Namely, the Conjuration Department’s golden boy,Elethior Tourael,did not like that. His ranting could be heard all the way down to our floor.
And the next day, the Evocation Department’s ash tree dew we painstakingly gathered during the super blood moon had been replaced with ocean water, but we didn’t notice until after a number of experiments had already been fucked up.
Line. Crossed.
Nothing I’ve done ever damaged any of the Conjuration Department’s shit. I’m aprofessional,unlike elitist, trust-fund nepo babies who rest easy on beds of blood money.
The Evocation Department will get our revenge, and the piece of me that’s always a little on fire, always a little shaky, always a littlelividwill be satiated.
Wegraduatein the spring.
Tomorrow, I learn whether I evendograduate in the spring.
Nick pushes against my leg again, a solid, warm weight.
I flex my shaking hands, all too aware of the way that shake reverberates up my arms, down into my chest, my anxiety plucking each rib like harp strings.
Tomorrow, I have to stand in front of the Mageus Research Grant Committee and listen to their verdict, and that imagined scenario has all my internal shivering ramping up to earthquake levels.
They get to decide my future.
And I have to let them.
I almost tell Orok to fuck off if he’s over this prank war.Hedoesn’t have to worry about funding his final project, with the Church of Urzoth Shieldsworn sponsoring everything he’s doing, since his focus is on drawing magical energy out of holy items.Hedoesn’t have to worry about a job after he graduates, since he’s similarly guaranteed a position in any Urzoth church across the country.
Meanwhile, I managed to snag a job post-graduation with Clawstar Foundation, a nonprofit that specializes in protective spell research,but I know the cutthroat drive is alive and well. If I slip up, Clawstar will be well within their rights to rescind their offer and shift it over to a wizard who was able to fund their final research project.
But what comes out is the worst thing I could say. A simple, brittle “Please, O.”
His annoyance vanishes in understanding. I can’t be a mystery to him. I can’thide.
Orok sighs—inward, at himself—and waves his hand at me. “Proceed.”
I grin. “We’ll go to the party of your choosing right after this.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Now stop distracting me. I need to— Oh! Wait—”
“Good gods, what now?”
“The pièce de résistance, my friend.” I grab the bag I’d stashed off to the side before crouching and tipping it upside down.
When magic wielders discovered other planes, it was cool and all, but the real mark of brilliance was from whoever decided to take all that interdimensional magic and put it in storage containers.
I jump to my feet, whipping the bag away with a flourish, revealing a dazed corpse who blinks cataract-white eyes at me.
My showmanship is immediately overshadowed by—
“Holy shit,hereeks.” Orok slaps his hands over his nose and mouth.
I also fight the urge to gag, but I don’t win, and end up hacking aggressively at the floor.
The corpse doesn’t seem offended. He doesn’t seem like he can feel much of anything, which is good. If he were alive, he’d be freaking out. And he would’ve suffocated in the interdimensional bag, but whatever.
Most of his bones are visible beneath sagging clumps of what I assume were once muscles. Or skin? Organs, even. A scraggly beard clings optimistically to what’s left of his chin, and he has very little else in the way of fleshy human bits.
I grab another vial and dump out the components as I mutter a quick preservation spell. The corpse shimmers head to toe before the smell dies down and a few of the more precarious skin flaps settle into place.
