Chapter 48.6: Who cares about someone else’s friendship?
That’s the first thing the Magister says as he enters? Fabrisse thought as a servant approached with a bottle of red wine. Should I say something? We can’t say she helped me bind with the Eidralith anymore, can we? Fabrisse gave a small nod, the kind that was meant to be polite but probably looked more like a mechanical tic. The servant filled his glass halfway, and Fabrisse tried to match the expected social script with a wry smile. Maybe I should stay silent. Let her handle it.
He hadn’t touched alcohol since the confession incident with Veliane. That had been enough lesson for one lifetime. If fermented grape juice made him think that was a sound idea, then abstinence was the superior strategy.
This servant actually knew how to smile, made apparent by the fact he’d just smiled at Fabrisse. The presence of someone so close to him distracted him from his line of thinking. Where was I at? Oh, yeah. I need to deny the notion that Severa has ever helped me with anything.
“It is the same boy, but that does not mean we weren’t friends before,” Severa said as another butler came over and poured wine for her.
“She didn’t help me bind with the Eidralith or anything like that,” Kestovar blurted.
Severa froze with her wine glass halfway to her lips. Time flowed in slow motion as she turned her head his way. Severa’s brother, meanwhile, had that look of mild, cultivated amusement, the way children look at a fire ant hill right before they decide to poke it with a stick just to see the chaos unfold.
Great. The one time he decided to be proactive and changed his narrative, she somehow also changed her narrative to directly clash with his.
Beneath the table, her foot found his ankle. Her smile remained perfectly shaped, but her eyes had the glacial precision of a spell about to detonate. He gulped.
Severa widened her smile a fraction, the sort that looked dazzling to everyone but promised retribution to its recipient. “What my dear friend means,” Severa said sweetly, “is that of course I didn’t help him bind the artifact. We were merely—ah—academic acquaintances at the time, weren’t we? He had spent months preparing for the Vothiculum too, as did anyone. It was a shame he wasn’t called up to perform, but fate has chosen him nonetheless.”
She smiled at him, and when he hadn’t spoken up, her smile grew wider and slightly more strained.
“Yes,” he said at last. “Acquaintances. Who are friends now.”
The brother leaned back slightly in his chair, swirling his wine with easy grace. “Perhaps,” he said pleasantly, “it would be clearer to the Magister if you were to provide a timeline of this friendship.”
What’s with this guy? He should’ve let it go by now . . . Who cares about someone else’s friendship?
Severa turned toward him with a restrained smile. “A timeline,” she repeated. “Of course. How thoroughly academic of you, brother.” Shelet out a delicate little laugh. “Very well.” She placed her wine glass down and folded her hands neatly on the table. “We met during my first year. At the time, Kestovar was in one of the lower-year sections I volunteered to mentor. I did try to teach him a few basic fire spellforms.”
“That’s true,” Kestovar murmured. Of course it was. That part she hadn’t lied.
“Later, through a—how shall I put this—misunderstanding thoroughly my own, our relationship soured somewhat. It was neither dramatic nor memorable, I assure you. Just . . . poor judgment on my part.”
Fabrisse almost choked on air. Misunderstanding? That was one way to describe it. A creative way. There were at least four inaccuracies in that sentence, and all of them had her fingerprints on them.
He glanced at her, then at the Magister, then back again at her. For a fleeting moment, he entertained the idea of just . . . correcting her. Publicly. It would be so simple. He could point out a single false detail and then watch her composure unravel molecule by molecule. The image was immensely satisfying.
But then another thought intruded: that would probably count as inflicting emotional distress on purpose. He saw no gain from attempting such a dare. Also, the Eidralith never specified bonus rewards in advance, and whatever it decided to hand out after this dinner, it was not going to be worth the thousand Kohns she’d promised him. Not by a long shot.
So he stayed silent.
Severa’s brother’s glass stilled. He didn’t interrupt her, but the smallest shift in posture betrayed him: one elbow settled against the armrest, chin coming to rest against his curled fingers in a gesture that looked idle but was very possibly appraisal.
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“After the Vothiculum,” she went on, voice steady and warm, “we found ourselves in overlapping research spaces again, and one thing led to another. Mutual respect was re-established and the friendship was rekindled. It’s hardly a saga, but you did ask for a timeline.”
Her boot grazed just past his. He couldn’t tell if it was her cue for him to speak up, or just an unintentional touch.
He spoke anyway, “Yes, Sir. She even apologized after the ordeal.”
Silence ensued. Severa’s legs shook.
Was that not the right thing to say?
Forsing’s brows arched, slow and predatory. His glass resumed a lazy turn between his fingers. “Did she now?” he murmured. “Good on you, sister! You’ve learned the art of apology. How progressive of you.”
Her smile did not move, though her foot connected with Kestovar’s ankle again, harder this time.
| [Damage Received: Slight Bump on Ankle] |