a useful enough tool in her self-pitying arsenal. Now, as she watches Etienne¡¯s retreating shadow, the thought echoes in her ears, overtaking everything else.

    #

    And yet, when she wakes up again, Etienne is still perched on her mattress, flipping through the pages of an Enchanting textbook. Relief is the first tangible emotion unfurling within her, followed by confusion. Why would he have stayed?

    As if sensing her stirring, he bends the corner of the page he¡¯s reading and sets the book in his lap. ¡°You know, you can be a real bitch sometimes.¡±

    The blanket encases her. He¡¯s tucked her back into bed? Flashes of their last conversation drift to the forefront of her mind and, all at once, the meaning of Etienne¡¯s words dawn on her. How could she have been so callous? How could she let him believe she thought such cruel things of him?

    The goal was to get him to leave, not to tell the truth.

    She winces at this voice within her thoughts, her and yet not her at the same time.

    Etienne shakes his head with a heavy sigh, one weighted with a tangle of unspoken thoughts. She¡¯s heard this sound from him before, simultaneously frustration and resignation. And to think, she was the one to do this to him¡­

    She takes his hand, praying he doesn¡¯t snatch it back. ¡°Etienne.¡±

    He doesn¡¯t look up. The unspoken declination takes the breath from her. Still, she must persist.

    ¡°Etienne, I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    Nothing. No twitch of his eye, no move to shrug away from her. His gaze remains locked on the book in his lap, like it¡¯s the most interesting thing to him in this moment.

    ¡°You¡ªyou¡¯re angry,¡± Nadia continues, faltering. This, at least, earns her the faintest shrug. ¡°I said some¡­ awful things to you before.¡±

    ¡°Do you really think that of me?¡±

    She flinches. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°That I am some lost dog following you around. An inconvenience. Is this what you think of me, truly? Of our friendship?¡±

    ¡°Of course not.¡± She grips his hand until both their knuckles pale. ¡°I¡ª¡°

    Now, finally, he looks up. Twin rivers of tears stream from his eyes, but he doesn¡¯t move to wipe them away. His gaze is all fractured glass, a kaleidoscope of pain. At once, her own heart is fit to shatter.

    ¡°Oh, Etienne¡­¡±

    With this, he snatches his hand back, rips off his glasses, and buries his face. Thick, choked sobs tremble through him. Nadia represses the urge to wrap herself around him, to shove him away, to have him scream all the terrible things she said back at her. And yet, none of them are enough punishment.

    You deserve this. All of it, and worse.

    She picks up his glasses first and sets them aside. Black frames hug two circular lenses, each relatively unmarred save the smudges of his fingers. Since when has he worn these? The frames she remembers were a tortoiseshell pattern, weren¡¯t they?

    All at once, the truth in its terrible entirety sinks into her. A schism has formed between them, vast and irreparable.

    As Etienne continues to shudder, she envelopes him. The way he stiffens against her is enough to set her jaw, but she doesn¡¯t let go. Not when he falls into her lap, still sobbing. Not when he stretches the front of her shirt with the force of his despair. His pain carves its way into the deepest recesses within her.

    Before long, she¡¯s crying, too, clutching him to her like the moment she lets go, he will disappear.

    #

    Etienne doesn¡¯t stay for long after he finally calms down. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he mutters something non-committal and wipes the last of the tears from his eyes. Then, louder, he says, ¡°See you around.¡±

    Nadia doesn¡¯t stop him in his hasty retreat, no matter how badly she yearns to. Instead, as the door slams shut behind him, she sprints for the bathroom. Her knees crack against the tiles as she vomits¡ªdry heaves, really¡ªinto the yawning depths beyond.

    When she comes up for air, the absurdity of it all is enough to make laughter bubble up in the back of her throat. Her body rattles with manic energy, like she¡¯s channeled an electric evocation through her.

    Keep it together. Even as the thought crosses her mind, a sardonic chuckle slips through her teeth, followed by a wave of bile. As sweat breaks out across her brow, she rests against the porcelain. An uneasy quiet settles over Nadia¡¯s apartment.

    She doesn¡¯t know how long she sits there, legs akimbo as she tries to recollect herself, only how badly her body aches when she drags herself to her feet once again.

    The image in the mirror is a woman crazed, all unruly hair and flushed cheeks. ¡°How close we came to ruining everything,¡± it tells her with a wide-eyed stare.

    ¡°It¡¯s over with,¡± Nadia snarls under her breath.

    She¡¯s halfway to calm again when a flash of black catches her eye. She¡¯s imagining it, she tells herself, even as she gives her reflection another look-over.

    There, against her collarbone. The faintest touch whites her vision with pain, but she finally gets the collar of her shirt pulled away enough to inspect it better. A tangle of black veins surge across her chest, starting from the throbbing artery in her neck and spreading to the peaks of both breasts.

    Nadia skitters away from the mirror, colliding with the back wall hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs.

    You¡¯ve had a long day. She takes a shallow inhale and finds her face in the mirror, looking just as frantic as she feels. It¡¯s a stress-based hallucination. That¡¯s all this is.

    Still, she can¡¯t get herself to approach the mirror again. Not at first.

    When she again tugs at her collar, the black veins have disappeared. She trails a finger over where she knew them to be, but the pain has subsided as well. All of it, gone, as if it had never happened.

 Nineteen

    <h2>Simone Allard || After</h2>

    They spend the rest of the evening pouring over the notes they¡¯ve been handed, brain aching with the strain required to make sense of it all. Dozens of sigils, each more complex than the last. It¡¯s enough to make their head spin. And, they realize with an ever-deepening frown, who is to say what they¡¯ve been handed is even correct?

    By the time they retire for the night, they¡¯re certain they¡¯re no closer to solving the matter of Etienne¡¯s mind than they were when the day began. The moment they close their eyes, half-formed sigils swarm their thoughts, plaguing them even in the realm of sleep. And yet, when they stretch an astral arm out to grasp them, the images slip through their fingers like smoke.

    Still, the sigils remain when they wake the next morning, stuck to their eyelids like tattoos. They rub the images away with the crust on their eyes. A strange-shaped lump fills the back of their throat, accompanied by a heavy-set lurching of their stomach.

    And then, the instant they sit up, bile. They rush for the bathroom, knees cracking on the tiles as their stomach boils over. Brackish liquid and the remains of last night¡¯s dinner spill from them in waves. Over and over again, they cling to the rim as they retch.

    Finally, sweat-soaked and shivering, they still. They hug the edge of the toilet, limbs stiff. It takes the remaining shreds of their energy to peel themself from the porcelain. Even now, certain as they are of their stomach being empty, their stomach continues to spasm.

    Did I eat something foul last night? They scrape through their memories of the day before, all of it obscured by a dense fog. What they can gather doesn¡¯t match the maelstrom swirling in their gut. Thinking on it too hard sets their temples throbbing, though. Before long, they give up any hope of investigation.

    Simone¡¯s legs threaten to buckle underneath them when they stand. Leaning hard against the toilet, they flounder for the lever, pausing when they finally catch it. Though the contents of their stomach was mostly water and acid, indistinguishable chunks of last night¡¯s dinner bob about. And yet, streams of gray thread through it all.

    Funny. I can¡¯t remember eating anything that color.

    With a final shiver of disgust, Simone gathers enough strength to push the lever and flush the evidence of their sickness away.

    #

    A distinct discomfort makes a home of their bones. Each step they take is accompanied by creaking. The sound is enough to set their teeth clenching. They¡¯re only in their second decade. Surely,

    Still, as sore and as pale as they are today, they do not dare stay home. Not with Alienor¡¯s threat looming over them.

    They mull over her words as they work their capelet around their shoulders. Every step you take out of line is being recorded. She couldn¡¯t have been serious, could she? And yet, it would make sense if she was. Between the faculty cornering them shortly after Etienne¡¯s disappearance, to the strange way he was treated when he woke up¡­

    Etienne. The moment their mind shifts to him, sigils flash behind their eyes. Their fingers tangle in their capelet clasps. Teeth clenched, they clear their thoughts with a deep breath and re-secure their capelet. The moment the clasps click, their brain resumes its harried sprint.

    Of course, there¡¯s the matter of them being sick this morning, too. Yet another puzzle they cannot hope to untangle. A fluke, they try to tell themself as they search their apartment for appropriate shoes. A fluke and nothing more. The stress and the lack of sleep is catching up with me is all. No matter how many times they repeat this mantra, however, an undercurrent of doubt remains.

    The last thing to gather before they leave are the fresh Enchantment notes they¡¯ve happened upon. They upturn most of the apartment in their search, chest growing uncomfortably tight the longer their search takes.

    The first bells are ringing by the time they¡¯ve located the notes. Dio has made a makeshift nest of the pages, white fur spotted with gray from the uncured ink. Simone clucks their tongue at the discovery, mind swirling too viciously to be truly upset. After a cursory glance to ensure the runes aren¡¯t smeared¡ªthey are, but not enough to be illegible¡ªSimone shoves them into their satchel and rushes out the door.

    Simone¡¯s harried arrival to their Intro to Glyoh Design class earns them a raised eyebrow from fellow Casters and Professor Darzi alike. Cheeks burning, they slump into the first available seat they spot, each eye on them like a knife in their side. From his podium, Professor Darzi jots their presence with the wry twist of his mouth. The silent admonishment is enough to make them want to wither and die on the spot.

    As their gaze glues itself to Professor Darzi¡¯s veined knuckles, a sickly thought rears its poxed head: How could they be so careless? In all of their years of schooling, Simone has never been late. Sure, on more than one occasion they¡¯ve cut it close¡ªand an ailment or two has meant missing a day of classes all together¡ªbut they¡¯ve still maintained a reputation for being in the room before the bell rang.

    And now, a true dark mark on their record. What will their enbei think?

    The thought remains with them for the rest of the class, looming over their shoulder like a cloud. Every time Professor Darzi meets their gaze, they wrench it away again. Before long, the shame is all-encompassing, tearing at their lungs with iron claws.

    It¡¯s all they can do to flee the room when the final bell rings.

    And then, at the threshold, ¡°Mx. Allard?¡±

    They freeze in place, breath fluttering. Professor Darzi doesn¡¯t say anything further as the other Casters of their class shove past them on their way towards whatever lesson is next, but Simone knows what he wants all the same. They watch their peers pass with something like envy. How lucky they are to be free of a lecture.

    When the last student has left, Professor Darzi approaches. This close, the overwhelming wave of his cologne washes over them, all cedar and musk and bergamot. It¡¯s enough to make their throat ache. A thousand questions flare to life and die on the tip of their tongue.

    ¡°Mx. Allard, something is bothering you.¡±

    They stiffen at the suggestion. Perhaps they¡¯ve been more rash as of late¡ªsomething Alienor¡¯s last conversation with them cemented. Still, they thought they¡¯d been more reserved about their feelings than this.

    Or, more likely, perhaps recent circumstances have frayed their mind enough that their inhibitions have fallen. The possibility makes their jaw set.

    ¡°Mx. Allard?¡±

    How to toe the line? Alienor¡¯s warning again rears its head. What can they say that will allow them a way out of this conversation?

    So close. Their jaw clenches harder. So painfully fucking close.

    They spin on their heel to face him, anger sparking at the concerned crease of his forehead. It must be a facade, a way to get more information from them. Still, a part of them¡ªone which refuses to go silent no matter how badly they will it¡ªlongs to divulge him something. They owe him this much, no matter how tangled their circumstances have become.

    The instant the words form on their tongue, Simone dissolves into heaving sobs instead.

    Professor Darzi¡¯s eyes widen. With a hand outstretched, he takes a half-step closer to them. ¡°H-Hey, now.¡±

    Even this short revelation eases some of the weight threatening to crush them. Hiccuping, Simone wipes their face and rushes to recollect themself. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± they say after a beat. ¡°Sorry. I¡¯ve just¡­¡±

    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    A warm hand claps their shoulder, the touch restrained despite the comforting intent behind it. Professor Darzi looks at them the way one might an unsightly mess, a problem he¡¯s been required to solve but doesn¡¯t want to touch. All the better, they think. So long as he allows them to slink away at the end of this discussion, he can feel however he wishes.

    ¡°I¡¯ve just been having a rough time is all,¡± they say. ¡°With¡­¡±

    They cannot make themself say his name. Their tongue warps around the letters and tangles. Etienne. Three syllables, and yet an impossible spell to conjure. ¡°With everything,¡± they settle for at last. ¡°It¡¯s all so terrifying and awful.¡±

    Professor Darzi withdraws his hand. ¡°I see.¡± Still, he doesn¡¯t step away. ¡°Have you allowed yourself any time to decompress?¡±

    They give their head a hard shake. I can¡¯t stop now, though. There¡¯s no telling how long I have left to solve this ephemeral puzzle.

    He sighs. The back of his hand glows yellow. Behind them, two chairs screech against the floor and slide towards them. How odd. Simone sinks into one of the chairs. I didn¡¯t take him for a Trasmuter.

    The moment Professor Darzi sits down, he folds his arms across his thick chest. ¡°Mx. Allard, are you familiar with the Candle Theory?¡±

    Of course they are. Every professor in their preliminary education had drilled Candle Theory into their head. People¡ªand Casters especially¡ªare not unlike candles, so the theory went. Burning them from both ends reduce them faster. And, much like candles, people only have so much of themselves to offer before they are depleted. Still, the theory makes Simone scoff. Candles cannot be rebuilt time and time again. People can. It¡¯s an illustrative theory, perhaps, but one devoid of real use all the same.

    Professor Darzi sighs again. ¡°The Candle Theory suggests¡ª¡°

    ¡°I understand the theory, and its implications.¡± Chewing on their lip, Simone crosses their legs.

    ¡°Well, has it perhaps occurred to you that you¡¯re running low on wax?¡±

    Blood soaks their tongue. They¡¯ve bit their lip too hard. ¡°There¡¯s weeks left before the end of the semester. I can prioritize relaxing then.¡±

    At this, Professor Darzi¡¯s frown deepens. ¡°And you believe you will still be able to sustain yourself?¡±

    ¡°I have to, don¡¯t I?¡±

    His brows furrow. Deep, canyon-like wrinkles break out along his forehead. Professor Darzi takes a breath, mouth open to speak, but must reconsider his words. Still wearing that same worried frown, he eventually says, ¡°Such a mindset is not conducive to a healthy learning environment, Mx. Allard.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps not.¡± The confession surprises them. Hoping the professor doesn¡¯t notice the surprise evident in their face, they quickly add, ¡°But it is what will get me through these remaining weeks, for better or for worse.¡±

    ¡°And after?¡±

    Simone¡¯s gaze drops to their wiggling foot. For months, they¡¯ve allowed themself the escape Voterique provided them. It¡¯s easy, they think, to forget about the outside world when in such an environment. Professor Darzi¡¯s words shatter the fragile illusion. What were they planning to do in the interim between their second and third years? An abundance of research for their thesis, no doubt. Was there truly nothing else?

    ¡°Ahh¡­¡± Professor Darzi¡¯s palm settles on their knee this time, lingering long enough for the gesture to be felt before pulling back again. ¡°But, of course, you have another year to ponder it, hmm?¡±

    It takes every shred of energy they have to sculpt their face into a neutral mask. Beneath it, the all-consuming terror of their unknown future begins to set in.

    ¡°Regardless, Mx. Allard, there are resources available to you, should you have the mind to look. Meanwhile, I would advise you to maintain diligence in your academic affairs.¡±

    For the first time in a long while, Simone cannot disguise their confusion.

    Professor Darzi offers a thin smile. ¡°Three weeks left before the end of the semester. You reminded me of such yourself. Don¡¯t allow yourself to get too lax now, when you¡¯re so close to the end.¡±

    With this, he gives their knee another soft pat before standing. They remain weighted in their seat as he moves around the room. Chairs shuffle around under his careful guidance. The scrape of an eraser against the blackboard fills the silence. Then, when they think he¡¯s finished, he clears his throat.

    ¡°I¡­ I will not track your tardiness on your record. Not this time.¡±

    Their breath catches. ¡°Thank¡ª¡°

    ¡°This time,¡± he says again, the words like the strike of a rod.

    ¡°O-of course.¡± They rush to their feet, jolts of pain coursing through their knees. ¡°It will not happen to it again.¡±

    ¡°See that it does not.¡± Then, after a leaden pause, ¡°You are dismissed.¡±

    #

    Their conversation with Professor Darzi lingers in the back of their mind for a while. They turn it over, examining it from one angle and then another, repeating the motion until the incomprehensible shape brands itself in their mind. And then, when the last bell of the day rings out across the campus, they tuck the discussion away and abandon thoughts of it for good. It¡¯s nothing compared to the shadow looming over them.

    There must be some trick to the sigils, some sort of pattern they aren¡¯t seeing. Even studying Etienne¡¯s notes has been of little use. True, Enchantment has never been a subject which interested them, but they can¡¯t help the frustration itching them as they study their notes for the umpteenth time.

    But they¡¯re unable to stop themself. With their current trajectory, some sort of reckoning awaits them at the end of their path. The curdling in their gut tells them so. And yet, their need for an answer drags them forward all the same.

    Whatever awaits them at the end of this road, they will see it through to the end.

    The snap of the banners on the towers catches their attention, taking them back to their first days on the Voterique campus. Oh, how excited they had been to enter a college as prestigious as this, how the rainbow of banners and capelets had caught their eye. Blue for Abjuration, purple for Divination, black for Necromancy, yellow for Transmutation, orange for Conjuration, grey for Illusion, red for Evocation, and¡­

    Green. The banners of the Enchantment tower strike at the wind like an agitated snake. Returned to the present, Simone eyes the fabric with their lip between their teeth. They can¡¯t make sense of the sigils they have, but perhaps¡­

    On a whim, they turn on their heel and strive for the front doors.

    Alienor¡¯s warning prickles their ears. Let go of this hollow pursuit. Lower your head and strive for the end of your second year with no further issue. And now, feet away from Etienne¡¯s apartment, they¡¯ve almost a mind to heed her. Before Nadia, they had resigned themself to this exactly, to keeping their head down and mastering their thesis, regardless of the cost to their social status or health.

    And yet, at this rate, they¡¯ve risked everything as it is. Even if they turn away now, they¡¯re being watched. It is a matter of time before the faculty catches onto their litany of transgressions¡ªif they haven¡¯t already. May as well add one more to the list.

    Once, twice, three times they bang their fist against the door, hard enough they¡¯re surprised they don¡¯t leave an imprint. Their legs wobble beneath them, fawn-like. The hall around them tilts on its axis, one soft breath away from falling apart. In the stillness, they again debate if it would be better to flee, to pretend they were never here.

    But then Etienne¡¯s door opens and the wobbling world comes to a halt.

    He cocks his head at the sight of them, knuckles white around the doorfram. ¡°You again,¡± he says. ¡°I thought I told you not to come back here.¡±

    Though his tone is cutting, Simone notes the way he pales under their scrutiny. So their last interaction had some impact, after all. Still, as they open their mouth to speak, nothing emerges. Their hands lock at their sides.

    ¡°Didn¡¯t you hear me?¡± His eyes narrow to slits. ¡°Do I need to call for the faculty?¡±

    They shove the papers towards him with a grunt. ¡°We have unfinished business.¡±

    He stumbles back half a step, just enough to get him back over his threshold. At once, Simone follows them into the space beyond.