SIMONE ALLARD || AFTER

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—they are, but not enough to be illegible—Simone 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—and an ailment or two has meant missing a day of classes all together—but 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—something 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—one which refuses to go silent no matter how badly they will it—longs 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…”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

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—and Casters especially—are 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—“

“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—“

“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—if 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.