“Surface-level wounds,” Yuna muttered to Beck, brushing the tip along his faded cuts. After the fight, he’d tried to beeline straight for a lecture on Ritual Theory, but Killen insisted on him visiting someone to check for deeper injury. Beck was unwilling, to say the least; he didn’t need any treatment, he was fine!; but, as soon as they parted, decided for a check, just to make sure. “But you said you were healed already? By whom?”

“Olin.”

“Olin.” Yuna raised an eyebrow. “You got the combat specialist to treat your wound? Does that even make sense?”

“Combat specialists have to stay alive to… combat. They ought to be good healers out in the field.”

“You’re not out in the field though. You could’ve gone to the healers in the Journ Ward. Why didn’t you go there? Why’re you even in my office?”

Beck shifted slightly, but as he did, his leg got caught at the tip of Yuna’s wand, which had been morphed into a devilish hook shape. He recoiled, causing Yuna to give him a slight stink eye. “It’s not that bad, isn’t it? Your office was closer anyway. Not like you were doing anything either.”

“The wounds are surface level, but there’s still traces of the hex lodged in there. See?” She reached across her table for a glass, magnifying a particular part of Beck’s thigh. A light shined from her wand, shooting through the glass, causing the skin it touched to turn transparent. Wedged in between some muscle fibers, barely noticeable, were blistered fragments of a spell; crystallized green, like shattered glass, woven in between vein and bone. “You’re lucky I caught this in time. If I hadn’t… Well, ‘pain’ would’ve become more than just a stranger to you.” She snatched some gauze from a table, enchanting it with a blue light, and applied it to Beck’s leg. “I can’t be there to do this at the Ulstrom Gathering. Can you at least try not to pick fights with Victor?”

“You think I want to pick a fight with that guy?” Beck scoffed. Yuna only looked at him with tongue-in-cheek silence, as if saying yes. “Come on. He came at me first. If it were up to me, I’d never run into him again.”

“Trouble always seems to find you, huh?”

Beck shot her a fleeting glare. “I wouldn’t mind it so much if I could do something about it, you know.”

“Right.” She said, drawing up an array of sigils on his skin. “These won’t be permanent, but they should hasten the cleansing process. Should take about five-ish days.”

“That’s not as bad as the last time. I guess.” Yuna finished marking with a final stroke, and the sigils glew faintly. It was like a sheet of ice pressing against his skin, except in a specific shape. He winced. “Don’t you find it annoying having to do this for me?”

“I did the first couple of times. Can’t say I’m a fan of repeat patients.” She tossed something into a bin in the corner. “But then I realized there was probably a reason you came back so much. Now, I wonder what that is?”

“If I told you it was ‘cause of you, would you believe me?”

“I’d call bullshit. I’m no model.”

Beck huffed out a halfhearted chuckle. “Don’t take that the wrong way. I mean… I don’t know. I just feel like you’re one of the people that don’t look at me like I’m toxic sludge. You and Killen, anyway.”

“There’s that name again.” She crossed her arms in intrigue. “What’s with you two, anyway? Are you…”

A pause.

“Heavens above, no. No. Not with that guy.” His face scrunched up, mouth twisting in disgust. “No. Killen’s just… there. Ever since we were kids. I remember before Anaestra, there was this one girl who tried to ask him out. He must’ve said no – but then, every time she looked at me, knives might as well been shooting from her eyes.” He shook his head. “Dunno why he keeps hanging around my shoulder. Doesn’t do me any favors, at least. Except when he saves my ass.”

“Savior complex?”

“Hey, that’s mean.” He thought about it for a moment. “But probably. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Nothing wrong with having someone look out for you. Especially when it’s Anaestra’s shining prodigy.”

Prodigy. That word made his skin crawl. “Even so, I just wish I didn’t have to fall back to him so much. I just wish I was born the tiniest bit luckier.”

“You can already use magic. That’s more than a lot of people. You just can’t fight with it – but so what?”

The corner of Beck’s mouth twitched the tiniest amount. “It’d be nice to. You know, so I wouldn’t get stomped on every time I cross paths with the wrong person. You know, so I wouldn’t have to come back here so often. So I can find my–” He realized his voice increasingly straining and hardening before he could stop himself. “Sorry.”

“Quit apologizing. It’s getting on my nerves. And I already told you, you’re not as much a bother as you think you are.”

“But there’s gotta be something I can do. I can’t keep on being… completely, utterly powerless!” He slunk back in his seat. “If you have anything that could help me, I need it now more than ever. Especially with the Ulstrom Gathering next month.”

Yuna fidgeted around with a paper on her desk, folding a corner and unfolding it, rubbing her temple in exasperation. “We’ve been over this. There’s nothing I can do. And if there was anything, you probably would’ve found it by now. I can’t help you.”

“But there has to be something I missed,” Beck pressed on. “Some technique, or some hidden theory–”

“There isn’t.”

“Some kind of power, some kind of training–”

“You’re deluding yourself.”

“Like, I read a while ago about elementals from the Horizon, and how there’re records of contra–”

“NO!” Beck jolted back in alarm. Yuna’s eyes narrowed, her pupils widened, as if she’d seen a monster. She aged decades in a moment, but soon, it all ebbed away. She sighed. “Beck, the problem with you isn’t your technique, or your theory, or anything like that. The problem is inherently… you.”

He fell silent. Those words were frost on the wind, suspended in the air, frozen. “I know. That’s why I–”

“No you don’t.” Yuna snapped. “Your Reservoir’s unique – and not in a good way. It can barely cycle mana throughout your body, let alone allow you to channel it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it’s deformed; but literally everything aside from the size seems perfectly normal. You can’t change the qualities of your Reservoir. And I’m sorry to say, but that increase in your grade? Likely a misread. A fluke.” She seemed to regret what she said, since her words took an unexpected, gentler tone. “If someone with a normal Reservoir had your knowledge of theory, they’d probably be Heruta or Alphrodia by now. Because your understanding of those theories – it’s unlike anything I’ve seen from someone of your age.”

The words were ripsaws, a storm of blades, a maelstrom of daggers; but not because they were lies. “Then,” He said, his voice ever-so-slightly shaking. “Ulstrom? What’ll I do then?”

Her face softened with pity. “Bands aren’t the only things that run society.” She waved her arm over to a nearby bookshelf. “People like you, scholars, are what drive magic into the future. I could see you with your own grimoire, Beck. Your own study. Your own lab.”

Yuna’s voice strained with concern, but they fell on unwilling ears. He knew she only meant the best, but couldn’t help shake off what she really meant: He had no hope. What he had was less of a dream, and more of a delusion.

Hers were the demeaning remarks others have made time and time again, laden with ‘good intentions’ and ‘best-interests-at-heart’ – a wad of thorns, wrapped like a gift, a present. Something he should receive – no, something he should accept.

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“Thanks for the help,” He muttered, rising to exit.

“It’s no problem.” She let out a regretful exhale. “I know what I said was harsh, but it’s the truth. Really.” She simmered with thought, as if she wanted to say something else – but the words never came.

“...I’ll keep it in mind.”

…

He didn’t know what else to expect. He’d already looked into countless resources beforehand; about how he could circumvent this gnashing flaw, this irreparable defect of his; only to find nothing. She was right: If such a means existed, he’dve found it already, and would’ve been feverishly tearing it apart like a ravenous hydra. He should’ve felt reassured – that his knowledge of the theory was second to none, unlike anything she’d ever seen – but the thought that, had he had a normal Reservoir he’d be Alphrodia or Heruta or just anything but Egra, somehow hurt more than any of Victor’s attacks.

“The problem isn’t technique, or theory, or anything like that. The problem is inherently you.”

His lip quivered in suppressed anger, balling his hand into a fist. He already knew that. He’d realized ages ago; there was a limit to how much theory could supplement talent – or in his case, lack thereof. The idea of confronting such a thought irked him; no, it scared him; because it’d mean accepting all that he’d done, all that worked for, was meaningless. It’d be fine if it came from Victor, since he could brush it off as a low attempt to hurt him; but coming from Yuna, who seemed to care the slightest amount, was like a backstab. A backstab with a thirteen-inch, jagged, fanged knife.

Page twenty-six, Principles of Spellcasting: The Tetral Divisions, and mastery over them, determines the prowess of a magician. He recited to himself. It was a line he’d distinctly remembered from the book. It resonated within him, gave him hope that it was the truth. In times of distress, he found that remembering the line, and its place on the pages, the diagrams on the paper, and each curving of each letter, took his mind off his emotions. After all, was there any room to feel angry if all one could think about were formulas?

He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that upon turning an unfamiliar corner, he realized he was pacing aimlessly as he almost bumped into someone else. His head swiveled around, trying to figure out where he was; but all he could see were tides of people. They all knew where they were going. They moved with purpose, while Beck was lost.

It was rather easy to weave through the crowd, considering how small he was and how little he carried. Most of the things he took with him for classes he could conjure from his room, and banish them when he needed to. It saved him the inconvenience of a bag or a sack; not that he could afford one, anyway. From what he could tell, he was in one of the hallways near Crater’s Ward, judging by the alchemical iconography on signs hanging above some of the doors that he could see.

Eventually, the amount of people began to thin, and, as he reached the end of the hall – which split off into two more corridors, to his left and right – he caught a whiff of boiling herbs and unusual aromas from one of the empty rooms he’d passed. Looks like he was right; Crater’s Ward. But where exactly?

“Shame you couldn’t lay it down on Danor like usual.” A voice piped, far away, from the left. Beck knew that voice, that slimy cadence. He dashed back around the corner, barreling into an empty lab room. The lights were off, and the windows to the hall were clouded; nevertheless, he seized the door, closing it until only the sliver of a crack remained open.

“Uyar’s always got to show when things start to become interesting.” Those words, serpentine, a hiss; as they got closer, a glimpse of the outside only confirmed his fears. He could only see the hem of his robe, the tip of his shoe, but their owner was unmistakable: it was him. “Danor should count his lucky stars that he has Uyar by his side. Meanwhile, where did the both of you run off? To the washroom?”

“No.” The first voice tensed. “But you always insist on confronting Uyar by your lonesome. You’dve given us hell if we interfered.”

“I suppose.” Victor mused. “Though how I wish for friends that wouldn’t abandon me mid-fight. The least you could do is cheer me on. That’d be a sight to behold.”

“You’re relentless.” A woman’s voice chimed in, high and reedy. “But you handled the both of them just fine, right? Unless you didn’t?”

“How brusque. It was practically a duel – what with one of them being crippled, and all.”

“Danor?”

“No; Uyar!” A laugh left his lips, though less of a laugh and more of a snarl. “That Egra runt is like a thorn in his side. I can only fathom how he could do without it.”

“What a cruel thing to say,” The woman’s voice said. “But I am inclined to agree.”

“How do you even get away with it?” The first voice said. “I heard you got confronted by Olin, and he just waved you off.”

“Same way as it always has. They wouldn’t dare touch me.” Victor snorted. “They know better than to aggravate the heir to the Lori estate.”

“Your self-righteousness makes my heart flutter.” The second voice said flatly. “Did you really receive an invite from them? From Liar Court.”

“I left it in my quarters.” Victor said with a voice smooth as sandpaper. “I can show you later, if you’d care to accompany me.”

“It’d be my pleasure – in more ways than one.”

“You two are unbearable.” The first voice said between the hushed, flirtatious bantering. “Save the pillow-talk for the sheets. Let’s get to class.”

“You’re so stale, Rudy.” A clamor of soles striking the floor arose from around the corner, as if someone had just landed on their feet from a jump. Must’ve been the second person. “If you’d like, you could join us? I wouldn’t mind.”

‘Rudy’ grumbled, but Beck wasn’t sure if it was out of compliance or not. He had no time to think on it; the steps suddenly became louder. They were getting closer. With a sudden gasp, he hid completely behind the door, watching three shadows pass over the sliver of light from the cracked doorway. He dared not move, even when it seemed like they’d passed. But once they did, he–

“Who’s that?”

His blood ran cold, heart spiking into his throat like an explosion. But as he slowly swiveled his head to the door, he met with no one. Beck let out a breath of relief, though he couldn’t help remain tense. If it wasn’t him, who were they talking about?

“Miss, we’ve extended a greeting towards you. Is it not appropriate that you extend one back?” Victor said, but it sounded as if he were a ways off; farther away than he was beforehand. It sounded like he’d found someone else to toy with. Poor them, he thought, as he slunk back against a drawer. At least it wasn’t him.

CRACK!

Beck jolted up. That sound was unmistakable – an attack, the same kind he’d heard before. He thought he’d calmed down, thought he was out of danger; but as the adrenaline surged through his body, as he heard the beating of his heart at the back of his head, he couldn’t ignore it anymore. Someone else was being attacked.

Slowly, he crept to the crack in the door, peering out of it with one eye. No good – all he could see was a slice of a tapestry ahead. He widened it, ever-so-slightly, curiosity abandoning caution.

Victor, Rudy, and a woman he didn’t know stood before someone else, backed into a corner – a girl with platinum white hair, from all he could see. He could barely see her through the gaps between Victor and Rudy’s robes, but the dashing reds and patches was enough for him to tell that it wasn’t an Anaestra uniform. His heart sunk; a new transfer.

“Anaestra has a thing for rodents, it would seem. First it was Danor, now you.” Victor kicked a stray part of her robes, stray cloth strings loosely attached to the patches sailing through the air as the girl leered at them from the ground. “You look like you want to say something. What is it?”

Whether or not she said anything, Beck couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter, though. Any answer was a wrong answer when it came to Victor, unless he took a fancy to you. Beck knew that from experience. Even so, he found himself silently hoping that she’d say something back, something that’d shake Victor’s composure in a way that Beck couldn’t do himself.

“I’m talking to you.” Victor seized something on her face, causing her eyes to widen in shock and surprise, ripping it off her mouth and tossing it aside. It was only as it clattered to the ground that Beck could see what it was: A metal facemask.

He heard a gasp, a scoff, and then a sneer from the three of them. And he saw why – across the girl’s mouth, ripping through her lips like a ravine, was a disgusting, scarlet gash that stretched all the way to the corner of her eye. Even he couldn’t help but feel a gag building up inside him. “That is vile.” The girl standing next to Victor chimed. “How do you even live with that?”

Between the locks of her hair, purple irises seethed with a suppressed anger. She spoke no words, not even a whisper; but that disgusted leer, a font of boiling emotion, spoke a thousand unsaid words. Beck couldn’t help feeling a bit taken aback. He knew he wasn’t the target of her ire, but through that crack in the door, he felt her wave of contempt wash over himself too. A pang of shame speared through him, somehow more potent than any other he’d felt before. But why? This didn’t involve him. This wasn’t a fight he needed to take.

Then, her eyes swept over that crack in the door. An aeon passed in a moment. Suddenly, he didn’t see the girl anymore. He saw himself, alone, angry, confused; speechless with fear, curling up behind a grimoire he’d taken from one of the libraries. His mousy black hair, his glasses, one of the lens missing, the other cracked; the last sputtering of a spell he’d tried to cast in defense, and the sinister gleam of another aimed at him.

Fuck that. Beck tried to tear away from the door, but couldn’t take his eyes away from the scene. After all his talk about the shame of being saved, he had no right to try and help. There’s no point in trying to help her. I’m not Killen. Even so, when he finally slunk back away from the door, leaving only a crack open, he found the thought incessantly nagging at him, boring a hole in his conscience. There’s no way she’s Egra, too. She can handle this on her own.

He tried to redirect his thoughts back to the grimoire, a diagram, a paragraph, anything. Anything to take his mind off what was happening just beyond his arm’s reach. A stressed exhale drifted out of his lips like smoke out of a rusted pipe. No good – he could still hear the jeering and that serpentine hiss. No good – the pain of the hex surged back into his mind. No good – he could still see her eyes, reflecting his own, backed into that lonely corner.

He was no good, was he?