“No, not like that,” Killen said. They were in the arenas, the sun at its zenith. Most notably, the Coliseum Acheron; one of the smaller coliseums, tucked between the grander Coliseum Erdyean and more quaint Arena Bronson. They were largely unoccupied at this hour – Most students opted to eat lunch at lunchtime, after all. “You’re not going to get anywhere doing it like that.”
Beck had dropped the spell he was forming, globs of sweat pearling on his head. He glowered in frustration. “If you’re going to tell me how to cast, can you at least be a bit more helpful? Maybe with a demonstration?”
Killen made a motion as if to say, “If you say so.” He got off from the stadium seats, vaulting over the raised slabs separating the arena from the stands, hanging his robes off the edge. Today he abandoned the mantle – thank goodness, it made him look tacky – in favor of the standard trousers and blazer that students wore. The Anaestran Crest beamed on his left breast: A raven, a quill in its beak, grasping a grimoire by its talons. When he first saw it, Beck couldn’t help cringe at the irony. As far as he was concerned, with that feather in its mouth, it looked like it’d just finished dining on its kin.
“So first, you need to do this.” Killen brought his palms together, forming a cage with his fingers. “Then you need to do this.” He made another odd gesticulation, then another. Beck watched intently, then mimicked it himself. Killen told Beck to be creative, and make increasingly more ridiculous signs; he did so for a solid minute, incorporating his whole body into it at times. Like some foolish-looking dance.
“Ok – now what?” He said.
“Realize how much of a fool you look like and stop.” Killen let out a small laugh like a peafowl’s call. Beck did not return it. “Apologies, apologies.”
“If I’d known you’d come here to mock me, I’d never have let you join.” Beck said.
“Ouch.” He dropped his hands to his side. “Anyways, what were you having trouble with? I’ll help for real this time.”
“Casting.” Beck grumbled. “Ulstrom’s next month, and I need to get ready.”
“That’s simple.” Killen snapped his fingers, a Cirun appearing at his fingertip. It fired out a small orb of light that popped almost instantaneously. “Focus the mana in your Reservoir and feel it course through your veins. Then just focus it to wherever you want – hands should be the easiest.”
“You think I haven’t tried that already?” Beck said. What Killen described was the standard way of casting: take the mana from the Reservoir and bend it into a form. Most people, with the size of their Reservoirs, could accomplish this as easily as breathing. Beck couldn’t. “Don’t you have anything else?”
“No.” Killen said, voice flat as paper. “Look – maybe you’re just tired. You had Granom this morning, right?” Beck’s confirmation was tacit silence. Alchemy itself was painstaking enough, but Granom made it even more difficult. “Help me with my Cirae. There’s just some stuff that I can’t quite figure out yet.”
“...Sure.” Beck said. “But you, Anaestra’s prodigy, asking me for help? What could I possibly teach?” The words rolled off with the fake floweriness of a noble’s tongue.
“This.” As bland as a response as usual. He snapped his fingers, and a grimoire appeared out of the air: Advanced Applications of Cirae Theory – vol.2, as Beck recognized.
“You’re on that one already? Some from the higher years haven’t even glanced at that one.” Beck said.
Killen flipped through the pages. “Sounds as if you’re acquainted with the work,” He said. “What level are you studying this now? Heruta?”
“Veritas,” Beck answered solemnly. “It’s not a big deal. I can’t put it to use, anyway.”
“Veritas is much further along than I’m at, and even more than what others are at. This one’s only for Alphrodia level.” He stopped flipping, his index brushing at the folded corner of a page. “Take a look.”
A massive diagram, sprawling over two pages, was where he stopped. It was dedicated to different forms and properties magic could take during casting, with the required calculations necessary to achieve a certain form dotted next to images of magic circles. There was the application of Hendreich’s Theorem to modify shape, the Namus Equation for explosive properties, the Atelier Proof for Amplification; among many others. But Beck wasn’t daunted – all it was, really, was a chart for applying different effects to spells. And it was only Alphorida level. “Surely this isn’t what’s been troubling you!”
“Not exactly.” Killen said. “Here: ‘Concerning Akari’s Theory of Membrane Capacity, the mana input into amplifying a spell must remain equal or more than the initial input to scaffold the membrane, but also greater than the minimum value of De Crozan’s Constant.’ But then, here: ‘The strength of the membrane is inconsequential to the strength of the spell – it serves only as a base, and should not occupy the bulk of mana consumption.’”
“What’re you getting at?”
“Based on these two rules, is it not possible to ignore De Crozan’s Constant by inputting more mana into the generation of the membrane?”
Beck thought for a moment. “If your goal is to offset the amount of mana you need total, then I think theoretically it’s possible. But that constant exists for a reason. The leaking mana’d be so unstable that it’d just blow up in your face.”
“I was right to ask you.” Killen said. “You know a bit about theory. And a bit more about things blowing up in your face.”
“Man, fuck you.” Beck said, though only half-meant. “But I had the same idea before. I went to Olin. He said the logic was sound, but the odds of finding someone with enough innate control over their mana to stop it from falling apart– it’s almost next to none.” Oh, stars. Beck thought. He knew what was coming next.
“But it’s possible, no?” Killen summoned his staff. “Alright. Let me try something.”
“You can’t just–” Beck started, but it was too late. Killen hovered the crux of the staff – a gleaming, shimmering orb – over his palm and held it close to his chest. Mana formed into vague shapes: a blob, a sphere, something that looked vaguely like a star. As a blurry outline of a Cirun materialized around his wrist, Killen eyed the spell as if it were an unruly dog – a wild thing, yet to bend to his will. In response, the spell blinked dangerously. Beck retreated to the edge of the arena in pure instinct, kicking up white sand as he did. It was going to blow.
But then it stopped. Killen splayed his hand like a puppeteer, causing bits of the spell to wind around his fingers. They remained coiled there for only a moment, as the Cirun became fully defined – a dazzling, multi-ringed circle as large as a dining plate, countless sigils and constants revolving seamlessly clockwise. The mana around his fingers surged back into the spell, now fully formed into an unfaceted pulsing crystal hovering above his palm. Killen grinned smugly. Beck sighed.
“Didn’t know breaking Crozan’s second law was so easy.” Killen said, listlessly turning the spell, admiring from all angles.
“I was going to say ‘you can’t just break Crozan’s law,’ but then, you just did.” Beck said. His voice turned into a begrudging mumble towards the end. “So? You going to show that at Ulstrom?”
“If you want to make it a joint project, then gladly. Otherwise…” He flicked his wrist, dispelling the Cirun and the spell. “It’d be a bit disingenuous, would it not?”
Beck tilted his head. “Meaning?”
“You said it yourself. You had the same idea before – all I did was put it into action. Most of the credit is rightfully yours.”
“Only the academics’d fuss about it,” Beck snorted. “Wouldn’t even get attention from Pollux Workshop. Nor any other band for that matter. As it stands, I’ve got nothing to show.”
Killen crossed his arms. “You really need to stop being so pessimistic towards yourself. It’s far from endearing.”
“And if I don’t?” A half-hearted provocation.
“I won’t do anything – but it won’t score you any favor from anyone else, that’s for sure.” He clapped Beck on the shoulder. “Have some confidence. People love confidence.”
Easy for you to say. No, that was unfair. Killen didn’t ask to be born as prodigious as he was, the same way Beck was born the opposite. “Confidence won’t get me into Liar Court. Maybe I should just tag along with you, whenever you go. Steal a spot that way.” He added, laughing without humor.
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“I wouldn’t mind that. I’d vouch for you – and I could use a cheerleader anyway.”
Beck did not expect that answer. The corner of his eye twitched, slightly flustered. “Cheerleader?” He repeated indignantly. “Would you rather me in the women’s uniform? Or, even, a bodice and petticoat? Maybe of the more provocative kind?”
“I wouldn’t mind that.”
“...I was joking.” He shook his head slowly. “But I don’t know why I expected a different answer.”
“I wasn’t.” His answer was prompt, succinct. “If you came along, I’d vouch for you. Combatants aren’t what make up the entirety of a band. The good ones anyway.” Killen’s voice dropped a magnitude in tone and volume. “Trust me when I say you have it in you to really impress at Ulstrom. As much as I or Victor can.”
“Like I said. All it’d garner would be attention from those sleazy scholar groups. I’m not interested. Just the thought of poring over papers in a lab all day, everyday, for the rest of my life– unbearable.”
Killen crossed his arms. “Aren’t those ‘sleazy scholar groups’ the same ones writing the books we read? The ones that teach us? The ones creating the proofs, the theorems – all that stuff?”
“Please! You only care about that stuff so you can break them. Like you just did with De Crozan.”
“And like I said. You had the same idea before me. You gave me the concept, and I just put it into action. To break the rules, people need to make them – you’ve already done the former, and I can definitely see you doing the latter.”
“If you’re trying to piss me off, you’re doing a great job. I’ve told you before, that biz is NOT in my interests.”
“If I’m pissing you off, then good. It means you’re thinking about what I’m saying.” Killen said. “We’re in our third year already. It won’t be long before we’re all out. So I guess what I’m saying is– You’re good at things. It’s not what I’m good at, but still.”
The floodgates broke loose. “That’s easy for you to say! Your strengths are everything. You’re good at everything! Mine? Misplaced. They’re not where I wish they were.” He sucked in a breath, suddenly anxious. He’d no right to lash out like that, even if he got upset. “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me. But you’re my friend – shouldn’t you be supporting me? My dream?”
“...I do.” Killen said. “Beck. Did something happen?”
Yes. Many things happened. And he could put up with it all, just to cling onto that flimsy dream of his. He could put up with the constant shame of being saved if it meant, one day, he’d be able to reciprocate; that he, for once, could do something; but when that moment came, in the shape of grimy white hair and a monstrous scarlet gash, that feeling only returned.
He didn’t need to be saved – yet, at that time, Mir had swept him up. He didn’t need to be saved – but then, Asfi and Rain had given themselves up for his chance at life. And Killen; how many times would he be there, a bastion between him and Victor, and get hurt because of it? How many times did he need to collect his burden?
Killen’s arms dropped to his side. Beck saw a glimmer of pity in his eyes – and felt a sting of emotion in him. Killen looked wistfully towards the edge of the Acheron, at the top stands, where the pillars and arches seemed to graze the sky. “Look there.” He said suddenly, pointing to a cloud in the distance. “Doesn’t that look like Dangrief? You can see the phallus for a nose he has!”
Beck’s eyes rolled to the top of his head. Indeed, that cloud did look like Dangrief – nose and all. He couldn’t decide whether or not to glower or giggle.
“And there. That one. That one’s rather cool, isn’t it? Looks like a chimera.”
“No it doesn’t.”
“And that one. Come here–” Killen said. He made a motion with his shoulder, gesturing for Beck to stand at his side. Beck didn’t move an inch, so Killen went to him. “That one looks like you. It’s even got that dour look you have right now, how peculiar!”
“Why’re you telling me this?”
“‘Cause it was a day like this where you almost beat the lights out of me. Remember? For taking your grimoire.”
It was an answer so unexpected, that even Beck dropped his scowl for a moment. “That was years ago, before we even had our first Chaebra test. I’m surprised you remember.”
Killen laughed. “Yeah. You always had your head stuck in that thing, like one of those Aubrian birds. The ones with that put their hands in the sand.”
“And you wouldn’t take the hint to leave me to that. Ever.” A small smile crept across Beck’s face. “Maybe I should’ve beaten you up then. Why’d you always just creep around me like that? You had everyone else tryna get your attention. Fuckin weirdo.”
“Yeah, well–” Killen ran a hand through his hair, letting the curls spill between his long fingers. “I’ll put it like this. I couldn’t really see any of them as people.”
Beck’s eyes widened in concern. “Oh, not like that.” Killen followed up quickly. “I meant, people that I’d like to be around. That I’d like to be friends with. Even before the results of that first Chaebra, they were all just fans. And it only got worse after that. But you? You never cared. So, I thought to myself: ‘I’ll try bugging this guy. See how he reacts.’”
“Now I recall,” Beck started. “You snatched that grimoire I had right out of my hands, and I was on a really good part too! It was Nuren’s Theorem for–” He stopped. Killen looked at him, a grin stretched from ear to ear. He patted Beck on the shoulder, once lightly, and the next a hard smack. “Fucker! You haven’t changed a bit!”
“You reacted like that too, on that day.” Killen slunk onto the floor, gazing up at the sky. Beck remained standing, but followed his gaze nonetheless. “That glare could’ve made Olin fear for his safety. And it’s because it was genuine. The real thing. Everyone else trying to curry my favor, cozy up to me? It’s all fake. They see Anaestra’s Shining Prodigy, but not Killen.”
“...I see.” Beck sat as well, pulling his legs to his chest. “You sound so corny when you’re sappy like that. Save it for your fangirls, not me.”
“Aw. Don’t be like that. I’m over here spilling my heart out, and you’re ridiculing me for it? How cruel.”
“I was kidding.” Beck pondered for a moment as the two of them sat in silence, watching the sky. He wanted to say something, but the words dug hooks into his throat. “I just wish I was born different.” He expected a remark, but didn’t get anything. So he continued: “Yuna told me, had I had a normal Reservoir, I’d be at your level. Or even higher.”
“Beck–”
“And the thing is – she’s right. And I’ve known it myself for a while now, but hearing it out of someone else… I don’t know. It hurts just thinking about the ‘what-ifs.’ And it’s even worse knowing that a genius like you’s had that shit in the palm of his hand since birth. I’m envious. And I don’t know what to do about it.”
Killen shifted where he sat, choosing his next words carefully. “Well, what do you want to do?”
Beck didn’t answer, but Killen anticipated that. He already knew what Beck wanted to say. “You’re not going to be me. You’re never going to be me, nor anyone else. You’re Beck. There are things you can do that I can’t. And there are things that I can do that you can’t. But you’ve known this – and it hasn’t stopped you before.”
“You’re trying to make me feel better about being Egra, aren’t you?” Beck said, his voice detached.
“I’m trying to make you feel better ‘bout being you.”
Beck huffed, as if to brush the comment off. Truthfully, it didn’t work. From anyone else, it would’ve caused him even more disarray. If it were so easy to just accept being Egra, to accept being “Beck Danor,” then he’d have done it by now. Yet he found a certain bittersweetness in Killen’s effort. Bittersweet; but he appreciated it all the same. “How trite.” He said. “But thanks, I suppose.”
“Knew that’d work! You’ve always had a spot for sentimentality.”
For the first time that day, a genuine laugh left Beck. “If you say so.”
They sat for a time. He’d wanted to mention Mir as well, but he sank in the tranquil quiet instead. The near-silent sighs of winds blowing from the west, sending miniature dunes of arena sand toppling in the breeze, moved with the clouds overhead. A quiet rumbling of chatter erupted far away, likely from a class heading out to Erdyean. He fumbled for his watch, checking the time. And to his surprise: already past noon. “We should get going. Lunch’s over.”
“You go on ahead. I think I’ll enjoy the scenery for a bit longer.”
Beck shrugged, turning away towards the exit. When he wasn’t acing practicals or embarrassing others in duels, of both the magical and academic kind, Killen was one for these small moments of reminisce, these solemn whimsies. It–
“KIIIIIRRRRRRYIIIIAAAAAAAH!”
That noise. That shriek. That horrible, sky-sundering shriek.
Beck snapped to attention, his head whirling, eyes fearfully scanning the sky, darting across the clouds in a panic. He thought he’d just heard it in his mind, but then heard the sounds of Killen summoning his staff, the sudden thrumming of Cirae, and knew that he was not in a daze. He blinked, and was thrust into that dream – that dream of fire – before he felt an arm over his shoulder, shielding him with a bastion of golden magic.
It never sounded off again, that shriek. But Beck did not trust that silence. It happened before, it was a sly tactic of a predator, faking a silence, lulling him into a false security. So even when Killen let his guard down, Beck still remained stalwart. Alert. Panicked.
“...Just what was that?” Killen said lowly, after a time. He was met with silence. “Beck? Are you good?”
Beck moved Killen’s arm aside as if in a trance. And in a sense, he was. At any moment he expected to be plunged into a sea of fire, and the blue sky would be swallowed by black, and the air would coagulate and twist into smoky, viscous vapors that drowned the lungs in a silent sea. But that didn’t happen. “I’m fine.”
Killen nodded. He banished his staff, and with it, the magical circles, but Beck saw him still tensed, an arrow string drawn all the way back. “You sure?”
“Yes.” Beck said. “Monsters can’t break through the barrier. And even if they did, they’d be waltzing into the most fortified school in the world. They’d get hell.” There was a shiver crawling in his voice. He’d read those words a million times across several books – the impossible impenetrability of Callum Anaestra’s Four Seals. Even so, part of him couldn’t help but doubt it. Not when he heard that thing’s cry outside of a dream.
“We shouldn’t stay here,” Killen said. “Let’s head back.”
And even though the sun shone brighter than a beacon, and the clouds drifted lazily, tranquilly across the sky; and though the sand kicked up by their shoes swirled listlessly in the wind, Beck couldn’t shake off that horrible feeling in him. A feeling that the world, at any second, would erupt in black silence.