He awoke in the morning back in his room, still exhausted from the day before. That last attempt of his ended up being worse than the first. It tired him to the point that even trudging back to the castle, through another system of channels, took all the energy he had left. He recalled slumping against his room’s door just to get it to open, collapsing onto his mattress, not even bothering to change clothes, drooling a puddle as he drifted off to sleep.

As the sun burned its way into his shut eyes, he rose, fumbling through his creased robe pockets for his timepiece with a pillow-muffled groan. Seven-twelve… What day was it again? Yorsday? Arsday? Probably the latter, judging by how early his internal clock alarmed. If that was the case, then…

Ah. Classes.

Groggily, he creaked out of bed with the enthusiasm of a hibernating slug. He passed by the mirror, fixing himself to look somewhat presentable – were his eye bags getting worse? – and, mindful not to step on any fallen papers or books, snagged a small flask at the corner of his alchemy table, making sure not to let the fluorescent yellow contents spill on any of the materials he left out two nights before. He took a swig, then another. It had an overbearing citrus flavor, so much so that his face soured at the taste. When he emptied the bottle, his body tingled as if he stood in an electric field. At least he’d be able to function without an impromptu dozing – until noontime, anyway. He’d have to make some more when he found the time.

Even in the mornings, voices bounced off of the halls in an ebbed quiet. As Beck made his way down a spiral staircase, passing several doors, he made his way to one of the emptier mess halls at this hour – the smallest one, bordering a dilapidated exit outside to the arenas.

His name and rank had become infamous throughout Anaestra. The only Egra allowed to walk the walls in years. It didn’t help that his walk, with his head tilted up and eyes laser-focused ahead, his arm swaying confidently at one side and his hand nestled in a pocket at the other, seemed to invite leers and whispers – none of them of praise. At first, he found himself shrinking at the thought of eyes on him, anxious at the gazes on his spine; to a more minimized degree, that anxiety remained; but eventually, decided that if people were going to make sour glances at him, they could do so while he made one back.

Dipping into the mess hall, he snagged an Ujarn Bun from a basket near the wall. Roughly the size of his fist, still hot from magically trapped steam, it was a circular browned bun that pulled apart like clay. But he didn’t need to break it open to smell the meat from inside – looks like today it was pork and duck fat. Lucky me.

His mouth opened wide, ready to savor the taste of juicy meat on bread— but something pelted the back of his head. He looked down; a crumpled piece of parchment rolled by his foot. Not today. A grunt of annoyance escaped his lips as he strode towards the exit. A chorus of sniggers chortled from the corner of the room. Beck didn’t even bother giving them a glare. If they were who he thought they were, it was better just to leave before–

“Heads up, Danor!” Someone taunted.

Crack! A sound echoed from the mess hall, like the sound of snapping wood. Something whizzed by his ear, brushing against his lobe; it shot past the boy, nearly hitting another student, as it found its mark at the base of a large, towering window. Even from this distance, the smell permeated throughout the hall – it was like dry dung mixed with wet mud.

“Who–?!” He yelled, whirling around, fist clenched.

“Me.”

A snake of a man approached, each languid step of his less a stride and more a slither. He dwarfed Beck’s figure, blocking the light pouring from the window. Like the other students, he wore Anaestra’s telling black-and-gold robes, but the mantle draped around his neck made him look like a cobra. His emerald green eyes, like poisoned slits, stared down from a pale head, his hair, with the sun shining behind, writhed in black; a menacing sleazy smile stretched across his face as Beck faced him. From the corner of his eyes, he could see two others flank him, jesting and laughing to each other.

“Victor.” Beck sneered.

“Don’t get too close, Danor.” He said, pushing him back with white, spindly fingers. Beck tried to stand his ground, but someone stuck their foot out, causing him to trip and fall. He felt something in his pocket shatter. One of the men tailing Victor barked a laugh – if something more akin to a donkey’s bray could be called a laugh. “Your mediocrity might start infecting me.”

Beck scrambled to a sit, but Victor kicked him back down with the sole of his shoe. Whispers began filling the hall, but Beck couldn’t hear any of them. “Might not want to use that staff anymore,” Beck remarked. “Wouldn’t want to see your rank drop because of it, yeah?”

“Talkative today! And…” He eyed Beck’s creased clothes, stifling a laugh. “Awfully more rat-looking than usual. But you’re right. Take it then.” He tossed the staff nonchalantly at Beck. Confused, Beck only caught a glimpse of green at the very last second. He tried to scuttle away, but was too late; A sharp pain blossomed where the staff touched his arm.

That bastard– The staff, a hex? Right then? His teeth grit as he braced the sting, rolling up his sleeve. A myriad of shallow cuts, slightly bleeding, formed just above his elbow.

“Aw.” Victor’s voice was sickly, like venom, as his face shifted with disappointment. “You ought to know that receiving gifts with grace is telling of a well-behaved noble. But I forget–” Suddenly, his mouth twisted, contorted, into a sadistic grin. “You’re not nobility. You’re not anyone, really. You’re Egra – and on top of that, orphaned.”

Red surged in the corners of Beck’s vision. “Better that than have a family like yours. If they’re anything like the slimy shithead you are, I’d disown them.”

“Like how yours disowned you, I suppose.”

“YOU–” Beck tried to lunge at Victor, but the pain in his leg exploded, ripping through his body. He couldn’t move.

Victor frowned. The staff disappeared in an emerald mist, before that too vanished into the air. A small crowd began to form around them. Victor put his hands behind his back; A magic circle appeared just above his shoulder, firing a small needle into Beck’s thigh. It disappeared on contact, leaving another series of cuts as Beck recoiled, groaning, curling up on the ground in pain. “Awfully curt, insulting a noble’s family in front of him,” Victor said. “They’re not quite as bad as you might imagine. They got me here, after all.”

“They did.” Beck spat out. “‘Cause you can’t do jackshit without them.”

Victor pursed his lips in a mocking pout. “That’s not true.” He raised a hand, and with a flash of green fire, an envelope appeared. The thick, sturdy paper was singed at the edges, pressed with a red seal displaying a fireball and laurels, with a misshapen, abstracted mask behind them. A couple people gasped at the sight of it. “I got this myself.”

“You’re lying.” At the very first sight of the seal, Beck felt a wave of disgust wash over him; and it wasn’t from his wounds. No, it was from that sick grin, the red insignia tainted with fiery green, the murmurs from the crowd. His words fell apart in his throat as his lips quivered in disgust, disbelief, denial. One was already unheard of. But two? To him of all people?

“Then that means I’d fit right in.” Flames latched onto the envelope, dragging it down into Victor’s palm, until, with a final clench and flickering of green, it vanished. “Don’t tell me. You’re jealous?”

“I’m jealous of the deaf!” Beck snarled. “Bands are bands. I’ll go to whichever one I please.”

“You think there’s a place for you in a band? You poor, deluded thing.” Victor looked at him pitifully, partly surprised, mostly condescending. It made the blood in Beck’s body boil. “Danor, if you want, I could admit you into one of the top asylums in the continent. You need but ask.”

Beck’s eyes bore holes into Victor’s forehead. “Go fuck yourself.”

Just then, he heard a loud shuffle amongst the crowd as someone spearheaded their way through to the both of them, impatiently forcing people aside. But even as those familiar brown eyes fell upon him, Beck refused to rip his gaze off the floor. His fists were clenched at the hem of his robe to the point he could feel the threads coming loose. Was this some kind of cruel, twisted joke?

“What’s going on?” Killen said as the crowd parted. He spotted Beck first, narrowing at the sight of his cuts; then, as soon as his vision swiveled to Victor, a leer streaked across his face like a dirk ripping into cloth. The glint in his eye flashed yellow; Several Cirae appeared in the air in front of him in a soft glowing gold, towering atop one another. A beam of light shot from the bottom to the top, and Killen stuck his hand in; the light solidified, taking shape, until it formed an ivory staff. He snatched it, pointing it straight at Victor, the tip pulsing with several crisp Cirae layered on top of eachother. A shrill whirr pierced the air.

“GET AWAY!” Someone screamed in a panic. “THOSE TWO ARE AT IT AGAIN!” The words, inciting a chain reaction, lead to the entire hall being emptied in seconds. Before long, all who remained were Killen, Victor, and Beck.

Victor raised his hands in surrender, but that shit-eating smile still remained plastered across his face. “Calm yourself, Uyar. I don’t recall antagonizing you.”

Without warning, Killen blitzed forward, thrusting the end of his staff at Victor. Summoning his own, Victor deflected the blow as ivory met metal. A flash of light burst from the impact, sending shockwaves surging through the area, as the two locked blows, battling for dominance; one, in gold radiance, clad with cold fury; the other, in devilish green, exhilarated.

Killen broke away with a resounding clang, ending up next to Beck, who still remained on the floor. Beck tried to move away, but the pain – now exploding from his leg and arm – stopped him from rising to a stand. His face twisted with agony, causing Killen to break his focus from Victor. Worried, Killen raised a palm towards Beck, glowing a soft yellow, but to his surprise, Beck slapped it away.

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“You idiot! Get off me!” Beck yelled. Another piercing pain shot through his arm, but he shunted it out, making a meager gesture towards Victor.

“I can’t just–”

“YES YOU CAN! I’m not who you should be worrying about!”

Victor grinned, ecstatic at the sudden vulnerability. He pointed his staff towards the two of them, chanting, as a magical circle appeared. As it grew in size, Beck swore he could hear frenzied whispering – an otherworldly chorus of voices – pulse from the Cirun, speaking in tongues incomprehensible to him. Killen whirled around, glancing at the frightening pace that Victor’s magic circle grew. He clenched his staff tightly, the ivory flashing yellow, before he slammed the butt end into the floor. With a deafening peal of a bell, a shining barrier quickly erected itself before the two as Victor fired a monstrous green blast towards them.

At first, the barrier held without trouble. The blast dispersed around it, charring the floors and the walls wherever it touched. It was undaunting, unyielding; Killen stood tall, maintaining the barrier with unfaltering poise. Beck, however, could not brace himself from the impact of the blast. As if caught in a sudden gale, he felt himself get thrown around by the shockwaves, tumbling away from the fight. Killen turned his head for only a moment; but that was all the break in concentration Victor needed for an upper hand.

He flourished his staff, summoning five pale projections of swords, each almost as tall as he was. One after one he launched them towards the barrier. One went to his head; the other, to his leg. Killen grunted in exertion, his staff pulsing with Cirae of his own. Upon each impact, the barrier flashed a pale white before, with powerful, miniscule blasts, it sent the swords overhead, to the wall, to the floor; perfect deflections. As the fourth clanged off the barrier, tearing a hole into a portrait of Anaestra’s founder, the fifth jetted directly towards his staff-wielding arm–

Or so it seemed.

At the last moment, the trajectory changed to his throat. Killen, eyes widening in surprise, tried to deflect it at the last moment. He was not quick enough. With a final explosion of gold, the barrier disappeared, sending him flying backwards next to Beck.

“Killen!” Beck cried out.

“I’m fine.” Killen grunted to his feet, as if he hadn’t been hurt at all. Beck felt his heart beating in his throat – a frenzied, fervent rhythm. There had to be something he could do here; something to help, something to aid Killen in the slightest way! But no. This was a battle between prodigies; Beck couldn’t hardly hope to intervene, unless he wanted to ail his friend rather than aid. He clenched his fist tightly, feeling his nails dig into his palm. Trembling, shaking; Amidst flashing green and gold, with the sounds of blasts and battle ringing through the hall, Beck couldn’t help but turn away from it all in shame.

“This battle doesn’t belong to you, Uyar!” Victor roared. “How ‘bout you let that Egra bastard defend himself?!”

Killen said nothing. Instead, he knelt to the floor, chanting something to himself. A Cirun appeared at his feet, then another, then another; until an array of Cirae sprawled below him, spreading out over almost half the hall. He rose, and as he did, his staff floated beside him. The whites of his eyes flashed gold, his hands arcing with energy, as the faint peals of bells and muffled singing echoed from the Cirae. A wild thrum intensified to a deafening point, filling the hall with noise, radiant noise, like a cosmic opera–

“CEASE!” Commanded a new voice. The words reverberated off the walls, bouncing from the ceiling to the floor across the corridor. An authoritarian presence filled the hall; Beck froze instinctively, as if from unconscious obligation, until he realized the words didn’t apply to him. Even then, he dared not move a muscle.

A small man, short enough to be mistaken for a dwarf, thundered up to them. Clad in a white cloak with gray trim, the cuffs stained with black ink, each step of his rumbled with authority as Victor stowed away his stave with a foreboding hiss. Killen was not as eager.

“Uyar.” He said. An impossibly deep voice escaped from his scarred lips with all the menace of a tempered storm. “Might I ask why you have yet to banish your staff?”

Killen’s eyes were still locked onto Victor, who gave them a taunting wave. His Cirae continued to pulse softly, but the intensity had long since left. “Scholar Olin. I did not start this fight.”

“I did not ask who started it. I asked why you hadn’t stowed away your weapon.”

Reluctantly, Killen stamped the end of his staff lightly against the floor, causing the Cirae to well up in gold sparks before disappearing. His staff followed suit, and then the flash in his eyes; save for a few specks in the whites and mild discolorations on his cloak, it was as if the battle never happened. “Apologies, sir.” He said, stifling the animosity in his voice.

Scholar Olin huffed authoritatively. Kneeling down to Beck, his palm glittered a faded green – not like Victor’s threatening hue – but one softer, warmer. The light slowly swallowed Beck’s figure, and as it did, he felt the open skin from his cuts knit back together. “Lori. What happened this time?” Scholar Olin said, still hovering over Beck.

“Oh, nothing.” Victor said. He wouldn’t even bother to look in their direction. “I just wanted to show Danor the letter I got from Liar Court. I thought he’d appreciate it, seeing how he gushes over bands–”

“That’s not–”

“But not only did he insult my family, he tried to blindside me with an attack! His tongue is vile, sir. I was simply acting out of self-defense – on behalf of myself, and my family’s pride.”

The look Beck gave him could melt steel. He wanted to call him out for it – to say something – but knew the moment he opened his mouth, nothing would escape but a tirade of insults.

“Liar.” Killen said. “Scholar Olin, does that even make sense? After all, Beck can’t–”

“Can’t what?” Beck’s voice sent a chill down Killen’s spine as if his words were frost. He gave Killen a nasty look before turning towards Scholar Olin. “If I wanted to blindside that snake, I wouldn’t have done it in broad daylight. That’s a fool’s gambit.”

“Fits you.” Victor muttered just loud enough to hear.”

“Both of you, enough!” Scholar Olin proclaimed. He looked pensive in thought for a second, before turning towards Victor, motioning for him to leave. Beck’s face contorted in disbelief, flushing an indignant red at the cheeks. He dared not speak another word, however.

“Do not misunderstand me, you two. The conversation would go nowhere had he stayed.” He took out a tiny grimoire from the inside of his coat until he stopped on a particular page. As he started reciting the incantation inscribed, the damages to the hall began to become undone. The charred stone went from black to gray; the cleaved parts of the wall rejoined together; and even the hole in the portrait, as if time were turning backwards, filled and fixed.

“He was lying, sir.”

“I know that.”

“So why–”

“Uyar.” He said. “Tomorrow is a Dueling Day for Lori. Is it not also one for you both?”

Killen perked at the realization. “Yes, sir.”

“Then I believe nothing else needs to be said.” Scholar Olin tore a page out from his grimoire, setting it ablaze. “Article VI, Section III of the Anaestra Student Guidelines: Duels between students outside of the designated hours, without the supervision of an authoritative figure, outside of the proper zones, may cause unintended damage towards unaffiliated properties and students – and as such, the proper punishment is…” He sighed. “Suspension, expulsion, and the like.”

Beck’s blood ran cold. “Expulsion?”

“I am not so unreasonable, Danor. I’ve been in the know of your bouts against Lori for far longer than you may expect. It would do you well to stay clear of his path.”

“You think I haven’t been trying?!” Beck lashed out. “That sick fuck– he could’ve killed me! He could’ve killed me, and I couldn’t have done…” The last word splintered in his throat. Anything. He couldn’t have done anything.

Olin looked at him coldly, yet his face’s rough edges seemed to soften the most infinitesimal amount. He turned to Killen. “You work with Dangrief, yes? You ought to know that he told me House Lori recently sponsored the purchase of the Nilindar Library.”

Killen’s eyebrow twitched. “Of course they did.”

“It is not within the interests of the school to jeopardize future sponsorships from them. Even though our individual interests might misalign.”

Killen nodded regretfully. The halls were just beginning to flood with students once more – as they did, Scholar Olin gave them a final look, departed, and disappeared in the crowd. Beck got up, brushing himself off. He took out his watch – good, the glass wasn’t shattered. Only cracked.

“You good?” Killen said.

“I would’ve been fine if you hadn’t shown up. You didn’t need to cover me again.” A dour look appeared on Beck’s face. “But yeah. I’m alright.”

He began to walk away, but felt a firm grip on his shoulder. “What?”

“Why didn’t you run?” Beck tried to brush off his hold, but it remained firm. Killen never really asked questions – but when he did, he wouldn’t let off until he got an answer.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” Killen let go of his shoulder, hoping Beck would face him – but the other boy remained rooted, facing away.

“Really.”

Amidst the rising sound of the halls in the morning, they were silent. Amidst the ever-bustling traffic of students, they were still. Killen looked as if he wanted to ask something, but the question never left the tip of his tongue.

Beck suddenly harked out a hollow laugh. “You know, if you don’t stop hovering around me, people might start believing that you’re a brother of mine.”

“Is that really such a distasteful idea?”

“It disgusts me to even think about it.” He shuddered. “Imagine that – The prodigy of Anaestra, blood brothers with an Egra. Blech. I wouldn’t be able to look myself in the mirror.”

His voice fractured. As if he could look at himself now. It hurt to joke; It hurt to laugh. Did he deserve to look him in the eye? Did he have the right to call him a friend? Because at that moment, they were Alphrodia and Egra. At that moment, they were not equals.