“Dark magic.” Nath’ranus projected from the front of the lecture theater. His voice was the last thing Beck needed to hear. It was high and nasal, like his nostrils were clogged with decades of buildup. It also had that horrid bleeding of pompous self-righteousness that Anaestran students profoundly loathed. “What do you recall about dark magic?”
Not a single of the thirty-ish people in the hall raised an answer. Beck opened his grimoire, letting it stand before him, burying his head in his arms from behind the cover. He knew the contents already – he wouldn’t be here if Nath’ranus hadn’t insisted on making regular attendance impact their final scores. Dismantling of Occult Magicks was notorious not only for being difficult, but for its exclusive timeslot at the crack of dawn – a slot that Nath’ranus did not dare compromise. The sun hadn’t even come up yet. By the time they’d finish, other students would just be rising out of bed.
“You should have learned this two trimesters ago. Not a single one of you remembers?” Being in the back of the room didn’t make Beck immune to his prattle, as much as he wished it did. Nath’ranus raised his voice: “Recall that this course is Heruta level. If you have not even the most elementary knowledge, then the coming months will be far from enjoyable.”
“Is it not just unknown magic?” Someone said, completely devoid of energy.
“That’s all you remember?” Nath’ranus jeered. “Fine. Yes, put simply, dark magic is ‘unknown magic.’” The coarse sound of chalk on board swelled in the quiet room. “But that is put simply. That will not suffice for Heruta-level students.”
Beck peeked out from behind his grimoire. Several pieces of chalk etched notes and diagrams across the board, and before long, a cascade of white layered over the gray slatestone. “The definition for ‘dark magic’ encompasses all magic for which their mechanisms and nature remain unknown or partially understood. Technically speaking, though many vehemently depose this rhetoric, new magic being studied by the day can be considered ‘dark.’” Nath’ranus droned. “It is grievously general, the same way ‘alchemy’ can be used to describe the act of mixing herbs in a glass. And yet, alchemy is more than that, no? When one refers to alchemy, we conjure images of medicines, poisons, transmutations. So what exactly are we referring to by ‘dark magic?’”
He waited for a solid twenty seconds. When no one answered again, Nath’ranus let out an intentional, audible sigh. “As a race, we feared magic. Feared. Everything was ‘dark magic’ to us because it was unknown, and the terminology stuck after all these years. Magical research seeks to understand the truths behind the supernatural, to give names to phenomena, to comprehend the incomprehensible. Yet still only a single branch of study evades our persistence–” One of the pieces of chalk made a harsh dashed line under one of the chalkboard notes. “Magic from the Horizon. Dark magic, if you will.
Dark magic is unstable. Undefinable. But the things it can do are unimaginable.” Nath’ranus said. “Tearing holes between realities. Making monsters out of men. Things like that.”
“What about curses?” Someone else piped up. Their voice quivered, as if the very mention would bring about the subject matter. “Are they related to dark magic at all?”
Beck’s skin prickled. He felt a sudden wave of unease, and he wasn’t the only one – other students spontaneously adjusted how they sat, spun their heads around as if someone were watching from behind, fidgeted with their robes.
“Curses!” Nath’ranus bellowed out of nowhere, almost maniacally. “If you attended any of my speaking sessions last trimester, you’d know the answer to this! I’m getting sick of being asked: ‘Scholar Nath’ranus, are curses and dark magic the same?’ ‘Scholar Nath’ranus, does dark magic cause curses?’ ‘Scholar Nath’ranus, I crossed over to the Horizon, and now I think I’m cursed!’” He rubbed his eyes in exasperation. “No. Curses are a result of mana poisoning. Stay crossed over for too long and your Reservoir becomes tainted. It’s not a direct consequence of dark magic. Yes, you. What is it?”
Another boy, on the far right side of the room, had raised his hand. “My grandmother was cursed,'' a gravelly, grave voice said. “Always claimed there was somethin’ clinging to her heart. Like it was bein’ dragged down, constantly. And she’d never crossed over. How’s that happen?”
“Are you perhaps mistaking a heart ailment for a curse, Finley?” Nath’ranus responded without an ounce of care. “I expected more out of–”
“I am not!” Beck jolted suddenly. This boy – Finley, as it were – had turned a harsh shade of red, veiny hands clenching his robe as his bony knuckles spiked through the top of his skin. “Thas’ what everyone else said, that it was a heart problem! There was nothing else wrong with her. She acted fine. She looked fine! And then one day– one day–”
Beck witnessed a spectacle: For the first time during his years at Anaestra, Nath’ranus… looked intrigued. “She morphed, didn’t she?”
Finley’s silence was enough of an answer. Nath’ranus turned back to the board and slowly, with his own hand, wrote a few notes towards one of the margins. “It appears I was mistaken, then. Your grandmother was indeed cursed. An Anakhli.” He said the word with an edge to his voice. “There are records of Anakhli stemming from those who have never crossed – Lasat Du’pont, for example – but they are extraordinarily rare, even during the Banishing Wars. You needn’t worry about reliving those gruesome details a second time, young man. Nor will anyone else.”
…
The rest of the class passed as a blur, but not because it went by quickly; rather, the exact opposite. At some point each of Nath’ranus’s words bled into one another like waves of ooze. When it was time to leave, with the morning sun blaring from the sky, Beck dredged himself out of his self-induced haze with a promise that he’d look over the material again later.
A firm tap on his shoulder jostled him awake. He didn’t even have to guess who it was. “Knew I’d find you here,” Killen said. He looked as glowing as usual at first glance, but Beck saw the recess of shadows just below his eyes. “I suppose relaxing for even a single day is an order too tall for you.”
Beck wasn’t displeased to see him. He was, on the contrary, quite pleased, though it hardly showed in his gaunt countenance. It showed even less in his words. “You know how it is.” He grumbled. “Why’re you here? If you’re considering taking Nath’ranus, I wouldn’t reco–”
“You were out for an entire day. I went to check on you during the few free moments I had, but lo and behold – already gone!” Killen said, striding towards a nearby alcove and seating himself on the rounded wooden bench. He gestured for Beck to join him. “I think I have the right to be just a little bit worried, don’t you think?”
Beck made an awkward gesture in half-agreement, but it seemed to be enough for the other boy. “How’re you feeling?”
“Peachy.”
“You take your medicine?”
“‘Course I did.” He didn’t.
“Any dizziness? Nausea? Lethargy?”
“Would you stop that? You sound just like a healer!” Beck said, hoping it came off as a jest rather than an explosion. He felt the grimness on his face just barely peel off. He couldn’t decide whether to appreciate Killen’s concern or to laugh at how spontaneously doting he was being. It was hardly like him, after all. “I thought you had a transmutation lab at this hour.”
“I do,” Killen said without hesitation. “But it’s only a single day off. And it’s me we’re talking about – I’d never get so far behind from something as trivial as that. Maybe you would?”
“Once hell freezes over, sure.” Beck said. They both went quiet for a moment. Beck didn’t really have much else to say, but it didn’t look the same for Killen; he had his hands folded and was resting his chin on the bridge. He hadn’t broken his look, but his eyes had hardened, infused with a cautious tension – a particular weariness. Beck frowned slightly. “What’s with you? You look like you just aged a thousand years.”
At once, Killen stretched out of that look like an indolent fox. He was back to his usual: reclining back into his seat, face free of trouble, lips upturned to a small, carefree grin. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“‘Nothing’ my ass. Just say what you want.”
He didn’t acquiesce. It wasn’t like him to be this reticent – that was Beck’s job. When he finally spoke, he tried to sound upbeat, as if he were still joking, but his voice still carried a clear dire undertone. “You know, you could’ve died back there.”
“Back where?” Beck said. He realized what Killen meant after an uneasy pause. “Oh, there. No shit. That thing probably could’ve taken you on. You saw it yourself, right?”
“I suppose,” Killen responded. “That thing was terrifying – and powerful. If Olin had not been there, I don’t know if I’d be able to take it on.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Beck’s brows furrowed in scrutiny. That was strangely yielding of him; Was he hearing things correctly? Was this really Killen he spoke to?
“To think that thousands of those things fester across the Horizon,” said Killen, “It’s no wonder the Maten Angels were completely eradicated. If that thing were intent on attacking us, we’d all be in coffins by now.”
The Maten Angels. Whenever they were brought into conversation, Beck found it hard to keep his own sentiments from bleeding into his words – not like he had much to say, anyway. To most, it had long since turned from a tragedy to just another date in history. “That was years ago. It’s not going to happen again; not when people like you exist, anyway.”
“Consider me flattered,” Killen said, disenchanted. “What about you? Could you have taken it on?”
“‘Course.” Beck said. “Just give me a hundred cannons, put me an entire field away, and pin it to the ground. It’d be a cinch.”
Killen stared at him blankly for a moment, then cackled without his eyes. “Should have guessed you would say something along those lines.”
“Were you expecting something else?”
This time, no response was given. Killen fixated on a thin glass panel on his left, overlooking the grounds and the fields. He looked the same as usual, the same as always, but Beck still felt something amiss. It was like staring at a portrait painting; he was there, but at the same time, an entire world away.
He would’ve prodded Killen on this, but stopped. Something – no, someone – caught his attention. From a distance he saw a glint of metal, then a tangle of white hair, meandering, back and forth between a filling corridor. Eventually the owner spilled out: It was Mir. She was dressed in the same set of robes from yesterday – though, where once the cloth draped at her wrists and trailed behind her on the floor, there were no more, all cut short. Though there were clear marks of ripping, what between the loose threads and the jagged tears.
She craned her head into open lecture halls, taking it out, and scuttled to the next to repeat the process. That, combined with how unruly she looked, earned her many a fleeting glare – especially from Killen. He scrunched his face in disapproval; no, it was more hostile than that; animosity. “It’s her.” He growled. “They seriously kept that monster on the grounds? Of all the hells…”
“Indeed…” Beck said. Mir continued to peer into several rooms. But he felt himself pale as an awful remembrance dawned on him: He was supposed to be her guide. She was looking for him.
“I’ll be right back.” Beck said.
He hadn’t realized he interrupted Killen mid-sentence. Killen looked at Beck, and then towards where Beck looked, and gawked in exasperation. “You’re not possibly considering–”
“I am.”
“Hold on,” Killen said gruffly, pressing a hand on Beck’s shoulder. “You must still be reeling from the attack. Are you forgetting that she nearly killed you? Because no one in their right mind would–”
“I am not,” Beck said, pushing Killen’s hand aside. “But there are circumstances. I–”
“Do you plan to elucidate what these ‘circumstances’ are?”
“In due time.” Beck dismissed. In the distance, he saw Mir almost get her face slammed by an opening door. He practically leapt to a stand. “Give me a few minutes!”
Stressed in each step, regardless of Killen’s voiced objections, he made his way towards Mir, who kept dipping in and out of view. It was like finding a needle in a haystack during a windstorm – one moment she was only a few steps away, and the other, halfway across the corridor. At some point he tossed aside all manner of nuance, forcefully wedging between people, and at times, clashing shoulder to shoulder without apology. He was well aware of the eyes on him as his hands went clammy. He didn’t care. That was far from important.
When he found her, she was busy motioning to her notes as a pair of students scrutinized them. Her violet eyes lit up as Beck approached; he did not do the same. With an awkward gesture and a wave, he ushered Mir away, nearly tripping over her robe’s loose threads.
“What,” Beck hissed as the two of them detached from the crowd. “Are you doing?”
Mir pointed to her eyes, then towards Beck. A completely awkward gesture – one utterly lost on him. Realizing this, she rushed to a bench and scrawled something down, notably without her ‘pen,’ and instead with an enchanted stylus. Beck, more fixated on the letters – if they even qualified as such – flinched at their sheer inelegance. Every droplet and stroke of ink invaded the space of others, and it was profoundly ugly. He barely made out the words: Looking. For. You.
His nose scrunched up the most meager amount. At this distance, he saw the raven embroidered on the front of her robes free from tear, much unlike the rest. Curious; but as a fleeting glance, not a thing to be inquired. “Mevis gave me the impression that I would be doing the searching, lest the purpose of having a guide stand defeated,” Beck said. “You knew where to look, how?”
Mir began to jot something down with that stylus, but unlike with her pen, her hands trembled and shook with each minute adjustment. Frustrated, she eventually palmed it down to the cover, spun around, and pointed to the numbers of a nearby dial: Four and six, repeatedly. This too was almost lost on Beck – almost. He turned to look at Mir incredulously. “You don’t mean to say–”
She nodded with an explorer’s pride. Beck was still stunned; for two hours she’d stumbled around the grand fortress, long before the sun had risen, before the first rooster crowed. He had to suppress a groan. It was by a pure miracle that she’d found her way here after all!
He looked back to Mir, who still beamed. For some reason, he had it not within him to make her rescind that glee. “If you contain a sliver of self-preservation, do not do that again,” Beck said, lowering his voice. He motioned over to her robes, pinching a part of it to his eye disdainfully. It looked even more worn up close. “As if you didn’t stand out like a sore thumb already; why, in all the hells, are your robes like that? Did that familiar of yours take nest in the cloth?”
Mir shook her head, frayed strands of white flaring out like a spiraling lotus. She made another motion, as if ripping through paper, and when that wasn’t enough, jotted more on paper: Too large. Uncomfortable.
Beck made a hard look. It was irritable that this was her first solution – a cohort of tailors on the grounds for a reason – but he supposed she didn’t know where they were stationed. To that, he was to blame.
“We have tailors,” He said. “If you wished to trim your uniform, they would have done so gladly.”
Her head tilted. Tailor?
To that, he was not to blame.
“They’re the ones that’ll fit your uniform – if they weren’t all tattered. I’ll bring you to them when I have the time,” Beck said. “They might be able to repair your robes yet. I just hope you didn’t do the same with your mantle.”
She broke eye contact, becoming strangely inquisitive of a particular stain on the wall. Of course. Beck brought a hand to his temple, sighing; it was fine to forgo the mantle for now, since not many wore it outside of ceremony.
“The both of you seem to be getting along quite well,” A voice said from behind. Beck whirled around and found himself facing a cross-armed Killen, who looked far from at ease. All sense of relaxedness had evaporated from his face – rather, it was hardened and glowering like a golem sentinel. “How strange.”
Beck shot Killen a glare. “I said I’d be right back.”
“You certainly did.” Killen said, brushing him aside. Before Beck could make any further comment, Killen stepped past him, pacing towards Mir. He gave her a nasty look as he towered over her. It failed to affect Mir in the slightest, by the look of it. “I do wonder how this came to be,” said Killen with a rare harshness, “How the would-be murderer, the monster’s master, enchanted dear Beck to be at her whim. I’m afraid the allure is lost upon me.”
“‘Enchanted?!’” Beck stormed up to Killen, coming between the two of them. “There is no ‘enchanting’ to be had, idiot! I told you: There are circumstances!”
Mir nodded slowly. From the corner of his eye, Beck saw that she returned Killen’s glare. The sparks that flew between the two of them were of more than base hostility. They were deeper.
Killen eventually swept his eyes off Mir, and in return, she snorted. She shuffled to a bench nearby, just barely out of sight. “Pray tell.”
And so he did. Killen’s face shifted from disbelief to confusion, simmering down to a seething acceptance around halfway through. For the most part he stayed silent, occasionally interjecting with a snide remark or two, until Mevis was brought up.
“She’s allowing this?” Killen said, incredulity plastered all across his face. “No, this goes beyond ‘allowing’ – she pushed for this? Does she have any idea of the danger she’s enabled?”
“Nothing beyond a vague insight, I imagine.” Beck said. Mevis hadn’t been on the scene when it happened, and must have only heard about it through word of mouth.
“I still can’t believe this,” Killen looked back to Mir, who had been watching them silently, and sneered. “Might as well cause a rift in the halls if we’re allowing monsters into the walls.”
“Is this monster with us right now?” Beck said. Yet doubt crept into his words, and Killen swiftly latched onto them. The only thing he did was point towards Mir, as if that explained all. And to that, despite his best wishes, Beck couldn’t refute.
Mir had enough. She stormed away from the bench, eyes and lashes like bolts lightning. At first it looked like she meant for Beck, but as she came close, turned to face Killen instead. Her pale face was flush with a fierce red, and something dripped at the corner of her eye. Beck would realize much later what it was: A tear. She raised a furious hand, and with a force that deceived her small stature, slapped Killen across the cheek with a sound like thunder.
“You–” sputtered Killen, reeling. A bright handprint had imprinted itself on the side of his face, red and blistering. His eyes crossed with contempt – with a loathing. For a moment it looked as if he were to strike back; and then, with a harsh rigidity, straightened his robes and uniform.
Despite having struck, Mir’s anger was far from released. Her grip dug into the leather spine of her book, her nails threatening scars, as she herself threatened another hit – but ultimately decided against it. The only exchange happening between the two was a trade of venomous glares. By some divine grace it had stopped from erupting into anything further; yet, as violet clashed against gold, Beck doubted that grace would hold.
He was a statue, frozen, unmoving. But his mind was a raft caught between two raging currents. The absurdity of what just happened hardly found purchase within him, nevermind a single thought on how to react. On the one hand, leaving them alone felt like it would invite far more trouble, yet on the other, uttering the wrong thing might have the same effect.
Luckily, the clock dias next to them sounded, and with the sound, they broke away from one another.
“Matters elsewhere call for my attention,” Killen eyed the clock hands, starting away. “We’re not done with this conversation. But my parting thoughts?” He gave Beck a final look; one of concern, irritation, confusion, all tucked behind a veneer of calm. “This is a horrible idea.”
“And you?” Beck said to Mir. The sparks in her eyes hadn’t smoldered out, and they shot daggers at Killen until he turned the corner. A metallic sigh echoed from behind her mask as she took her stylus and paper – but what she wrote impressed Beck with deep-seated surprise.
Going to see Yuna.