Chapter Twenty-Two: Egg Art & Bad Decisions

  I wake up to an empty room, which is honestly the best way to wake up when you're sharing space with someone who considers "morning person" a competitive sport.

  Mira's bed is already made with hospital corners sharp enough to cut glass, and her sword is gone from its usual spot leaning against the wall. Which means she's been up for a few bells, doing something that involves sweat and discipline and thankfully a training dummy that isn't me for once. I’m relieved, which is awful, because it implies I’ve started categorizing my friends by how likely they are to assault me before breakfast.

  I roll over and immediately spot my journal on the desk.

  It's still open to where I left it last night, pages slightly curled at the edges like they're trying to escape. Lyra gave it to me yesterday, part gift, part homework assignment. I've filled maybe ten pages so far, much to her endless interest as she tries to learn to read English. I promised I'd teach her. It's only fair since she's teaching me their language, which looks like someone sneezed calligraphy onto parchment.

  I swing my legs out of bed and regret it because the stone floor is cold enough to qualify as a human rights violation. Somewhere, a lawyer is taking notes, and I want them to win. I grab yesterday's clothes off the chair, they're clean-ish, which is the best I can hope for when your laundry situation involves magic you don't understand, and pull them on quickly. I’m operating on the wilderness standard of hygiene: if it’s not crunchy, it’s fine.

  Living with Mira has been... weird.

  Not bad-weird. Just weird-weird. Like learning to share space with a very disciplined, very armed roommate who thinks "personal boundaries" means she won't stab you without warning. At first it was awkward in that way where you're both pretending the other person doesn't exist while occupying the same twelve square feet. But somewhere between the third night and the first time she wordlessly handed me a spare blanket when I was shivering, I realized Mira just... shows affection differently.

  She doesn't do hugs or compliments or any of the normal friendship indicators. She does things like handing you chalk without asking. Or standing between you and danger. Or making sure you eat even when you're too anxious to remember food exists.

  It's growing on me.

  I splash water on my face from the basin near the window and run my fingers through my hair in what I generously call "styling." Then I grab my boots and head out.

  The hallway is already busy, lit by lanterns that make everything look more dramatic than it deserves, like the Academy hired a cinematographer who only knows one setting: "ominous." If a shadowy choir doesn’t start chanting my name soon, I’m filing a complaint.

  And everywhere...

  everywhere...

  There are posters.

  Festival announcements plastered on every available surface, bright and colorful and written in the fantasy flowing script I'm slowly, painfully learning to read. I catch words here and there as I walk:

  Celebration. Gathering. Performance. Ah yes. The three pillars of society: party, crowd, and public embarrassment.

  I'm getting better at reading. Lyra would call this “acceptable improvement,” which is her version of fireworks and a parade. I’m proud anyway. I’ve learned to take my victories where I can get them, even if they’re printed in glittery ink on a wall that’s probably haunted. A week ago, these posters would've been decorative nonsense. Now I can pick out maybe one word in five, which feels like progress even if it's the kind of progress that makes you realize how far you still have to go.

  Today, like every day, I'm starting my morning the same way.

  Magic training with Lyra. Classes don't start until after breakfast, which leaves us a window. It's not long, but it's enough time to practice portals without an audience. It's weirdly comforting. In a place where nothing makes sense and everything is trying to kill you or mug you, sometimes both, having one thing that's reliably the same is like finding solid ground in a storm.

  The training room is in the east wing, down a corridor that smells like old stone and whatever they use to polish the floors. Probably tears. I've walked this route enough times now that my feet know the way even when my brain is still half-asleep.

  When I round the final corner, I see Lyra.

  She's waiting outside the training room door, arms crossed, hair pulled back so tight it looks like it hurts.

  "You're late," she says, pushing the door open without waiting for me to catch up, which is very on-brand.

  “I’m on time,” I say. “You’re just aggressively early.”

  The training room smells like old sweat and chalk dust and something metallic that might be blood. Honestly, at this point, I've stopped asking. The floor is scuffed stone, covered in the remains of chalk runes where someone drew magic graffiti and then tried to erase the evidence.

  Lyra crosses to the center of the room and kneels, pulling chalk from her pocket like it's a weapon. She starts drawing without a preamble. The chalk squeaks against stone, a sound that's somehow both harmless and deeply threatening.

  I've learned over our last few sessions that magic can and will hurt... a lot. I've been blasted, burned, struck, and injured enough times that Nurse Runa has begged us to stop if only for her own sanity. It was my mistake telling Lyra that the first portal opened after I was hit by a fireball. She latched onto the idea like a seagull stealing your fries.

  I tried a few times to dissuade her from throwing magic at me. I only succeeded after Nurse Runa ran out of bandages.

  Turns out the Academy has fancy healing bandages stitched with runes that glow yellow and fix you up in minutes. They're donated by the Church, which means they're rare and we're supposed to use them even for tiny cuts so the Church doesn't get annoyed. It's very "don't waste the good china" energy, except the china is magical first aid.

  The alternative is local medicine made from plants, which I refuse to touch because I'm not about to find out if fantasy herbs are poisonous to humans the hard way. There has to be a reason Humans here wear hazmat suits.

  "Are you going to stand there," Lyra asks, finishing the rune, "or are you going to participate?"

  "I'm considering my options," I say.

  "You have one option."

  "That's not how options work."

  She presses two fingers against the chalk. The lines flare and the room dims for a moment. It's an ignis rune, one of the most common combinations I've learned in class. Since Lyra isn't doing anything particularly fancy, the runes simply start glowing without demanding payment or a bribe or whatever magical graffiti wants.

  Professor Willias gave us a supply of old coins to use in class when we practice the more complex runes. Not that I need them since I'm unable to activate a rune. It's so strange how the coins just disappear when we aren't looking. I asked why we didn't use runemarks as offerings, and Professor Willias told us that mana doesn't like to receive itself as payment. I brought up that there are different kinds of mana, but the Professor shrugged me off.

  I'm really becoming a teacher's pet in that class. No wonder Lyra has been strangely proud of me lately. If only Eve could see me now. She would be so jealous that I'm doing magic.

  I hope she's okay.

  "Ready?" Lyra says, looking down at the rune that's slowly forming a glowing red ball in the air above it.

  We've been doing the same thing for days now... practice.

  "Absorb," she says, motioning to the rune. "We don't have much longer until breakfast."

  "I hate that word," I tell her. "It makes me sound like a sponge."

  "You are a sponge," she says, completely serious.

  "Wow. Thank you. That's exactly the self-esteem boost I needed at dawn."

  "You're welcome."

  I'm pretty sure she's messing with me, but with Lyra it's impossible to tell. She has the emotional range of a textbook and the sense of humor of a very sharp rock.

  I crouch beside the rune, hovering my hand over the chalk lines. There are a lot of things I've done in the last week that I didn't think I could do when I first stumbled into this place. I've eaten food that tried to crawl off the plate. I've sparred with Mira until my arms shook and my pride was reduced to powder. I've survived Kaela's cheerful optimism, which is honestly the hardest trial so far.

  But absorbing mana on purpose is still the one thing that makes my body react like it's about to be poisoned.

  During this training I've learned that my body is always passively absorbing mana. Where it goes... I don't know. I've tried to let it build up and experiment with opening a portal, but it doesn't seem to work. Lyra has some theories about why, but they just seemed confusing when she tried to explain. For now, my theory is I'm like a bucket with tiny holes. When you pour a steady amount into the bucket it flows through the holes immediately. But if you pour in a lot all at once it'll fill the bucket while it drains out.

  I'm not sure how accurate my theory is, but it seems to make sense so far given recent events.

  I blink hard, activate mana blizzard vision, and look at the runes. It only takes me a few seconds, I've gotten good at finding the right spot. I look for where the flow started, like locating the mouth of an invisible pipe. With the chaotic movement of the mana particles in the room, it's hard to tell what's going into the rune and what's just floating past it. I have to lean down and stare at the rune until I find what I'm looking for.

  Then, I reach out with the familiar sensation and pinch.

  I can see the flow redirect itself, the runes on the floor starting to dim as the mana plunges into my body. Pressure blooms in my chest, spreading through my ribs like someone's inflating a balloon inside my lungs. It feels like I swallowed a hot bowling ball and it’s trying to negotiate rent. My throat tightens. I suck in a sharp breath and try not to gag.

  Lyra watches me like a scientist watching an experiment that might explode.

  "I feel like I'm dying," I say.

  "You're not."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because you're still complaining."

  Fair point. My greatest survival skill: being annoying.

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  "Now," Lyra says, voice dropping into that tone that means she's about to make my life harder, "open a portal."

  I focus on the space across the room. Something in me twists.

  The mana in my ribs surges forward, eager, like it's been waiting for an excuse.

  And the air in front of me splits and suddenly I'm looking at the wall on the other side of the room.

  Then we repeat. Again and again.

  I've discovered that it's less painful if the portal is small and nearby. I don't pass out, feel like I'm about to explode, or regret my life choices unless the portal is further than what I assume is a few feet. I've never really gotten used to distance being a thing I can perceive. I learned feet and inches in school by touch, so switching to trying to determine distance by sight has been a challenge.

  Lyra tries to push me, making me absorb more mana at a time and having me open the portals farther away.

  By the time I open the fourth portal, Lyra stops taking notes and gets an expression on her face that makes me think she has an idea I won't like.

  "You're going to hold it," she says.

  I blink. "Excuse me?"

  "You're going to absorb again," she says, calm as cruelty, "and you're going to keep it until after breakfast."

  My entire soul groans.

  "Lyra," I say slowly, like I'm speaking to a wild animal with a knife, "that's not training. That's a threat."

  "It's training," she counters. "If you can learn to keep small amounts, you can accumulate. You won't need a large intake all at once."

  "Or," I say, "hear me out, I could simply find a large intake all at once and avoid the slow torture."

  Lyra's mouth twists into something that might be amusement if she were capable of such things. "And where will you find a large intake?"

  I open my hands in an exaggerated gesture. "I don't know. We could run a bake sale and sell cheesecake?"

  "That sounds disgusting," she says.

  "Take that back right now. Cheesecake is delicious."

  "Fey, we're getting off topic. No amount of selling food will earn you enough runemarks. Mira said you had an entire sack of runemarks from the bank you robbed and it took all of it to open that portal. Unless you want to start making our own runemarks, you're going to have to learn to hold mana."

  "Why can't we make our own runemarks? That sounds like a good idea. There's mana everywhere and I don't think portals care what type I use."

  Lyra sighs. "For one, we'd need the right materials. You need the right medium to store mana. Secondly, runemarks store a lot more mana than you think. It would take us months to store that much mana, especially near the academy. Lastly, the design itself needs a valuable offering to work. I personally don't want to sacrifice everything I own to create new runemarks. There's a reason everyone doesn't make them."

  Before I can argue again, the training room door swings open.

  Mira steps in, shoulders squared, hair slightly messy from her morning routine. She pauses when she sees me hunched over and the dozens of faded runes all over the floor.

  "It seems you two have been busy," Mira says, scanning the room before her eyes land on the pile of chalk nubs sitting in the corner next to Lyra's bag. "Any progress?"

  "Lyra wants me to hold mana until after breakfast."

  Mira's brows rise. "Why would you do that?"

  "Thank you," I say immediately, gesturing at her. "Someone reasonable."

  Lyra's gaze flicks to Mira. "It's so we can see how long Fey can retain mana. If Fey can absorb mana from a lot of small runes and hold it, we might be able to open a portal."

  Mira looks at me, then back at Lyra, then at me again. "Do you want to do that?"

  "No," I say. "I want to live."

  Mira shrugs, expression settling into something almost smug. "Then don't. We can spar instead."

  My whole body lights up with relief. Sparring is pain I understand. Sparring is bruises and sweat and Mira yelling at me to stop flinching. Sparring is the kind of suffering that doesn't crawl inside your ribs and set up a nest.

  But Lyra is watching me. And beneath my relief is the truth: if I refuse, I'm refusing the only thing that might get me home.

  I make a sound that isn't quite human. "Fine."

  Mira's mouth quirks. "Wow. That was fast."

  "I'm making good choices," I mutter. "Don't get used to it."

  "I won't," Mira says.

  Lyra kneels again and redraws the rune. She taps the chalk off her fingers, then looks at me.

  It only takes a moment to go through the process again. Soon enough I'm standing and feeling as if I just ate a big meal and it's throwing a rave in my colon.

  "Now you hold," Lyra says.

  I look at her. "This is abuse."

  Lyra shrugs. "Probably, but it's for a good reason."

  We leave the training room together, and the hallway hits me with the familiar Academy feeling: stone underfoot, banners half-hung overhead, tall windows that make everything look more dramatic than it deserves.

  It's almost normal except for the guards patrolling the hallways.

  Mira catches me staring. "Festival," she says, like it explains everything.

  "It doesn't," I reply.

  "It does," Lyra says from my other side. "The Festival is always a big event every semester. It brings problems and people..."

  "And fun!" Kaela says brightly, jogging up behind us like she's been spawned by the concept of cheer. She's carrying a book under one arm and what looks like a pastry in her other hand, already half-eaten. "Don't forget fun! There will be sweets. And games. And... oh! I heard there's going to be a tournament this semester."

  "A tournament?" I say, immediately thinking of medieval jousting.

  "It's usually a series of duels or contests. Last time we showcased various types of magic. It's different every time they hold it. We haven't had one for a few semesters now," Kaela says.

  We turn a corner toward the dining hall, and my ribs ache in time with my heartbeat, the mana inside me sitting like a heavy stone. Every time I inhale too sharply, it feels like it shifts. Every time someone bumps my shoulder, it flares unpleasantly, like it's trying to escape through my skin.

  "So how's holding going?" Mira asks, clearly enjoying my suffering.

  "Like being haunted," I tell her. "By myself."

  We reach the dining hall, gather our meals, and sit to eat. I've grown used to the strange fantasy foods that the Academy provides. I've even come to like a few of the stranger ones after trying them under the insistence of Kaela or Lyra. Mira couldn't care less what I ate, so long as I did eat.

  I try to eat.

  I really do.

  But every bite feels like it lands on top of the mana in my ribs and presses down.

  "You look pale," Kaela whispers, concerned.

  "I'm fine," I lie, because what else am I supposed to say?

  I push a forkful of eggs around my plate, creating little egg mountains and valleys. A topographical map of my suffering. If anyone asks, it’s modern art. The medium is eggs. The theme is regret.

  "You're not eating," Mira observes, not looking up from her own meal.

  "I'm eating," I protest weakly.

  "You're moving food around," Lyra corrects. "That's different."

  "It's called food art. Very avant-garde. You wouldn't understand."

  “You’re right,” Lyra says. “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s okay,” I tell her. “Neither does the art.”

  I'm about to continue my defense of egg sculpture when the ambient noise, which has been a steady hum of conversation and clinking utensils, wavers slightly. A few heads turn toward the windows.

  "What was that?" Kaela asks, tilting her head like a confused puppy.

  "What was what?" Mira says.

  The noise builds again, a little louder this time. More heads turn. Someone points toward the windows that overlook the front gate.

  "Something's happening," I say.

  The first chair scrapes loudly as someone stands. Then another. Then a dozen more, a cascade of sound that breaks whatever spell of normalcy was holding the dining hall together. It's like watching dominoes fall, if dominoes were made of curious students and bad decisions.

  "Did you hear that?"

  "Something at the gate..."

  "Are we under attack?"

  "No, look, they're bringing something in..."

  The last voice cuts through the others, and suddenly everyone is moving. Students press toward the windows. A few knock over chairs in their haste. One person abandons an entire plate of food, which seems like a waste but I respect the commitment to drama.

  "Let's see what's happening," Mira says, standing.

  We follow her toward the windows, swept along by the tide of curious students. My ribs ache with each step, the mana inside me responding to my rising anxiety like it's trying to join the party.

  And that's when I see it.

  At the gate, several patrols are marching in. They're mostly made up of students in a varying assortment of rune-covered armor. However, there are a scattering of professors and older men in full armor. Most of them have their weapons drawn, and several of them hold ropes connected to something in the center of the mass of patrols that I can't quite see from where I'm standing.

  It's only when Kaela gasps from my left and pulls me closer to her side that I see what they're escorting.

  A figure in a yellow hazmat suit.

  A Human.

  The suit is unmistakable. Bright yellow fabric reinforced at the seams, bulky, practical. A helmet with a dark visor. Gloves. Boots. The whole thing looks like something you'd wear into a chemical spill, or, apparently, into a fantasy world that wants you dead.

  The patrols drag the captive forward. The figure stumbles once, catches themselves, and keeps moving. The yellow suit is scuffed, dirty, like they've been dragged through mud. Or worse.

  Students whisper.

  "Did they catch one?" someone says, breathless.

  "Are we safe?"

  "Why would they bring it here..."

  "Don't call him 'it,'" I whisper under my breath before I can stop myself.

  The captive's head turns slightly as they pass. For a second, I swear they look right at me.

  The moment the patrols disappear around the corner, I turn to the others.

  My brain presents the sensible option, do nothing, and I immediately reject it on principle. "We should go talk to them," I say.

  Kaela's eyes widen, but she nods.

  "No," Mira says flatly. Mira says it like she’s used to arguing with suicidal idiots, and I hate that I qualify.

  "Absolutely not," Lyra adds, her voice sharp.

  I stare at them. "What do you mean, no?"

  Mira leans forward, voice dropping low. "I mean exactly what I said. We stay away from that thing."

  "He's not a thing," I snap, too loud, and a few heads turn. I lower my voice quickly. "He's a person. A human."

  Lyra's gaze is intense. "Which is exactly why we should not get involved."

  "They're coming to this world somehow," I press, ignoring the way my ribs ache with held mana. "They must know how."

  Mira cuts me off, her voice hard. "And if the Academy figures out that you and that soldier are the same?"

  That lands like a punch.

  Lyra nods, her expression grim. "Mira's right. The smart move is to stay as far away as possible. Don't give them a reason to ask questions."

  "I care about getting home. They might know something. They might..."

  "They might get you killed," Mira interrupts. "Or worse, they might get you locked up next to them."

  "You need to think," Lyra says, her tone almost pleading now. "This is reckless."

  "Everything here is reckless," I snap back. "Living here is reckless. Learning magic is reckless. Existing in a world that wants to kill me is reckless. At least this reckless thing might actually help."

  Mira's jaw tightens. She looks at Lyra, then at me, then back at her plate like it might have answers.

  Then she curses under her breath. "Her Grace."

  I blink. "What?"

  "Fine," Mira says, the word coming out like she's spitting something bitter. "We'll go. After breakfast."

  "Mira..." Lyra starts, alarm flashing across her face.

  "If we try to stop Fey, she's just going to open a portal and sneak down to the dungeon," Mira says. She points at me. "But if this goes wrong, I'm blaming you."

  "Deal," I say immediately.

  Lyra's expression hardens. "This is a mistake. We've been making real progress on your portal training. We don't need help from some random soldier."

  "Maybe not," I admit. "But he's here. And he got here somehow. That's more than we had yesterday."

  Lyra's mouth tightens into a thin line. She looks like she wants to argue more, but Mira's already nodding reluctantly, and Kaela's watching me with that mix of fear and determination that means she's committed.

  "After breakfast," Lyra finally says, her voice clipped. "And if this ends badly, I will personally make sure you regret it."

  "I already regret it," I mutter. The mana shifts again, uncomfortable, and I have to close my eyes and breathe through my nose until the nausea passes.

  "You're doing great," Kaela whispers, which is a lie but I appreciate it anyway.

  By the time we finish eating, or in my case, pushing food around my plate while trying not to vomit, the mana inside my ribs is mostly still there, duller but present. My body feels like it's vibrating slightly, like I'm a tuning fork being struck by invisible hands.

  Mira folds her arms as we deposit our trays and start to move. "So what's the plan?"

  "The plan," I say, "is that we do something extremely stupid, and then we pretend we didn't."

  Kaela nods. "That's... usually the plan."

  "It's a good plan," I add.

  "It's a terrible plan," Mira says, but she doesn't stop walking.