"Did you break my nose?"
"I didn't punch you that hard."
I lay on my back, dull pain throbbing through my body, making my legs work like jelly and my head drink drying mud. My arms were useless things, and I couldn’t feel my face. My mind released it’s tension— the slow death of my concentration as I slowly gave in to exhaustion and faded into unconsciousness. I knew, distantly, that what I was going through was just the disjunctive backlash of having my spell forcefully ended— going from altering the fabric of reality to lying on your back and very much not altering reality had a way of shocking the system.
The sand beneath me felt warm and very soft— like a massive blanket— the sky above me empty and clear through the skylight. If I squinted hard enough, I could even ignore the skylight’s lattice. If I let my consciousness fray enough— I could drown out the questions of concern that both Clara and Arthur had begun asking while standing over me.
For a slow heartbeat, my mind wandered— and I imagined myself laying on a beach I’d read about, slowly waking up as my two friends pestered me.
For a slow heartbeat, I imagined myself falling again— Clara and Arthur staring in horrified shock as the clouds swallowed me, as the last thing I saw were a pair of molten gold eyes.
Those golden eyes.
Reality doused my senses, and I coughed and sputtered and groaned— imminently aware of how much pain I was actually in. The speckled, cloudy sky beyond the skylight of the atrium seemed to mock me as my vision wavered. It wasn’t a difficult thing to see jeering faces in the clouds. It helped little that I wasn’t exactly processing everything that Arthur was saying— just comprehending that he was jabbering something about my wellbeing to me. I sniffled, blinking away the water in my eyes.
Ow. Ow. Ow. In a way, the way my eyes stung and my head hurt reminded me of waking up half-buried.
I staggered to my feet with the grace of a dying rat— which is, to say, I gagged and huffed like I was drowning, then did my utmost to keep my radiating headache from affecting the way I stood. I coughed, taking Arthur’s hand when offered, muttering about how I was fine. Blinking away the stars in my eyes, I scooped up my— thankfully— intact glasses and False Philosopher’s stone before shooting a half-hearted glare at Clara.
“Was it necessary to punch me that hard?” I asked, sighing through a painful throat.
“Sorry,” Clara responded unapologetically, the concern in her eyes betraying her tone. “You looked about ready to gut me.”
“I would never.”
Talon had appeared at our side, rumbling. “Trainee Laurent. Mistakes.”
I inclined my head, shutting my eyes. I swallowed the wince. The back of my eyelids felt like straw. “Over reliance on my aspect, Professor Talon.”
Talon graveled, “Over reliance on the same strategy. Ignorance concerning the other spells you could’ve employed instead.” He turned to Clara. “Trainee Eigenlicht. Exemplary, despite the lackluster opponent.”
Clara bowed, her tone steely with a hint of pride. “Thank you, Professor Talon.”
The large man turned and walked away. “Dismissed.”
After Talon turned the corner and left our sight, the three of us dusted ourselves off and stalked off to the infirmary— Clara to get checked up, and I to probably heal whatever had happened to my face. We walked in relative silence, Clara and I since it seemed— unspoken, at least— that we’d continue our mutual distaste for one another. Arthur because he caught onto the atmosphere between us, and was probably deciding what to say.
I didn’t mind, as my thoughts had looped back around on what I’d nearly done. I realized, jarringly, that the odd sensation had actually occurred before— both on the night of our kidnapping, and the third in my fight with Clara. Exhaustion and pain, without the cloying fog of adrenaline or the muck that Burnout threw on my higher faculties made it easier to focus on the burning gold eyes and the static sky impression that I’d felt.
Burnout related hallucination, or something else?
Burnout didn’t typically produce hallucinations— and while the state I’d been in might have had a had to play in it— I suspected not— especially not after experiencing it for a third time, with the same hallucination the first two times. I’d not heard of Strain-induced hallucinations, but a precedent as well as my limited knowledge didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.
Then, I wondered, something else?
What that something else could’ve been eluded me— I had very little knowledge in traditional summoning— Conjuration, the discipline it was a part of, sure— Summoning? I barely even knew how the traditional Familiar ritual worked— despite how popular it’d become. At most— I knew that concept to be a binding and mutually beneficial contract formed by mage to Familiar— how they found that Familiar alluded me.
I’d heard, once, that ‘Familiar’ was a term coined exclusively for those kinds of contracts, and not an actual classification of creature. More likely— the thing I’d seen, if not a hallucination was some form of spirit. A spirit could and would most likely be the answer— though the kind of spirit, I couldn’t be certain. The popular ones I knew— but typical elementals, ghosts, and seraphim didn’t seem to fit with the things I saw or felt.
That is to say— if the figure I had saw could be categorized as such.
To say I knew frustratingly little would’ve been an understatement, and my usual answer— retreating to my library to comb through my probably-thousands of books, had little to no guarantee of holding an answer.
Though, the answer whispered, perhaps Belfaust’s library will have something?
“— Elle? Elle?” Arthur’s voice cut through my thoughts. “You okay?”
“Huh? I— yeah, yeah. Sorry, thinking about stuff, did you ask me something?”
Clara shot me a look that said she knew something, but didn’t want to press. “Arthur wants to know your schedule, Laurent.”
Briefly, I thought back. “Alchemy with Fleming— as I’ve told you, the required Practical Combat courses with Talon, and…” I dug through my pocket— only to remember that my bag, along with my clothes, were stuck in a locker a two minutes walk the other direction. “… some foundational lessons.”
“Why’s both your schedules so empty?” Arthur asked.
Clara answered before I could. “Special exemption for her research. I’ve got one too— just so you know— for my own stuff.”
“Oh— huh, that seems fair, then. Elle— the thing you’re researching—“
“— doesn’t exempt me entirely,” I absently replied, already tuning him out. “I have to teach a foundational class on spellcasting occasionally…”
But what could that woman had been? If not a hallucination or a spirit?
The more I pulled at the thread, the more I realized the less I knew— a fact that silently irked me. Arthur said something else I didn’t quite catch, and all the while we walked towards the infirmary, I thought of the golden eyes that had burned their way into my memory. All the while, each step only cemented the fact that I needed to visit the library after everything.
[][][]
As I adjusted my cloak and the bag on my shoulder, turning my head up and down the corridor to look for Arthur, a voice caught my attention.
"Estelle Laurent?” an unfamiliar voice said.
An unusual address lacking the usual ‘lady’— disrespect, but usage of your full name— acknowledgment of your family. Respect given— but not deferment despite the rank. An address that implies that the speaker is equal to the person spoken to. I bristled and turned, shoving the unhelpful analysis away.
A wiry-thin man with rumpled, wavy black-to-deep-ocean-green hair stood nearby, his hands in the pockets of an ankle-length coat that looked far too big for him. His eyes were bright— a stark contrast from his near-disheveled appearance; his boots were well-worn; the vest and shirt beneath his coat were wrinkled; the pince-nez glass sat in a vest pocket— visibly fogged; his skin was sallow with a— I frowned— a gray undertone, oddly enough; and deep bags sat beneath his eyes. He held an expression of faint strain— as if he wasn’t sure in what he was doing, but had a decent enough idea to attempt it. His was also a face I recognized— if the popularity of the man plastering him across every other newspaper wasn’t enough.
“Professor Fleming,” I inclined my head. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Oh— please, Sigurd is fine— I don’t come to you as a professor— rather, I came to you to make an offer. If you’re free at the moment?”
Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
I took a glance at my pocket watch. I had time— and while I felt a little bad for making Arthur wait longer on me, I reasoned Clara was keeping him adequate company. “Of course.”
“Wonderful.” A satisfied smile came to his face. “Then let us speak in my office.”
To call my alchemy professor’s office a mess would be a kindness. More accurately— it looked to be caught halfway between someone who had just moved in and someone who had lived in a space for far too long. Large boxes and crates lay cracked open atop one another, engulfing the floor-to-ceiling window they sat beside. All the while, the wall opposite of the window, which sat laden with precise rows of shelves, had flasks and beakers and pots and plants meticulously laid out.
As the two of us walked in, he quickly moved to clear a space on his disk, haphazardly shoving stacks of papers and pens into drawers. I restrained the urge to frown. Despite some of the windows being open, the room smelled almost overwhelmingly of sulfur, medicinal herb, and something metallic I couldn’t place.
“Please, please,” my alchemy professor said, moving his chair around to give me. He dug out another spare, unadorned chair for himself. “Excuse the mess, have a seat.”
After a heartbeat— I couldn’t really believe that this was the renowned Sigurd Fleming, foremost alchemist of our age— but looks could be deceiving, and I sat down. I prompted him to begin after he finally settled down in his chair opposite of the table. “So? What did you wish to speak of?”
“Yes— yes, of course— but before we begin— I really do just wish to commend you on your spar earlier. You showcased great skill with your aspect, as well as Transmutation.”
I felt like frowning, but settled instead on a small, polite smile. This reeked of someone buttering me up before making a disadvantageous offer. “Thank you, Professor Fleming, but I still lost in the end— had that been a real fight I wouldn’t be sitting in front of you.”
“Oh— “ he looked embarrassed “— please, just Sigurd, is fine, I come to you as an equal, not your professor.”
“Professor Sigurd, then.”
He nodded. “Believe it or not, I actually have some experience with combat— I had some comments regarding your defeat— so to say.”
Strain crept into my smile. “Respectfully, Professor Sigurd, I’ve heard Talon’s opinion, and his assessment of my mistakes. I would think that would be enough, no?”
Sigurd smiled then, earnest and eerily similar to Arthur, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes properly. “Professor Talon is a very straightforward man— he believes if one has the appropriate tools, they should be used to effectively deal with the problem.” He held up his hand. “Not that the mindset is a bad thing— it got him through the war and the coup, after all— but seeing as we are of similar vocations— perhaps my perspective on the matter would prove more helpful?”
I debated his intentions in my head. It wouldn’t hurt to hear his ideas— even if this is just set-up for him offering you a terrible deal— just keep your mind open.
He continued on, his smile wavering as he took my deliberation as hesitation. “I understand your interests may not lie in perfecting your fighting ability— but I thought best to mention it, in case,” he said, his voice having taken on a slightly worried tone.
“… In case?”
“Well— I suspect crime may be on the rise. You’ve heard of the Turin Workshop explosion— yes?” he clicked his tongue, while my blood froze in my veins. “Awful thing, really, so many people got hurt. I had a couple friends up there— too, got caught in the crossfire, supposedly.”
I forced my expression still— unwilling to betray the turmoil that had begun boiling beneath my skin. How much does he know? None of our faces were hidden— what are the chances he’s lying? Why would he lie? There’s little reason for him to lie— as far as I know, no one knows we were there— other than us, and the Warden— did his wife tell him? No— that seems improbable—
“Of course— I understand if you do not wish to hear it still— It is respectable to want to delve immediately into business.”
I silently mulled over his previous statements, devoting only enough attention to get out a flat, “Go on.”
His face brightened not unlike Arthur’s. “Miss Estelle— I’ve noticed that your spellcasting is very straightforward— can I ask if there’s a reason you focus exclusively on spikes?”
“There’s… there’s no particular reason. They’re the easiest to create— and sufficient to get someone to surrender when it’s pointed at their throat…”
“Exactly— I will not fault you for reliance on your aspect— I think reliance on your strengths is a good thing— I myself focus on creating potions that may help me in a fight— but have you considered creating other shapes with your ice and manipulating it then?”
“That requires additional focus on my part,” I steadily answered, the implications of his earlier statements still playing through my head. “… which detracts from my ability to defend myself— it’s too much to generate ice to defend myself— while simultaneously Transmuting anything complicated.”
“Why did you not move more during your spar? Was Eigenlicht too quick?” He tilted his head. “Are you unable to Shroud?”
My lips thinned. “I cannot.”
“Unfortunate,” he said— in a way that made it sound sincere. “An Expression could’ve possibly solved some of those problems.”
“Yes— I understand that.” My annoyance slightly grew. I couldn’t Shroud— a fact I’d had to grow up with despite the fact that almost every other mage at my level could. “Do you have additional insight, Professor, or may we move on to the actual topic?”
“Just a thought— but is it not possible for you to bind a spell into an item that would generate ice for you?”
“That—“ I stalled, giving it an actual thought, before filing it away for later inspection “— could possibly work. I’m not sure.”
He nodded. “Please let me know if it does— I apologize for stalling for so long, but let us move on to the actual meeting, yes?”
I nodded, and his smile grew reassuringly greasy.
“So— it has come to my attention,” he said, “that recently, your Dimensionalism research had hit a roadblock.”
“I…“ I narrowed my eyes. How does he know that? Bad question— you don’t know enough, just focus on what he’s saying. I shelved that worry for later inspection too— still privately mulling over whether he knew of my involvement with the workshop. “Yes— yes, that’s correct.”
"I would like to extend my hand, in a— kind of— assistance.”
My frown grew.
Sigurd continued, slowly, “I would do this by giving you clearance— to books, restricted research— If you’d like, I’ll put in a word with my other colleagues, and personally assist you should you need some form of alchemy performed or item created.”
My eyes narrowed. If I had suspicions about how much he knew— to say I was suspicious of things freely given would’ve been an understatement. Nothing came free. The Empire’s history stood as testament to that very idea. “Why?”
His eyes widened in excitement— or rather, the rumpled nervousness I’d seen in him had been shed. He gestured, his tone growing quick. “I’m sure you’ve experienced it before: the tiresome slog of requisitioning funding from anyone— which slows down everything; the work; the research; the progress that you could’ve been making— wasted.”
He sighed, reining in his outburst with a slow breath. “What I mean to say is— even brilliancy and ambition can be squandered by bureaucracy. It’s been my understanding you’ve been whittling away at this research for close to a decade, yes?”
Slowly, I nodded. “That’s correct.”
“How much of that time was spent stuck because you lacked the funds or the means?”
Too often, the answer came, too often.
But I still didn’t know what he wanted— he gave a brief reason; that he disliked seeing potential wasted— but the fact that his motive boiled down to— “out of the goodness of my heart”? No thanks. I didn’t buy it.
“I can see you’re still suspicious.” His expression softened, and he held up his hands. Silver glinted from beneath the cuff of his coat. “Think of it as my making of an investment— you and your research is promising. I’ll help you here— and down the line you help me. I attach my name to your project— you attach yours to mine— and both of us climb higher in the world.”
Something felt off— but I couldn’t put a finger to it. I played dumb, trying to buy myself time to think it all through. “Who says I want something like that? Who says I’m ambitious? Maybe I’m languishing in my family fortune— the years I spent waiting for funds or means spent twiddling my thumbs.”
Sigurd laughed, and feeling of wrong grew. He flashed a bright, disappearing smile at me. “Please, Miss Estelle, we are to be student and professor in the coming year— possibly colleagues, should you choose— Let us treat each other with the proper respect. One does not study a dead-end discipline for a decade without some level of ambition.”
I laughed— forced one out— because my heart felt very opposed to any sort of joyful display while it pounded. My smile strained. “Of course— Professor Sigurd. You’ve caught me there!”
He paused for a moment, staring, before his smile came back. “Have you an answer to my offer?”
I couldn’t come to a conclusion— both as to the worry of how much he knew, and his motive. “I…”
Maple’s advice suddenly echoed in my head, clashing with the danger I felt. The most important step is the first.
Was this a step? Or a trap I wasn't seeing?
I swallowed, and did my best at a small smile. “Could I have some time to consider the proposal?”
Sigurd looked surprised for a moment, before he quickly nodded, his oily smile coming back to his face. “Yes, yes. Of course you may, but please remember that a sooner decision would be wiser.”
I stood, making an effort to hide the shakiness in my enervated limbs, before retreating towards the door. I inclined my head before I left. “Of course. Thank you for the opportunity, Professor Sigurd. I’ll be sure to consider it and inform you of my decision in due time.”
He muttered something I didn’t hear as I shut the door— and I finally let out a breath on the other side, clutching at my heart. Steady, steady, I silently willed it, calm down. Think rationally— how much of what you saw were things you wanted to see?
He never disclosed who his friends were— for all you know, he could be lying, and the fact that he mentioned it to you a simple coincidence. Though, unlikely, it is wouldn’t be strange for him to have friends there— Turin was an alchemical workshop. There is little point jumping at shadows. Everything he said was too vague— too open-ended. I breathed out. Focus— focus on your tasks at hand.
I breathed in and out again, waiting for my heart to slowly subside it’s drumming. I cleared my head. Benefit of the doubt— or paranoia?
Can you afford the latter? What do you need to do?
My checklist had been relatively simple; after my impromptu meeting, return to Arthur and prepare for our evening appointment, then, look into the Dreamspinning request, then the auction catalog, then the mysterious voice that had visited me twice during that night.
Was I willing to tack a nebulous, “verify my professor’s claims” onto it? A task I had no way of knowing how to complete?
No, rationale spoke, not really, so what can you do right now?
Before I could second-guess myself, I straightened and turned down the hallway, towards the library, the earlier relief and joy that had plagued my morning finally dying off in favor of well-founded and much more rational caution. In there, I found nothing pertinent; medical journals detailing things that probably didn’t apply to me; old Dreamspinner accounts of their patient’s Shades returning to haunt them; stories spun by authors I’d never heard of; hearsay of malevolent curses and spirits plaguing those who incurred their ire; ancient myths and legends detailing long extinct monsters.
None of it matched the voice I’d heard twice that night. None of it spoke of a roiling, static sky. None of it matched the description of a charcoal-snow woman with molten eyes and a knife-like grin.