Whatever magical energy the room had, it was certainly doing its job. After a few more rounds of chores and casual conversation, Mehdi was able to hobble around, no longer feeling the pain of the weight he put on his leg.

Barnabus had no desire to continue doing work, and with most of the room cleaned or at least tidied, the two found themselves lounging on a couch, idly flipping through books with pictures, talking about whatever topic either of them could come up with. Mehdi wasn’t much of a talker, and even the much chattier Barnabus Sinclair would have moments where his words would fail him, and the two would remain quiet until a new topic was thought of.

Mehdi didn’t realize how bad his socializing had gotten. It should have been easy to maintain casual conversation for the better part of a day, but they ran out all the same.

They talked about Mages, politics, economics, sports, architecture, fashion, ifrit, magic, gossip, trains, jungles, animals, the ocean, siblings, reading, fights, Towcard, Raphael Quolle, the varying strange Pillars Barnabus had met in his manor, the time Mehdi had thought he was going to die because a bird touched him, stories of childhood, insecurities, fears, dreams, hopes, jokes, passing anecdotes, school work, music, food, festivals, holidays, traditions, embarrassing moments, religion, and the concept of marriage.

And yet when Mehdi glanced at the window, he saw it was no brighter or darker, nor was he any more hungry or tired than he had been when he first entered.

He couldn’t even remember half the conversations. He didn’t want to call them particularly intimate conversations, the two were just bored out of their mind, and talking was admittedly pleasant.

“Hey, Barnabus,” Mehdi said idly, tossing a small rubber ball they had found a while ago directly at the blond initiate’s head.

Barnabus caught it without even looking. Mehdi might have played that trick on Barnabus a few times by now. “What?”

“So, I know you’re a Volterra, did you get a spellbook?”

Barnabus nodded. “Yup.”

“Do you have it on you?”

“...sort of.”

Mehdi blinked at Barnabus expectantly. The blond initiate sighed and extended his left hand, his eyes screwed shut in concentration.

There was a red flash of light, and floating in his hands, dancing along his finger tips, was a small, floating, dull red spell book.

“Whoah!” Mehdi whispered, leaning forward.

Barnabas sat next to Mehdi, holding his hand out for him to examine it.

Mehdi reached for the spell book, and found he could, with some success, hold it like a normal book. With one hand he tried to pull the spell book away from Barnabus’ grasp, only to find it vanish into dust and reappear back to Barnabus.

“That’s… amazing,” Mehdi said, at a loss for words.

“Yeah,” Barnabus sighed. “Apparently Volterra and above get these sort of spell books, but Balustrades don’t.”

Mehdi gave a low whistle. “I’m surprised most carry their spell book around if they can just summon it like that.”

Barnabus shrugged. “Not sure. I know I can read it really well--like, way better than my poor ass literacy should really let me? It’s like it’s written in a language that just makes sense to my brain. I was told that other than Mage Ritesgivers and the King himself, no one else can read it.”

“Can you write in it?”

Barnabus gave another shrug. “Maybe? It’s kinda hard.”

“Do you got any spells yet?”

“Hah. I wish. Nope. I summoned this thing, and they excitedly told me that as they walked me here.”

Mehdi rubbed his face. “Yeah, that tracks.”

He idly amused himself with lightly poking and prodding Barnabus’ spell book, as it bobbed up and down in the air, as if in water. His hand brushed against Barnabus’ face with one errant poke, and to his surprise, the skin was quite rough.

Barnabus stared at Mehdi in confusion, evidently responding to Mehdi’s facial expression.

“Oh, no, it’s just, your skin feels weird.”

“I have bad dry skin,” Barnabus mumbled.

Well, wasn’t Mehdi a jerk. “Sorry. Have you done meditations for it?”

“I’ve tried but it’s hard when all this is happening.”

Mehdi nodded sympathetically. “I’ve gotten some pretty bad ruminations since I got here. And I know they have a Ritesgiver on staff but he’s so busy and you have to schedule it and sometimes I go, you know, I haven’t showered either, and no one’s made a gross face yet, that’s a problem for tomorrow.”

He expected Barnabus to laugh, and make a disgusted noise, in which Mehdi would assure Barnabus he was very clean and kept good hygiene. Instead Barnabus looked off into the distance, glassy-eyed.

The room was admittedly boring, so it wasn’t too strange for one or both of them to just stare at a wall for a while, and quietly recharge and salivate their mouth from all the talking, but he hadn’t expected Barnabus to start ignoring him so quickly. Was his joke that bad?

“Uh? Barnabus?” Mehdi snapped his fingers in front of Barnabus’ face.

Barnabus blinked in shock, and stared at Mehdi. “Oh--sorry. I was just. Thinking.”

“About what?”

“Not sure how to word it.”

Mehdi sighed, slid off the couch and onto the floor, where he sprawled his limbs out. He grabbed a pillow from the couch and shoved it under his head. “Well it’s not like anything’s happening soon.”

He closed his eyes, and for a while, there was silence, as Barnabus idly drummed his fingers against Mehdi’s leg cast.

And then, quite suddenly, quite jarring, there was the dull, overwhelming sound of a clock chime. Mehdi nearly yelled, and Barnabus jumped up in confusion.

“Time’s up, Initiates! Get out!” a voice called from the outside. It grated on the ears, like that of a stranger Mehdi once knew.

Towcard. That was Towcard’s voice. For the briefest of moments, Mehdi had forgotten Towcard existed.

Right. Along with Raphael Quolle, and that other Mage who had travelled with Barnabus. Mehdi had never asked his name had he? A thousand conversations and he had never asked a simple question, funny, that.

In a bleary, confused flurry, Barnabus helped Mehdi to his wheelchair, and the two slowly stepped out of the room.

The first thing Mehdi realized when he left the room was that he was starving. Truly and utterly ravenous. Cannibalism was looking pretty good right now, or maybe he’d eat Jes the dog. That counted as meat, right?

“Did you--organize the room?” Towcard muttered.

“Uh, yeah,” Mehdi said. “Should I not have?”

“...no it’s just--huh!” Towcard’s voice rose an octave, and Mehdi could only assume that meant he was impressed or about to insult Mehdi’s masculinity. After a moment of silence, Mehdi let his chest swell with pride and smile, if only for a moment.

“Let’s get you to training, son,” the mage said to Barnabus.

“And let’s get those casts off,” Raphael said, looking down at Mehdi.

“Wait!” Mehdi said, reaching his arm out to stop Barnabus as he was carted away.

Barnabus stared at Mehdi.

“What were you going to say?” Mehdi asked.

“Oh! Just uh--just that you were really cool. Thanks for being so cool.” Barnabus said, not making eye contact and blowing hair out of his face.

Mehdi smiled. He had forgotten what it was like to just talk with someone. Maybe the loner life wasn’t as peaceful as he thought it was, considering his heart was swelling after one conversation.

He was wheeled over to his bed, and without any warning or ado, Towcard grabbed his cast and started to peel it off with a blade. Mehdi would have normally flinched and possibly almost cursed, but it happened so quickly, without warning, that he barely had time to react as the plaster parted, revealing a sweaty limb underneath.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

He experimentally flexed his fingers, and found it painless. Fuzzy, numb, unnatural, but not like it had been--

Four days ago? Was that right? Mehdi stared at Towcard in confusion.

“How long were we in there?” Mehdi asked.

“An hour.”

Well, there was no way that could be true.

“I’m starving,” Mehdi said, instead of saying anything of substance or use.

Towcard had already grabbed his leg and was peeling off the plaster. “Quolle, could you possibly--”

Quolle grunted in annoyance. Towcard sighed, and with the cast mostly off, stood up. “Just peel the rest off yourself, I’ll get you something to eat.”

With shaking hands, Mehdi touched his own warm, fleshy leg. There were faint purplish lines that traced along the fat of his shin. He blinked a few times, not knowing if it was a trick of the light or not. Maybe that's just what a healing broken leg looked like.

He placed his hand on the bed, slowly stood up, and instantly knew something was wrong. The problem was, he couldn’t explain what was wrong. It was like medical was an entirely different place, despite looking exactly the same.

Towcard returned with a small cup of brown liquid.

“Drink,” Towcard stated.

Mehdi sniffed it and recoiled in disgust.

“Drink.”

Mehdi shut his eyes and downed the whole thing in one go, and found himself gagging on the terrible, acidic taste, as bubbles danced on the back of his tongue. It tasted what urine smelled like.

“What was that?” Mehdi rasped.

“A whole lot of calories,” Towcard muttered, taking the cup back.

“Thanks--” Mehdi stared at Towcard. Towcard was wrong. Towcard was wrong and he couldn’t figure out why.

He stared at the doctor for a few moments, desperately trying to figure out why or how he was having this reaction.

He reached down to touch the bedside table, but found it further away than he expected.

“...I’m taller than you,” Mehdi said, staring at Towcard.

“Barely, yes,” Towcard grumbled.

“But I was--I’m not--weren’t you taller than me?” Mehdi rasped.

Without responding, Towcard fished out a long ruler, and placed it against Mehdi’s frame.

“Looks like you had about a three inch growthspurt,” Towcard said. “That’s within reasonable limits for a fourteen year old.”

“...when?” Mehdi sputtered. “When did that--what did that room do to me?”

“Your uniform might need retailoring,” Towcard continued, as if Mehdi hadn’t said anything. “Mostly around the legs, although your arms seem fine, the extra fabric picked up the slack.”

Raphael Quolle coughed.

“Anyway, Mehdi, some questions are not your place to ask, and you have a duty now, which is to find out your Mage core,” Towcard continued. “Everything is fine. You’re in great health.”

Mehdi chewed the inside of his mouth in stress. This was weird. This was incredibly and utterly weird.

“Come along, Mage Lucrece,” Raphael stated, already leaving.

Mehdi took a step forward, realized he was still barefoot, and more importantly, had no idea how to walk with the extra leg length or without the cast. He tripped over his own feet and gracelessly fell to the ground in a clatter. Jes tromped over, sniffing him idly.

“I--I forgot my shoes,” Mehdi said feebly.

“Move, Mage, you’re trained for this,” Raphael replied, not showing any sympathy or annoyance on his face.

Mehdi nodded, frantically grabbing his shoes and finding they now pinched around the edges as he awkwardly crammed his toes in. He stood up again, and realized why everything looked strange to him. Everything was lower to the ground, his entire line of sight was different now. He didn’t know what to make of such a change. It was subtle, but his entire life now had a different context.

Three inches. The doctors had said he would most likely be five foot eight as an adult. And now he was nearly that height. That meant he was done growing, right?

Or had that room done something to him? Would he grow slowly on top of what happened now?

Mehdi followed Raphael silently, aware of how his shirt and pants no longer matched up, and how his shoulders were just a bit more snug. Towcard was right, the oversized uniform fit better now, but not everywhere. His elbows pinched, his knees strained, and none of the folds hit him in any familiar way.

He hated this.

Raphael Quolle guided Mehdi to a muggy, overheated room, with at least a thousand candles lit. There were still initiates waiting in line for their core test, and Mehdi avoided looking at them as Raphael walked past all of them, and gestured for Mehdi to take the first slot in the line.

What was going on? What did this Mage think was going to happen?

His face red, wanting nothing more than to shrink and die, Mehdi took the spot and stared directly at the door with a sign that, after a few moments, Mehdi was able to read as saying “Do Not Disturb”.

“Is that Mehdi?” an unfamiliar voice from behind him called. The back of Mehdi’s neck prickled in heat and confusion. He didn’t dare look. Looking made it real.

The door opened, and an initiate walked out with a large smile on his face. The Ritesgiver inside had thick spectacles, and long strips of shocking white hair against dark hair.

Raphael Quolle walked in without a second thought, and Mehdi didn’t know if he was supposed to follow or not. He quickly realized he was supposed to when the Mage barked his name.

The room was bright, but had no light source. It was as if the entire room itself was glowing.

“I normally don’t allow observers,” the Ritesgiver said.

“T Son, yes?” Raphael asked.

“Thoreau,” the Ritesgiver replied.

“I have a vested interest in seeing what this initiate’s magical potential is,” Raphael stated.

Thoreau raised an eyebrow, but shrugged. “Very well. What’s your name, initiate?”

“Mehdi Lucrece.”

Thoreau nodded, and gestured for Mehdi to sit down on a cushion. When he did, Thoreau paused and violently seized Mehdi’s head.

“Is this your doing?” Thoreau asked, pulling Mehdi’s hair to Raphael.

Raphael Quolle nodded.

“Not smart. Not smart at all.”

“He had been gravely injured.”

“It is quite possible you permanently stunted his potential,” Thoreau said.

Mehdi was getting the distinct feeling no one cared what he had to say, which was fine, because Mehdi didn’t know what to say, feel, or even do, beyond grip his skull in fear and pain.

“Then round up,” Raphael ordered.

Thoreau sighed. “Lie down, initiate.”

Mehdi lay down on the cushioned floor, rubbing his skull. What was wrong with his head? Did he have a bald spot? He couldn’t feel a bald spot. Was there some sort of mark on him? He idly pulled on one of his curls, and it occurred to him that his hair was longer than it had been earlier.

He had been expected to keep his hair relatively short, outside of his eyes, but now it framed his face and peripherals. His hair had always grown slowly, so sudden hair growth was confusing.

Thoreau started to massage his temples, and Mehdi found that his first desire was to emit a low confused noise at the stimulation. He bit his lip instead, as he refused to make a single noise during this process. It would be incredibly embarrassing.

He wished he could say he felt something special or magical, but he was mostly cold. Little pinpricks travelled down his spine and hands, and his nose twitched and spasmed, but that was no different than him otherwise being in a strange place, receiving a strange and unsatisfying massage.

Just as he was beginning to get bored, his chest tightened, and his heart started to burn. Mehdi flinched, and he squeezed his eyes shut. The pain wasn’t as bad as broken limbs, but it was still entirely unpleasant.

As quickly as the pain hit, it subsided, and Mehdi was left breathing heavily as stress dripped down his forehead and onto the cushions he was lying on.

“Balustrade,” Thoreau said.

Mehdi blinked in confusion. Was that about him?

“Are you sure?” Raphael asked.

“Yes. Even without the Demesne of All, he might have maybe been able to make Volterra, but I doubt it,” Thoreau replied. “Why? Lucrece is not a name associated with Mages.”

He was a Balustrade. The very thing he had wanted to be. He just had to make sure to never tell his father or sister that he was the Gaslamp subcore of Mages.

But what happiness he wanted to feel was quickly vanishing. He could have been Volterra, and then gotten a spell book like Barnabus. He could have also trained with the one guy who wasn’t an idiot in the entire military base. That would have been nice.

Oh well.

Raphael frowned. “Is there a chance you were mistaken?”

“With all due respect, is there a chance you were mistaken?” Thoreau shot back.

Mehdi blinked a few times, not daring to make eye contact with the Regent. Raphael Quolle wasn’t happy.

“Perhaps,” Raphael said. He turned and left without another word.

Thoreau wrote down some words in silence, and Mehdi stared at the floor.

“Get out now, I’ve got quite a few initiates left. You will be no doubt assigned to the Balustrade wing shortly,” Thoreau said.

Mehdi nodded and left. He didn’t know what to think, so instead he walked to his dorm, not thinking, barely aware. He went to go sit on his bed, but remembered it was on the top bunk, so he instead went to the nearest bathroom, and sat on the wooden chairs meant for showers.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the dusty and stained mirror.

His dark brown hair had an unfamiliar shine to it. Mehdi squinted his eyes and slowly walked towards the mirror. No, it wasn’t a shine-it was white hair. Brilliantly white strands of hair scattered across his skull, like he had somehow aged ten years.

“What the absolute crap,” Mehdi muttered in a panic as he parted his curls to try and grasp at the strands.

They were brittler, smoother, not as curly. He tugged on the hair experimentally and ran his fingers over the strands, trying to make sense of the jarring change. It was subtle--no one but him would have really noticed, he had just been so used to looking a certain way so this was freaking him out.

No. That wasn’t true.

Thoreau had noticed. Thoreau had asked if it was Raphael’s doing.

And it was.

Because of that room. That room he had been placed into so he could heal faster, so he could take the subcore test, to which the grand result was that he was a Balustrade.

Mehdi stopped tugging on his hair.

Raphael had asked him questions. Before he went into the room. Which felt like an awfully long time ago, despite it being earlier today. About his sister. About dreams. About magic.

And then he had lost interest. Whatever Raphael thought Mehdi had, Raphael Quolle had been wrong.

Mehdi didn’t know what to think or feel, so instead he sunk to the floor, rubbing at his face and hair, nothing feeling quite like it did before he had entered the room.

Was he sad? Mad? Hurt? Stressed? Or was he just a giant ball of confusion and lack of direction?

Mehdi sighed. Well, that wasn’t true. There was one familiar feeling he could clearly understand.

Whatever theory Raphael had, whatever special unique circumstances he had ascribed to Mehdi, he had been wrong.

Mehdi had been given a test, and he had failed it. And the worst part was, he didn’t even know what it had been about.