SIMONE ALLARD || AFTER

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—or the accompanying spell tome—for 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—if 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—often dangerous—pursuit for answers?

Nadia will know what to do.

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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—there’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—and all the other second-year Abjuror’s—advisor. 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—purple banners with a simple, darker purple sphere—the 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—not 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—she really should talk to the administrators about getting the latch fixed—and 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.