Chapter 112: Why did you name a male duck Mercy?
The North Pond was off-limits today, but a No Entry sign had never stopped Tommaso Ardefiamme before.
With one quick hop, he planted a boot on the lowest rung of the fence and vaulted over it like it was a stage prop. His hair, tousled by the wind, fell over one side of his shoulder as loose waves danced with the motion. The barrier wasn’t even aether-imbued—just ironwood slats and faded paint. It wasn’t meant to stop anyone, really, but still existed as a polite warning.
Tommaso landed on the other side with the tiniest of noises and turned back with a grin, brushing his fingers through his wind-tousled hair. “Are you coming, or do you need a push?”
Fabrisse hesitated, casting a wary glance at the fence. There was only one reason why these places would ever be off-limits. Everyone knew the leyline beneath the pond had flared last year and badly burned a third-year.
The pressure dropped around Fabrisse like being sucked into a storm. Then, whoomph, he was airborne, lifted and pushed by an unseen current, just high enough to clear the fence. He landed gracelessly on the other side, staggering before catching the fence with his back. The wind tugged at his cloak like it was laughing at him.
Tommaso didn’t so much as flinch. “Points for style,” he said, already halfway down the path toward the pond, the rust-brown fall of his hair swaying like a comet’s tail behind him. “Minus several dozen for coordination.”
Fabrisse straightened his coat with deliberate care. “Next time, maybe ask before flinging me like a skipping stone.”
Tommaso raised a hand without turning. “But then we’d lose the element of surprise.”
They walked toward the water. The aetheric dome encasing the entire perimeter of the pond and its vicinity had now become transparent, but tinged with silvery hues where the threads of raw aether twisted into overlapping runes. It curved like a protective shell over the pond and surrounding grounds, a feat of structural spellwork too refined to be recent, and yet Fabrisse knew it had only been reconstructed this week.
The timing had been too convenient.
Just yesterday, Headmaster Draeth’s voice had echoed through the mess hall like thunder in a jar, official and absolutely final. The North Pond and surrounding glade were to be declared strictly off-limits until further notice due to ‘an urgent leyline irregularity.’ A leak, he’d said. Possibly dangerous. Spellcast dampeners were to be installed, patrol routes adjusted, and all field lessons redirected to the southern ranges.
That had been all the students needed to hear. No one questioned a leyline disturbance—not after the last third-year had to regrow half their skin. Even the most arrogant enchanters knew better than to tempt that kind of volatility.
They entered through a doorlike space shaped by vertical seams in the weave, where glowing aether clustered into shapes vaguely resembling doorknobs.
The day had come.
Fabrisse stared at the notification glyph that’d shown up since half an hour earlier:
| [Mastery Training: Tremblehold (Rank I)—Progress to Rank II: 57%] |