"You hear about it?"

"What? Oh— uh, yeah."

“Let’s go home,” I had absently said, and Arthur beamed.

Once, when we were younger, Arthur and I had been together. Not together, but just with each other, hanging out, playing around like the children we were. We’d been messing around, running around my mothers then-verdant garden, and one thing led to another, and I had tripped, scraping my knee.

I hadn’t cried, nor had I fixed it— I hadn’t yet learned the rudimentary first aid spells. I remember I had stared at it for a bit, wondering what— if anything at all— I should’ve done about it. Arthur had then grabbed my hand and tugged me along, worriedly rambling about how we had to get home to clean it before it got infected.

Home, was such a loaded, foreign word.

Derived from house, the words were often used interchangeably.

But a house was not a home.

A house is a shelter. You use it to hide away from storms, from weather or animals that would otherwise maim or kill you.

A home was a space one was meant to feel safe, where one could rest and eat and recuperate after a long day of… whatever. It’s a place filled with people who you treated as family, who trusted you and did their best to support you. It’s a place filled with your silent loves, from the board that always squeaked, to the people that were always laughing too loud.

I lived in a house, but not a home.

Arthur had tugged me along, shouting, “Let’s go home!” in that wonderfully joyful voice he always had.

It’s strange, in hindsight, how vivid that memory of mine was. How much of that knee-scraping pain had dulled and grown warm and tingly, like delightful bubbles rising to the surface. How strange it made me feel, too shocked to really resist being pulled along. How easily he’d thrown the word out, despite himself. How badly I wished it were true.

“Let’s go home,” I had accidentally said, and I found I didn’t want to take it back.

[][][]

Arthur and I made our way up to the top of the stairs, shedding the sweltering heat of the Diyaflos Markets that clung to us, and leaving behind the ruckus of shouting men and hissing steam for the comfort of still, silent outside.

Shuddering at the cold, I tightened my cloak, mourning the lack of a hood for the snow falling into my hair. It would melt, and then my head would be both cold and wet. Maybe, if I was particularly unlucky, I’d get sick again and have to pay another visit to a healer to get it fixed.

Despite the fact that I never particularly liked the cold, I found a part of me enjoying it— the snowy gust and it’s oddly purifying quality. Something about the cold felt clean and comfortingly empty, nothing like the artificial cleanliness of a clinic, and a far cry from the acrid, muggy must of the Diyaflos District.

“Is Stephen going to be coming?” Arthur asked from beside me, glancing warily at the long road ahead of us. He sounded put-off.

I didn’t blame him. The snow never let up in Tisali, which meant the road before us, which wrapped precariously around the edge of a mountain cliff, was covered in a fresh layer of snow. Along the road, at regular intervals were little, bespelled lights that never flickered— because this was a rich section of the city, funded primarily through the taxes of the nobles— but even then, it appeared that eternally cleared roads were too much for them.

At least it’s not going to be slippery and dark, I failingly reassured myself, now it’ll just be slippery.

I took a deep breath, sighed, and came to terms with the next hour or so being spent trekking through ankle-high snow. “No,” I replied. My shoulders drooped, and I began walking. “I told him he could head home after dropping us off— didn’t want to force him to wait in the cold again.”

Arthur made a noise of dejection, before moving to walk beside me.

Silence reigned, and I occupied myself with passing thoughts and the steady crunching of snow underfoot.

The city stretched across the horizon on my right, occupying much of my vision. Ancient clock towers stood interspersed between gargantuan bridges, faintly gleaming bronze among the city’s gray in the near-sunset light. The bridges, suspended over freezing waterways, formed a latticework of dappled, water-stained mortar arches. Oddly enough, the clock towers, in combination with the complex weave of the snow-laden bridges, reminded me of a spiderweb, one clinging to droplets of rain, framed in the last light of a setting sun.

Beneath the bridges, perched together in the shadows, were buildings overlooking densely packed streets littered with muddying snow. They sat stacked atop one another, overlapping and leaning in ever-jagged roofing and muddy, stone-hewn architecture. Like peas in a pod— if the peas were made of spears and hated each other. The dying light didn’t reach them, and there, they sat in the shadows— gray and aging-pink brick among the darkening snow, lacking the bespelled street lights of the upper districts.

From so far away, it all looked so very still, like a moment saved in amber. It brought an odd sense of tight-lipped appreciation out of me, even if I normally hated the city. But, among that appreciation, sat another feeling. That of bone-deep tiredness.

Amidst the creeping cold, bathed in the light of the dying sun, and beside my favorite person in the world, I felt tired. My feet didn’t drag, my eyes didn’t droop, but I felt the sigh building before I let it out. I bit it down, focusing on the city that stretched farther and further than I could see.

But I found the appreciation had deserted me, ebbed out by a draining tired that had nothing to do with the cold. The silence and stillness served to amplify it, leaving me along with my worry and exhaustion. I couldn’t stop the frown from reaching my face.

From this angle, even Tisali looked tired. Banked by deep drifts of growing snow, the city sat silent and dormant, devoid of street or candle light. It felt like a gasp— a cloudy, last breath of someone or something dying. Though that may have just been my bias. People still lived in all those homes, leading their own lives and worrying about their own things. Tisali was not dead nor dying. If anything, it was the very opposite.

But the thought still made me uncomfortable. It sparked a roiling need to escape, or focus on something else at the time. Focus on anything but how I felt. Haphazardly, I chose a random, perfectly mundane topic and began talking.

“Are you ready for the term?” I asked, not really caring what the answer would be.

“Huh?”

“The school term— in a couple of weeks.”

“Oh— ah…” Arthur made a noise like dissatisfaction. “I haven’t actually gotten the syllabus yet.”

“Oh.”

Right. Certain courses get their outline early.

“I mean— everything’ll be fine, yeah?”

“What,” I snorted, “like the last three years you tried to waited till the last moment to start getting supplies?”

“Hey— hey! At least I was able to wake up on time— you came late to the year’s orientation.”

I scoffed, “The beginning orientation is always the same— the headmaster spouts something about new beginnings, expectations to see us succeed— Talon always makes a statement regarding his class and the necessity of diligence that sways the underclassmen.”

Arthur muttered something pettily under his breath. I went on, ignoring it, “There’s a new professor, did you know?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Cornelius finally gave up the ghost.”

“He died?” Arthur sounded genuinely concerned.

“No, he just got fired.”

“For what?”

“Elderly reasons, I’m sure… though his replacement is good, I hear.”

“Who is it?”

“Fleming. Sigurd Fleming.”

Arthur was silent for a heartbeat. “Fleming like Warden Larissa Fleming?”

“Yeah.”

“What is he teaching?”

“I’ve got him for Alchemy.”

“Do you…” He grew contemplative, brow furrowed. “Do you know if he teaches practical combat?”

I laughed. “Thinking of getting his autograph?”

“I— no!” he stammered, “If anything, I want the Gilded Cage’s autograph! I just thought that I could ask Mr. Fleming if I could meet her.”

The Gilded Cage, was just an epithet for Larissa Fleming, who had an outstanding enough career to land her among the ranks of the greats. It wasn’t any wonder that Arthur held her in such high regard, any aspiring Keeper or Seeker did. Except maybe me, and a couple others.

You see, the Empire’s method of law enforcement came in two forms: Keepers, who, as the name suggested, would “keep” the peace, enforce the laws that were laid down, and generally worked to stabilize and protect the areas they were assigned. While Seekers, were those that had chosen to leave, or explore. In this day and age, they were primarily used in attempts to reclaim bits of the territories we’d lost to remnants of the war.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Of course there were many more little subdivisions of Keepers and Seekers, but the delineations were mainly drawn across what purpose they served.

But for Keepers that had completed some kind of task or otherwise great feat, like Larissa, they were awarded the title of Warden, a position that afforded them a— frankly— mind-numbing number of privileges that bordered on blatant favoritism. They’d often also get an epithet associated with them relating to their feat. I wasn’t sure what Larissa’s claim-to-fame was, but I’m sure Arthur knew. Of course, their counterparts, Seekers, beheld a similar position that afforded many of the same privileges, called Catalysts.

A strange thought occurred to me as we walked. “Hey, Arthur.”

“What’s up?”

“Does Maple know you’d be out with me today?”

“Ah.” He made a sound of realization, before looking forlorn.

I rushed to reassure him. “I— I mean, I’m sure it’s fine. You can take care of yourself. There’s no reason she’d get angry with you again!”

His expression was still strained, and I continued.

“Maybe you could get her a gift?”

“I mean— that’s not a bad idea actually!” He brightened up. “Let’s turn around.”

Turning around means this walk will be cold, then become hot and moist in all the worst places, then cold and freezing again, the only waking part of my rationale muttered. Even in my fatigue, I knew I’d rather any other alternative.

“Absolutely not,” I immediately said.

“Oh c’mon! It’s not even that far— we’ve been walking for like, what, five minutes?”

“It has certainly not been five minutes— try forty?”

“Okay— even I know thats not possible.”

“… Five gold says it is.” My hand found my watch in my pocket, and I silently set to winding it forward, counting the rotations.

I must’ve let too much of my expression show, since after a considering look, he sheepishly looked away, despairing, “I forgot I’m talking with a mage.”

“Wow,” I said in mock-offense, “what’re you insinuating, Arthur?”

“Mom always said not to bet with mages…” he continued.

“Oh come on, we both know you’d know if I started casting you’d know.”

“Okay Miss, ‘I won’t need any components to win,’ Laurent.”

“I—“ I flushed. “I let you win that match.”

“I won’t need any components to win,” I boasted, Arthur standing opposite of me, thirty feet away, as was customary.

We stood in a large rectangular area filled with sand and ringed with chain-link fence and deep torches. No one stood on the other side of the fence, or in the upper canopies of the Sparring Atrium. The moon sat overhead, cloudless and bright and alone.

Arthur had dragged me here, stating that— and I quote— “needed some fresh air away from your dusty books!”

When I’d stated that I hadn’t wished to take a walk, he’d instead dragged me to the Sparring Atrium, jabbering about how if I wanted to burn ether so badly I could at least brush up on my skills.

“Don’t complain when I knock you on your ass,” I had flatly stated.

“Ha!” Arthur laughed, “we’ll see about that. I’ve been practicing, y’know.”

And then, lulled by the tide of banter and the sleepless drudgery that was my research, I’d made a terribly uncharacteristic boast.

I’ll refrain from explaining further— I’d like to retain some shred of dignity, at least— but to say the very least, I lost. Badly.

“Sure you did.” He nodded along, sounding on the verge of laughter.

“Also— any mage can forgo many of the components.”

“Yeah but what mage does it primarily?”

“I— alright— that’s fair, but I don’t omit everything.”

“Yeah— but you can, and usually drop the verbal component, as well as reducing the somatic to half-hearted waves, Elle.”

“… Point taken.”

Arthur chuckled, and I huffed in amusement. Despite the sharp cold, there was heady warmth growing in my chest as our conversation lulled.

After a heartbeat, maybe two, he let out a slow breath, letting it cloud in front of him. His expression had become soft, still smiling, but wistful at the edges. The expression one makes before they said something that usually made me feel… unpleasant. Dimly, I realized that his expression looked eerily similar to Dmitri’s. My small smile tightened, my comfort stifled and sobered by a tense, tight-lipped solemnity.

Arthur’s breath clouded in front of him. “I’m a bit uncertain.”

“Yeah?” I forced my gaze towards the bleeding horizon.

“Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate.

“What’re you uncertain about?”

“The big exam.”

“The one that’ll determine whether you can be a Seeker?”

“Yeah.”

“This feels like a talk we should have right before the exam, not months from it.”

“Yeah— but every time the heroes start talking about their future right before something big, they die or something really bad happens.”

“When did you read that?” I glanced back, finding him staring straight ahead, looking far into the distance. “I thought you hated those kinds of stories.”

“I… I read enough of them to know.”

Patting his back, I forced some cheer into my voice, “Then you should know that they’re unrealistic.”

“I do. I do.”

“Regardless, our lives aren’t stories, Arthur— whether we had this talk right before the exam or months before it—“

“I know.”

“Then why bring that up?”

“I dunno— nerves, probably?”

“Look, it’ll be fine, we’ll be fine. I’ll have your back, you’ll have mine, right?”

“Yeah…” he sounded marginally happier.

“And then,” I said, my voice creeping higher, “when we’re in dire straits, I’ll take a lethal blow meant for you— then you’ll suddenly get a power up and save the day, right?”

Arthur’s smile came back, and he laughed, short and sounding very forced, but still a laugh. “Usually the hero’s love interest does that.”

I feigned ignorance, goading him on. “What— saving the day or the blow?”

“Oh C’mon, you know I’m talking about the blow.”

“Yeah but we’re not in a story, remember?” I said, grinning, “who says it has to be that way every time?”

“Also, I’d prefer if it were I taking the blow meant for you— you’d crumple like paper— I can actually take a hit,” he replied, smile a little more genuine this time.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I snorted, glancing towards the horizon again. I took a deep breath.

Though, I’d never let you take a lethal blow for me. Never.

Turning back towards Arthur, my breath clouded in front of me, and I saw that he had returned to normal, wonderfully bright and hopeful smile. Reassured, hope-in-worst-of-times Arthur. I smiled back. “We still have so many years ahead of us. If we fail that exam, we try again. No need for us to rush.”

Liar, said the voice that often spoke of useless things. I ignored it. Liar, echoed my Shade’s voice. I ignored that too.

He snorted, “But you? Estelle Laurent, failing an exam? That’s the most unrealistic thing you’ve ever said.”

“Oh— be quiet, you,” I tittered, giving him a light shove, much to his chuckling amusement.

We settled into silence, ignoring the little silent things that went unsaid between us. My mind drifted to memories of earlier: Dmitri and duty, my Shade and her barbs, my repeated failures over the last couple days. The faint warmth trickled to a drip, my wan smile died and flattened, and the hollowing, empty cold was back.

"Huh,” Arthur muttered.

“Hm?” I glanced over to see him squinting into the distance.

“I think I just saw someone.”

“What?” The street ahead of us was devoid of people, filled only with lightless buildings, the still, falling snow, and the periodic street lamp. Behind us was more snow, more buildings, and our snowy footprints…

Footprints.

“Might’ve just been imagining things,” he said, relaxing with a small smile.

My combat professor’s voice echoed in my mind, It’s better to be cautious and wrong then unaware and dead.

“Arthur, was the figure there and gone… or moving?”

“Uh— ducking into an alley— near the corner.”

“Then they’d have left footprints.”

A moment of realization passed before he tensed once more, eyes scanning the street. “Should… should we check it out?”

No, said the cowardly part of me.

“We have to pass that corner anyway.” My hand found the rough cut of False Philosopher’s stone in my pocket, palming it. I considered it a moment more, before swapping it for my wand. “Do you have your sword?”

“No? I thought we’d only be shopping today. Could we also fetch a Keeper?”

“The Empress doesn’t keep Keepers up here— the other nobles with private militias would revolt.”

And they wouldn’t want extra eyes on their private affairs.

Glancing around, I found a small drainage pipe running along a house, and palmed my False Philosopher’s stone again.

Once, Arthur had asked why I kept two Focuses when typical mages only carried one.

“Elle,” he asked, leaning forward on the desk, “why do you have two Focuses?”

I palmed the rough cut of False Philosopher’s stone, rolling it in my hand. It still felt new, awkward and cold in all the wrong ways whenever I used it. “One’s for general purpose—“

“The wand,” he guessed.

I nodded. “Limoge wood and spun gold allows it to conduct ether better, which means spells are more efficient, while producing greater power.”

“And the red one?”

“Dimensionalism has a lot of Conjuration and Transmutation properties… and it’s hellishly cost-inefficient.”

“So?”

“I do my best to make my rituals as efficient as can be.”

“So that’s why you hold both?”

I nodded.

Wordlessly, placing my thumb and forefinger upon the pipe, I let out a cloudy exhale and a section of pipe fell away, morphing into a pale arming blade. I handed it hilt-first to Arthur, who took it with an uncertain look.

“Sorry,” I said, “the weight distribution’s off, and there’s nothing I can do about the hilt.”

“It’ll…” he took a hesitant swing, before swinging it again, a little harder. “It’ll hold, my hand’s gonna hurt though.”

“Better than nothing,” I muttered, beginning to make my way towards the end of the street.

“Better than nothing,” Arthur agreed, quietly taking up the lead.

The two of us crept up the snow-lined street, passing under ominous street lights, accompanied by the whispering gale and sun-orange snow. I did my best to stomp out the slimy, crawling fear that’d begun pulsing in my chest.

As I’d mentioned before, I’d been in precious few fights, and the couple that I had been in had similar results to Arthur and I’s spars. I always lost when it came down to typical fights or spars, always putting my skill off as, “good enough.” My mage classmates I could beat— but someone who was actively coming after my life? I wasn’t so confident.

Sometimes, I forgot I had to be a Seeker after graduation.

Eventually, we came upon the corner with the alley. Here, the street looked much the same. The road was still covered in snow, the lights were still placed at periodic intervals, and still utterly devoid of people.

I frowned, my grip slightly loosening on my wand. I… I am really glad no one jumped out at us. Arthur had stilled, looking into the shadows of the alleyway. I moved beside him, and paused, my frown deepening.

“Well, Arthur,” I muttered, trying my best to sound apathetic, “seems like you weren’t hallucinating after all.”

Near the mouth of the alley, where it met with the main street, were footprints, set deeply into the ankle-high snow, leading deeper into the shadows.