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2025-08-28
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2025-10-14
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The House of Esteri

Summary:

All Ariyen cares about is to prove himself. No one knows where he came from, but at the House of Esteri, he masquerades as a star, an outstanding wielder of the Divine Arts. How much of it is a show, even he doesn’t know.

Endellian, the grim and sullen newcomer who harbors a festering grief, is the outsider at the House. His skill with magic only serves to keep him apart from everyone else. Always on the periphery, he cares for no one and nothing but himself, and he doesn’t care to change that.

Outside the walls of the House, however, forces move to disrupt their craft and calling. Faced with threats from their pasts, the two of them must learn to trust each other to protect themselves and their friends.

or, the toxic homoerotic psychosexual rivalry between two idiots turns into a profoundly beautiful and soul-deep connection

Chapter Text

Endellian was going to be the death of Ariyen.

 

Which was not an exaggeration, considering he had tried to kill him upon their first meeting. Since then, things had only soured further between them. Now, Ariyen just couldn’t look Endellian’s way without wanting to knock his teeth in.

 

And now, as Endellian spoke a word of power into the charged air between them, Ariyen met him head-on, white-hot energy surging through him and warping his vision as it surrounded him protectively. Endellian’s spell hit him like a fist, leeching him of warmth, of vital energy. It roared with the raw icy bloodlust Ariyen saw teeming in Endellian’s narrow stony eyes.

 

He fought back, lashing out with the fiercest heat he could summon. Spectral eyes burst open on his cheekbones and forehead as his magic flared, vibrant and glaring. He felt the moment of impact crumple up his arm. The horn that sprouted from Endellian’s right temple took the brunt of the blow with a crack, his cheek erupting in a spray of blood. Then Ariyen’s own defenses shattered.

 

Teeth of steel and bone. Icicles crystallizing his blood. Ariyen cried out in pain, feeling all of his eyes flash once—twice—before going dim. Left with just his ordinary two eyes, he felt blind. He crumpled to his knees, each breath tearing him open from the inside. His panicked fingers clawed at his face, only to come away covered with black blood.

 

Somewhere, Nior shouted. His voice rang in Ariyen’s ears, but he sounded underwater, a million miles away.

 

His vision went like a sputtering candle, and suddenly Nior was there, picking up Endellian under one huge arm. Endellian’s face was a bloody mess, and the front of his robes was stained red and charred. In a sudden moment of clarity, Ariyen felt a twinge of panic, laced with guilt. He hadn’t meant to do that much damage, did he?

 

Any other thought he might have spared for the other boy was swallowed by the relentless clawing pain that racked his whole body like poisonous barbs, leaving stiff numbness in their wake. Ariyen collapsed, convulsions wresting control of his body away from him. He fought to get up, to move of his own accord, but as hands bore him out of the grounds into the cool shade of the indoors, his eyes fell shut and he knew no more.

Chapter Text

Ariyen was going to be the death of Endellian.

 

Which was not an exaggeration, since Ariyen had the striking ability to make Endellian’s blood boil by sheer proximity. Endellian couldn’t look Ariyen’s way without wanting to strangle him.

 

“Endellian,” Eshke said. She was sitting near Endellian’s narrow bed in the western infirmary, swallowed by her robes. Her hair, white as dandelion fluff, grew in soft downy tufts that curled around the small nubby horns at her hairline. “Please tell me that I saw wrong. What you did out there.”

 

Endellian met her question with sullen silence. He’d been lying in motionless agony, one hand cupped around the cracked remains of his right horn. Zu-An, the House’s master healer, had been by earlier to change his bandages and reapply salve. She’d managed to mend the horn with a spell, and reassured him it would heal if left alone, but Endellian barely heard her over the radiating pain.

 

The last rays of the day’s sunlight filtered through the cloth-covered window, making the blistered flesh that peeked through the bandages on his hands glow molten red. The burns weren’t as bad as they could have been, but it had been Ariyen’s power he’d been going up against.

 

He flicked her an annoyed glance. “Leave me alone.”

 

“That spell of yours,” Eshke said, ignoring him. She had to be a few years younger than him, yet her hands belonged to someone decades older—they were callused and sinewy, with knobbled joints and tough fingers. “How can I say this? It fit like a key in the lock. Like water through cracks in the earth. I have never seen anyone take Ariyen down like that. It was…so well done. Almost too well done, really.”

 

Endellian remembered the way Ariyen’s face had seized up, the glowing eyes bursting from his cheeks and forehead leaking sizzling black blood. He had honed and polished that spell specifically to counteract Ariyen’s energy, going through draft upon draft of rune circles, shaving his pencils down to stubs. The result had been a highly toxic acid, voracious in its destructive ability, exceptionally difficult to neutralize. It was so corrosive, it wouldn’t have even looked like a chemical attack.

 

Of course, only Eshke would have noticed something like it. She saw too much.

 

Endellian kept his gaze on his hands. The sutures holding the right side of his face together made it difficult to speak. “How long have I been out?”

 

“Only a couple hours.”

 

“Did I miss chapel?”

 

“Yeah. But it’s okay, I skipped too. I told Zu-An-zen I wanted to watch her treat you. And please don’t take this the wrong way, but that laceration on your face is the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. I had to make some sketches of the burns on your hands. And I helped her bandage them!”

 

Endellian huffed a short sigh. For an aspiring healer, Eshke was far too fascinated with gore and gristle. “Good to know my injuries weren’t for naught.”

 

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Eshke said, a little sheepishly.

 

“Where is Keren?” Endellian asked. Anything to keep his mind off the pain. He almost wished for Zu-An to come by. Perhaps she’d order Eshke to leave him alone.

 

“You mean Kieryn? He went to bed early. Poor dear was sick with fright after seeing your face explode like that.” Eshke sighed affectionately, then giggled. “My darling’s heart is too soft for this world.”

 

Kieryn was Eshke’s betrothed, and he was as terrified of the gruesome as she was fascinated by it. Endellian would have rolled his eyes, but his head hurt too much for that. 

 

“Well, I hope you feel better soon. I know that look on your face; you are sick of me,” Eshke said brightly. “Good morrow, Endellian of Tur.”

 

And she was gone.

Chapter Text

Celys scurried through the bare slate hallway, her small wrapped feet padding silently on the swept floors, her robes flowing behind her. The acolytes attended chapel to recite daily orisons, and hers had fallen right after the incident. But she couldn’t bear the thought of skipping, not even if Ariyen was bedridden.

 

“I can’t believe I missed it,” Vinashren complained, following Celys as she made her way to the eastern wing of the infirmary, past colonnade pillars that cast long dramatic shadows this time of day. With her lush figure, large brown eyes, and thick auburn hair, Vinashren of Renuaz had an exquisite beauty that made her a source of both envy and admiration for their fellow acolytes. “The bloodiest fight in months, and I was crafting a saintforsaken skeltern!

 

“We always need skelterns, Vina,” Celys said calmly. “Better for you to be doing something productive than watching two idiots blow each others’ brains out.”

 

“Well, these two idiots are the best out of all of us.”

 

“What use is it if you are a great sorcerer but still a fool?” Celys paused in the corridor. A small group of acolytes had gathered before the door of the infirmary’s eastern wing, whispering and trying to peek inside. Among them were the twins, Idax and Ithiel, who quickly turned at their approach.

 

“How did you get here before us?” Vinashren demanded. Not all the acolytes made their orisons at the same time, but the twins had been sitting in the same pew as her and Celys. “Chapel just ended!”

 

“We ran very fast,” Idax replied, a smile on her clever, bird-like face. She and her brother Ithiel had magical signatures that complemented and amplified each other, allowing them to accomplish certain feats of sorcery impossible to do alone. Their shared aptitude in mathematics allowed them to wield elaborate spells that involved geometry and physics, like teleportation.

 

“Zu-An-zen said no visitors,” Ithiel said. He had the same face as his sister, but it was easy to tell them apart because he always looked like he’d just woken up. His expression now, however, was distinctly annoyed. “Like, seriously? Ariyen loves attention even more than Idax does. He’d perk right up.”

 

Celys’s face soured. “Of course she wouldn’t let you lot in, seeing how you’re all camped out here. Now step aside, please.”

 

Zu-An, luckily, was nowhere to be seen. Siqiri, a mage that had recently earned her staff and an internship at the House, directed them towards Ariyen. He was sitting up on the edge of his bed, sweat beaded on his face. For someone as tall and powerful as he was, he looked so fragile at that moment, his face tight with pain and his tanned skin shot through with dead, ashen gray. His hands were tucked against his bare chest, as if they hurt him.

 

Endellian’s sorcery was opposed to Ariyen’s in every way. Ariyen channeled his magic through the vessels of his body and wrestled it to obedience; Endellian spoke his energy into existence, shaped by the mastery of his unbending will. They were among the most talented mages-in-training in the House of Esteri, and it was no small grief to the Keepers that they did not get along. 

 

“Thank you, Siqiri-zen.” Vinashren smiled at the older girl, who nodded amiably at her before ducking out. She sat on the bed and patted Ariyen’s hair, which fell in unruly blond waves nearly to his shoulders. “Poor Ariy. How are you feeling?”

 

Ariyen looked away shyly before plastering on his most charming smile, the one he reserved for Vinashren. “Better now that you’re here.”

 

Celys said nothing. She took one of Ariyen’s stiff-clawed hands and rubbed it. It felt like trying to bend iron rods. Ariyen fought a pained wince.

 

“How you have time for all that fighting, I will never know,” Vinashren was saying. “At this rate, Nyi-zen and Tiansen-zen will send you away to Bluerun’s tower! You’ll be kept back a season—two if you’re unlucky.”

 

Ariyen’s face tightened. “They wouldn’t do that. If anything, they should send Endellian. He’s done nothing but scowl and sneer and act like a total prick ever since that stinking ship dropped him onto our doorstep!”

 

Vinashren scratched her cheek with a perfect fingernail. “He’s always been decent to me. I guess it’s a you problem.”

 

“They would send both of you, if you don’t stop acting like bloodthirsty witches,” Celys snapped finally. Ariyen only gave a heavy sigh and scrubbed his face with a stiff hand.

 

The tower bell sounded, clear and sonorous, and Vinashren perked up. Celys waved a hand. “Go ahead, Vina. Save me a seat?”

 

“You got it, Cel,” said Vinashren, who was already slipping out of the room. Nothing—not even a horde of witch-men—would keep Vinashren from her dinner. “Good morrow, Ariyen! Feel better soon!”

 

Celys turned on him as the door closed. “I’m so sick of you.”

 

“You’re not the only one,” Ariyen said, an uncharacteristically weak attempt at humor. His smile was gone—he never bothered to mask himself around Celys. She was the only one who knew him too well for that.

 

The corners of Celys’s mouth turned down. Her bottom lip trembled. She flung her arms around his neck, holding him tight. “I can’t stand you. I really can’t.”

 

Ariyen rested his cheek on top of Celys’s head, carefully avoiding the sharp little horns which protruded from her hairline. For the first time since he’d woken up, he found himself relaxing. If the world was a roiling ocean under a starless sky, her small soft warmth was a lighthouse.

 

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, making her grumble and release him. She rummaged through the pockets of her robes, coming up with a small bag of assorted comfits. “Here. I got these for you, you dimwit.”

 

They split the sweets, Ariyen taking most of the dried ginger candies while Celys went after the chewy sesame squares. The two of them shared the preferences that mattered, and differed on the ones that didn’t. It was why their friendship had thrived so well for so long. They ate in relative silence, Ariyen lying down with Celys curled against his side.

 

“What did Siqiri-zen say to you?”

 

“Not much,” Ariyen answered, around a piece of caramel. “It was pretty obvious she was nervous, though. I’d never seen her like that before. Not even when I broke both my arms that one time.”

 

Even before Endellian had arrived at the House, Ariyen was notorious for getting himself into scrapes of all kinds. It was one of the reasons Celys had befriended him. She had been raised in a lavish household with rich mothers who had spoiled her endlessly, and while she enjoyed the allowances and opulent gifts, being a goody-two-shoes was so mind-numbingly boring sometimes. And Ariyen was her idea of a rebellion. He was enough of a troublemaker for the both of them.

 

At least, that was what people saw. As far as she knew, Ariyen had no problem being the “bad influence” in their friendship. And neither did she.

 

“It seems the two of you are evenly matched,” Celys mused. “Now, there’s no way I could fight him by myself. But I could definitely tip the scales.”

 

Ariyen gave a hoarse, wheezing laugh. “You’re already thinking of a rematch? I can barely move!”

 

“Well, there are other things to do in the meantime, can’t we? Like, we can scream EWWW at the top of our lungs whenever he enters the room.”

 

“Saint’s eyes. That alone would ensure a rematch.”

 

“That’s fine. We’ll kill him together.” Celys reached for another sesame square. She munched contentedly, her cheeks puffing out.

 

Ariyen laughed harder, his voice pitching up into a giggle. Celys scowled at him. “Stop laughing! We are busy scheming here!”

 

“I can’t. You— you’re just so cute when you say stuff like that.” Ariyen poked her cheek with a finger, affectionately. “Like an angry little chipmunk.” He cracked up at this last part, tears of mirth pooling at the corners of his eyes.

 

“Fuck you! What is wrong with you guys? Vina keeps calling me ‘little rabbit’, and now you!” Celys fumed and crossed her arms. It only made her look more adorable, if anything. Her soft features and small frame had always made her look younger than she was. It didn’t help that she loved lacy dresses with frills and bows. She had sharpened her horns in an effort to look less dainty, but it was dubious how effective that had been, given that they were hardly the length of a pinky finger and often draped with gold jewelry.

 

Ariyen wiped at his eyes. He curled an arm around her waist and hugged her closer, like a child snuggling a favorite toy. “Don’t worry about it, Celly. Really, I mean it. I’ll be better in no time and we can go back to making trouble.”

 

“You mean you will,” Celys sniffed, taking his hand and resuming her attempt to relax them. She straightened one of his fingers, and Ariyen was unable to smother the pained sound that left him. There was a reason her vocation was not in healing. “All I shall do is bear witness, because I am a stellar student.”

 

Ariyen smiled. For all of Celys’s sharp wits, her commitment to delusion was truly impressive. “Sure you will.”

Chapter Text

The coastal nation of Losk was home to the House of Esteri, the oldest House of sorcery in the known world. The first time Ariyen had set foot inside it as a child, he’d been enchanted by its stately courtyards, its quiet prayer gardens, its clean-swept vestibules. The high-flung towers, with their ornamental crenellations, had seemed to pierce the sky. Nyi and Tiansen, the Keepers of the House, were stern but kind—Nyi more stern, Tiansen more kind. The other initiates had been friendly enough, given that they were to live, work, and learn together for the next several years. Celys, Vinashren, Kieryn, Eshke, most of the others too—they had proven to be dear and wonderful friends.

 

Then that hateful monster had arrived at their door last winter, and nothing had been the same.

 

Rumors had swirled instantly. That Endellian had been cast out of another House for an unspeakable atrocity, some terrible crime. That he had been a heretic, a blasphemer, a cultist. That he was affiliated with the witch-men of Tur—though this last one was a bit too racist for Ariyen’s liking. Nevertheless, he always brushed off such talk as mere gossip, even though he hadn’t gotten an opportunity to befriend the newcomer. He would never get that chance.

 

It had started innocuously enough. Along with spellwork, art, incantations, and music lessons, the acolytes were trained in combat, facing each other in the arena rings. Nior, the mage that oversaw this part of their training, had paired each student with a partner. Celys had been put with Olesina, who was twice her size, but they’d sparred fairly and respectfully. By the end of the hour, they flowed together smoothly in their techniques, perfecting their roles both as zima and reka, attacker and defender.

 

Ariyen, on the other hand, had been partnered with the demon from Tur, as most of the acolytes called him behind his back. Endellian certainly looked the part, with his rangy build and bone-pale skin. Ariyen had never seen eyes like his, cloudy-white and sunken. The sides of his head were shaved, leaving a thick shock of long black hair that ran down the center of his head to the nape of his neck. Like most Turishmen, he had horns, but they weren’t delicate little prongs like Celys’s or Eshke’s. Thick and curved like a ram’s, they curled along the sides of his head, framing a mean and narrow face. He had twisted Ariyen’s arm with a cruel ferocity that nearly popped the shoulder out of its socket. Any harder, Ariyen was sure the bone would have snapped. The sudden lancing pain had startled him into fighting back with everything he had. Their fists had been bloody by the time Nior pried them apart.

 

Ariyen still didn’t quite understand what had happened and why. He liked people, and people liked him—making friends was one of the things he did best. Yet, Endellian seemed determined to antagonize him from the start. And the part of Ariyen that liked a fight—which was a big part—reacted very strongly to that.

 

Ever since then, everything had been a competition between the two of them. They’d only barely managed to maintain the barest veneer of civility in their rivalry—just enough to avoid disciplinary action by the Keepers.

 

That paper-thin pretense had been blown to hell yesterday.

 

Today, the air swept sweet and fresh through the stone-hewn windows of the tower, carrying the delicate scent of red pear blossoms with it. Ariyen knelt on the bare marble floor, hands on his knees. He wore a loose dress of dark emerald silk that felt cool against his hot skin. It was the nicest thing he had, and it wasn’t even technically his.

 

Every nerve in his body was acutely aware of Endellian kneeling beside him, some few feet away, in a pool of black silks. Ariyen could see his hands out of the corner of his eye. They had healed remarkably well, the new skin just beginning to lose its tight pinkish shine.

 

“Children,” Nyi was saying, “ought to be disciplined as children. But you are no longer children, and therefore I have no wish to discipline you as such.” The Keeper knelt before them in a simple gown, soft gray like starlight. He had the long, sloping forehead and fine-boned features typical of those who hailed from the island nation of Tenkoro. His hair, sleek inky black shot through with gray at the temples, was pulled up into a topknot. “Nior advised me to send you both to Bluerun’s tower and be rid of your foolishness. But I have a different course of action in mind.”

 

Beside him, Ariyen heard Endellian inhale slowly.

 

“The time for your Ascension has come. It has been decided that you will embark on this journey together.”

 

Ariyen felt his lungs turn to sand. Endellian breathed out like he was in pain.

 

Nyi went on, calm as ever. “By the next winter solstice, you will create an original rune wheel born from equal parts of your own magic, twined together as one. It will have no fewer than sixty-four harmonious components and eight discordant ones. You will also choreograph and perform an original Form that is equal parts offensive and defensive.” The Keeper’s brow hardened. “I want to see equal parts of yourselves in both elements—not just Ariyen in the Form, nor Endellian in the equations. They must represent both of you, at your best.”

 

Nyi could have announced that they were being expelled, and Ariyen would have been less dismayed. “That’s impossible,” he burst out. “You can’t be serious, Nyi-zen. There’s no way that’s going to work!”

 

“I agree for once,” Endellian said, in his usual flat monotone. “Our magic cannot mix.”

 

“This decision is final,” said Nyi. “You only think your gifts cannot work together because you have long used them against each other. I wonder what marvels would arise if you cared to put aside your differences and work together. The House of our Lady Esteri will not see your talent wasted. So may it be, until the moon falls into the sea.”

 

“Until the moon falls into the sea,” Ariyen and Endellian echoed, in monotone. Nyi nodded curtly, and was gone with a swish of his robes.

Chapter Text

Unlike Ariyen, who stormed from the room like a sunlit thundercloud, Endellian took his leave in stony silence. He locked himself inside one of the Eastern tower’s archival rooms, ignoring the helpful ministrations of the librarian, and studied in solitude for the rest of the day. His hands were like tongues of fire, always moving, always changing, free to create and destroy. But his heart was a bird trapped in a cage.

 

The Ascension. The ultimate display of skill from a mage-acolyte, a culmination of their finest work as demonstration that they deserved to earn their staff as a full-fledged sorcerer. Endellian had already begun to work on his—chemical equations of runes he had meticulously strung together, all cohesive and balanced.

 

Now he’d have to start all over again. The thought of Ariyen’s unpredictable, temperamental magic crashing into his fine-tuned diagrams made him physically ill.

 

Eventually, hunger drove him to the refectory, where he swallowed his dinner without tasting it. His feet took him out into one of the inner courtyards.

 

The sky was a fathomless inkwell, framed by fair sandstone walls. Evenings were chilly this time of year, but it was nothing to him. Losk was much more temperate than his homeland of Tur, where it was frozen all year round and the sun was a bleeding sore in the grim sky.

 

The covered walkways took him to the gardens. Skelterns floated among the flower beds, casting soft blue and green light. It was easy to tell which ones Vinashren had made; they were beautifully wrought in intricate scrollwork and clever twisting vines.

 

Endellian had briefly considered pursuing Vinashren just to irritate Ariyen. He’d thought it might be easy enough to feign an interest in her. Her company was agreeable, and he had learned a thing or two about wardings from her. And for a girl without horns, she was very pretty. But he never followed through, mainly because he didn’t know the first thing about flirting.

 

He had since decided this was for the better, though, as he did genuinely want to be her friend. There was a sense of unspoken kinship between those who had given up everything to study the Divine Arts.

 

Besides, Vinashren wasn’t even into men, that much was obvious. He had seen the way the redheaded girl looked at Celys. No one else could make her laugh the way that little prissy brat could.

 

Thinking of Celys only turned his thoughts back to Ariyen, as they were inseparable. Endellian shook his head and sat by the fountain, watching the dark ripples of water.

 

“You’re fucking hard to track down, you know that?” a familiar voice said. Endellian could see the outline of his reflection in the water, a shadowy blot in the glow of the skelterns.

 

“Go away.”

 

“Do you think I want to do this?” Ariyen snapped. “We need to talk. About the Ascension.” He hesitated, thickly. “Our Ascension.”

 

Endellian did not turn around. “Not now. I’m busy.”

 

“Stop being so obstinate,” Ariyen demanded, and he sounded so irritated Endellian half-expected him to take a swing at him right then and there. But Ariyen was not a coward, and he would never attack like one. “You’re going to cooperate with me. And if you don’t, I’ll wring those components out of you myself.”

 

“I’m sure you would. Ill-begotten cretin that you are.” Endellian got to his feet, finally facing him. Ariyen always held himself with a lethal grace, long muscular limbs poised like a lynx ready to pounce. The garden lights reflected off his hair like molten gold, lining the sharp cheekbones and elegant hollow of his throat. Like Vinashren, Ariyen received much admiration for having done absolutely nothing save for being born beautiful. Endellian despised every shallow, useless inch of him, no matter how gilded it was.

 

“It’s late. And I really don’t want to hear your voice right now.” Or at any other given time, he wanted to add, but there was already murder in Ariyen’s pale green eyes. “We’ll start tomorrow after Concoctions.”

Chapter Text

Celys’s laugh was Ariyen’s favorite sound in the world. It was the reason why he sang loud and bright and warbling as he wove her snowy hair into a plait, uncaring of who else might hear his horrible rendition of the Lay of Minaki. He hit a high note, throwing his head back, his voice soaring like a bird. Celys shrieked with laughter, putting her small hands over her ears.

 

Celys, like Eshke, came from the cliff-dwelling people of Tzirsir. They shared the same curling white hair, large glassy eyes, and short pointy horns. Her family, the Selindrans, lived in the Loskian capital of Florrit, where her mothers made a wealthy living as renowned mages. They had sent her here with a lavish endowment, and regularly sent her gifts on top of that.

 

By contrast, Ariyen had come here alone and penniless, looking for work in exchange for shelter. He had only become an acolyte at the House by sheer good fortune. The Keepers had noted a latent aptitude for magic in the bedraggled little boy who had shown up at their doorstep and quietly taken him in.

 

Ariyen had thought that being offered admission into the House of Esteri was the best thing that could have happened to him. Then he met Celys vi Selindran. At ten, she had been one of the younger initiates that year. He had been the oldest, at thirteen. He remembered being utterly enchanted by the sight of her at first—by her fair, delicate complexion, her big clear eyes, her chubby little cheeks which he’d wanted so badly to pinch. Never had he seen anyone more adorable. Then it turned out that this cute little girl shared the same appetite for trouble as he did, and the rest was history. It had been nearly a decade since they’d met, but Ariyen’s love for her only grew every day.

 

He couldn’t say that out loud, though. She’d beat him up and call him a sappy fool.

 

The morning light spilled pale and golden into the room. Celys wore her usual acolyte robes, which she’d had trimmed with handmade lace and embroidered tastefully in floral patterns. They draped elegantly and luxuriously over her little body, leaving plenty of freedom for movement and potential for dramatic billowing. Ariyen, on the other hand, wore a simple chiton that draped from one shoulder, leaving his arms and legs bare. He finished braiding her hair and went with her out into one of the inner courtyards of the House, where Kieryn and Eshke were batting a feathered ball back and forth with stringed batons.

 

The pair joined them at the sport for a time before Vinashren came to whisk Celys away for their tzinke lessons with Xinthe. The three remaining acolytes retreated to the seclusion of a quiet prayer garden. Ariyen sat on the grass, and Eshke settled beside him in a flutter of shining gauze, curling her arm around his. Kieryn put his head in Ariyen’s lap and smiled up at him.

 

Ariyen smiled back and rubbed Eshke’s head. He liked the way she kept her hair, in short curling tufts that reminded him of a lamb’s wool. Equally endearing were the horns she kept blunt and rounded, cute as buttons. The illusion was made complete by the soft velvet thread tied around her delicate neck. “You guys are clingy today.”

 

“Only with you, Ariy,” Kieryn said. His skin gleamed deep brown in the sunlight, his hair shaved close to his scalp in striking patterns. He had the full lips and broad nose typical of the people of Sufrea, the proud empire across the Halish Sea. The chiton he wore was clasped at one shoulder like Ariyen’s, baring the sprawling inkwork that laced his upper arms. The pair of thin scars that limned the underside of his chest were neat and precise, made by the most skilled of surgeons.

 

“Especially with you,” Eshke added. She reached up and tucked a stray lock of golden hair behind Ariyen’s ear. “Ryn and I heard about your…arrangement. With Endellian.” Kieryn made a sound of sympathy.

 

Ariyen sighed. “It’s all right. I’ll…I’ll survive. I have to.”

 

“Oh, of course. You can do it, Ariy. But, well, you don’t have to weather such a burden alone.” Eshke’s breath was warm and sweet on his shoulder. She put her hand on his, her knobbed fingers slipping between his. “To be yoked so on a matter of such importance must be draining.”

 

“Draining is putting it lightly,” Ariyen replied dryly. “Our magic types are polar opposites. I don’t know how we will forge sixty-fucking-four harmonious components into a wheel without killing each other. Let alone dance with each other.”

 

“There’s not much we can offer by way of help, sadly,” Kieryn said. “But there is something. We were wondering, Esh and I.” He shifted himself towards Ariyen and put a hand on the taller boy’s waist, his fingers slipping past cloth to meet bare skin. “Perhaps you’d like to come to our room in Starquill’s square at the day’s end? We could help you take your mind off things, soothe you for a time. Give you that extra measure of energy, if you know what I mean.” His voice was low and gentle, but there was something electric in it.

 

Ariyen felt his heart quicken, heat blooming under his skin. Eshke’s and Kieryn’s devotion to each other was the stuff of legends and epic ballads. He had never once imagined that they would take a third person to their bed. “I’d love that. I can show you both a good time.” He rested his palm on Kieryn’s warm cheek and thumbed his full lower lip. It was as soft as it looked. Kieryn flicked amused eyes up at him and nipped playfully at him, his lips parting gently around the tip of his thumb.

 

Eshke laughed, her large doll-like eyes sparkling with amusement. “Oh, I’m sure you can. But you’ll be a dear and let us take care of you, won’t you, sundrop?” Her other hand rested on Kieryn’s knee.

 

“Absolutely not,” Ariyen said. He put an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “If you want me, you’ll get all of me.” She giggled and curled her fingers around his nape.

 

“By the Divine. Save it for tonight, Ariyen,” Kieryn purred. Despite his words, his thumb stroked Ariyen’s waist slowly, leisurely. The smirk on his bronzed face, combined with the warm weight of his head on Ariyen’s thighs, suddenly made the short garment Ariyen was wearing feel very flimsy.

 

All thoughts of future pleasures were chased away by the clear toll of the tower bell, heralding the next session. Eshke got to her feet and pulled Kieryn up with her. As one, the couple kissed Ariyen on both cheeks.

 

“See you later,” Kieryn called, slipping his fingers between Eshke’s as they turned to leave. Ariyen waved, grinning. Anything he might have said was unable to get past the thrum of his heart in his throat.

 

A flat voice jolted him from his reverie. “So this is who you are. A tramp who sleeps with anyone who’ll have him.”

 

Ariyen spun. Endellian stood by the flowering bushes. As usual, he wore a plain gown of crisp black linen that laced all the way to his throat and wrists, the hem reaching down to the tops of his shoes. The effect was made even more austere by the chiseled curve of his horns and the hard lines of his shoulders, which tapered down into a narrow waist. The long crest of hair that spilled down the center of his head was even spikier than usual. Under it, his eyes were dull and colorless like bits of raw quartz. He carried a slender length of twisted birch wood—an acolyte’s wand, precursor to the mage’s staff.

 

“Fucking creep,” Ariyen spat. Heat fanned across his face, the pleasant warmth from earlier chased away by a scorching burn. It was not a good feeling. “How long have you been standing there?”

 

“Long enough to realize what a ran-through piece of meat you are.” Endellian met his gaze with a cruel sneer. “I thought the House of Esteri trained warriors and scholars, not dirty whores.”

 

It took every shred of self control Ariyen had not to lunge for Endellian’s throat with a flaming fist. “What I do in my free time is none of your business.”

 

“No mage worth his salt will waste his time in worthless pursuits when he could be sharpening his skills. And don’t you dare tell me it’s none of my business. Now that our work is intertwined, so is our time.”

 

Ariyen laughed, sharp and loud. “Oh, is that so? If we are so entwined as you say, you should come watch us tonight, if you like. Perhaps it’ll help you fathom what love is like, and how such a dearth of it has shrunken you into this, Endellian of Tur.” He flapped a hand at Endellian’s chest.

 

Endellian’s face, which seemed only capable of scowls or sneers, twisted in a disgust so visceral it was nearly inhuman. “You are vile,” he spat. “I can’t believe such a House of renown would accept a piece of filth like you into its ranks. Unless you slept your way into it, as I’m sure you have plenty of experience doing.”

 

Ariyen recoiled, his eyes like those of a trapped animal. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

 

“Well, I suppose it could be something you’re proud of,” Endellian mused. A thin, mocking smile played on his lips; he knew this barb had struck true. “Many students worked hard to get into here, myself included. But all you had to do was take off your dress.”

 

Ariyen was swinging before he fully knew what he was doing. But Endellian had anticipated this and flung up a warding, shimmering glassy blue around himself. Ariyen snarled, his fists glowing with gold light. He struck the warding a shattering blow once, twice, and it exploded into shards of glittering ice, the force of it flinging Endellian back. The Turish acolyte recovered in a crouch, his dark skirts pooling around him. He planted a hand to the ground, and radially symmetrical patterns of blue light bloomed from it in lethal spirals.

 

Endellian!” Celys’s shriek pierced the air, and the world melted away. The garden disappeared like a vision in a dream, replaced with endless white mist. She stepped towards them, which felt disorienting, since Ariyen had the feeling that he couldn’t see a foot past his nose into this fathomless mist. The air warped and hissed. “Come hither, nasty boy! I’m going to put your nuts on a skewer. If you even have any.”

 

Endellian sneered. “Go away. This has nothing to do with you.” Despite his haughty demeanor, he was poised lightly on his feet, wand at the ready. He knew, as well as anyone, that Celys’s illusionwork was unrivaled. No one escaped once she got a hold. Celys only lifted her chin and presented to him a dainty hand in a rude gesture.

 

“I didn’t!” Ariyen burst out, unable to keep quiet any longer. “Believe what you will about me, but I didn’t sleep my way into the House.” The insult directed at him he could stand, but the insult directed towards the mages, intentional or not, was unbearable. He was too upset to be ashamed of the way his voice shook.

 

Celys stared at him. The fog cleared, resolving back into the shaded gardens and sweet grass, sunlight dappled on paved stones. Endellian gave her a cool glance and pointed the wand her way. “I hate when you do that.”

 

“Put that thing away,” she snapped at him. Endellian gave her a flat stare before tucking the wand under his arm. She stepped up to him—her head not even reaching his shoulder—and slapped him across the face. “Fuck you and your poisonous tongue.”

 

Endellian slowly turned his face back to her, smoothing his hair between his horns. “Tell me something,” he said, a note of infinite contempt in his voice. “What’s a spoiled little princess like you doing with a worthless whore like that? Did your parents not teach you to keep better company?”

 

“Like who? You?” Celys let out a scornful laugh that belonged to a frame much larger than hers. Despite her small size and dainty looks, she could project all the condescending hauteur of a domineering matron. “Ariyen is twice the man you are, you mold-faced bully.”

 

Endellian tipped his head. “Sure. I wouldn’t be surprised, considering how many of them he’s entertained. Surely something had to stick, right?”

 

Ariyen’s nails dug into his palms. He was suddenly aware of the fact that he was trembling. A sudden loathing poured over him, so stifling he could barely breathe. For once, he hated himself more than the fork-tongued demon before him. He turned and ran as fast as his feet would go, out of the gardens, out of his mind, out of anywhere that was this wretched moment.

Chapter Text

Instead of meeting with Endellian after Zu-An’s Concoctions, Ariyen ditched class to visit one of his other instructors. Dashara of Kothe was a slender middle-aged man, neat and trim as the plain hawthorn staff he carried, shaped like a shepherd’s crook. A native of Shental, he had smooth brown skin and deep set eyes. Despite his soft-spoken and somewhat eccentric manner, there was a lively sparkle in his eyes, the flicker of a candle, the whisper of a secret. He carried himself with all the natural poise of an accomplished sorcerer, but when he was glad he would laugh aloud and clap his hands like a little child.

 

Ariyen had always liked him. He would never know who his father was, but he often liked to imagine Dashara as that father. Maybe in another life.

 

They spent an hour in Dashara’s green-draped office, ostensibly reviewing techniques to balance equations of glyphs and drawing patterns of runes. In reality, Ariyen only paid the symbols half a mind while he listened to Dashara recount stories from his childhood in the city of Kothe, the tumultuous path sorcery had led him on, and his days as a traveling healer. The large gilt window facing the south orchards was open, bringing in a breeze that smelled of the sea. It ruffled the swaying fronds of the tall potted plants by the various cabinets and shelves and played with Dashara’s greying curls.

 

Doing such exercises anywhere else with anyone else would have bored Ariyen to the bone, as he was far more wont to more physically active means of channeling his power. But Dashara’s teaching had unlocked his heart to glyphwork and runes. Ariyen only really felt connected to this distant side of his magic when the Shentali mage was guiding him.

 

Still, it made him restless to ply his craft while sitting still, and it must have shown. Dashara took one look at Ariyen’s tapping fingers and stood up, startling him. He pulled Ariyen to his feet, sweeping him into a basic yet energetic Form that took them around the desk. On a whim, Ariyen picked his teacher up and spun him around in a graceful twirl, making him laugh. Golden lines of energy swirled through the air, curling around the large ornate desk. Loose sheets of papers turned into butterflies and sparrows and fluttered out the windows.

 

“You rascal! I indulge you too much,” Dashara scolded as Ariyen released him, but he was smiling too widely to be serious. “That’s quite enough, thank you. You have much work to do, and I want you to make me proud.”

 

“I thought I always made you proud, Dashara-zen,” Ariyen said, taking his seat again.

 

“You do, my dear. But I was talking about your Ascension.” Dashara fixed his already flawlessly pleated robes and sat as well. “I am excited to see what you’ll come up with.”

 

“Oh.” Ariyen’s face darkened. “Yeah. Me too, I guess.”

 

The Shentali mage looked confused. “Why, what’s the matter?”

 

“I have to complete it with Endellian.” Ariyen sighed heavily. “We got into a fight, and Nyi-zen decided this was the best way to set us straight. Sometimes I wish he’d listened to Nior-zen and shipped us off to Bluerun’s tower. I’d rather spend a season there than another day with him.”

 

Dashara raised his eyebrows. “I knew you two disliked each other, but I wasn’t aware it was this bad.”

 

“Well, we always had something of a rivalry. But it just kept snowballing into something bigger and uglier. He is—he is simply the most detestable, judgemental, self-righteous bully these Halls have ever seen.” Ariyen raked his hands through his hair, smudging a bit of ink across his cheek. “I don’t know how I’m going to get along with him.”

 

“Ah,” Dashara said. He turned a slim brown finger in the air, as if etching a circle into an invisible surface. A shimmering wheel of light appeared, its facets solidifying and multiplying as he worked with it. Runes, seamless and flowing, sparked into existence as he thought of them, a feat honed over decades. “I used to argue with this one other student every single day when we were acolytes in the House of Lantara. He loved to tease me, and I’m afraid I wasn’t as easygoing as I am today. We were forced to team up to hunt feral wurlings in a remote village, and it brought us together. He’s my husband now, and the reason I have so many grey hairs.”

 

Dashara-zen! How could you ever think that—that I—by the Divine, I can’t even say it.” Ariyen made a choked noise of disgust. “This is not the same. Your husband probably had some redeeming qualities that made you love him. Endellian has none at all.”

 

Dashara grinned dryly. “I never suggested anything of the sort.” He reached out and rubbed the ink from Ariyen’s face with a clean handkerchief. “It’s just a story, my dear. You’ll forgive an old man for finding excuses to talk about his love.”

 

“No, I get it. I’d do the same, if things turn out that well for me.” Ariyen rested his chin in his palm, drumming his fingers on a sheet of paper that had been a fluttering bird not a minute ago.

 

“They will. Not only are you among our best and brightest, you have a wonderful journey ahead of you. But you need to work for it.” Dashara pushed the wheel of runes towards him.

 

Ariyen cradled the circles of equations, fingers slipping through lines of glyphs. The light in his palms was nothing compared to the warm glow that spilled from his heart at his teacher’s words. Those words would have been trite platitudes from anyone else, but from Dashara, they were priceless gems.

 

They sat in comfortable silence for a short while, during which Ariyen passed the finished spell circle back to Dashara, who appraised his work with a critical but kindly eye.

 

“I think we have done enough good work for a time here. Come back soon, all right?” The Shentali mage gave him a knowing smile.

 

Ariyen returned the smile, but lingered, unable to take his leave. “Dashara-zen, did you mean it? You really think I’m one of the best? That I belong here?”

 

“Does the Saint love the Goddess?” Dashara retorted. “Of course you belong here, my dear. There is no one else I’d rather have turn up at my office without an appointment.” His dark eyes twinkled.

 

Ariyen chuckled, but it was weak and stilted. “Sorry. I, um, I just really wanted to see you, that’s all.” He hesitated, but it was already spilling out of him. “You’re really good at making everything feel better.”

 

Dashara studied him, warm eyes gentle yet piercing. “Is something the matter? You can tell me anything.”

 

All you had to do was take off your dress. Endellian’s sneering words were a cold knife under his skin. Ariyen couldn’t stop the words that were already on their way out of him. “I was never supposed to be here, Dashara-zen. I…I never even took any of the entrance tests. The Keepers only admitted me because they took pity on me.” He shuffled uncomfortably. “I’ve tried so hard to change. To be anything but what I used to be. But no matter how much I do, it’s all people ever see.” He fidgeted miserably, his eyes fixed on the inkwell near Dashara’s hand.

 

“And what do you see?” Any trace of playfulness was gone from Dashara’s face. He clasped his hands and peered intently at his student. “It’s not enough, wanting not to be something. What do you want to be?”

 

“I want to be the best,” Ariyen said fervently. “But I can’t be like you. I just…I care too much.”

 

Dashara rose, resting his hand on Ariyen’s cheek. “It’s all right to care. To live is to care, Ariyen. But don’t squander your heart on things that don’t matter. Now, I want you to do this.” He held Ariyen’s gaze. “Make a list of things that are important to you. People, ideas, goals. As you grow, cross things out, add others in. If something bothers you, see if it is on the list. Anything that is not, does not deserve your time of day.”

 

“I will.” Ariyen smiled again, a genuine one. “Thank you, Dashara-zen.”

 

The ornery spark was back in Dashara’s brown eyes. “Run along, now, before I come to my senses and recall certain things, like…the fact that you skipped class to be here, did you not?”

 

Ariyen was gone before Dashara’s last words cooled in the air. The old mage smiled fondly, before leaning back in his chair and letting his gaze stray out the window, where the sea glittered in the distance.

Chapter 8

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Vinashren was as fast as she was beautiful. She darted past Ariyen like an arrow, kicking off the wall to hurl herself onto the next set of bars. Her vibrant red hair, bound up securely into a thick braid, whipped behind her like a snake. He leapt after her, matching her nimble twists and swift turns. They always took to the high bars in the arena court after Forms, with the implicit agreement that there was still plenty of energy to be burned off. There was no better place to do that than here, on the complex of metal struts several feet up in the air.

 

Agility was the most important asset of a warrior. An enemy could only win if they could strike you, and you needed to elude him while retaining enough strength to hit back. Ariyen knew this all too well, even before beginning his training as a mage. He prided himself on his speed, but Vinashren always gave him a hard run. They landed at the end of the course, Vinashren with a gymnast’s flourish and Ariyen in a simple defensive pose.

 

“You’re getting too fast for me, Vinashren.” Ariyen shook out his hands. “I’m going to have to start training with Celys on my back if I want to keep up with you.” He honestly didn’t know what his mouth was saying half the time he was around Vinashren. Just having the privilege to look at her—those thickly-lashed brown eyes, the upward curve of her full mouth, the sheen of her flaming hair—that was enough for him.

 

“Oh, not Celly. She weighs as much as a couple of grapes,” Vinashren retorted, but her proud smile made his heart leap. “This is all I’ve ever wanted to do, you know. I came here because I wanted to master my own affairs, my comings and goings, what I say and do…But to know balance, and peace, and truth, that is true power.” She gestured him along, and he walked with her out of the court. “Either way, I’ll return to Renuaz with my staff. And they’ll see. They’ll see!”

 

Ariyen lifted his eyebrows. “Surely they will!…Who?”

 

“My family. My brothers,” she said sourly. “They wanted me to stay home and play house-maid till I could be married off to some jowly old landowner for a hefty dowry. But I always knew I was made for better things.” Her face grew smug. “My only regret is that I never got to see their faces when they realized I was gone!”

 

“Wow. Did they know that you came here?”

 

“Probably not. I bet they thought I ran off with some sugar-tongued nobleman.” She snickered and nudged him. “Come to think of it, all we do is talk shit and swing around like monkeys. You never told me how you came to be here. Did your parents send you here, like Celys’s did?”

 

He swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable. “Um, no. I, uh, I came here on my own! Like you.”

 

“Seriously? A face like yours belongs in the Highlord’s court—you could have been living a life of luxury!”

 

Ariyen blushed to the roots of his hair. “Look who’s talking. The first time I saw you, I thought you were a princess.”

 

“I could have been, but my parents had the audacity to be weavers!” Vinashren laughed. “What do your parents do?”

 

Ariyen’s heart quailed in his chest, and this time it had nothing to do with her beauty. “It…well, it’s not really that important. I mean, I’d much rather talk shit with you. Much more interesting!”

 

It was a clumsy deflection, but Vinashren was gracious enough not to press him. “Ah yes. What better way to spend our formative years than indulge in petty gossip?”

 

He nodded. “Among other trifling distractions, like homemaking, and survival skills, and the Divine Arts.”

 

“Of course! And making lifelong enemies out of Turish demons.” She gave him a crooked grin.

 

“Hey! Only I get to call him that. After spending two days in the infirmary because of him, I think I’ve earned it.”

 

Despite the afternoon heat, neither of them were quite ready to go indoors, so they made for the cool shade of a courtyard. Vinashren hummed thoughtfully to herself as she shook out her hair, taming it with a wooden comb. “You know, Ariy, Endellian isn’t all that bad. He’s kind to me, and I see him sit with Kieryn and Eshke sometimes. He just seems to have a bone to pick with you specifically. But I couldn’t tell you why.”

 

Ariyen only shrugged. “Of course he is kind to you. Who wouldn’t be? You’re sweet and beautiful and smart.” He smiled at her. “But don’t worry about it. I’ve dealt with my fair share of bullies. I can handle him.”

 

Vinashren cast a sad look at him, but whatever she might have said was interrupted by the arrival of Celys, who was accompanied by Kieryn and Eshke. Sitting on the grass, surrounded by his dearest friends, talking about sorcery techniques and upcoming homework and gossip and idle jokes, Ariyen decided that this was at the top of his list. He truly could not think of anything more important to him. Why had he let Endellian’s words cut so deeply? It was irrelevant what some pale-eyed jerk thought of him. His friends liked and accepted him as one of their own, and that was all that mattered.

 

And yet, Ariyen couldn’t shake the fear that they’d abandon him once they found out who he really was. He couldn’t tell Vinashren he was a runaway like her, for there was nothing they could bond over beyond that.

 

Nothing terrified him more than the looks of disgust they’d surely cast at him once they learned that he had spent most of his life as a brothel boy, a child prostitute. His mother had slept with men for money, and instead of going to school once he’d been old enough, he’d done the same. As hard as he tried to shake off that past, it still clung to him in the lecherous stares of older men, their crude advances, their wandering hands. They could be anywhere—in the village market, the pastures, the dockyards. He’d tried to reclaim that power, but it only made him feel filthy afterwards.

 

It sickened him to think that despite only having known him for a few months, Endellian had managed to hit eerily close to the truth with his cruel words. Ariyen needed to outdo him. Not only to prove himself better, but to rub it in his face. He could reinvent himself, he could be the best; Dashara believed in him.

 

“What are you thinking about?” Kieryn’s warm voice was soft like a summer breeze. He reached over and twirled a stray piece of Ariyen’s hair with a finger. “I like you better when you’re talking, you know.” Beside him, Eshke and Celys were laughing at something Vinashren had said. Eshke was running her fingers through Celys’s silken hair, a privilege only very few people had access to.

 

“Oh, nothing.” Ariyen caught Kieryn’s hand and pressed his cheek to it. “I’ve missed you, Ryn. I’m sorry I haven’t spent much time with you lately.”

 

“It’s no fault of yours.” Kieryn smiled and let his hand trail down to Ariyen’s neck, fingers brushing his collarbone. “I know you have a lot going on. But surely you can find time for a quick game of battledore and shuttlecock every now and then! Esh and I are also open to…other methods of stress relief.” He lowered his voice, something playful dancing in his clear dark eyes. “Only for you, of course.”

 

Ariyen blushed despite himself. So far, the affair between the three of them had only been a one-time event. But while it had been enjoyable, he knew it would never grow into something more. The problem wasn’t the sex itself—Kieryn and Eshke were both eager and receptive and gorgeous, quick to communicate and to please. But Ariyen would never enter into the close bond that Kieryn and Eshke shared. There would never be anything more between him and the two of them besides genuine friendship. And that was fine, for who Ariyen really desired was Vinashren.

 

Vinashren, who joked and rough-housed with him like he was one of her brothers. Ariyen’s eyes lingered on her now, sitting across from him. Celys was reclining in her lap, her legs draped across Ariyen’s.

 

Kieryn tracked his gaze. A flicker of understanding flitted across his face, and he squeezed Ariyen’s hand. “Battledore-and-shuttlecock is just fine, you know. But we’ve been practicing every single day, so you better be ready for us!”

 

Ariyen grinned and rubbed Kieryn’s shaved head. “Oh yeah? I bet you’re the terror of the courts.”

 

“Yes, we are,” Eshke said, overhearing this last bit. “Not to boast, but I hit an apple off Druen’s head the other day. He’d bet me five crowns I couldn’t!” She giggled so hard, her cheeks flushed pink.

 

Celys opened one eye and looked up at her. “I would have given you ten to hit him in the face instead.”

 

“Celys! How dreadful!” Eshke gave a dainty gasp. “I’m not that mean.”

 

“Well, you could be. You have potential, Esh.”

 

“Celly cottontail here thinks the world should be run by an iron fist,” Vinashren said, squeezing Celys’s cheeks affectionately—another privilege held by very few. “My sweet little tyrant.”

 

“Yes. May the strongest and most fashionable prevail,” Celys agreed. The laughter of Ariyen’s friends filled the air, surrounding him like kindling glowing in the furnace of his heart. For that one golden moment, all was well.

Notes:

Fun fact: Ariyen's name was originally "Aeron", and Endellian was "Endellion". Celys was "Celshi" but I didn't like the sound of it.
Also, she and Ariyen were bio siblings at one (very early) point but that was changed too.

Chapter 9

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Endellian spent the week immersed in his own studies, his own patterns, his own Forms. He didn’t have much by way of friends at the House, and it suited him fine. Fewer people to please meant fewer distractions, fewer inconveniences, and more time for himself.

 

Speaking of distractions, it seemed Ariyen had gone out of his way to avoid him—every glimpse of blond hair Endellian caught out of the corner of his eye had belonged to either Druen or Olesina. His loud, bright voice seemed farther away every time it sounded through the halls.

 

He was not spared from Ariyen’s friends, however. Eshke still pestered him cheerfully and faithfully, often accompanied by Kieryn, completely undaunted by his rude attempts to brush her off. Vinashren often went out of her way to sit with him at dinner, where he had the opportunity to bear witness to her truly prodigious appetite. And Celys had been paired with him for an exercise in Patternings, which they completed far ahead of everyone else. She might be a spoiled brat, but there was no question she was talented and intelligent.

 

At the end of the week, he went to the library and tucked himself into one of the cozy window seats on the second floor. The view looked out onto an atrium with a bubbling fountain, patterns of smooth rocks swirling among the mounds of grass. Idax and Ithiel sat on the fountain’s edge, weaving a spell with their fingers, like a cat’s cradle of sinuous light. He couldn’t hear their laughter, but it was surely there, soft as the gurgle of silver water.

 

The House was full of siblings, lovers, and friend groups all mixed together. Endellian saw them everywhere he went. Which was why the inexplicable dull pang of loneliness that now surged unbidden within his chest was as baffling as it was unwelcome. He turned away from the window, taking out his writing instruments. But instead of resuming his homework, he found himself penning a letter. Before he could think about tearing it up, he folded it up without rereading it and sealed it with a bit of wax.

 

He took the long way to the posts, going through the cloisters that lined the courtyards. The outer grounds of the House were bathed in the splendor of late afternoon, the orchard trees crowned in red gold light. A small group of acolytes was walking across the fields, their singing voices as varied and colorful as their garb.

 

Yevy, the postmistress, was a small wizened woman who greeted him with a smile and silent nod. Endellian didn’t stay long enough to watch her attach his message to a homing pigeon. He took a different way back, passing the arena grounds on the west side of the House, where the sunspray blossoms grew thickest. It was empty save for two figures, who were circling each other like sharks.

 

Ariyen and Druen shared the same golden hair and athletic prowess, but the similarities ended there. Ariyen was lean and sculpted like a sprinter, boundless energy coiled in his graceful limbs. Druen was hulking and brutish, his muscles bunched from years of hard labor. He came from the rural province of Ghrentos, known as the breadbasket of Losk. Speed and agility were Ariyen’s forte, but if it came down to sheer strength, Druen would win.

 

Endellian paused, watching as Druen closed in on Ariyen like a charging rhinocerous. He was fast, but Ariyen was faster. The sounds of flesh striking flesh were brutal, as were their shouts, the scuffle of their heels against the earth.

 

Endellian must have been watching him too closely, because Ariyen’s eyes met his for the briefest moment. In that split second distraction, he failed to dodge a blow from Druen, which knocked him clean to the ground.

 

“Motherfucker,” was the first thing he spat, as Druen helped him up.

 

“Sorry. Thought you’d dodge,” Druen said, in his lumbering yet placid manner. He swiped a finger across Ariyen’s upper lip, but all it did was smear the blood.

 

“Not you, Drew. Him.” Ariyen scowled at Endellian. “He’s always stalking me like the creep he is. It pisses me off.” Druen followed Ariyen’s accusing finger, and blinked in surprise as he spotted Endellian.

 

Endellian rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was watching Druen.” He nodded to the bigger blond. “You did well.”

 

“Um, thanks,” Druen said, a bit uncertainly. Endellian wasn’t exactly known for his friendliness.

 

“Go fuck yourself,” Ariyen spat. He began to undo the strips of cloth binding his hands. “Why are you here? Don’t you have other pressing matters to attend to, like giving small children nightmares and curdling milk by looking at it?”

 

“I already did those.” Endellian crossed his arms. “You can’t sulk forever, Ariyen. Each week we waste by doing nothing brings us closer to the winter solstice.”

 

“Oh, so now you want to cooperate, huh?” Ariyen snarled at him, unheeding of the blood dripping down his chin. “You’re so full of shit, you fork-tongued hypocrite, you mealymouthed pissant, you oily hyrax—”

 

Druen cleared his throat loudly, interrupting Ariyen’s tirade. “Well, this has been lovely, but I…I guess I’ll leave you guys to it! Hey, Ariy. Don’t do anything stupid, hear?”

 

As Druen lumbered off, Ariyen wheeled back on him. But before he could spit more venom, Endellian put up his hands. “Look here, I take it back.”

 

That brought Ariyen up short. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. A slow frown settled on his features. “What?”

 

“Are you deaf, you bloody oaf,” Endellian snapped. “I admit I crossed a line that day. Mind you, my opinion of you hasn’t changed, but I won’t bring it up again. Who you fucked to get in here is none of my business.”

 

Ariyen’s face warred between fury, shock, and confusion. “That is the worst apology I have ever heard in my life.”

 

“Well, it’s the only one you’re getting from me.” Endellian shrugged. “But forget it. We have work to do.”

 

— ☀︎ —

 

“Why are we here again?” Ariyen grumbled. He peeked suspiciously inside Endellian’s room, which was a rectangular cell the size of a large closet. A pallet lay in one corner, covered by a woolen blanket. Opposite it sat a wooden chest and a table with a small jug of water. A tzinke, a stringed instrument similar to a viol, sat by the table. Save for the plain rug on the floor, nothing else adorned the room. 

 

“It’s the only place we’ll have total privacy.” Endellian sat on the rug and began to rifle through his notes, which were meticulously kept in leather-bound stacks. “We don’t want anyone else overhearing our ideas.”

 

Ariyen gave him an annoyed look. “What is wrong with you? This is an acolyte’s Ascension, not a confidential research project to develop some eldritch weapon!”

 

“It might as well be.” Endellian sat down on the floor and unrolled a half-finished matrix of runes. He deftly inked a quick line of glyphs into the emerging equation.

 

Ariyen knelt across from him. “Why are you using that conjugation there? Kanaraph, kanaraphi. It becomes discordant when Serregatri is present.”

 

Endellian scoffed, contemptuous. “You are thinking of non-Lrastian chemophysics.” Before Ariyen could say anything, he snatched up a journal and pushed it in the other boy’s direction. “Shut up and take a look. Last page.”

 

Ariyen glared at him. But Endellian was already turning back to the large roll of paper, engrossed in his art. He caught a glimpse of the pages of the open book, and promptly forgot his irritation.

 

There were two mainstream schools of thought when it came to sorcery: an Internal method and an External method. Internalist mages used their bodies as the primary vessel for their magic, honing the power that welled within them through physical exercise and meditation. Forms were developed to harness this power, allowing it to flow through the body like water through a channel. The more skillful sorcerers could weave basic Forms into complex dances, mesmerizing and terrible to behold. Gymnasts, athletes, dancers, acrobats, and martial artists were drawn to this philosophy for obvious reasons, and Ariyen had always leaned towards it himself. His fire burned hottest after he’d just gone through a set of grueling, complex exercises.

 

However, others preferred Externalism—magic that sprouted from the mind. This type of spellwork was wrought on paper, planned out in lines of formulae that gave way to intricate patterns of glyphs that in turn culminated in wheels of runes. Such work was highly ordered and fine-tuned, allowing for great specificity and calculated effect. Artists, mathematicians, scientists, philosophers, and engineers were most likely to become Externalists.

 

Since the mind and body were intertwined, neither method was superior to the other. Some aspects of magic even blended the two. As a result, both practices had become enshrined in the formal education of sorcery. While some institutions specialized in one or the other, the House of Esteri gave equal importance to both ideologies.

 

Endellian was obviously an Externalist. These diagrams, wheels upon tiered wheels of runes, spelling out intricate chemical equations, were as beautiful as they were ingenious. Each line was deliberate and artful, forming cogs of wheels that seemed to move on the page. Directions for certain reactions, artfully staggered or in elegant concert. Summoning circles for reagents and catalysts timed for maximum efficiency, cascading together in harmony.

 

It was disorienting, looking at Endellian’s craft from this angle. Like reading the thoughts of a deadly monster before it killed you.

 

“This is ridiculous,” was what Ariyen finally said. He closed the book. “My Ascension was going to be a piece of choreography. Not a mess of chemistry equations.

 

“Well, you don’t have much choice now, do you,” Endellian said dryly. “This is required, and it’s what I’m good at.”

 

Ariyen sighed. “What’s so top secret about all this anyway?” He eyed the lock on the wooden chest, which was where the books had been kept. “Are you making drugs?”

 

Endellian actually cracked a smile at that. He looked up, his eyes slitted with amusement. “Remember the shitshow that started this whole thing? One of the spells I used involved the synthesis of an acid. It turns into a poison once neutralized.” Taking back the journal, he flipped nearly to the end and pointed at the diagrams—lines upon lines of reagents, catalysts, conditions. “This one.”

 

Ariyen felt nauseous. “Why are you showing me that?”

 

“Because you’re the only person who’s ever touched it,” Endellian said. “I want to see how it will react to you now.” His smile grew snide. “If you can handle it.”

 

That was all Ariyen needed to hear. “Give me that,” he snapped, snatching the book from him. Twirling his wand in a familiar little gesture and taking a deep breath, he began to chant. Softly at first, but his voice rose in a crescendo as the runes began to leap off the paper, swirling around him into organized and tiered circles. Glowing eyes, spectral and vibrant, fluttered open on his cheeks, his forehead. Component by component, the pieces of the spell began to fit together, golden energy cascading over dark blue symbols.

 

It was a novel phenomenon—Endellian’s spellwork with Ariyen’s unique magical fingerprint. Discordant and incomplete as it was, the hybridization was breathtakingly incandescent, uniquely mesmerizing. Ariyen’s fingers trailed over the drawings Endellian had made, bleeding gold into blue into gold.

 

Endellian watched one of the rune wheels rotate around Ariyen, shuddering and spasming. It was so faded as to be transparent, completely outshone by its brilliant neighbors. He reached forward and palmed it, unlinking it and drawing it towards him. “Why’d you choose this conjugation? It’s pinned the harmonious set and turned it discordant. Like a tourniquet on a healthy arm.”

 

“It’s always worked for me,” Ariyen responded, and it sounded like three of his own voices were speaking—one voice answering, two others chanting. “It just doesn’t like you, I guess. Can’t blame it.”

 

Endellian muttered something rude under his breath. He reworked the rune wheel with a twist and a spin, but Ariyen had moved the spell forward without it, and there was nowhere to slot it back. But while Ariyen might be the caster, he was not the author. Endellian opened his hands, and lines of blue energy shimmered at his fingertips, linking him with the wheels of runes spiraling around Ariyen. The cat’s-cradle technique he’d happened to see Idax and Ithiel using had inspired him, and had turned out to be an amazing bookkeeping tool.

 

He slotted the wheel back in place, linking it to a larger circle of glyphs that glowed brightly as the harmonious elements sang together. 

 

All five of Ariyen’s eyes flickered. He ended his chant in what sounded suspiciously like “thank you” in the Old Speech. He rose to his feet and stretched leisurely, the mage-eyes adorning his face fluttering shut.

 

Endellian stared at him. “Ariyen. What did you do? Where’s the fucking acid?”

 

“Oh. I changed it to sugar.” Ariyen stifled a yawn. “Oops.” He grinned, not looking apologetic in the slightest.

 

“You what?” Endellian could barely believe his ears. This spell, multilayered and complex, was some of his finest and most dangerous work, and this blond cretin had twisted it to follow the pathway of one of the most well-known chemical processes? It made sense now—the altered conjugation, the way Ariyen had positioned himself in front of the window, the soft green scent of trees…

 

“Oh, please. Don’t give me that look.” Ariyen’s grin was wide and satisfied, positively giddy with glee at himself. “You wanted progress? We just did something beautiful together. And nothing bad happened!”

 

Endellian exploded. “Did you just turn my multi-step synthesis into a carbon reduction cycle? I’m going to pot you like the stupid plant you are, you bastard.”

 

Ariyen laughed so hard, tears glistened in his eyes. “Nah, I’m worse than a plant. I used up more oxygen than I produced, just now.” He looked at Endellian, a smile in his eyes. “Anyway. Can I see the rest of your notes?”

 

“Get the fuck out of my room.”

Notes:

Endellian: we are about to create biochemical abominations beyond comprehension
Ariyen: hehe carbs

Chapter Text

“Endellian, can you spare a moment?” Eshke blinked up at him with her big glassy eyes. “Please?”

 

They’d just got out of one of Dashara’s lectures on Transformation. He’d found it a struggle to concentrate throughout it, as her stare had been boring a hole through his head the entire time. Eshke was nice enough, given that he had given zero effort to befriend her in the first place, but there was no arguing that she was a little weird.

 

He spared her a bored glance. “What do you want?”

 

“Nothing much. Just your name.” She held up an ink-smudged pad of paper before him. “We are petitioning for Tiansen-zen to offer her Illuminations and Summoning lessons again! The class was very popular a few years ago, but you know how she distilled it all into texts when she became Keeper. Some people like taking Il-Sum in that format, but a lot of others want the old way back.” Behind her, Kieryn was spieling off to a pair of acolytes, a similar document in his brown hands.

 

He rolled his eyes. “She probably had a good reason for changing it.”

 

“Oh, don’t be like that. Just sign it, please. Look, so many of your friends have put their signatures down already!” Eshke trailed a knobbed finger up the list—here was Celys’s neatly looped handwriting, Druen’s blocky print, Ithiel’s heavy-handed scrawl followed immediately by Idax’s on the same line, as if they were one entity.

 

Endellian wanted to scoff at her. And he did. But he took the pen from her outstretched hand and scribbled three careless characters on the next blank line.

 

“Thank you!” Eshke beamed at him. “How wonderful of you. Oh, by the way, is it true that you and Ariyen are, um, on better terms now? If so, I’m glad to hear it! We can all hang out together sometime. Or something.” She left without waiting for an answer from him, her curly white head disappearing among the stream of students in the hall.

 

Irritation prickled under Endellian’s skin. Just because he and Ariyen had managed to study together for a little here and there without throwing any punches had not made them best friends. It was already tiring enough having to deal with that stubborn brat.

 

He wanted so very badly to go to the library and take a nap to escape the dull aching pain in his limbs, which only worsened every day. But he couldn’t—today Transformations directly preceded Forms. Forms had never been Endellian’s favorite, but they certifiably sucked now.

 

He entered the airswept studio with a sullen silence, as he did thrice a week. It was a long, rectangular room with narrow sliding windows that could open up an entire wall to a view of the sloping hills towards the village near the bay. Most of them were open, letting in a sweet sunlit breeze. The beautiful view did nothing to stop his mood from curdling even further when Ariyen, standing with a group of students, spotted him. He must have been feeling lively, as he called out a greeting. “Hey, demon!”

 

Endellian sneered. “Hi, princess.” Ariyen made a disgusted sound, which Endellian relished quietly. He sat down to wrap his feet in strips of gray cloth.

 

“Setting up to stomp on my feet again?” Ariyen’s taunting voice danced with a smile. “That’s all right. Zu-An-zen’s burn salve is very good, as I’m sure you know.”

 

“I’ll cut off your fingers and feed them to you.”

 

“I don’t need fingers to set fire to your face!”

 

“You two shut up,” Vinashren yelled, down the length of the room, just as Xinthe entered the classroom.

 

Tall and graceful, Xinthe was an elegant figure in red and silver silks, her elaborate coiffure of grey-marbled hair exposing a frail neck crepey with age. The crimson lacquered nails of her left hand were short and blunted, while those on her right were long and pointed like talons. She had been an instructor for longer than Nyi had been alive, and many mages still referred to her with the honorific suffix that acolytes used for their teachers. The only thing greater than her renown as a talented Formist and tzinke player was her love for teaching dance and music. She glided across the room and closed up a few of the windows, murmuring complaints of cold even though the sunlight flooding the room was warm as a hearth. A few nearby students, including Ariyen and his gang, scrambled to help her.

 

Endellian found his usual place by the wall, next to Ithiel, as they did warm-ups and simple exercises. Ithiel was well-liked and intelligent enough, but the poor acolyte was an even worse dancer than himself. He nearly collided with Endellian during a footwork drill, catching his arm to steady himself.

 

He ignored Ithiel’s hasty apologies, yanking his arm away from his grasp. He hadn’t entirely been paying attention, either, half his mind on his own moving feet and the other half on Ariyen’s smooth limbs. As deep as his dislike ran for the other boy, it was impossible not to admire the fluid grace with which he moved. Endellian was obliged, somewhat grudgingly, to acknowledge that Ariyen was probably the best dancer in the room besides of course Xinthe herself.

 

Of course, all the pirouettes and linework in the world were useless if they could not temper a stronger, more flexible vessel for one’s power. And every bit of Ariyen’s grace as a dancer was deadly as it was beautiful.

 

As the half-hour mark arrived, Xinthe called for students to pair off. Ariyen caught his gaze with a challenge in his pale green eyes, as he did every time. He scoffed to himself as he put a hand on Endellian’s back. “It’s like you didn’t even stretch at all. So stiff and cold. Is that why you almost killed poor Ithi?”

 

“One,” Endellian muttered under his breath. He put his hand on Ariyen’s back, and they began.

 

Not even five steps in, Ariyen’s movements grew sharper, more lethal. Endellian gritted his teeth and pushed harder to match him, even as his limbs screamed in protest. Ariyen’s eyes had just begun to glow as energy began to flow through him, vibrant and pulsing. By contrast, Endellian’s magic was a trapped animal clawing at his throat. Ariyen must have noticed the tightness in his face. A smug grin sliced its way across his mouth. “Seriously, would it kill you to loosen up? I feel like I’m hauling ass with a mannequin.”

 

“Two.”

 

“What?”

 

“When I get to three I will punch your lights out.”

 

Ariyen giggled like Endellian had cracked the funniest joke he’d ever heard. He’d been acting very strangely lately; the seething rage in his eyes had given way to an unhinged manic glee that was totally unpredictable. “Three? Wow! That’s really generous of you, actually.” He passed close, their hands clasping and unclasping, arms crossing and uncrossing. Endellian pulled away jerkily, making Ariyen’s brow pinch with irritation.

 

Despite his threat, it wasn’t worth it, truly, losing his temper in a setting like this. Especially not in front of Xinthe, who watched them all with a smile, not on her thin painted lips, but in her narrow gray eyes that glittered like little pieces of hematite. She carried her iconic folding fan, despite always being draped in warm robes. There were rumors among the students that she hid paper-thin blades in its silken folds. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her glide among the pairs of students, closer and closer. She stopped and watched them.

 

By now, a molten, caustic version of Endellian’s magic was burning through him. The familiar muscle aches that had accompanied a long session of Forms, steadily building to a crescendo, had turned to a scream throughout his entire body. He gritted his teeth. Just kill me now. But he only continued the Form, and Ariyen with him, and by the grace of the Divine neither of them made any missteps.

 

Xinthe smiled, slow and toothy. “Very good.” She inclined her head towards Endellian. “But where is the love?”

 

Endellian could not believe his ears. “I’m sorry?”

 

“You have improved much. But you dance as if you wish to inflict pain.”

 

He had to resist the urge to look down and make sure there weren’t actual knives slicing open his legs. “Isn’t that the point? Xinthe-zen.”

 

Xinthe laughed, a surprisingly full and loud sound coming from her fragile frame. “Well, that’s what they all believe, isn’t it?” She turned to face the whole class, and pair by pair, they stopped to heed her. “That all Forms are, is an exercise for warriors. A tool to carve the channels of the body. A means to an end. And yes, it can serve that purpose. But I have found, paradoxically, that those who dance for the pure enjoyment of it are those who transform themselves the most. For Forms to become a means, it must first be the end.”

 

“That’s what we’ve been doing, hasn’t it?” Ariyen remarked as Xinthe continued her pilgrimage amongst her students. He took Endellian’s wrists and shook them up and down, bouncing on the balls of his wrapped feet. “We’re having such a good time! This is so fun!” He threw back his head and laughed so loudly the acolytes around them threw bewildered looks at them.

 

Endellian just stood there. He was realizing, with a slow horror, that Ariyen’s lunatic coping mechanism was making him twice as intolerable as before. “Three.”

Chapter 11

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Saint’s eyes,” Celys whispered. “What is that?

 

Ariyen followed her eyes to the open pages of a notebook that peeked out of his satchel. He’d stuffed it in there as carelessly as he could just to make Endellian wince. The pretentious bastard treated his pens and books like they were made of silver and nacre. “What’s what?”

 

Celys ignored him. She dug his rumpled notebook out of the bag, handling it carefully as if it were a wounded bird. “Wow. Oh, wow, Ariy. Look at this! This is…” she trailed off, not bothering to finish her sentence in favor of admiring the intricate sequences of equations and matrices inked in blue and black on the pages.

 

They were sitting in one of the rooms of Linden Hall, which comprised the eastern side of the House. Like the rest of the House, the walls were carven stone, inlaid with runes and set with alcoves containing skelterns that spilled molten yellow light. The rooms were paneled in walnut and oak, furnished simply with plain sturdy desks and carpeting the color of fallen foliage. Lamps on the tables cast long shadows up to the dark ceiling. Tripartite windows looked out to clusters of white-thatched houses scattered across fields that rose and fell in great green swaths, quilted by groves of maple and juniper.

 

Ariyen caught a glimpse of one of the open pages and scowled. “That was a pain in the ass to figure out. We bickered for days and that’s all we have to show for it.”

 

It was not an exaggeration. He worked Endellian to the bone during Forms and sparring, knowing he would rather die than admit an inability to keep up. And Endellian punished him vengefully during their study sessions, stacking the most intricate wheels of runes atop each other in the most diabolical of systems without pause or explanation. Just looking at them made Ariyen’s eyes water. So far, working on this project with him had been two steps forward, one step back.

 

And so the cycle continued.

 

Neither of them was willing to back down. Ariyen knew it was foolish, but he would quite literally rather gouge out his own eyes than to be the first to show leniency.

 

“I’ll bet it was,” Celys said distractedly. She slowly turned the page, her large glassy eyes bright with fascination. “Storis, Stora, Storem…” She shook her head. “Honestly, I’d be too scared to try and attempt a Transformation on this level. Even with all the time I’ve spent in Dashara-zen’s office. Bet he’s sick of my face by now.”

 

“Ha! If there’s anyone he should be sick of, it’s me.” He grinned and rested his head on his arms, flicking a lazy, fond glance up at his best friend. There was a quiet joy to do his own thing beside her, hear the scratching of her pen, the quiet whistle of her breath, the soft comfort of her presence.

 

“I just know they’re all sick of you.” She reached over and tousled his unruly blond curls, making him laugh.

 

Voices floated in from outside the room, passing in the hall, but their haven remained undisturbed. Outside, a hawk cried, shrill and distant. Celys put the notebook back into the disarray of his things and turned back to her work, diligent as ever.

 

Ariyen, who was not so studious, dug in his pockets for the small tin of buttery salve he used on his knuckles and elbows. He didn’t need it so much anymore now that his body had gotten used to channeling scorching magefire, but it had become a comforting little ritual. He spent several long minutes massaging the balm into his skin. The air became scented with the delicate fragrance of apricot oil.

 

“Oh. There’s something I have to tell you,” Celys said, not looking up from her papers. “Vina and I have decided to do a paired Ascension as well. Xinthe-zen was the one who gave us the idea, because of our private lessons. We got approval from Nyi-zen and Tiansen-zen just yesterday.”

 

The tin of apricot salve clattered from Ariyen’s fingers. He fumbled unsuccessfully for it for several long moments as his brain parsed the information. “Really?”

 

“Our strengths and weaknesses match well.” Now she looked at him. “The same could be said of our personalities, I suppose. She gives me courage, I give her discretion. It all works out! And you inspired us, I guess. In a way.”

 

He laughed nervously. “We inspired you? Saint’s eyes, I hope you’re joking.”

 

Celys snorted. “Well, certainly not your petty bickering. But if you two fools can get this far, think of what she and I can do together!”

 

Ariyen laughed, then sighed and shook his head. “By the Divine. I’m so jealous.” He raked his hands through his hair. “I would give anything to be in her position. Or yours.”

 

“Well, naturally.” She reached for the leather flask she always kept by her side and took a sip. “But you and Vina wouldn’t last a week together. You two are too alike. Well, actually, she has just an ounce more of common sense.”

 

“That’s not fair. Vinashren and I would be wonderful together! I would treat her so well.” He smiled dreamily at the thought.

 

“Yeah, and you guys wouldn’t get a single lick of work done,” she retorted. “My productivity is already cut in half whenever I’m around you.”

 

He grinned and spun a pen around his fingers. “It’s what you get for hanging around delinquents like me.”

 

Delinquents, plural? You’re the only one.” She kept her gaze on the open pages of the text before her, but her eyes sparkled. “Now shut up and focus. If we’re going to get my parents to adopt you after your Ascension, you better study hard.”

 

This had the opposite effect of what she’d intended. He shut up, but instead of focusing on his work, his thoughts floated like puffy clouds through the ether of her words. The idea of the Selindrans adopting him as a son had started as a silly joke, but Celys was becoming more and more attached to it. And if Ariyen was honest, so was he. He had met her mothers, Tharna and Numa vi Selindran, several times, and they all but adored him. In all the letters they exchanged with their daughter, there was always a section addressed to him.

 

Besides, who was Ariyen to turn such a prospect down? No longer would his name be stained by the association to the Nidolan red-light districts he’d grown up in. That past would finally be dead. No longer would he be Ariyen of Nidolos, but Ariyen vi Selindran. He and Celys would travel the world as brother and sister, tasting its fruits and delivering their magical services. At last, he would have a real family. The thought made every fiber of him warm and light.

 

Time, immaterial and weightless, slipped away without trace or thought. By the time the tower bell rang to announce dinnertime, Celys’s papers and diagrams covered every square inch of the table. Ariyen, who had stolen some of Endellian’s notes on reaction timing, had managed to twist several rune wheels together and calibrate them to operate in concert. The result roughly resembled a four-legged—wheeled?—creature. It was currently running (or was it rolling?) in circles around the desk, a mangled page from Celys’s notebook stuck where its mouth would have been.

 

“My homework,” Celys wailed, trying in vain to organize the sea of diagrams and schematics before her. Some were beginning to come to life on their own, reacting to the temporary magical signature made by Ariyen’s runic creature.

 

Ariyen, who was every bit as food-motivated as Vinashren was, scrambled to help Celys collect her papers. He slung his bag over a shoulder and motioned for her to climb onto his back, before prying open a window and jumping out of it.

 

Celys laughed with delight all the way to the refectory, her arms securely around his neck. As he ran along the ridge of a cloister, he waved back to the students who had stopped to point and wave at them—Druen and his sister Olesina among them—before catching up with Vinashren, Kieryn, and Eshke at their usual table.

 

“Celly cottontail!” Vinashren put her arms around Celys and kissed her forehead. “Ariyen barbarian!” She turned and put her hands around Ariyen’s neck, playfully pretending to throttle him. He squirmed and laughed, suddenly ticklish.

 

“Do you call her that because she runs so fast?” Kieryn gave Vinashren a lazy, amused look. He draped an arm around Ariyen’s waist in a silent, intimate greeting, and Ariyen leaned his cheek against the other boy’s shaved head. It was true—Celys could run a mile in four minutes, a feat doubly impressive for someone so short. Her tiny legs were more powerful than a horse’s. This did not stop Ariyen from carrying her on his back whenever he could.

 

“I thought it was because she’s as cute as a rabbit!” Eshke said. “Then again, so are you.” She reached up and poked Ariyen’s cheek.

 

Ariyen grinned and patted Eshke’s hair. “Every girl in the House of Esteri is beautiful, for they are mirrors of Our Lady.”

 

“Oh.” Kieryn pouted. “Does that mean I’m no longer a mirror?”

 

“All the girls and Ryn,” Celys declared as she took her usual seat between Ariyen and Vinashren. “And Ithiel, because he looks like a girl.”

 

“He does not. He just has the same face as Idax.” Eshke hummed. “Or does she have the same face as him?”

 

“Oh! Look who it is,” Vinashren said, as Endellian entered the refectory. As one of the tallest students in the House as well as the only one with ram’s horns and a mohawk, he was easy to spot. Not to mention that he was always by himself.

 

Vina,” Ariyen and Celys protested in gloomy unison, as the redheaded girl waved him over enthusiastically.

 

“I want him to sit with us because he always gives me his dessert,” Vinashren hissed. She jabbed a finger at Ariyen. “You will behave, or I’ll knock your heads together.”

 

“I’d give you my dessert too,” Ariyen muttered sullenly, as Endellian sat next to Vinashren.

 

“Hey, Endellian,” Kieryn said cheerfully, around a mouthful of bread. “Does Idax have the same face as Ithiel, or does he have the same face as her?”

 

Endellian grunted. “Who’s older?”

 

“Oh.” Kieryn scratched his ear. “I dunno. I think Idax is, because she acts like it.”

 

“Do you have siblings?” Vinashren asked him. She had a pastry in each hand.

 

Endellian was silent for a beat. “Yes.”

 

“No way! How many?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Eshke’s eyes sparkled with curiosity, her plate untouched.

 

Endellian looked uncomfortable. “Too many to count.” Reaching for a basket of fruit, he selected a green apple and bit into it.

 

Ariyen’s eyes hadn’t left Endellian once since he had sat down. A new feeling, jealousy, threaded its way through his heart. Too many to count? What kind of answer was that? If Ariyen had siblings, he would treasure each and every brother and sister. How many was too many, anyway?

 

Nevertheless, he stayed silent. As far as his friends knew, Ariyen was an orphan. He never had anything to say when the topic turned to discussions of family—after all, he had none to speak of. 

 

Endellian caught him staring, and a flicker of unease passed across his face for the briefest moment. He turned away, his expression shuttered.

 

Celys, who had noticed the brief but pointed exchange, huffed loudly. “By the Goddess! Your poor mother. Didn’t anyone tell your father to lay off her?” Kieryn choked on a mouthful of soup. Ariyen snickered.

 

Endellian glared at her. “They’re mostly half-siblings,” he snapped, but his tone was more sullen than angry. “And it’s none of your business.” He finished the apple and reached for another.

 

Vinashren, who looked like she had just stepped in a nest of wasps, patted Endellian on the wrist. “Hey, don’t be like that. We were just trying to get to know you. Maybe I should have gone first,” she offered. “I have three older brothers, but they’re all entitled pieces of shit. I’m on a mission to replace each of them.”

 

“Ooh, ooh! Me!” Kieryn raised his hand excitedly, as if he was in class. “Can I be your brother? Please!”

 

Vinashren’s smile was wide and delighted. “Yeah! Hey, that means I’ll get Esh as my sister-in-law too!”

 

“That’s not how it works, Vinashren.” Endellian’s voice was flat as ever, but it was softer than usual. “Family is forever. You can’t just pick and choose who you want to be related to.”

 

“Who said anything about relatedness?” Vinashren returned. “Family isn’t who you’re born with. It’s who you die for. And I’d die for all of you.”

 

Endellian fixed his attention to his bowl of soup and said nothing.

 

Meals were always speedy affairs, and tonight there was a special incentive to leave the refectory quickly. Celys’s hand found its way inside Ariyen’s elbow as they followed the throng of students outside the walls of the House. A bonfire had already been assembled in the meadow near the red pear orchards, and a small band of acolytes, led by Xinthe, had gathered with their tzinkes. As the music floated through the balmy evening air scented with applewood smoke, she began to sing.

 

Xinthe’s voice was a heavenly sound with a soul-stirring timbre, smoother than the deepest notes of a viol, sweeter than the coldest spring-water. The voices of the acolytes rose to meet hers, soft and lilting, like a gentle wind through the rushes, gathering in strength like the blaze of the bonfire. Together, they sang the Lay of the Beloved, one of the oldest songs in the saintly canon. Its authorship was credited to the Saint Himself, who had been known as Giêsu when He was alive. But unlike the names of the other saints, His name was a holy word, not to be spoken aloud except in ritual ceremony by a mage or priest. Hence, He was known simply as the Saint, the herald of the Goddess Herself.

 

And from the beatific love between the Saint and the Goddess sprung the Divine, the Spirit through which all things abided, the essence of sorcery itself.

 

Vinashren put her hands on Celys’s waist, swaying her gently to the music, her eyes closed. Kieryn and Eshke stood side-by-side with their faces tipped towards the dying light of the sun, like a pair of wildflowers in a field. Ariyen stood with them, half his mind on the soft voices of his fellow students and half still on the conversation from dinner.

 

He watched Endellian stare into the fire, the flickering blaze reflecting off his colorless eyes and making the curves of his horns glow. The setting sun cast golden shadows across his pale, angular face. Although all the students were more or less together in this loose gathering, no one stood close to him. Family is forever, he’d said. But despite having the most out of them all, he had still ended up alone.

 

Ariyen turned away from him and focused on the familiar warmth of the bodies around him. He put one arm around Kieryn’s shoulders and the other around Vinashren’s, natural as breathing, and tried not to think about the hollow loneliness lurking deep inside Endellian’s eyes.

Notes:

reading doukyuusei rn and kusakabe is literally how I picture Ariyen lol

Chapter 12

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The Common Hall was a stone-vaulted cedar-beamed chamber that could easily hold the entire body of the House and more. Built in the ancient cathedral style, it featured looming arched ribs carved with ornamental struts. Statues of saints lined the walls in various poses—praying, fighting, embracing, or preaching. The lanterns were lit at this hour, casting long shadows onto the carven walls covered by thick tapestries. Only a few students were nearby, talking or singing or plucking their tzinkes in quiet melodies. Their voices carried like the warm buttery glow of the lamps to the vaulted ceiling.

 

“Your handwriting becomes more abysmal every time I see it.” Endellian looked at the large scroll of paper laid out between them. He’d finally agreed to moving their study sessions outside the confines of their rooms, albeit rather reluctantly. “How can you even decipher it?”

 

Ariyen laughed. He had grown bored of balancing equations, and was drawing chubby cats on the edge of the paper. “I don’t need to.”

 

“Of course you don’t.” Endellian sniffed and tucked a stray piece of hair back between his curved horns.

 

Ariyen ignored him and stifled a yawn. “Have you seen the way Dashara-zen casts his rune wheels? All he has to do is think of them, and they are. It’s amazing.” He smiled, half-lost in a daydream. “His mind must be an endless palace made of origami paper, all full of runes.”

 

“Yes, and you’ll never get there if all you do is draw cats on my paper.” Endellian reached over as if to snatch his pen.

 

Ariyen smacked his hand away, almost knocking an inkwell over. “You mean our paper.”

 

Endellian only flashed him a rude gesture before turning back to his equations.

 

Ariyen smirked to himself. From the beginning, everything from their personalities to their temperaments to their magic had seemed incompatible. But their studies over the last several weeks had uncovered certain patterns, specific linking of runes that both their energies flowed through remarkably well. Their magic was not so contradictory as they both had thought (although it was hard to remember that when Endellian was stepping on his feet during Forms). But there had been grudging agreements, minute progress, here and there.

 

He leaned back, watching the tip of Endellian’s tongue poke out of the corner of his mouth as he scribbled out a line of glyphs. Endellian was very good at mental math, and could work out most calculations without having to use an abacus or slide rule. His eyes, usually narrow and flinty, took on a gentler bearing as he lost himself in his art. This strange, softer side of him only emerged when he was totally focused, and it was equal parts unnerving and thrilling to see it.

 

Endellian looked up and met his eyes. He blinked, taken unaware for a second, before his mask slotted back into place. His expression fixed itself, flat and guarded once again.

 

Ariyen flushed, embarrassed at having been caught staring. He stood abruptly and flexed his shoulders, shaking out his arms and slowly rotating his neck. “Ugh, this is boring. Put that shit away. Let’s warm up and do some Forms.”

 

“No.” Endellian’s sharp black eyebrows pinched together. He held his pen like a scalpel. “We’ve already started here. And we will finish this.”

 

“Oh, come on. How could you even think of sitting still on a beautiful day like this?” Ariyen had already begun to bend himself into a starting pose. He spent as much time stretching as he did lifting, and was as flexible as he was strong. Lowering himself into a deep lunge, he twisted his upper body to face the ceiling.

 

Endellian watched as Ariyen switched legs and twisted in the opposite direction, apparently oblivious to the way his thin linen chiton rode up at the movement. “Would be more beautiful if you weren’t here ruining everything.”

 

“Ha! Do they even have beautiful days in Tur?” Ariyen sank into a perfect, effortless front split and bent back until his head touched the calf of his back leg, allowing him to look back at Endellian, who flicked his gaze away. “I hear the sun never rises down there in the far South. So not only will you freeze your balls off, you can’t even see ‘em fall off your body!”

 

“That is not true,” Endellian snapped. “The sun does rise, for a few months every year. And only careless fools get frostbite.”

 

“That must be why you’re so awful at Forms. Doesn’t frostbite destroy the nerves?” Ariyen straightened and gathered himself. He planted his hands and pressed off the ground into a playful handstand, all in one smooth, deceptively easy move. He could never sit still for too long; the fire that burned in him never went out.

 

Endellian’s eyes wandered back to him as Ariyen folded over his body in a striking display of flexibility. Every muscle in his smooth limbs was finely sculpted, years of training carving away any imperfections. “I’m going to push you over.”

 

“Yeah, come on over here,” Ariyen taunted, crossing his feet in the air. “I’ll show you a move or two. Hey—put that DOWN!” This last part was brought on by Endellian advancing on him in earnest, his wand brandished. Ariyen flipped himself upright and spun into a defensive position, eyes flashing.

 

Endellian bit out a smile, his frosty eyes hard and mean as ever. “Fine then, let’s have it your way. Teach me a dance. I’ll try my best not to step on your toes.”

 

“And I’ll do my best not to burn you.” Ariyen wriggled his fingers, a small white flame dancing between them. The light reflected in his eyes, making them gleam.

 

“Do your worst.” Endellian stuck his hands into the pockets of his skirts and pulled on a pair of thick cowhide gloves. Protective sigils were etched into the leather, invisible save for when the light caught them at a certain angle.

 

Ariyen was not impressed. “Now all you need is a grimy apron and some goggles, and you’ll look right at home in a forge.”

 

Endellian only began to smile, cold and serpentine. He flexed his fingers in a mocking imitation, and an eerie green glow sparked to life between his hands. Just as Ariyen had gained a keener eye for rune compatibility, he had picked up some Internalist techniques that he’d woven into his chemical equations. “Could a smith do this?”

 

“I think a smith would look a little less constipated,” Ariyen said. His feet began to slide and shift of their own accord, moving in the beginning steps to the basic flame-type Form that looked like a ballet dance. Tight and crisp, its intricate steps rose and fell with the user’s breath, flowing and natural and, in Ariyen’s case, deadly. The air around him began to shimmer with heat.

 

Endellian was now full-on grinning like a maniac, the green flame reflecting in his colorless eyes. He followed, the ghostly fire shrouding him providing a buffer against the scorching heat radiating from Ariyen. Slowly but surely, his steps fell into a rhythmic pattern, a Form that was as simple as it was ancient. “You think you’re so smart, aren’t you? Let’s see about that.” He circled closer and closer, his steps beginning to mirror Ariyen’s, yet with a less explosive, more elegant style. With his long legs and measured movements, it was another thing entirely. “How long did it take you to learn this? I can keep up with you with only a half year’s study.”

 

“You’ll have to do better than just keep up.” Ariyen was moving even faster, his dance evolving into a dizzying whirl of steps that was mesmerizing and unpredictable. As complex as it was, every line on his body cut the air like a fish through water, clean and effortless. Not an ounce of energy was wasted.

 

Endellian laughed. As he completed a sequence of movements, he pounced forward in a striking leap. His heel struck the ground where Ariyen’s toes had been a half a moment earlier. His second stomp struck true, trampling Ariyen’s bare foot under an unforgiving shoe.

 

Ariyen’s indignant howl was shrill and immediate. His swift retaliation, a sharp kick to the shin, landed squarely with a thunk. Endellian growled and aimed another stomp, but Ariyen had already leaped away.

 

The firestorm that surrounded the two of them blazed like a hurricane in a furnace. In the heart of the fury, two figures dashed and whirled, exchanging sparking strikes and slashes of volatile kinetic energy. But it was not a fight, and neither was it a duet; it was something in between and something else entirely.

 

A blinding glow flared from all five of Ariyen’s eyes: two slanted downwards on his cheekbones, two where there should be, and one positioned vertically on his forehead. This was the holy circle, also known as the trifold conception, that manifested only in highly skilled Internalists. Blue-white flames wreathed his hair, which had been bleached nearly white by the otherworldly radiance of his face. The last time Endellian had seen him like this, he had sustained second-degree burns and a fractured horn. But Ariyen had suffered too, brutally blinded with acid that had eaten its way into his face.

 

There was no place for such base cruelties now, not even in this incandescent cataclysm. The spinning wheels of runes that glowed around them were incomplete and unstable, and there were more discordant components than harmonious ones, but they were functional and full of potential.

 

Ariyen fixed his gaze on his opponent—no, his partner, he had to remember that—as the Form they’d woven together built up to a crescendo, a positive feedback loop magnified a thousand times through two amplifiers. As his power swelled, Endellian’s eyes, which were usually the dull color of cloudy quartz, bled black as if ink had been poured into them. The grin that sliced his face open was wide and entirely unhinged. Surrounded by unearthly green flames, his wild mane of hair whipping behind him like crow feathers, he truly looked nothing short of demonic. Despite it all, Ariyen felt himself laughing. It had to be wrong, feeling this good in the midst of a raging tempest born of the riotous reaction between their magical signatures. But it felt so right.

 

That was, until a spinning multi-tiered circle of runes broke from its orbit, careening straight at him. Glowing blue-gold and vibrating from an overload of discordant energy, it moved with the speed of a fist. Normally, it would have passed right through him, but it struck him with the force of a boulder in an avalanche. The impact sent Ariyen flying, colliding with a bone-shattering crack against a stone statue of Saint Vris. Pain and panic flared, immediate and sharp, as his first thought was that Endellian had struck him somehow. But no, Ariyen could see him there…sprawled on the floor in a heap of black clothing. His leg was twisted at a horrifying angle, sticking out of his thick skirts. Endellian raised his head, and the eyes that met Ariyen’s were white and unfocused, wild with agony.

 

Ariyen’s confusion and terror were short-lived, however, as the rune wheels they’d created began to collide and aggregate like malignant tumors, discordant on discordant on discordant, feeding ravenously on their hosts. There was a sound like a roaring voice loud beyond comprehension, terrifying in its sheer magnitude, each deafening word blasting through wood and stone. His fire extinguished like a match plunged into water, and with it went the rest of his senses as his strength failed and he slipped into oblivion.

Notes:

i had a dream about rune wheels last night and it was really funny but i forgot

Chapter Text

Nestled between mountainous glaciers and huge shelves of ice, Idrisi Keln was the heart of Tur, a benevolent mother to her host of children: travelers, homesteaders, trappers, merchants, artisans. Her streets glittered with lanterns and torches, snowy-thatched houses glowing with firelight and laughter. Smoke from cookfires trailed into the sky, which churned with dark hazy clouds.

 

Endellian poured two cups of dark steaming liquid from the canteen tied to his belt. It was the very best mulled cider from the kitchens, made with plenty of ground spices and roasted apples and sweetened slightly with maple syrup. Sitha liked it even more than he did. His twin brother was currently breaking open their lunch pack, which contained smoked elk sausage and goat cheese and fresh sourdough bread. This rocky shelf, which overlooked the northern districts of Idrisi Keln, lay at about the halfway point of the hike, providing a perfect picnic spot. Once they’d reached the summit, they’d make their prayers, burn their offerings, then ski down to the mouth of the frozen river to make camp near the herds of grazing reindeer.

 

Sitha turned to him, offering up a generous helping of cheese and sausage along with the biggest slice of bread, taken from the middle of the loaf. His twin’s face was a near perfect reflection of his own, save for the hair he kept in a short choppy cut unlike the traditional mohawk Endellian had always worn. The silver jewelry that banded and tipped his curved horns sparkled as it caught the light. His soft eyes, bright and pale like clouds after a rain, crinkled with good humor.

 

But when he opened his mouth, his voice was like a blade. “What were you thinking, Endë? Sending me a letter, after all these years? Really? You should have never written at all.”

 

Endellian opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Sitha went on, still holding out the food between them.

 

“Besides, let’s not forget. You are a witch. And a hex-caster is no brother of mine.”

 

There was no mountain, and there never had been. Endellian opened his eyes, and he was thousands of miles from home, in a body several years older, in a House full of foreign strangers. His lower leg was wrapped in linen bandages and set in a wooden splint, and his head throbbed fiercely. But all of that seemed like trifling distractions compared to the corrosive grief filling his lungs, threatening to drown him.

 

He had left everything he knew, everyone he loved, to pursue the Saintly truth, to practice the Divine Arts. And he had paid dearly for it. Never again would he spend an afternoon climbing the mountains of Idrisi Keln or ice fishing in its frozen lakes. Never again would he help old Sfiro in the wards, delivering babies and preparing medicines and talking with the other midwives. And never again would he hear the laugh of his twin brother, his better half.

 

A warm breeze stirred the air in the room. Drifting in from an open window, it was nothing like the biting arctic winds he swore he’d just felt on his skin. It fanned lightly across his face, making him aware of the wetness of the tears on his cheeks.

 

Then it all came flooding back. The Form, the fire, the flashing gold-blue rune wheel that crushed his leg with a bone-snapping force. Ariyen, crumpled against a statue that had broken in half under the impact, his once-radiant face stained with blood.

 

Endellian flailed, trying to sit up, and regretted it instantly. The answering pain that knifed through his ribs was immediate and cruel, knocking the breath out of him. For a moment, he could do nothing but lie still, grappling with his consciousness like a novice fisherman wrangling a freshly caught herring. When he’d managed to return to himself, he twisted his fingers into the blanket, his breath coming in panting wheezes. It still felt like he was being cut to ribbons by a red-hot blade.

 

“Endellian? There you are. Welcome back.”

 

Immediately, the pain eased, like a spike being taken out of his flesh. The voice belonged to an older woman with thick gray hair and a sturdy frame, clad in plain gardener’s robes and a straw hat. A garden pitchfork leaned on the wall beside her, which might have seemed out of place, but only to anyone who didn’t know that it was her staff.

 

“Zu-An-zen.” Endellian’s voice was a dry whisper. The House’s master healer and botanist, Zu-An was revered for her healing arts and for her outstanding service during the war. Now, she was always there to pick up the pieces when a student was hurt.

 

“You’ve got two broken ribs and a broken knee,” Zu-An answered, practical as ever. “You’ll be glad to know the breaks were mostly clean, however.” She lifted a cup of water to his mouth. “That, and also that Nior and Dashara happened to be nearby. If they hadn’t contained the rune-virus, it might just have killed you both.”

 

“I don’t understand.” Exhausted and shaken as he was, Endellian tried to reel through his memories back to that point in time. The wheels of runes had stacked and compounded with exponential speed and explosive power, born from the energy of the Form and the equations they’d put together. The culmination of weeks of work, they had represented both him and Ariyen at their best. Then they’d careened out of control without warning. While the two of them had successfully hybridized their magic a handful of times, these glowing matrices had been different—hungry, almost sentient. And that voice…“What happened?”

 

“We’ll find out soon enough.” Zu-An patted his arm, brisk yet maternal. “But you should rest first. There will be plenty of time for thinking.”

 

Endellian barely heard her. “Ariyen. Where is he? Is he alive?”

 

“Yes.” Zu-An looked past him, towards a curtained section of the room. “While you both absorbed a lot of the dysplastic energy, he took in considerably more of it. But don’t worry. He is stable.” Her voice took on a deeper timbre, and the air turned to syrup. “No more questions, now. Sleep.”

 

Her words rippled through every cell of his body. Endellian’s last coherent thought was to yearn for the mountains of his childhood, but as his mind succumbed to the Healer’s speech, nothing greeted him except for total blackness.

Chapter 14

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The statue of the Goddess stood in the center of the small fountain. Her face was covered, but Her hands and feet were bare. Traditional depictions of Her never bore any feminine traits like visible breasts or dainty facial features, for She was neither male nor female. The reason She was generally referred to with female pronouns was because of the Saint, who preached of an Almighty life-giver whose grace and mercy knew no bounds. And who could give life, save for a woman?

 

It had been three days since Ariyen and Endellian destroyed the Common Hall. The fallout of their spellcasting had been so catastrophic, its tremors had been felt in the nearby village of Samery. Miraculously, however, no one had been injured, and classes had been temporarily paused while the mages took control of the problem.

 

Despite that, no one was celebrating. The east and west chapels were full of students coming and going, their prayers incessant. Every night, the field between the north side of the House and the peach orchards was full of acolytes, each one holding a candle, their voices soft and plaintive in the moonlit breeze.

 

Celys sat on the low stone rim of the fountain. Evening was falling, and a cool breeze rustled though the branches of the olive trees, smelling faintly of the sea. As the last light of day filtered through the foliage, the skelterns began to float into the air, giving off their multi-hued glow. The ethereal light reflected off the water of the fountain.

 

Dozens of small copper coins had littered the bottom of the pool since the incident. She used to believe in such harmless superstitions—a penny for a wish. But all of the vast wealth of her mothers’ fortune could not pay for even a small fraction of the weight of the frantic desire now crushing her.

 

No amount of begging or coaxing could sway Siqiri to let her in to see Ariyen. Celys could tell it hurt the Healer to turn her down each time, but she didn’t care. Knowing Ariyen was alive wasn’t enough. Just a glimpse of him was all she needed.

 

She watched the clear surface of the fountain pool ripple as her tears dripped into the water. She had always been devout without question, as was expected of a daughter of mages and a future mage herself. Despite that, she’d hardly found it in herself to even make a coherent orison during chapel. All she could offer was one unyielding plea. Please bring him back to me. Please bring him back to me. Please bring him back to me. Please.

 

The face of the Goddess, features barely visible through the stone carved to look like a translucent piece of cloth, gazed down at her.

 

“Celly?” Vinashren’s voice, soft and full of worry. A gentle warmth, as she settled next to her on the rim of the fountain. She wrapped her arms around Celys, who was still hunched over the surface of the water. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

 

Vinashren always smelled clean and sweet, like brown sugar and fresh linen sheets. And now, her fingers carded through Celys’s hair, comforting and affectionate, like little anchor points to reality. Celys had always loved Vinashren dearly, but something in their relationship had begun to shift and stir when they’d agreed to Ascend to magehood together. While Ariyen had taught her many things about love, Celys was beginning to realize how much of it she had yet to discover. And Vinashren herself was a whole unexplored cosmos, galaxies and star systems and spinning planets wrapped up in sweet warm skin and a laughing voice.

 

It was a strange feeling, fluttery and a little tremulous. Celys was sure it was because their studies had suddenly become much more intertwined, allowing them to become much closer. That had to be the only logical explanation.

 

“Vina,” she whispered. “I wasn’t trying to avoid you. I’ve just had no time to…exist.” Celys drew a shaky breath. “I can’t even pray properly. There’s too much in my head.”

 

“I know. But the Goddess will hear you regardless.” Vinashren patted her hair. “Come on. Let’s get you something to eat before the vigil.”

 

— ☀︎ —

 

“Hey, Celys.”

 

Celys turned, one hand holding a small white candle, the other in Vinashren’s hand. Druen was standing behind her, a massive mountain of a boy. The candle he held looked comically small in his hand. She had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. “Hey. What’s going on?”

 

“I have something to tell you,” he said, a little shyly. “I know you and Ariyen were close, so I figured you were the best person to share this with. You too, Vinashren.”

 

Were close?” Vinashren scoffed. “Lighten up, Drew. He isn’t dead.”

 

“Sorry.” Druen winced and wrung his meaty hands. “Anyway. So, I…I’ve been having these really vivid dreams since the incident. And they’re all the same thing, over and over again. I don’t know how, or why, but…” He took a deep breath, confident. “Saint Vris is alive, my friends. They are here. Not just in spirit, but more. And they…again, I don’t know how…but they are protecting Ariyen.”

 

Celys stared at him. “By the Goddess. I would hope so! This is a hallowed place, is it not?” She began to walk away, hauling Vinashren with her. They were headed towards the north meadow, where a vigil was gathering. Xinthe was there, dressed in black instead of her usual red and silver, her colorful jewels gone. It did not make her look any less dignified.

 

Druen rushed to catch up with her, in a few easy strides. “Wait, Celys. Please. You have to believe me. I think, I really think,” he said fervently, “that Saint Vris is with us in the flesh. Here. Today.”

 

“Oh, I believe you. I just—” Celys broke off, stopping in her tracks. “Drew. Saint Vris lived over five hundred years ago! There is no way they’re still around. We don’t even know if they were a man or a woman.” Druen only set his jaw stubbornly.

 

“What makes you so convinced?” Vinashren asked him, eyes wide.

 

“Because Lesi has been having the same dreams,” he said quietly, referring to Olesina, who was just as blonde and well-built as he was. “Maybe I should explain. Do you know how we came here, my sister and I?”

 

Vinashren shook her head.

 

“We dreamt it.” Druen smiled slightly at the memory, the flat planes of his face softening. “In all senses of the word. I always thought that my life was laid out for me—that I’d inherit Father’s farm, find a spouse, have some children of my own. But the Divine had other ideas.”

 

“And the Divine is speaking to you again,” Celys nodded curtly. “Right.”

 

“You do not believe me,” Druen said, disappointed.

 

Celys sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to dismiss you or your gift of prophecy, Druen. I’m just having a hard time even fucking thinking right now.”

 

“That’s fair,” Druen said softly. “I just thought it might comfort you. Even for a bit.”

 

“Well, thanks.” Celys offered him a smile. “I’ll be sure to look out for any…suspicious-looking saintly figures.”

 

This made him laugh, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. He only looked eastward, towards where Ariyen and Endellian were being kept.

 

Idax, who was standing next to Vinashren, lit her candle with her own. She, in turn, lit Celys’s candle, and Celys passed on her flame to Druen. The small sea of lights glimmered to life, one by one. As the meadow glowed, Xinthe’s glorious voice rose into the air, carrying the nostalgic yet plaintive tune that preceded Vris’s Prayer. As she sang, tears streaked down the faces of the acolytes. Vinashren began to weep, silent sobs shaking her shoulders.

 

Celys wrapped an arm around Vinashren’s waist in silent comfort. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and began to pray.

Notes:

“In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans. And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for God’s people in accordance with the will of God.” Romans 8:26-27 (NIV)

Chapter Text

“And I walked with Saint Vris in the Garden of Lilies, where we made obeisance to the Goddess.” Ariyen’s voice strained with emotion and exhaustion, bordering on hysterical. Spots of vivid color danced high on his cheeks, and his eyes were afire with a deranged conviction. Ever since he’d woken up, he had been a raving, delirious mess. He’d suffered four broken ribs, a shattered collarbone, and a moderate concussion, but his vocal cords had emerged unscathed. “And She—She was enormous. No, I mean Her presence was enormous. It filled the whole place and made everything white, whiter than white. Then She began to speak, and Her voice—Her voice was like that of many, like a thunderous orchestra—” he broke off, coughing violently.

 

Endellian stared at the ceiling as Ariyen’s coughs dwindled into pained wheezes, accompanied by Tiansen’s low murmurs of comfort. They’d been placed in quarantine, and no one was allowed to see them save for the mages. The Keepers had wanted to ensure that their magical signatures remained stable and uncorrupted following the incident, and part of that had entailed remaining close to each other while they recuperated.

 

It also meant that he got to receive an earful of Ariyen’s delirium-fueled ravings every single time he woke up. While Endellian stumbled through murky dreams and fits of disturbed sleep, Ariyen seemed to have found his way into the Communion of saints.

 

Endellian was sure Ariyen was alive only because the saints found him so fucking annoying that they didn’t want him in the afterlife just yet.

 

“Well, Saint Vris certainly made an obeisance,” Tiansen said with a droll smile. She was a small, chubby Shentali woman with smooth coppery skin, crisply lacquered red lips, and deep-set eyes lined with charcoal paint. Her thick black hair hung in a long plait decorated with gold cuffs. Protective runes had been painted on her eyes and throat—likely unnecessary due to her formidable magical signature, but it was protocol. She rubbed Ariyen’s chest with gentle bejeweled hands that thrummed faintly with a purple glow, helping his breathing calm to a somewhat steady rhythm. “When I found you, their statue had crumbled around you like they had been protecting you. And perhaps they were. It is a miracle you weren’t crushed by the rubble.”

 

Saint Vris, the genderless patron of music and dance who had invented the tzinke, was a particularly beloved figure among Internalists. Yet relatively little was known about them, as a disproportionate amount of historical records about them had been lost over the centuries.

 

“Zu-An-zen said that Nior-zen and Dashara-zen were the ones to contain the rune-virus,” Endellian heard himself saying. “Pardon me, Tiansen-zen, but I don’t think a bit of carven stone would have made much difference if they had not been nearby.”

 

Tiansen’s smile revealed teeth that glittered gold. “Well, of course not.” She turned an amused look on Endellian and rested her hand near his. “You are so much like Nyi, you know. Never afraid to speak his mind, not even to his elders.” She sighed, her expression turning pensive. “You must forgive his absence. He is working with the other mages to ensure the rest of the students are safe.”

 

“What happened, Tiansen-zen?” Ariyen rasped weakly, his usually melodic voice drained of all vibrance. “Don’t get me wrong, Endellian is an obstinate bastard. But he and I were on to something, I swear. It was so…beautiful and awe-inspiring. Unlike him.”

 

“I’m right here,” Endellian snapped.

 

“Ah, so you are,” Ariyen said, apparently lucid enough to notice him for the first time in days. He peeked over the side of his bed, past Tiansen, to peer at Endellian. “I thought your voice was a hallucination. Thank the Divine it’s not. Can you imagine it, Tiansen-zen? Having a bit of him in your head, constantly?” He gave a little wheeze of mock terror.

 

Tiansen’s bubbling laugh was immediate and mirthful. “Oh, but I can, my dear. I carry around pieces of my students wherever I go. Last week I had tea with Xinthe-zen, and the little Ariyen I keep with me told me to greet her with a little jig.” She clapped her hands and shook her wrists, which were covered in gold bangles that jingled like bells.

 

It was Ariyen’s turn to laugh, and feeble as it was, it was full of glee. “You did not, Tiansen-zen!”

 

“I did so,” Tiansen answered. “Then the little Endellian I have with me urged me to put on her mink slippers when she took them off, and the little Ariyen began to fight with him. Like two hissing kittens. As pleasant as it is to never be alone, I am afraid the result is that I am never spared from your tomfoolery.”

 

Endellian tried to ignore the fact that Tiansen’s schizophrenic hallucination of himself apparently liked stealing people’s shoes. “We’re really that bad, huh?”

 

Tiansen shrugged. “Do you really hate each other that much? How deep does your dislike of each other run? These are questions only you can answer.” She stood, fixing her brown and red robes. “We will need to study the anomaly further to gather answers. But I would also like you both to put aside your egos and have an honest conversation with each other. Can you do that?”

 

“Yes, Tiansen-zen,” Ariyen said immediately. “I’ll do it, if only for you.” Endellian mumbled something half-hearted under his breath.

 

“All right. Siqiri will come by soon to check up on you. Stay in your beds and don’t kill each other!” Tiansen smiled and slipped out of the room.

 

The silence that filled her absence was cold and heavy. Endellian wanted very badly to roll over and curl up into himself, but there was no way he could do that without straining his injuries. He settled for pulling his blanket to his chin and closing his eyes.

 

“You know, she has a point.” Ariyen’s voice was dull and tired. Now that it was just the two of them, all his frenetic energy seemed to have disappeared. “Why do you hate me so much? I didn’t even get a chance to ask your name before you decided you wanted me dead. Who hurt you, genuinely? Was it your mother, like they all say?”

 

Endellian was quiet for several long moments. When he finally spoke, his voice was cold and brittle. “My mother was the kindest person in the world. If you speak ill of her, I will cut you open like a fish.”

 

“Really?” Ariyen sounded more curious than offended. “Not nice enough to teach her son manners though. Apparently.”

 

Endellian scoffed lightly. “Manners don’t get spells cast.”

 

“Yeah they do,” Ariyen returned. “Haven’t you ever said ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ to a runesprite? Makes a world of difference.”

 

“I don’t need to. What I do works. If it doesn’t, I work harder. But no amount of hard work is going to compensate for whatever the fuck just happened.” Endellian gave a hollow, defeated laugh. “Why? Why did it have to be you? Why is it always you?

 

Me?” Ariyen made a choked noise of disbelief. “Speak for yourself! You’ve done nothing but make my life miserable ever since you came here. And you—” he broke off, suddenly winded with rage, “you know, we could have been friends. We might have stood a chance at getting along, but you decided to forgo a civil introduction and jump straight to the fucking chokeslam!”

 

“Oh, by the Saint.” Endellian reached up, dragging his hands over his face and through his bedraggled mohawk. “Are you still hung up on that? Upset because I fought you properly, in a sparring match?” He sneered, derisive. “You are even prissier than I thought.”

 

“You almost snapped my arm in half!”

 

“I was following the fucking demonstration Nior-zen gave us!” Endellian snarled, ignoring the warning twinge in his side. “Where I’m from, going easy on someone in a fight is a massive insult. And you seemed tough, so of course I wouldn’t pull any punches. I was trying to show you some respect, you bonehead!”

 

Ariyen stared at him. “That doesn’t explain all the other times you’ve tried to kill me since. Were those a sign of respect too?”

 

“No.” Endellian ground his teeth. “It’s because you’re so nice to everyone, but you look at me like I have the plague!”

 

Ariyen’s face twisted. “Of course I didn’t like you. I thought you were a hateful, belligerent jerk who had it out for me for no reason.”

“And I thought you were a conceited and self-absorbed snob.”

 

They looked at each other, each at a loss for words. Ariyen turned away, his once-bright eyes swallowed by a terrible exhaustion. “Maybe I misunderstood you at first. I accept that. But it doesn’t excuse the fact that you think I’m here only because one of the mages thought I was fuckable enough.” His voice was hard-edged, cold and distant. It hardly sounded like him.

 

Endellian winced, looking guilty. He fixed his eyes on his hands, resigned. “Listen. I…I’m sorry, okay? It was a shitty thing to say. I never actually meant it, for the record.” He paused, thinking of all the work they’d accomplished together, the manic study sessions, the spiraling rabbit-holes, the chaotic and spontaneous debates. He thought of the sheer athleticism required for the most difficult of Forms, the way they stretched the body to its farthest limits with the raw amount of power being channeled. Ariyen was the only acolyte at the House who could consecutively perform every single flame-type Form with flawless accuracy—a feat almost unheard of for someone his age. “You deserve to be here just as much as any of us. Maybe even more.”

 

Ariyen was speechless, taken aback by the unexpectedly honest admission. He huffed, slightly self-conscious. “And how did you even end up here? You’re certainly far from home, Endellian of Tur.”

 

Endellian grumbled under his breath. “I really wish you’d stop calling me that. It’s not my name.”

 

“What is it, then?”

 

“Endellian tá Kamerin.”

 

Tá Kamerin?” The foreign syllables rolled clumsily from Ariyen’s tongue. “What’s that mean?”

 

“It’s my family’s name. Don’t you have one?”

 

“No. But I’ll be Ariyen vi Selindran pretty soon.” Ariyen beamed, exuberant.

 

Endellian blinked in confusion. “You’re…marrying Celys?”

 

“What? No! Her family is adopting me! I’m gonna be her brother!

 

“By the Saint. That’s even worse.”

 

“What would you know about it? You yourself said that you had too many siblings to count.” Ariyen made a vague noise of bewilderment. “Surely you have at least an estimate for something so important.”

 

“I really couldn’t tell you.” Endellian sighed through his nose. “My father has three husbands and five wives. Any children my stepmothers bear, with him or with my stepfathers, are legally his. Nearly every day of the year, a sibling has a birthday in my household.”

 

Ariyen’s eyes grew wide as saucers. He was dumbstruck for a few long moments. “You have enough siblings to…fill a calendar year?” Astonishment and envy filled his voice.

 

Endellian swallowed, trying not to think about horns covered in silver jewelry and white-gray eyes that mirrored his own. Their fifteenth birthday, which fell on the second-to-last day of the year, had been the last time he’d seen his twin brother. “More or less.”

 

“By the Divine.” Ariyen laughed in disbelief. “Your dad must be a real charmer, huh? Too bad you didn’t take after him.”

 

“No, I didn’t. And I’m glad,” Endellian snapped. “I prefer to think with my brain and not my dick.”

 

“And how has that worked out for you?” Ariyen asked sweetly. “Every single decision you’ve ever made has led you to this moment. Stuck in a stuffy sickroom with me.”

 

Endellian grumbled. “It’s not my fault that just when I thought I hit rock bottom, some blond motherfucker came along and made everything so much worse.”

 

Ariyen wheezed with laughter at that, then moaned. “Stop. My ribs!”

 

Endellian bit back a smile. Ariyen’s genuine laugh could only be described as a cross between a boiling tea kettle and a foal’s bray. It was unexpectedly hilarious. “You sound like my grandmother.”

 

“Which one? I bet you have, like, twenty of them,” Ariyen croaked.

 

Endellian shrugged, still trying to force down the corners of his mouth. “Too many to count.”

 

Who’s got twenty grandmothers?” The door opened, and Siqiri poked her head into the room. She was a tall and muscular young woman with skin as brown as an acorn and a shaved head adorned with tattoos. A thick metal ring pierced her full bottom lip, and both her earlobes were stretched around polished silver discs finely engraved with glyphs. Like Kieryn, she hailed from Sufrea, and wore her heritage proudly.

 

“The average Turishman does, apparently,” Ariyen said hoarsely. “Or maybe just him. Please save me, Siqiri-zen. My head is going to explode.”

 

“Idiot,” Endellian muttered.

 

“Guess I’m right on time, then,” Siqiri said, coming to sit by their bedsides. The same protective runes on Tiansen’s eyes and throat had been painted on hers as well, with a bold hand. An additional circle of glyphs had been drawn around her neck. “I would’ve been in earlier, but your friends won’t stop pestering me to sneak them in to see you. They won’t bother Zu-An-zen, though. I might be ‘Siqiri-zen’ to y’all, but it appears I have yet to cultivate that elusive, snazzy mage aura.”

 

“You’re plenty snazzy, Siqiri-zen.” Ariyen’s expression softened. He closed his eyes in quiet bliss as she performed her check-up, resting her palm on his forehead. Small circles of runes, swirling like iridescent purple stars, glimmered around them, each one encased in a silver warding. “How is Celly? I miss her.”

 

“Insufferable as ever,” Siqiri answered. She turned her attention to Endellian, studying him for a few brief moments. “Look at you, taking deep breaths all on your own. Well done.”

 

“It’s all thanks to you and Zu-An-zen.”

 

She nodded and examined him next, her movements gentle and measured, like the gestures of a ballerina. Her touch was medicine in itself, to the point that Endellian couldn’t tell if her hands were guided by the spell or if the spell was guided by her hands. He supposed that such skill wasn’t surprising, given that she had earned her position at the House at such a young age.

 

“Good Goddess. I’ve seen it before, but I can’t believe how dense your bones are.” Siqiri’s eyes, which were a deep warm brown, seemed to fixate on a point past his body. A thin white ring circled her pupils. “If it was anyone else, their leg probably would’ve just blown right off. But all you got was a fracture-dislocation.” She snorted at her own words. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, that’s still pretty bad. But like, what kind of milk are y’all drinking in Tur?”

 

“Goat’s. Mostly.”

 

“Mhm.” She chuckled, a bit sheepishly, her eyes returning to normal. “I meant it as a joke, little brother. It’s clearly genetic.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I want some goat’s milk,” Ariyen piped up.

 

“And I want you,” Endellian snapped, “to shut up.”


“Guys, please.” Siqiri sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She rose, and the runes twinkled out. “I’ll see if I can get some. If I come back and both of you are still alive, you each get a cookie. Deal?”

Chapter 16

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It rained one night.

 

The downpour, accompanied by distant rumbles of thunder, eventually mellowed into a mild drizzle, drumming at the window with gentle fingers. The smell of wet stone and earth, mixed with the scent of herbal oils and burning applewood, filled the room. A lamp flickered on the table, casting a warm yellow glow onto the plain walls.

 

Ariyen sat by the window, listening to the tuneless melody of the raindrops. He felt like he’d just emerged from a storm of his own, his mind finally escaping from the intense visions that had ravaged it for the past few days. He was finally himself again, and he wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or not.

 

He set aside the letter he’d been writing to Celys and the others, resolving to finish it later. His mind was too full at the moment—caught between anxiety, disappointment, and loneliness. He almost longed to return to that senseless delirium to escape the despair he felt.

 

And now, he tried to recall the visions. They had to be a coincidence. The destruction of Saint Vris’s statue and the vivid dreams he’d been lost in. The malignant voice born from the rune-virus clawing at his psyche, only to be warded away by that beatific smiling face and protective aura. That gentle presence was so familiar yet alien all at once. What could it mean? He’d have to ask Zu-An or Siqiri tomorrow.

 

He closed his eyes, feeling the warm flow of magic through his body. Internalists were gifted with a heightened sense of their own bodies, as those were the vessels through which they wrought their Craft. But the fire within him was no longer swift or vigorous. It had slowed to a sluggish trickle, like a dusty stream in a drought. Nevertheless, he directed his attention inwards like a diving scalpel, focusing on the broken bones and bruised flesh, seeking out the inflamed tissues and channeling healing energy towards them.

 

Zu-An had walked him through the technique, something she’d called “force cycling” or “cadence control”. While they were not supposed to be using any magic during this time, force cycling was apparently safe for them to do. Endellian had tried his hand at it for all of a few minutes before pulling his blanket around himself and going back to sleep.

 

Ariyen almost felt bad for him. He was able to walk around and stretch, albeit very carefully, but Endellian was stuck in bed with his broken leg. Not that the other boy seemed to care. All the fight seemed to have gone out of him. He did nothing but sleep and ask for water. Ariyen ate what was given to him without complaint, but Endellian’s meals were always taken away untouched. Siqiri had asked him if there was anything specific he wanted that she could fix for him, which Ariyen had thought very kind of her, but Endellian had only ducked his head and refused.

 

Ariyen wondered where the cruel-tongued demon who spat venom had gone. In its place was a broken, hollow shell of a boy who barely responded to Ariyen’s attempts at conversation. Had his injuries really messed him up that badly?

 

A quiet, guttural sound startled him from his thoughts. Ariyen turned, narrowing his eyes at the dark lump in Endellian’s bed. It twitched and stirred, murmuring incoherently.

 

“Endellian?” Ariyen got to his feet and carefully made his way to the bedside, holding his ribs.

 

The yellow lamplight cast smudgy shadows over Endellian’s strained features. “Mother,” he choked out. “Mother!”

 

Panicked, Ariyen caught his shoulder and shook it. Endellian’s eyes flew open, wide and unseeing.

 

“Mother?” Endellian’s voice was quiet and fragile. He blinked, and seemed to see Ariyen for the first time.

 

“Hey,” Ariyen managed, nervously. The abject agony, rage, and despair on Endellian’s face was as unsettling as it was frightening. “Bad dream?”

 

Endellian looked away, his breathing fast and shallow. “I’m fine. Go away.” He closed his eyes again, but his shoulders trembled.

 

“Like hell you are.” Ariyen sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you want to do some force cycling? It’ll make you heal faster.”

 

“No.”

 

“Tell me about your mother, then,” Ariyen tried. “You said she was kind, right? What else was she like?”

 

Endellian was quiet for so long Ariyen thought he’d fallen asleep. “She’s dead.”

 

“Yeah, I figured. What was her name?”

 

“If I tell you, will you leave me alone?”

 

Ariyen sighed. “You were calling for her in your sleep.” He shifted, trying to make himself comfortable in the little space he had on the bed. “Maybe you’ll feel better if you tell me about her.”

 

“Why do you care?”

 

“Humor me.”

 

Another long pause. “They killed her.” The grief in Endellian’s voice ran bone-deep. “She received the Divine truth, and they killed her for it.”

 

Ariyen swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. This had not been what he was expecting. “Why?”

 

“There are no mages in Tur. Only witches and hex-casters. We did no harm when we practiced our spells together. But they branded us like criminals and exiled us.” Endellian’s exhaustion had given way to raw hatred—a venomous thing, coiled and ready to strike. “Our ship sank in a storm near the coast of Samery. I was the only one who survived.”

 

“Oh.” Ariyen’s voice was very small. “I’m sorry.”

 

Endellian only scoffed. “It wasn’t your fault.”

 

“I don’t understand.” Ariyen suddenly felt cold all over. “Why would your family throw you away just like that?”

 

“Fear,” Endellian said bitterly. “The witch-men are real, and they are hated. It doesn’t matter what kind of magic you practice, you’ll just get lumped in with them.”

 

“That’s not fair.” Indignation rose, hot and wrathful, in Ariyen’s chest. “That—that’s just wrong. Mages have done so much good for everyone, everywhere!”

 

“Oh, save your outrage. The people of Tur don’t deserve anything good. They’re too stupid to even want it. It didn’t matter that my mentor Sfiro was a renowned doctor who’d saved countless lives. The moment he defended us, all that was forgotten.”

 

“What about future mages who happen to be Turishmen? Don’t they deserve better?”

 

“What are we going to do about it?” Endellian demanded. “We’re just two little boys who played with holy fire and got burnt. Two ignorant children who should have known better.” He shifted slightly, making Ariyen’s weight dip towards him. “Mother should have been the one who lived. She always knew how to turn graves into gardens, and bones into armies.”

 

“Don’t say that.” Ariyen looked at him, but Endellian stubbornly turned away. “You lived for a reason. What do you think your mother would have done?”

 

“She wouldn’t have gotten kicked out of the first House of sorcery she entered.” Endellian’s response was immediate and resentful. “She wouldn’t have blundered through every single social interaction she ever had. She wouldn’t bring ruin to a House that has been so good to her. And she would’ve found a way to bring some light into this ugly world. All I ever wanted was to honor her legacy, and I can’t even do that.”

 

Ariyen was silent. The pain in Endellian’s words was raw like an open wound. “You know, what I said earlier still stands.”

 

“You say a lot of things.”

 

“I meant about us.” Ariyen sighed. “I know we got off the wrong foot. But we could start over.” He could feel Endellian’s body warmth seeping faintly from his blanket. “It certainly would make whatever comes after this much easier. And look, we’re already talking, like normal people who don’t want to kill each other. Isn’t that a good sign?”

 

“Don’t push your luck,” Endellian snapped. “I’m only telling you all this so my mother’s memory won’t die with me. So that Aïremyn tá Kamerin and Sfiro tá Zor won’t be forgotten. You better remember everything I said, got it?”

 

“First of all, my memory is flawless, so get that through your thick horned head,” Ariyen huffed. “Second of all, stop being so dramatic. If you bothered to get your ass up and do some force cycling and eat something, you’ll be just fine. So do your mother and Sfiro proud and eat your porridge.”

 

“I can’t.” Endellian sulked. Then, so quietly Ariyen barely heard it, “I want meat. Raw meat.”

 

“Raw meat? Eugh. You’re going to get even more sick.”

 

“Maybe you would. But it’s always been good for me.”

 

Something in his tone gave Ariyen pause. The fare they were served in the refectory consisted mostly of vegetables, grains, and fruit. Simple yet wholesome dishes, like mushroom stew and herbed bread and baked eggs and blueberry preserves. Sometimes there would be the occasional apple pie or peach tart. Meat, in the odd times it was served, mostly consisted of broiled fish or poultry.

 

There was no question Endellian was very strong. But despite the long sleeves and ankle-length skirts he always wore, there was no hiding how gaunt he was. Was it possible that coming here and eating differently had made him suffer?

 

“Why didn’t you ask Siqiri-zen for some? I’m sure she would’ve gotten it for you.”

 

“We’re enough of a drain on them already,” Endellian replied bleakly. “Wasting their medicine and dirtying their linens. We have no right to ask for anything more than what we’ve been given.” He coughed quietly and withdrew deeper into his blanket.

 

The silence that followed was pensive. Ariyen finally lay down, his body resting against Endellian’s good leg. Astonishingly, Endellian didn’t shoo him away, and Ariyen was in no mood to leave.

 

“They killed my mother too,” Ariyen said softly, unsure of what possessed him to speak. “I didn’t know her very well. She was always busy working. She eventually got really sick, and I started…filling in for her. One day, they took her away and she never came back. So I ran away and ended up here.”

 

Endellian’s breath was slow, with a slight wheeze. “Why didn’t you go after her?”

 

“I…I couldn’t,” Ariyen admitted. “I was scared and I didn’t know what to do. But I couldn’t take it any longer. I just wanted to get out of there.”

 

“In Tur, only male convicts do hard labor,” Endellian said. “It’s no place for a woman, much less a child.”

 

Ariyen swallowed nervously, his heart suddenly racing. He had never come so close to telling anyone the truth about himself before. Endellian’s assumption that he’d been raised in some sort of labor camp and not a cheap brothel should have relieved him, but he only felt sick, his palms cold and clammy. “No. It isn’t.”

 

Endellian never responded, and Ariyen suddenly found himself incredibly drowsy. He hadn’t meant to get so comfortable in Endellian’s bed of all places, but now he was too sleepy to care.

 

As the sun rose over drenched meadows and mossy stone walls, its rays filtered through the cloth-covered window and fell gently on the two boys sleeping snug against each other in the sickroom bed.

Notes:

This is what Ariyen ended up writing to his friends

Dear Celly, Vina, Ryn, and Esh, I hope you guys are doing good. I’m sort of getting better, but still sore. Still no Forms or backflips for me right now. Zu-An-zen caught me when I tried to climb out the window and tied me to a chair. The demon told me he was craving raw meat of all things, so hopefully he doesn’t try to eat me. Though, who wouldn’t want a piece of this? Also, Vina, I sprayed your perfume everywhere and he hated it. Please send more, maybe it will protect me from being eaten. Thank you for the prayers and the flowers and the books. I love you all as much as the Saint loves the Goddess. Hugs and kisses, Ariy

Chapter Text

“The first rule of magic is the corollary of a fundamental truth. The world is made of light and dark, life and death, order and disorder. So it is with the Craft of the Divine, which consists of harmonious and discordant components. But what is harmony, and what is discordance?”

 

The cool boughs of an ancient banyan tree spread its spacious arms overhead, casting dappled golden shadows on the cool grass, which was sprinkled with tiny white flowers, yarrow and milkweed and chamomile and clover. Nyi sat, or held court, with Tiansen in the little prayer garden, flanked by their council: Dashara, Xinthe, Zu-An, Siqiri, and Nior. The Keeper wore his usual robes, gray like a snowy forest at twilight. A small silver circlet glimmered in his hair, matching with the golden one in Tiansen’s.

 

Ariyen eagerly put up his hand. Nyi acknowledged him with a nod. “Harmony is energy that multiplies, Nyi-zen. And discordance is energy that divides.”

 

“Why, then, is discordance so necessary in a system that celebrates unity?” Nyi’s voice was slow, meditative, soothing. The cadence of his words, the hypnotic rise and fall of his tone, was like the cascade of water over river-worn stones. “Why can no spell ever consist solely of harmonious components?”

 

Endellian raised his hand, and was in turn granted a nod from Tiansen. “It is because no absolutes exist in nature. Relative and interconnected forces work together to create balance in the universe. Harmony and discordance may be opposite forces, but they are not in conflict. Instead, they are complementary, constantly attracting and repelling each other to create dynamic non-equilibrium in our world.”

 

Ariyen looked over at him, and their eyes met. Although their recoveries had been greatly amplified by Zu-An’s and Siqiri’s efforts, Endellian still moved about slowly, and he often spent long periods staring into nothingness. But he no longer slept so excessively, and he’d started eating again, much to Siqiri’s relief.

 

“This truth can be found on every scale in the universe.” Dashara sat on a simple wooden stool between Xinthe and Zu-An. He was composed and stately as ever, but his usual kindly demeanor was overshadowed by a heavy exhaustion. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and he leaned on the crook of his shepherd’s staff. “Our bodies themselves are miniature cosmoses, full of communities and symbioses and trophic phenomena. Multidirectional forces, all acting in concert for the benefit of the whole. Until a component decides to break away, evade controls, and cheat.

 

Tiansen cleared her throat. “To be quite frank, rune-virus is a bit of a misnomer on our part. The anomaly is more like a cancer. But viruses can cause cancer, so perhaps we are not too far off.” Today the Keeper was dressed a little more casually, her sleeveless gown a soft ripple of earth-brown cinched at the waist with a simple gold belt. “Nevertheless, the issue lay in the checks and balances. From what I can tell, you worked too fast, and you did not allow the system to regulate itself. And so, the power grew from the inside out, compounding upon itself hundreds of times before growing cancerous and escaping your control. Magic itself is alive, and even its mere potential can be dangerous.” She tossed an amused glance at Nyi. “Dear me! I should let you speak of semantics.”

 

Nyi sniffed delicately. “Far be it from me to discount your wisdom, Tian-yi. But very well.” He turned to Ariyen and Endellian. “How is a virus different from a cancer?”

 

Ariyen’s hand shot up. “A virus is an external infectious agent that hijacks other living systems to reproduce.”

 

“And a cancer is a disease that originates from within, characterized by rapid and abnormal growth,” Endellian followed up.

 

Dashara nodded. “Viral spells linger long after they have been cast, persisting by infecting other spells. And cancerous spells, if left unchecked, metastasize and drain energy from other magical sources to generate their own dysplastic, discordant energy. Often at the cost of a mage’s life.” He paused to take a long drink of water, a lull which no one interrupted. “And the anomaly is strikingly metastatic in nature. It has taken the basic structure of each of your magical signatures as an operational foundation upon which to persist. It does not show signs of evolving past this stage yet, but we are monitoring it carefully.”

 

Nior scoffed dryly. He glared at the two acolytes, who knew better than to meet his eyes. A war hero of considerable renown, the Revenant cut a fearsome figure, with powerful shoulders broad enough to get stuck in most doorways and hands the size of bear paws. His proud, handsome face usually bore a warm smile, but today, his gaze could have melted iron. And like Dashara, he looked uncharacteristically worse for wear. “I still think we should let the little shits deal with the consequences of their actions,” he snarled. “We are not doing them any favors by coddling them so.”

 

Ariyen flinched. His lower lip wobbled, and he shrank in on himself, trying to make himself as small as possible. Dashara’s face darkened. He glanced at Nior, but Nyi held up a hand.

 

“I hear you, Revenant. But is it not the purpose of a House and its mages to care for and guide its young ones, especially when they stumble?”

 

“Well, of course it is. I hear you, Keeper,” Nior said. He crossed his massive arms over his chest. “But we are also here to test them, to ensure they are ready for battle. And I believe they have been given enough time to recuperate. They need to learn accountability, Nyi.” He turned his gaze back onto them, his burning eyes like miniature suns. “Ariyen of Nidolos. Endellian tá Kamerin. Starting this week, you will begin training with me. If you two are to defeat the monster of your own making, you need to be strong enough to face whatever comes.”

 

“I second this,” Xinthe said. It was the first time she had spoken, and even the songbirds grew quiet at the pure marvel of her wine-deep voice, smooth as the rich folds of red silk she was draped in. Her feet were tucked into a pair of fuzzy mink slippers. “I too would like to offer a hand in the conquering of the abomination. And, who knows? Perhaps you will step on each other’s toes less often as a result.” She gave a knowing smile, serene yet sly.

 

“I too, concur,” said Zu-An. The Master botanist wore a white apron over a rough blue linen dress—plain functionality made effortless elegance by her quiet, stoic air. She had doffed her straw hat, revealing coarse gray hair in a thick coil at the nape of her neck. “It is time you received more specialized training in the arts of healing. Siqiri and I will do all we can to ensure you have every edge you need, in all senses of the word.”

 

“Thank you, Nior, Xinthe-zen, and Zu-An,” Tiansen said warmly. “All right. I would like to call for this meeting to be adjourned. We will speak again, in better spirits!”

 

Each mage took their leave one after the other, the Keepers being the last to go. Only Dashara did not move, still leaning on his staff, looking worn out. Nior cast a furtive glance at him before turning and following Zu-An.

 

Ariyen could not contain himself any longer. The moment they were alone, he darted forward and threw himself to the grass at Dashara’s feet. Wrapping his arms around his teacher’s waist, he buried his face in his lap and clung tightly to him.

 

Dashara bent over him, dropping his staff in favor of cradling Ariyen’s head in his arms. He patted his student’s hair comfortingly and whispered his name, but Ariyen could not find it in himself to look up at him and see that awful exhaustion.

 

“I’m sorry, Dashara-zen,” he finally managed, his voice muffled, fists balling in the mage’s thick robes. He could feel the tears coming, and it was everything he could do to not break down sobbing under the sheer weight of the molten guilt in his chest. “I’m so sorry. You’ve done so much for me, and I’ve gone and ruined it all, and…I’ve let you down.”

 

“You didn’t ruin anything.” Dashara’s voice was quiet but steady. “Ariyen. You haven’t let me down, do you hear? Look at me.”

 

Ariyen raised his head, reluctantly. His eyes glistened, unshed tears tangled in his eyelashes.

 

“This is simply the first great trial of your journey to magehood.” Dashara motioned Endellian forward, who had been standing awkwardly behind Ariyen. “Haven’t I told you enough of my stories? The practice of magic is a baptism of fire that never ends. My path itself was full of setbacks and disasters. All you can do is take the next step. And the next. And the next one after that. Until you climb out of the deep caverns, and find yourself in the mountains.”

 

Ariyen nodded. “I understand, Dashara-zen.” The tears spilled over, sliding down his cheeks. “But I hate that you had to suffer for my mistakes. I mean,” he paused, sniffling, “I’ve never…I’ve seen you so…um,” he hesitated sheepishly, unsure what to make of the growing bewilderment on Dashara’s face.

 

“You look exhausted, Dashara-zen,” Endellian offered, gingerly.

 

“Saints. Is that it?” Dashara laughed. “Oh, you sweet little creature. Stop crying, now. I promise you I am not that tired. I just had a fight with my husband, and that certainly took more out of me than dealing with a rune-virus.”

 

Ariyen collected himself, allowing Dashara to wipe his tears away. “Forgive me, Dashara-zen. I just…I knew it was you and Nior-zen who sealed the anomaly, and he looked rather worn out as well, so I thought…”

 

A flash of irritation broke through Dashara’s normally serene demeanor, so quick and subtle Ariyen thought he had imagined it. But Dashara was smiling again, gentle and gracious as ever. “I think that’s quite enough of all this, isn’t it? Cheer up, now. Your friends have been dying to see you.”