And that’s not touching on the shit I did once we got to college. Drinking. Questionable hookups. Needing to be bailed out for trying to spell all the flowers in the Quad to smell like sulfur; but I was with a huge group of bumbling idiots, so the charges were minor. Orok talked sense into me before I did anything too irreparable, and I backed off once my grades started to suffer. That was another effective wake-up call, that I was letting my chaos affect the one goal I had: to be able to create spells that would help people.
“Seb,” Orok says now. He takes a step toward me like he’s closing in on a startled animal. “Hands.”
I relax my fingers where they’re arched into my arms and sniff through the haze of moisture that stings my eyes.
“I’m fine,” I whisper. “It wasn’t anything unexpected. I—”
“Don’t.” Orok looks down the stairs before shifting closer tome. His voice lowers. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought up your grant.”
“Don’t apologize. Their reaction wasn’t your fault.”
“Yeah, it was.” He stuffs his fists in the pocket of the Lesiara U hoodie he’s wearing again, his jaw firming. “I should’ve stood up for you years ago. I should’ve told you they were coming and I shouldn’t have let my mom blame you for so long. Gods, Seb. I just wanted them to know how far you’ve come. How well you’re doing.”
His words dig into me. Burrs that stick fast.
I haven’t come far. Only a few days ago, I left a zombie in the Conjuration Lab. How is thatdoing well?
What if I show up next semester and I can’t get over working with Elethior? What if all I am, all I’ll ever be, is an irresponsible, immature fuckup who can’t cope with anything in a normal way? I won’t be able to handle working with Elethior and I’ll end up doing something reckless that gets me kicked out of school, and that’ll be that.
Tension wends around my lungs again. Thick, inescapable chains of it.
“You think I can do it?” I was whispering before so our moms wouldn’t overhear, but I whisper now because I’m incapable of asking that question at a reasonable decibel.
Orok cracks a smile.
“You’ll do it,” he tells me. “Fuck Elethior. You’ll solve your research project. You’ll graduate and Clawstar will realize how lucky they are to have you, and you’ll churn out so many new protective spells that no one will ever have to hurt again.”
I want to return his smile, but I can’t.
Maybe over-the-top support isn’t what I need right now.
Spells use certain amounts of components, like theexperimentsI used to do. But sometimes, a wizard only has a solid block of quartz when they need a sliver and they can’t chip off the right amount for whatever reason, so they have to focus on not draining more of the component than they need. Using too much of a component can make spells go haywire, or it can bleed a component dry entirely.
That’s my research project: developing a way to cap the energy drawn from componentsin the spell,rather than having wizards cap the amount through their own focus. A safety net thrown over every spell so parameters are set and, yeah, what Orok said.
I nod downstairs. “Was your mom right though? About you, I mean. Is there something different? Are you unhappy?”
He frowns with a curious look. “Have I seemed unhappy to you?”
“I don’t think so. But I dunno—mom radar. I want to make sure she’s not picking up on something I missed.”
He’s quiet. Considering. And that’s enough to ping my concern, but he shakes his head.
“Starting to feel the pressures, ya know? Everything’s changing. Or it will. And Iknewit would, but knowing and living it are two very different things. I don’t know what next year will look like and it’s freaking me out.”
“I thought you were going to be a priest of Urzoth?”
It’s part of why his mom’s come around. Her son’s getting his Mageus of Theological Evocation with plans to join Urzoth’s church, all while being a rawball star. If he isn’t going to be a rampaging soldier in the Arcane Forces, what more could an Urzoth-worshipping mother want?
“I am. I—” He rocks on his heels. “You know that’s all bullshit, right? That stuff about physical strength equating internal strength. It’s antiquated and she’s wrong. You’re not a bad influence on me.”
Yeah, I am. “Stop apologizing for her, you dingus.”
Orok sputters such an abrupt laugh he spits all over me.
I flinch away. “Dude!”
“Dingus?”
