I have two weeks off and am still learning and studying, but I can finally sleep in. On the first Restday of the break, Jer tours the Athenary, and the workshops, finishing with my dorm. There are subjects to avoid regarding how things work, but showing him works fine enough.

“Now, my favorite place,” I command, sitting on the bed as he sits across from me.

“Open your mind and put your finger in my mouth,” I instruct.

“You’re fucking with me…” Jer deadpans.

“I know, right? What a strange workaround. I am not fucking with you.”

“Of course you are.” Jer resigns, placing his finger in my open mouth.

It is different from someone wanting to enter. Inviting someone into a mind palace is another matter, but can I even perform it? This time, Jer is here, but he isn't here. I pull him through the door instead. Doing this requires a meticulous mental string drawn between us, which takes a half hour of sweating.

“Oh, shit? Did we teleport? How are we back in Willows Grove? Is it spring?”

“We are in my mind. I created this from memory. It is called a mind palace.”

"Yeah? That Wall is different, and that door— is that from the Sanctum? Can you make anything here?"

“Correct, it is wondrous, a world painted with thoughts.”

“Did you recreate the town? My house?”

“I did not, left the bluff clear for now, intended to make the town eventually.”

“Do you want to do it now?”

“Yeah, if you want. It’ll help to have you here. You know the town better than me.”

“Hmm… should we race?” Jer considers me for a beat, “Would it be fair? Can you fly? Or appear there?”

“Our normal races aren’t fair.”

Reassembling our memories of town frames a nostalgic afternoon. We start with Jer’s house at the center. I can recall the bricks competently, but listening to Jer describe it is worth claiming inability. We cobble the main road with the bakery, the fabric shop, the Farmers' Collective building, the temple, the state house, and the cobbler. Once satisfied with the details, we resume our usual cove between buildings.

“How have things been progressing?” Jer inquires.

“The funding is looking good. I have been able to gain many useful skills.”

“You are worried about the factors we can not plan for?” Jer guesses.

“Everything here is complex, and the mage stuff— we might already have seers waiting for a misstep.”

“We must be attentive— but there are also things we can not control.”

“I am the one you’re trusting to do this. If I fuck up, it will cost both of our lives. How can you tell me it isn’t my fault?”

“Because I made this decision knowing the dangers, and as I remember it, I believed you could do this before you did.”

“You’ll believe in me until they cast you into the maws of destruction.”

“Are you saying I am biased?”

“I am.”

“Well, you’re right. My impression of you has subverted me. I am now a firm believer in what capability is.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. Is there anything specific that is pulling this out?”

“Haven’t heard from the supply chain in a week.”

“Is that uncommon?”

“Not entirely, but checking is inevitable.”

“Give it a couple more days. If something is wrong, you could exacerbate it.”

“Right, that should be fine. How about you? Are you still bumping up against that prick?”

“It is—or he is—I am not as good, and I am not used to being less than the best.”

“You are the best.”

“Vesh, you can’t bluster a way into beating him…”

“So they are better? You can’t win?”

“I think so. Moreover, I don’t need to because qualifying isn’t an option now.”

The day after, Jer reciprocates with a glimpse into his slice of the city. The extra time to catch up with each other quiets my paranoia. We met every week, but being in a group isn’t the same as spending time alone. It's as it always was: Jer and I together. As we tour, he points out these little nooks between buildings. Free time is scarce, which leads cadets to hide from officers in the handy alcoves.

The barracks, mess hall, and a few class buildings all follow a similar architectural aesthetic. This side of the campus has a utilitarian uniformity to the facilities. Unpainted square footprints are appealing enough, yet the architecture formulates clear killboxes. A rec room in his dorm building is our destination, as Jer explains a class on strategy revolving around a game called Empire.

“So it is like war but with separate piles?” I argue.

“No. How you count points is different. And there are two cards in an attack instead of one.”

“So it’s like 21.”

“Not really, because aces are only elevens in defense. Okay, you will get it when we start playing.”

“Hey Jer, how’s it?” a handsome, tall person from another table greets.

“I’ll beat your ass later, Melkin, an old score calls.”

“You and your scores,” Melkin relents.

Jer splits the deck in half by color, giving me the gray cards and taking the green ones for himself. He instructs me to place three of them face down on the table. We both drew six cards and lay half face down in front of each other; Jer stopped me before I could lay down the next half.

“We have to do this part a certain way. Lay your first face-up card on the far left, the far right, and the last in the center. Now draw six more; you are destruction, so go first.”

“I choose a pile to attack with?”

“Yes.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Jer has an ace, a four, and a seven, showing from left to right. I have twelve with a seven showing, fifteen with a ten showing, and eleven with an eight showing. The centermost is most likely to win. Jer reveals a three under the four, so I take the lot. Two more cards reinforce the lines before Jer’s turn. We soak up a few rounds of ale while battling for supremacy.

Shannai insistently stirs me by shaking. Nails stab eyes with the glaring of an obnoxiously open window. What good is the cover if you leave it hanging to the side? Once adjusted, Shannai stares from centimeters above my face.

“Come on, up and at'em, ain’t got all day boozer.”

“I’ll murder you, your family, and your family’s family,” I grumble, fighting to place the pillow over my eyes.

“You will have to wake up first.”

“I am up. How about you be less loud?”

After breakfast in a cafe de campus, it’s the shopping district, seeking a disguise for the pleb. We stop in front of an ornate sign that reads: Vatachelle. The windows display silk formal wear in the season's style, a three-piece ensemble with a short top, an equally short jacket, and a frilly skirt or pants.

The fear of ambling in lessens with the aroma of baking pistachio butter. Insides, it's ten degrees more comfortable than outside. A short person with well-maintained facial hair and a perpetual sneer greets us. Though their attitude is jovial, the sideways glance they slip does not pass unnoticed. Spines reflexively straighten at the slight.

“Good to be acquainted. I am Kret, child of Vatachelle and proprietor of this establishment.”

“I am Shannai of Sheik Sage,” she name drops, taking my arm.

I add before she can claim me, “Vesh’dan.”

The difference in reactions between her title and mine is stark. Her priority-laden name wets his eyes with reverence and a touch of greed, whereas my name elicits a thin veil of contempt, unaccustomed to serving such rabble. Though that works, it is enjoyable even.

“Yes, now that the pleasantries are out of the way, how about you fetch us some of whatever emanates that aroma as we peruse your... wears?” I finish the last bit with a turned-up nose, stifling a laugh.

“I was hoping-” Kret guffaws.

“Be gone. We don’t need your help,” I command.

“Was that necessary?”

“Not in the least.”

“They aren't so bad.”

“Ehh, not the worst. You can’t speak to the worst like that, which lends to their awfulness.”

“You got me there, but we will need their help, so try not to push them too far.”

Seasonal garments have paled with fall. Customers are appointed their attendants as they enter to choose their new fall fabrics. They range from gowns to formal robes, a variety that only shares the trait of expense. I gravitate to traditional robes, never being interested in extravagance for the sake of itself.

I have to admit the gowns are gorgeous— but the robes resonate with me, especially a black one that sits off to the corner. It lines in a soft dark green velvet, with clean matte black silk on the outside. The style's lack of widened sleeves or similar flourishes flatters my frame more.

“I should have known you would pick the most understated piece here.” Shannai jokes, taking the other sleeve to inspect it.

“It is simple… I like it.”

“I did not know you were so decisive. Try it on first,” Shan grumbles, taking the robe off the rack.

“Is there a place?” I ask with a glance around.

“It’s a robe? Here. Use this here; that's what it’s for,” Shan admonishes, handing it to me with a look.

“Fine, my modesty will go unattended for expedience.”

The small stage at the center of the back Wall has two couches. I step onto it after the prompting and look into the mirrors.

“Playing it up.”

“Getting into character. I have a ball to attend if you have not heard.” I coo,

examining the robe.

“That’s the one, huh? You’ll insist on wearing that old thing.”

“It’ll have to do. Tis the only one here to rival my beauty.”

“I think you have a point there.”

The now nervous proprietor arrives a minute later with small, delectably moist biscuits, each mouthful of macadamia nuts and white chocolate. Accompanying the morsels is light green tea with hints of jasmine, offsetting the sweetness. Our scarfing of the treats lacks decorum, causing the person serving us to perspire.

They cough to interrupt our display, “Ahem— will you need more time to peruse?”

“I am rather decided,” I mumble through biscuits.

“Yes… It fits, and yourself, high lady?”

“I already have a gown.”

“Oh? Are you sure it is okay for me to get mine now?” I interrupt.

“I brought you here, dummy; my guest needs clothes,” she assures me.

“You have to match your parents?”

“My whole direct family will have coordinated outfits.”

“Of course, I apologize.” The owner apologizes from a prostrate bow.

“It is fine,” she waves off.

We quench our hunger with a popular brunch spot in the main square. The house special is a roasted pepflower and alfredo over pasta. Spiciness abounds in each chuck— then calming under the rich ministrations of the pistachio parmesan. A dark stout pulls out the sweet butter of alfredo— but before I can fully revel, the meal finishes with raspberry sherbert, topped with whipped almond cream. We leave the cafe with loose buttons, though the feeling burns away with meanders in the main street, checking cheerios and tapping tomes.

Once she noticed me eyeing it, Shannai purchased an etching tool after distracting attention with a cupcake from a shop named Chocolate Filled Chocolates. We speak of our mutual interests, nothing delving deeper than favorite things and places. The size of the talk is a refreshing break from the relentless depths of studying. I am relaxed— my sense of surroundings falls away, so content am I in her company, with her manner—

Two people enter the square and stand out, approximately a hundred meters from my position, on a trajectory to intersect within forty seconds. They waltz in clear contrast to the other patrons, an off-ness to the vibe, and one slips a glance directly at me. I shift our trajectory, watching as they adjust to match. Two other groups make a similar adjustment, all glancing at each other. Fuck.

“Don’t react. Three groups of two people are following. Should we take evasive measures or choose a more offensive approach?”

“Do you think you can take them?”

“I can’t say; the attack's brazenness leads me to believe at least a few are capable. Also, it can be assumed the mastermind is well connected and has a plan in place.”

“I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have gotten you involved.”

“You?” I stutter, almost losing my composure as well as my stride.

“They are probably here to attack me. It is a strange place, but they are likely hoping to send some message. I’ll handle it.”

“Umm, you don’t need help?”

“No, it is fine,” she notes before running towards the nearest group, screaming, “You’ll regret taking their money.” Drawing the attention of the square, devoid of guards.

Fuck— How did I not notice the exodus of every guard near me? I have been in the clouds. I catch only part of the person's retort, something referring to her smallness, or it could have been about age. She disappears as the attacker attempts to grab her, appearing behind them, only visible after the one who remarked slumps to the ground. The next collapses moments later, and she's gone before they hit the ground. The other two groups pull out small purple amulets that glow faintly, and they are too far from me to determine the runes.

She appears above them and stabs out; when did she get— before I finish that thought, the attacker throws up a block, and she appears in the area they leave open. They’re both falling quicker than I can register. She appears in front of the final group only seconds after knocking out the first person.

“Are you stupid or suicidal?”

“Neither, we exterminate corrupted scum.”

“What you believe doesn’t matter. The fact is that you have no chance— wait. Exterminate? You’re not with a family?”

“We are not.”

“Okay? So you came here to die?”

“We had assumed you wouldn't stick around to help. Guess the garbage must be useful to you,” the larger of the two remarks, gesturing to me.

“Huh? Vesh? What do you want with Vesh?”

“That is not your business, but we will not pursue you if you leave.”

“I am Shannai of Sheikh Sage. You have accosted me on the streets built by my forebears. And you dare speak of my business.” She roars, adopting an intimidating posture.

“We are noble too, and we will end that filth.” They laugh, mocking her stance.

“I have no more patience for you. Next time you wish to assault me or my friend, you best come correct.” She finishes and returns to my side before the two assailants fall. “What was that about?” She turns, that fury pointing right at me.

“I don’t quite know.”

“Did you know this would happen?”

“I was worried about leaving the academy, but I have regularly come to this district. I assumed it would be safe because of how well-guarded it is.”

“Well, speak up next time.”

“Kinda caught me off guard.”

“I’ll give you that, follow me.”

“Sure.”

We scamper down several side streets until a sign reading: Tanner’s Tinctures. She doesn't slow, pulling me shirt-first into a garden with bricks and mortar peeking through heaps of plants in different stages of dehydration. Intermittent shelves with hundreds of small compartments hold glass vials ordered alphabetically from right to left. A tall person in a vibrantly green outfit appears from the back room before we make it halfway to the counter. Their frame is gangly, with a long, thin neck leading to a face with prominent features. Gray eyes rimmed in brown meet our gazes, surprise slipping as they glance at Shannai.

“Shannai, to what do I owe the honor?”

“Cut the shit, Weasel. Get a clean-up crew at the main square in front of Balds and a hole for my friend here.”

“Well, probably, I will have to move—”

“Do it.”

“Woah there, Hole? Can’t I go back to the campus?”

“Normally, I would agree, but the brazen attack gives me pause. Whoever ordered this would need influence— but it is off.”

“Couldn’t you knock them around again, figure out what’s going on?”

“Not really. With mages’ preparation, having enough resources to buy or commission something to negate almost anyone is key. They had something on them to make you useless.”

“My magic, I have more than that leg to stand on,” I defend.

“Oh, yes. You are tough.”

“I am tough,..”

“Yeah.”

“Yes— Leave them with me,” the weaselly person interrupts.

“What will you be doing?” I ask, breaking the brief pause.

“I’ll have a word with our house speaker. They should be able to decrease the likelihood of an attack. We also need to determine the underlying intentions.”

“What am I going to do?”

“Do not give me that. Half the people in this city have someone after them, and you are not special. If anything, the level of assistance you have garnered up to this point is the most unique thing about your situation.” She assures me before disappearing, the air she transferred leaves a light smell of smoke and silk.

Weasel's rigid demeanor disappears upon Shannai’s departure. Posture drops and bends at an uncomfortable angle. They scan my usable surfaces, reaching my eyes and catching them with a glare. I know a weasel that works in the shopping district, but this is not them. Could it be a code name? Maybe an organization.

“Don’t spose ya’s a noble?” They speak a mushed dialect that I am less accustomed to, having only heard it a handful of times.

“No, can’t say I’m so lucky.”

“Be more’a curse in ways. Spouse, they like ya talkin' em’ up, doe.”

“In a way.”

“This’ll be the way, if’n ya don’t mind.” They instruct, gesturing me through the door.

I follow them through the curtained doorframe, finding myself in a room similar to the other, except the herbs are all dried, and a table covered in glass sits against the back Wall. They meander about, swirling in patterns, administering masses of bubbling concoctions coalescing. The sight brings back memories of salves prepared during creation ceremonies. The person steps to the table, fiddling with a small knob and ceasing the bubbling of a container before turning back to me and pointing at a chair.

“Take a seat. Can't leave this lyin.”

“Alright.”

“What’re these people doin'? Comin after ya?”

“Hmm,” I sit on the denoted stool, “They aren’t friends of mine.”

“Ya can trust me.”

“Can I? Weasel is a strange name for a trustworthy fellow.”

“Ya will trust ya’re money with a banker, why not ya’re secrets with me?”

“Aren’t you more of a burglar than a banker?”

“Ya see a difference between em’?”

“You have a point, though it is not sharp enough to push me from mine.”

“If I say I won’t help ya?” they weasel.

“I do not think you have a choice.”

“A’ight lil one, ya stood fast, so we’ll be on our way.”

“Before we go, is your name Weasel? I know another named weasel…”

“There be many of us named Weasels. Get on wit’ it.” They gesture for me to follow.