Jade Rabbits

by VivereEstNocere

Summary:

“With its mortar, the rabbit dares to dream.”

In a world where the etchings on your face determine your past, present, and future, breaking such a lineage was unthinkably damning. It was a wonder your parents still loved you, and less so surprising that they saw your only use in the marriage connections your pretty face could form.

A fic about a single-liner mage who wishes more than anything to prove herself to her parents, peers, and the heavens which cursed her to such average mediocrity.

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Art Credit: https://www.instagram.com/dawnitive.wave/

Notes:

This is my silly little hobby project aside from No Soft Sounds and also my attempt at practicing humor, so hopefully this first chapter goes over well! Also don't expect chapters to be over 8k on the usual (I think). This just got a bit out of hand since I had some plot to establish...

Oh and I have a tumblr blog! Go ahead and check it out, asks are always welcome :3

Thank you to Aria for the lovely cover and https://www.instagram.com/dawnitive.wave/ for the art used in it!

Chapter 1: Verdelune and the Singular Mark.

i.

“Perfection is a prerequisite, but for you, we’ll settle for adequacy.”

Your parents loved you. And it would be a lie—a slight upon the good Verdelune name, to say that that wasn’t true. Sure, they didn’t dote on you in the same ways they did your older brother, didn’t praise you or look your way with the same expressions of pride they had for him, but why would they?

You were just a single-liner, after all; a single-liner born to a relatively new line of double-liners looking to establish their place in the magical world alongside centuries-old clans.

It was scandalous, weakness bottled in a newly-born babe. In a world where the etchings on your face determined your past, present, and future, breaking such a lineage was unthinkably damning. And yet, your parents loved you despite it all. You honestly don’t know why.

They could have by all means swept this under the rug, thrown you out among the peasantry and drivel, and never thought of you again. But they didn’t. Instead, they gave you what you deserved and more: a home, food, an education, luxury, and a second chance to amend the slight you cast upon their bloodline. It was all one could ask for, really.

Your parents loved you. At least, in the only ways they could. And for that, you could never stop in your efforts to repay them.

… No matter what that would end up meaning for you as time went on.

<><><>

The drive to Easton Magic Academy is an arduous one, to say the least. The picturesque scenery of sloping mountainscapes and lush forests would make for excellent background entertainment, had your mother and father not been drilling you on your conduct down to the last minute detail.

“And when Lance Crown is sorted into Lang dormitory, what will you do?” Your mother asks, affixing you with a sharp stare through the rearview mirror.

Her emerald eyes could bore a hole into even the most sturdy of bodies, but as you’ve spent a good fifteen years being raised under them, you find it easy enough to remain cool. Without so much as a flinch or waver, even at the mention of him, you answer.

“Ensure that I am sorted into Lang dormitory with him.” Your voice is polite, clipped, and beneath it all, bored. How long had this been going on for? It must have been a good hour or so, your flying luxury car traveling fast, but not nearly fast enough to save you from this bride-training onslaught your parents were determined to place you under. “But Mother, what if Lance Crown isn’t sorted into Lang?”

It’s an earnest question, and to you, a logical one. To your parents, not so much.

Hands flexing against the leather steering wheel, your father chuckles in that old-money way he’s been working to incorporate into his mannerisms, and even your mother’s eyes gleam with amusement.

“Of course Lance Crown will be sorted into Lang. He may be going through a bit of a…rebellious phase as of now, but history is history, and boys like him are bred to a certain standard.” Your father shakes his head as he explains, looking at you as though you’re still the same idiotic six-year-old girl he once raised on his shoulders all those years ago. “Misguided though it is, the boy has ambition, and skill and drive flourish under Lang.”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts.” Your mother chides. “(Y/n), we’ve gone over this. Countless times. Leave the planning to your father and I. It’s bad enough you turned out the way that you did, but if we can just secure this, your future will be set.”

Hurt flashes across your face, though your parents easily ignore it. They always know just the way to shut you up when you get too mouthy for their comfort.

You lift a hand to your cheekbone, feeling the magic line that horizontally crosses your face, running beneath your eyes, and atop the bridge of your nose. But that’s the problem. It’s one line. Just one. It sears like an incomplete brand against your flushed cheeks, almost mockingly so. If only you had been born as your brother had, two lines occupying the spaces between his brows and eyes, a proud reminder of the first son’s inherent superiority.

‘Virid, that lucky bastard.’

You want to sigh, but know that even the softest of breezes blown from any one of your facial orifices will set off your mother. ‘A girl with time to sass is one that is undesirably crass’ and all that. So instead, you default to one of your signatures: nodding and shutting your mouth.

It’s not a satisfying conclusion to the conversation, but mercifully, it is a conclusion nonetheless, your father and mother seemingly deeming you adequately prepped and prepared for the time being. Allowing your shoulders to relax just a centimeter’s worth (any more would be scandalously unladylike), you look out the window at the flying scenery, mind drifting to a subject that fills you with unimaginable dread.

Lance Crown.

The Crown family was one of those clans that had long since established its place in the magical world, being home to the wielders of intensely strong gravity magic. Nowadays though, their bloodline had seemingly since petered out to nothing more than an average, well-off family with a grand history behind it, with one exception: Lance.

He was an anomaly, or more likely, a return to form. Despite his parents being single-liners, a modest pool of physics-related talent stretched between the two, he was born a double-liner, just like the Crowns of old. Not only that, but with their Graviole, the magic technique that manipulated gravity, passed down to him, he was a remarkable candidate for just about any accolade the world would have thrown his way.

And then something happened.

You don’t know exactly what, it seems that secret was kept tightly between only the Crowns, but something changed. Lance grew distant, stopped obeying his parents, and denounced the name his family bestowed upon him. It was drama, it was scandal, but most importantly, it was opportunity.

Lance Crown was always a boy your ambitious parents had kept an eye on, but there was still a hefty amount of distance that separated the two of you.

While your parents and their parents before them held the natural prestige of being double-liners, genetically a cut above the rest of the majority of mages of this world, the Verdelune name neglected to have the same history as, say, the Crowns. No generational wealth, no nepotistic connections, no magic techniques that followed familial lineages. It was what allowed the impressive, but inherently paltry-powered parents of Lance to scoff down upon your own.

And oh, did it infuriate your parents.

“We hold a certain standard of quality for our son.” The Crown matriarch would crow as your mother tried and failed time and time again to arrange playdates between the two of you.

Offended as you were, though, a part of you, the part raised by your parents’ double standards, understood where Lance’s parents were coming from. Lance Crown was a boon, a chance bestowed upon a retiring family name. Of course there was no room to risk his genetic excellence with any sweet-faced single-liner girl. After all, weren’t the same standards placed upon your own parents when they were still courting?

But your parents did not consider sympathy and empathy relevant when it came to making arrangements for you, so you wisely decided to keep such thoughts to yourself.

“Almost there.” Your father breaks the silence and your thoughts as he jabs a finger eastward. Following it, you begin to make something out beyond the pine treetops and rocky outcroppings you had grown so used to during this trip.

Tall, stone spires rise out beyond the horizon line, their powder blue and cyan-tiled roofs blending in against the sky. Aged ivory walls surround them on all sides, and as the foliage parts, you can see the almost unnatural jutting rock features that compose its base, flora sprouting between the jagged cracks. To put it simply: it’s beautiful.

“Wow…” You let out a breath you didn’t know you had been holding in, the reality of the situation all coming spiraling down onto you.

You’re really doing it. You’re going to attend Easton Magic Academy. It’s no longer just some far-off childish dream of yours.

It’s all painfully, incredibly, real.

 

ii.

“Now remember: Lang dormitory. We know one of the prerequisites is skill, but throw a few sugar cubes the Sorting Unicorn’s way and you should be fine.” Your mother says, meticulously arranging the collar of your button-up shirt. It had taken all but a few seconds for your parents to shatter the wonder and mystique of entering Easton’s hallowed grounds, reminding you exactly what you were here for in the first place.

Not to get an education, not to cultivate any natural talent, but to become a bride.

Yes, the one way to repay the Verdelune family was to find it some fresh, two-liner blood to make up for your own blip on the family tree. It was what you were raised for, born for, if you would be so bold as to venture out and say. Which is precisely why your parents were being so insistent on Lang dorm and Lance Crown. A house of the most well-accomplished and a double-liner boy just begging to be taken in by a new family? The plans quite practically wrote themselves.

You’d be more offended if you didn’t understand where they were coming from.

Despite it all, you were your parents’ daughter, and thus, from an early age, you were raised to carry such a burdensome objective upon your shoulders. You didn’t necessarily want it, but it was never really a question of what you wanted, just what you owed.

And you owed them so, so much.

‘Just smile and wave, (y/n). They’ll be off soon enough.’

And be off they did. After escorting you with your luggage to the school gates, your parents bid you a farewell, a reminder, and a threat promise to write to you soon with further instructions before making their way back to their car, followed in suit by the many other parents seeing their kids off.

You look around, tallying faces and making the same sharp observations you were raised to. A scion of a ministry officer here (his father won’t win the local election), a distant niece of faculty there (she definitely didn’t inherit her auntie’s talent, or she would have made the exam last year), this place was loaded with teenagers, both remarkable and not quite.

You sigh (thankful that you can at least do as much now without your mother breathing down your neck) and crack your knuckles. Time for your least favorite part of socializing: networking.

Flitting around the crowds and slowly forming cliques, you take survey of the rest of the area. As expected, a good number of people here are single-liners like yourself, and while you wish you could find solace in such a fact, you don’t. There’s no camaraderie to be found amongst the majority, and you yourself find no particular desire to go out of your way to exchange pleasantries with people you know your parents wouldn’t even bat an eyelash at. You’re sure that deep down they share the same sentiments.

“(Y/n) Verdelune. Why, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” You stop in your tracks as a voice calls out to you, one so painfully familiar you hope that you’re just hallucinating from heat stroke or something like that.

You turn, and oh, aren’t you lucky?

“Mr. Drake, what a pleasure it is seeing you here.” Your lips quirk up in muscle memory, but the smile doesn’t reach your eyes. Not like he’s focusing enough on them to notice—the pig.

“Please, (y/n). Mr. Drake is my father. You can refer to me as you did when we were kids. I quite like the way my name rolls off your tongue.” He smiles coyly, sidling up on your left. “Come on, say it. ‘Nolan~’”

It takes everything in you not to gag.

Nolan Drake. Second heir to the Drake Family estate. Double-liner. Your old playmate and classmate from waybackwhen.

He’s of average height, though tall enough from the silver spoon he’s been fed with since childhood, medium-length pale burgundy hair slicked back against his head and reaching his shoulders. Two black lines stretch down from the bottom right of his lower lip down his chin over tan skin, and two deep, wine-colored eyes look back at you through half-lidded lids.

The Drakes, similarly to the Crowns, though not to the same extent, also have some semblance of notable family history, having served in the great battles of yore as acclaimed dragonriders and passing down a magic technique, Petrifica, that petrifies its subjects. And they, unlike the Crowns, to this day, have maintained a wealth of double-liners in their household, yet for some reason humored your parents’ badgering for fraternizing.

Had Nolan not moved away when he did (something about international study and whatnot), he would have been a surefire candidate for your parents to push you towards, and will likely become one anyway, considering the eyes they have on you.

Great. Just fan-fucking-tastic.

“Nolan~” His sing-songy voice breaks you from your thoughts, and you are once again faced with the grim reality of what you will be forced to do. Smiling a bit wider, you’re about to bite the bullet when something, or rather, someone, catches your eye.

“Oh! Mr. Crown!” You gasp and point in the direction of a head of silvery blue hair, drawing the attention of a few other girls around you. Squawking like a flight of vultures just handed a fresh kill, they jostle the two of you around as they flock to swarm the sacrifice you’ve placed a target on.

‘Sorry, Lance, but this is the least you can do for me before I spend the next few years sucking up to you.’

Shrugging apologetically, you allow the crowd to separate you and Nolan, calling out a “Let’s talk some other time, Mr. Drake!” as you’re washed away to a certain Crown’s side.

Your plan is going excellently, down to the letter, even, as you watch Nolan’s pale burgundy locks helplessly get pushed away into the most obscure corners of your vision. It’s well worth the chorus of screams that echo in your ears of girls eager to get a piece of Mr. Crown, and you peacefully resign yourself to some position in the middle of the storm. Never before has being trampled felt so favorable to the alternative.

“You.” A hand roughly grasps your wrist and pulls you forward, forcefully breaking you away from the blissful downfall you had cultivated for yourself. Blinking, you look up, only to be met with narrowed, pale blue eyes. Two lines run beneath one eye, and as you trace their path, reality finally dawns on you.

You idiot, you’re being grappled by Lance Crown.

 

iii.

The hand on your wrist has not loosened. If anything, it’s tightened to an almost painful grip as you’re tugged this way and that, running past fellow prospective students in a dizzying blur of colors. It’s only when you’ve gotten a fair distance away from the crowd of girls you were swimming in prior that your kidnapper pulls to a stop. He stands, looks around, and when he’s satisfied that all the little cliques that surround the two of you are too preoccupied with their own antics, he finally lets go of your wrist and turns back to you, an annoyed gleam in his eyes.

“You.” He says it in a low tone of voice, accusingly jabbing a pointed finger toward your chest.

Mm, yes, this is not good, not good at all. Your parents wanted you to make an impression on Lance Crown, but you’re fairly certain they were angling for more of a positive one over whatever this was.

But, not to worry, you’ve been trained by those very same parents to maneuver out of situations like this, and maneuver you shall!

You bat your eyelashes, making sure they flutter oh-so-delicately as you keep your head tilted down for the maximally flattering angle of yourself. Guys like shy and demure girls, so acting a bit timid should both soothe any accusations as well as endear him to you.

“...Me?” You ask innocently and point to yourself, voice sweet but not too sickeningly sweet as to sound fake.

Lance sneers, seemingly unmoved by your acting efforts. You don’t flinch, but you want to. So this was the famous Crown wall that always came crashing down on your parents whenever they tried to wriggle your family into their good graces…

“Yes, you. ” He pushes down your hand, shattering the last of your ‘innocent and cute’ act you had tried so hard to employ. “What the hell was that about?”

You’re not a successful actress, but you’re also not an idiot. You know that he’s talking about the little stunt you pulled to escape Nolan, damning Lance by proxy. No point in pretending it isn’t about that now.

“... I’m sorry.” You do your best to sound sincere, employing a tactic your mother and father often scoff at, though it has its uses: sympathy. “You see, I was in a bit of a pickle and then I noticed you and—”

“—And you should have kept your mouth shut.” Lance finishes for you. “I don’t care what you had going on, don’t use me as bait for your little social games.”

Nodding your head enthusiastically, you resolve to make a mental note of that. Strike one: Used Lance Crown as a scapegoat and subsequently pissed him off on first encounter. Not the best first impression, but surely there’s some way to salvage this. You mean, he’s here, you’re here, it would be a shame to just leave things off at that (and you know for a fact your parents will be hearing about this later).

You start, “Of course, and I really am so sorry for that. I’ll make sure not to make the same mistake again. Though, since we’re both here, I believe introductions are in order. My name is (y/n) Verdelune, daughter of Ormond and Celine Verdelune. You may recognize the name from Verdelune Jadeworks. We specialize in magical conduits and jewelry—”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

“You say that, but I noticed that earring you have, and let me just say—” Okay, so maybe you’re forgoing the charming noble girl persona to give a sales pitch, but you can’t help it! It’s just right there, dangling, and practically begging to be enhanced. Surely Lance and your parents will understand that ambitions can reach further than just being a pretty face.

“No. No, you will not say. I warned you, and I am leaving.” Lance unceremoniously brushes you off, turning and letting his robes wap you in the face as he leaves. Okay, so maybe he, and by extension, your parents, would not in fact understand. “Don’t try to waste my time any further, Verdelune. I’m not interested in vapid, socialite girls like you.”

Okay. Ouch. Fuck him. But not really. He kind of had a point, but it’s not like you wanted to do this. So yeah, actually, fuck him.

“I’ll see you around then!” You call cheerily after his retreating form, not feeling discouraged once by the way he pointedly ignores you. You should be fine now. You met your quota, talked to the prison guard your parents were plotting to make your husband, and now you could focus on what really matters: Actually getting into Easton.

<><><>

With lingering thoughts of Lance Crown and his massive attitude on your mind, you think you can only dread what the next few years of school will look like after you’ve already done the unthinkable and personally soured your relationship with him. Sorry Mother, sorry Father, you’re sure their screaming letters will let you know exactly what you’ve done wrong in due time, but you have other things to focus on—namely, the actual entrance exams.

Ding dong ding dong.

As the clock finally strikes twelve, a booming voice rings out across the courtyard, bringing everyone’s attention forward towards a set of stone steps.

“Greetings, prospective students, and may I welcome you to the Easton Magic Academy!” A burst of verdant green flames erupts from the stone center stage in front of the steps, prompting a chorus of screams from the crowd of applicants. From it appears a man with wavy orange-blond hair and a single line which runs down his left eye. “You may know me as Claude Lucci, Magus Cum Laude, as well as the year’s seventh up-and-coming mage. But right now, all that matters is that you know me as the chief proctor of your exams today.”

His voice is proud, though you can’t fault him for it. After all, from what you recall from your parents’ drilling, he’s mastered countless advanced spells and made his way onto Easton faculty despite being only a handful of years older than you. For a single-liner, his achievements are impressive even amongst double-liners, but that just goes to show what effort can grant you.

Your fist clenches around your wand at the thought. That’s right, despite inherent genetics, single-liners are also capable of great power cultivation that can even surpass double-liners. What it comes down to is skill and practice.

Now, if only your parents thought the same way.

“Doesn’t showing up with a bunch of fireballs and stuff in the summer make you all hot and sweaty?” The question is simple and innocent, boredly uttered from the black-haired boy next to you, but you can’t help but cringe when you see Lucci’s eyes zone in on your section with murderous intent.

‘He definitely heard him.’

“Now, why don’t we cut to the chase and start our first exam?” His smile is sweetly fake, and you do your best to suppress the chill that cuts through you when his eyes once again hone in on the guy next to you. You eye him and take a sidestep away for good measure. “Take your seats, please.”

Murmurs of confusion break out across the crowd. Take your seats? Where exactly? All you see is empty field, the doors of the academy castle remaining locked.

Then, you notice it: Lucci mouths a few words, flicking his wand up on the last syllable. Just as quickly as he finishes, the earth beneath you begins to rumble and shake, giving way to seats and tables of firmly packed dirt. From the skies descend a flock of papers, each one neatly gliding onto the desk in even spaces as quills puncture the surfaces next to them with lightning-fast precision.

Once again, Professor Lucci’s audience erupts into cheers and praise of his abilities, seemingly making him ease back into a more subdued and satisfied mood. And then the boy next to you decides to open his mouth again.

“You could have just set up a classroom ahead of time for us to take the test.” You wince when Lucci’s eye twitches in recognition of the statement, and you decide to take another tactful step away from your neighbor. While you’re sure many here, like you, have dreamt of this opportunity to enroll, you’re beginning to think some may not be as enthusiastic about or as dedicated to the prospect of becoming an Easton Academy student.

“Your first test will be composed of a written exam. Simply answer the questions to your best ability and turn your papers in to me when you finish.” Lucci forces through gritted teeth formed into a smile.

‘That’s right, Professor, don’t let some random naysayer bring you down!’

“You have thirty minutes.” You quickly find your way to a seat along with the other students. With a final flourish, Professor Lucci points his wand to the sky, glowing numbers appearing in the air and counting down. “Now, begin!”

Taking your paper in hand, you flip it around, not quite prepared to see or even just process what’s on the other side.

Those are definitely…letters.

They move around on the page in swarming loops, jumbles of characters making it borderline impossible to read, let alone answer the question. Judging from the horrified shrieks of the teens around you, you aren’t alone. This must be the first test, the actual test.

“Can you please stop?” Your ear perks up as you catch the same monotone voice from before. It’s that black haired boy with a lightning-shaped single line down his face. He looks apathetically at the page, simply repeating his request for an end to its movement over and over again as though each ask will change anything. You smirk—if pretty words and a pleading face were enough to solve this, you would have long since been done with your paper by now.”

“Stop.” The boy repeats again, though this time the quill in his hand snaps from the sheer pressurized force he holds it with, ink splattering against the page like a black and white crime scene. There’s a shuffling sound before the boy gets up, walks to the front, and hands in his paper.

You’re expecting a “try again” or even a “fail” to come from the professor after he looks at the soaking page, but neither ever comes. Instead, he, dumbfoundedly murmurs something that looks like “pass” as he hangs his head in defeat. The boy doesn’t smile, but gives a thumbs up, going back to his seat and pulling out a book on proper muscle stretching techniques and flipping through it with a great deal more interest than he just had for this test.

‘Dear gods, he actually did it…’

Scowling, you look back down at your paper with a renewed focus. If this guy of all people could pass so easily, then you sure as hell were going to as well. No way you’ll be left behind so early on.

Muttering under your breath (which is certifiably unladylike), you combine the simple spells for reordering ciphers, altering page ink, as well as stasis (you knew reviewing these would prove worthwhile), dragging your wand across the paper in methodical lines. Sure, you won’t be getting this done as fast as a certain someone, but by the gods, will you make sure that your paper is even more neat and proper than anyone else’s. And, after a few minutes of arduous focus, you’re done, a neatly formatted and answered test sheet held delicately in your grasp.

Echoing the boy’s footsteps, you make your way to the front, giving a slight bow before presenting Professor Lucci with your paper.

Still vexed from his previous defeat via the muscle boy, he snatches the paper from you, eyes scanning each neat row you carefully lined. Slowly but surely, his eyes soften with satisfaction, and he rolls up the paper before shoving it in his sleeve.

“Excellent work, Miss…”

“Verdelune. (Y/n) Verdelune.” You finish for him and smile delicately, injecting just the right amount of shyness to enforce his stance as an authority figure in your eyes. “May I say it is an honor being proctored by someone as accomplished as you, Professor Lucci?”

He grins, seemingly once again satisfied with himself at your helpful reminder of his achievements. “Yes, well, how could I refuse such an honorable request from the headmaster?”

“Ah, intellectual yet humble as well, I see why Headmaster Baigan selected you.” You coo, stalling out your encounter.

“Mm, yes, and—” He stops, pulling at his sleeve to sniff it. “Oh my, is that jasmine and lavender I smell?”

You flutter your eyelashes big and wide. Though Lance couldn’t find it within himself to appreciate it, you’re glad someone here can fall for your charms.

“Ah, you noticed? I applied a simple spell to emit soothing essential oils. I’m sure you’ll be going through so many papers already, so I didn’t want to aggravate your senses further with a dusty page. And don’t worry, I sealed the paper so the scent won’t transfer onto your robes.”

“Well, I thank you for your consideration, Miss Verdelune. It’s not often I come across such thoughtful youngsters nowadays. With any hope, your presence will become a staple of the honors classes I will be teaching this quarter.”

And there it is, exactly what you were angling to get: An invitation to Claude Lucci’s fall quarter honors seminar. You smile brightly this time and bow your head again.

“It would be an honor, Professor Lucci.”

With that, you make your way back to your seat, a considerable pep finding its way into your step. You’re not even a student yet and you’ve already secured yourself into the graces of the Magnus Cum Laude. With any hope, your luck will continue on at the same rate. True, your parents taught you the arts of refinement and charm as a way to find a husband, but that doesn’t mean you can’t also use those skills to further your own plans.

“Suck up.” You hear someone hiss as you pass by, but pay them no heed. They could call you what they wanted, a suck up, a socialite, whatever. In the end, it didn’t matter as long as you were making progress.

‘Divine visionary, here I come.’

<><><>

The next set of tests is relatively more straightforward than the written exam. Things like levitation of rocks, walking on water, elemental state manipulation, and so on. Through it all, you manage to both flourish and skim through, your extensive efforts into studying now paying off as you struggle with the actual physical execution of it. Still, it seems your little exchange with Professor Lucci is playing as a boon in your favor, him generously looking on as you struggle and giving you marks the moment you succeed.

You’ve just finished changing the color of a lizard from brown to green when you turn to look over at a familiar sight. That boy—Mash Burnedead—he had introduced himself as when the others went to question him, was flying through each obstacle with soaring colors.

Right now, he was currently bending a bolt of metal into a pretzel with his bare hands, prompting his lizard to turn a bright shade of white, though for some reason it seemed moreso out of fear than any magical incantation.

“Pass…” The defeated Professor Lucci scowls, followed in his wake by a murmur of similarly disgruntled students.

Mash was certainly gaining himself an audience, though not a loving one, and with each unconventional success, he only found more haters in his entourage accusing him of cheating or any other excuses for their own failures they could come up with.

You, on the other hand, were busy tactfully minding your own business. Strange though Burnedead may be, he was still just a single-liner, one that your parents, and by proxy you, have never heard of, and therefore unworthy of your attention. Sure, his physical feats were impressive, and if you were any lesser of a person, you would have been jealous, but they were just that—physical, not magical.

“I can’t believe he’s acing the exams.” An old man dressed in black with a handful of tastefully placed foliage surrounding him murmured.

“I told you, old man, I’m a good judge of character. Kid has what it takes to—”

“Excuse me.” You interrupt a man with bleached hair, dressed similarly to but aged less than the old man who had spoken previously. “Can I help the two of you?”

Any other person may be thinking ‘who are these strange old men’, ‘what are they doing here’, or ‘do they really think those disguises work’, but you are not just any other person, and can really care less. No, the reason why you’re even bothering to interact with them in the first place is because their muttering is messing up your concentration, which you need if you ever hope to separate this coffee from the milk it’s been mixed with.

They jump, and it’s so painfully obvious that they thought they were being slick, though based on the whispers around you, you assume the other applicants were simply too weirded out to address them head-on.

“Sirs, do you happen to be lost? You do know that guardians were supposed to vacate the premises prior to the exams, yes?” You ask politely, eyes closed in mock sweetness. “Here, allow me to fetch Professor Lucci, I’m sure he can help you—”

“No thank you!” The two of them yell as they sprint off in some other direction towards the treeline. Well, whatever. Whatever works, works.

You turn back to your coffee milk, only to see Mash not more than a few paces off, stirring vigorously and dipping his hand into the mixture as if molding clay, effectively using the force he’s exerting to split the liquids in two like some sort of lettuce spinner. It’s quick, it’s physically impossible, and it motivates you to throw yourself into your work that much harder.

You are not failing when someone like him is in the running for a perfect score.

 

iv.

Little warning is given before the next test, the ground rising once again in a manner similar to when Professor Lucci conjured your desks, except instead of tables and chairs, walls of grassy mounds of dirt surrounded you.

“In this next test, you will be tasked with navigating a labyrinth. Though, as you should expect, it will be no ordinary maze.” Professor Lucci’s voice booms around you, echoing off the dirt walls, a projection spell you hypothesize. “There will be traps and monsters waiting for you around every corner, so tread with caution. Should you not escape within thirty minutes, you will fail this exam, and thus, entrance into Easton. Your time begins now!”

Ah, seems you’ve entered the real practical portion of the entrance exam now. Terrifying.

See, textbook magic principles were one thing. Some minor transmutation here, a light bit of telekinesis there, no problem. Due to the bountiful curriculum provided by your parents, those types of magic incantations were your forte.

However, your parents did not think it proper for a single-liner bride-to-order like you to know much about combat magic, and so, much to your chagrin, you know yourself to be almost entirely incapable in the sphere. It wasn’t for a lack of trying either, as you’d spent countless moments sneaking off trying to perfect even the teensiest of fireballs or dagger summons, but to no avail. As biased as your parents may be, perhaps they also saw it in you: the sheer lack of talent to learn such a subject.

So, needless to say, you are not enthused by the subject matter of this particular exam.

Well, at least it wasn’t like a few years ago when your brother Virid took it. Reportedly, they had them scrimmage in squads out in the woods, and you know for a fact you would have been a very unwilling dead weight. Look at the bright side, instead of facing fellow humans (probably), there were likely just going to be some low-level training monsters, nothing you couldn’t throw pocket sand at and sprint past.

“So all I have to do is get out? Doesn’t sound too hard…” Putting a pause to your planning, you slowly angle your head back as you hear a painfully familiar monotone voice drone next to you. Dead, yellow eyes meet your gaze and you slap the smile back onto your face.

“Oh. Fancy seeing you here!” You give a closed-eyed smile, surveying any and all possible exits from the situation. While you hate to admit that it’s not necessarily a bad idea to stick to someone like Mash, who seems to excel in your weakest areas, you’re also acutely aware of the eyes Professor Lucci has on the arena, and how your fraternizing may color his favorable impression of you.

“Do I know you?” Mash asks, tearing straight through your feigned politeness. “And of course I’m here. We’re all taking the same test.”

‘Obviously I know that!’

You want so badly to retort to him with enough bite to devour one of the cream puffs he seems to love oh-so-much, but you hold it in, keeping yourself demure and above it all. (Y/n) Verdelune will not give in so easily to such apathetic needling.

“No, I can’t say that you do. And of course, my mistake.” You amend through gritted teeth. “Well, I guess I'd better get going, thirty minutes isn’t a lot of time. Good luck, fellow applicant!”

“Good luck to you too, I guess.” Mash mutters, but you’ve long since sped off in the first direction you could find away from him.

You were partially on the mark with your farewell. Thirty minutes is a paltry amount of time for a maze you don’t know the size of. Rolling up your sleeves and conjuring a hair tie to pull your hair back (Summonus ligatura capilli), you set out and get to business, tracing your dominant hand against the left side of the corridor you’ve entered.

From what you can recall, the best way to find your way out of a maze is to just stick to one direction in order to keep track of where you’re going and not accidentally go in circles. Thus, you’ve decided to stick to the left, keeping an ear out for any rustling that could indicate enemies and a careful eye out for any potential footfalls. Every so often, you hear the scream and clattering of another student a few walls away, sometimes followed by growls or other times preceded by sounds of the ground splitting in two. While disconcerting, it does improve your morale considerably to think that they’re triggering all the traps while you skirt by.

You look to the sky. Seven minutes left. You’d like to think that you’ve made good time, but you honestly can’t tell, as there’s still no clear sign of an exit from this labyrinth.

Then you hear it. A scream. Or is it more so a bellow?

It’s coming from right around the corner. Something tells you you definitely should skip that route, but before you can move away, a speeding, blonde-haired force knocks into you, sending you flying and crashing against the wall behind you.

“I-I’m so sorry!” Your head is spinning and stars swim across your vision, so the apology more or less falls on deaf ears. Struggling to regain your bearings, you feel two hands tug at you, allowing you to stumble into a standing position, or the next thing closest to it.

“What the…” You squint, and through the light shining in your eyes, you can make out a blonde girl with medium-length hair tied with an orange bow headband. Under one of her pale orange eyes (they sort of look like round egg yolks) curls a mark, just a single one. Ah, she must be another entrant.

“No time to explain, we need to run!” She yells and pulls you into a run beside her.

‘We’re going backwards.’ You want to point out, until you turn around and see exactly why that is.

A sphinx. A huge, giant, towering sphinx straight from an Egyptian wall depiction is some ways behind, and it’s running after you. Correction: it’s closing the distance, so much so that with a leap, it’s right in front of you.

The girl—you don’t know her name yet and likely won’t have much time to ask—stops in her tracks with a scream, pulling out her wand. But, before she can do anything, much less utter any sort of incantation, the sphinx knocks it from her hands with its weapon, and as the smell of metal hits the air, you realize she’s been cut, badly. She won’t be able to reach her wand now, much less use it.

Looks like it’s up to you.

“You did not answer my riddle. Prepare to die.” Roars the sphinx. You turn to the girl frantically as she clutches her hand.

“What was its riddle!?” That’s it, you stand no chance against this behemoth in a battle of might, but a battle of wits? Now that’s another story.

“I-I don’t know!” She stutters, face paling with each passing moment. You shake her, shake her good. “F-f-four legs in the morning, one—no, two in the afternoon, and three at night. W-what am I?”

The girl sinks to her knees, muttering something about ‘deserving this’ while your mind does backflips. Come on, come on, the answer’s right there, but so is that bi,g sharp weapon it’s pulling back in preparation to skewer you. Think harder, faster, anything—

“A man!” You cry out. “You’re a man!”

The sphinx stops, lowers, settles.

“Correct…” It thunders, laying down its weapon. “You have solved my riddle, thou shall pa—”

“That,” A hand comes, and socks the sphinx in the face, knocking the blood straight out of every orifice in it, “makes no sense. At all.”

It’s…Mash. And he’s just pummeled the sphinx—punched it so hard it flew straight into the stratosphere. Right, no. This can’t be happening, can it? What kind of strength-enhancing entry-level spell could have the power to do that, unless it’s no entry-level spell at all and this guy’s secretly a genius prodigy who wants to make the rest of you look like absolute fools. The girl you’re currently supporting seems to be in even more shock than you, looking at Mash with a sort of stunned awe.

“But…I lied to you. Why did you come back for me?” She asks, voice shaking ever so slightly. You murmur a short phrase, summoning a cloth to wrap around her hands. You’re not skilled enough yet to mend the wound directly, and you’re not willing to risk a try.

“Well…” Mash drawls, holding out a hand to help her up, which she takes gratefully, “I figured that if your reason for doing what you did was anything like mine, then I’d kind of feel sorry for you.”

She looks at him, silent for a moment, almost in awe. And is that…blush you spot dusting her face!? Gross.

“Thank you…but that doesn’t change the fact that none of us will make it out in time.” She turns to you. “I’m so sorry for involving you in this. I know my word probably means nothing by now, but I promise that I’ll explain everything to the professor and take on full responsibility.”

You bite your lip. You hadn’t been thinking of it in the moment, too focused on, you know, just trying to survive, but now that things have settled, you realize just how far this girl had unintentionally screwed you over. You want to hate her, but just looking at her, how pathetic and sad she is, you can’t help but feel mainly just sorry for her.

Your family’s faces pop into your head, then Nolan's. Okay, maybe you’re just a bit mad at her.

“...Why bother doing that when we can just get out?” Mash asks like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“Huh?” You and the girl say at the same time, equally dumbfounded. He turns to her.

“How do you think I got here so fast?”

<><><>

It’s down to the last couple of minutes when Claude Lucci happily begins to hum to himself. No way that pesky mushroom-headed boy was passing now.

So what if it took exerting himself to construct a labyrinth, summoning its guardian spirit, and sacrificing two girls (one whom he was sadly more fond of than the rest of these losers they had applying this year) to make it happen? Order would be maintained, and his efforts will have been well worth it. That’s just what goes to show when you have the gall to question the system.

Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.

What was that? Ah, must be the guardian having its just desserts with Burnedead. He’ll probably have to come in and intervene eventually, but as the clock continues to count down, he finds no harm in waiting until it reaches zero.

Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.

It’s getting closer now, the ground shaking upon each impact. Really, he’ll need to have a word with that guardian about playing with its food. That is, if it’ll listen to anything other than an answer to one of its incessant riddles.

Thrum. Thrum. CRASH.

A wall. An entire wall comes crumbling down at Claude Lucci’s feet.

And from the dust, three bodies. Not one, not two, but three. Lemon Irvine. (Y/n) Verdelune. Mash Burnedead. All perfect, and (mostly) without harm.

‘Son of a bi—’

 

v.

It doesn’t take long for the first round of accusations to come pouring out of students’ mouths.

“That’s cheating!” A hand rises from the crowd in protest. Several others follow in tow.

“You don’t solve a maze by breaking it!”

“Yeah, the point is to get lost first!”

“Do you even know what a maze is!?”

“Just go home already!” The crowd cheers in unison. Mash droops.

“Yeah… you’re right.” He dejectedly looks down, eyes taking on their same vacant look now that the actual life-threatening action has settled down. “Man, I’d love to go home if I could.”

His admissions seem to do nothing to appease the angry students as chants of ‘go home’ rise up again. You bite your lip, wanting nothing more than to slip away and join the echelons of the bitter and mediocre. But…you can’t. It just feels wrong to abandon these two now, though you know your parents will eat you alive for being part of such a scene. Maybe there’s some way you can turn this around, perhaps possibly—

“Please stop! It wasn’t his fault.” A voice rings out from beside you. Stunned, you turn to face her, Lemon Irvine, as she had told you on the way back out. “If anything, it was mine…”

The crowd quiets, all eyes on her, and she gulps nervously. Tentatively, you take her hand in yours and give it a reassuring squeeze, both in part to comfort her, as well as to goad her on. That’s right…none of this was your fault, it was hers.

‘Sorry Lemon.’

“Professor Claude Lucci made a deal with me. That is, if I intentionally stalled Mash and made him fail, then he would instantly pass me in return.” Oh. Oh no. Abort Lemon, abort! “You see, my family is pretty badly off, so I really need this sort of opportunity in order to support them. I thought that I had no chance at passing normally, and I was also worried that if I refused him, Professor Lucci would fail me anyway.”

“That’s enough! Quiet!” Professor Lucci screams, but it’s too late. The cat’s out of the bag and Lemon’s already said more than enough to incriminate him. As hateful as they are towards Mash, even the mob of students eyes Lucci warily.

“But then…Mash and (y/n) saved me. And not only that, but…” She quiets for a moment, covering her mouth. It’s all in vain, of course, as the tips of her ears turn a bright shade of baby pink. “He wants me to marry him!”

She shouts, and your head whips back to her. Now, when did that happen!?

“I definitely didn’t do that,” Mash interjects, but there’s nothing more he can do as she breaks out into a tangent describing what you piece together as a major misunderstanding. Something about piggyback rides and burdens and whatnot, you don’t really care much to pay attention to the ramblings of a delusional girl who’s definitely lost too much blood for a day. Speaking of, you should probably change out her bandages soon.

A low chuckle stops you from intervening to do just that.

“Alright. I did it. But so what?” Professor Lucci smiles up at the lot of you with a dark gleam in his eyes, as though finally recognizing just how far his position of power over you extends. “I am the proctor of this exam, and thus I am allowed to fail students I find unfit for Easton Magic Academy. Nothing of what I did extends beyond those rights.”

A murmur of unease stirs within the crowd, some rising in agreement, while others are a bit more hesitant at the sudden change in tone of the exam.

“He’s a slacker and she’s a poor pauper girl.” Lucci nods his head to Mash and Lemon respectively. “You know, I tried to be generous with you, considering your impoverished upbringing, but I suppose once a street rat, always a street rat. Perhaps you inherited your ignorance from your dirt-for-brains parents.”

Gods. That was brutal, even for someone as pissed off as the professor. Lemon shrinks back, all the joy that had been rushing through her before now long gone. In place, there is only shame. An expression you know far too well.

“Professor Lucci, I think you’re going a bit too far—” You start up in protest, and he whips his gaze towards you, nothing soft from before left within it.

“And I won’t take any criticism from one of you made-to-order brides! Didn’t your parents teach you to stay quiet when the man of the situation is talking? No wonder you’re still begging for scraps from any guy who will feed you!”

You bristle. The urge to scream is domineering, begging you to let loose on his egotistical ass. But no—you won’t snap here. Not now, not after everything you’ve worked so hard for. Instead, you bite your lip hard, enough to draw a small dribble of blood.

‘Just smile and nod, (y/n). Smile and nod.’

“Now. I am failing the three of you. And no one can stop me, the Magnus Cum Laude!” A dark mirth enters his eye. “That is, unless you wish to challenge me? Yes, challenge me, I dare y—”

Snap!

Mash stands in front of the professor, moving before you can so much as blink. In his hand is the upper half of the professor’s wand, and as he releases his grip, it disintegrates into woodchips on the floor.

“Not cool, Prof.” He shakes his head before looking at you and Lemon, jaws both dangling low enough to reach the floor. “Watch out, guys, this dude’s a jerk.”

Yeah. You sort of pieced that together already.

Chapter 2: Verdelune and the Unethical Humiliation Rituals.

Summary:

No one said magic school was going to be easy.

i.

“(Y/n) Verdelune, welcome to the interview portion of the Easton Magic Academy exam.”

The voice echoes through the dark hallway, bearing down on you as you stand in the center. Towering above you on all sides sit the Easton Academy Board of Directors, heads of each of its extensive magic departments. To say you’re intimidated would be an understatement.

It had been in that same verdant green set of flames that summoned Professor Lucci, which teleported you and the others into your interviews. First had been Mash Burnedead, though no word of him had been delivered since his disappearance. Then Lemon Irvine, Lance Crown, Nolan Drake, and so on.

Finally, it was your turn to be swallowed by the fires.

“I thank you for having me.” You curtsy with the practiced grace of someone with your carefully cultivated poise, making sure to commit as many of the visible professors as possible to memory.

Claude Lucci. Farman Cregos. Marvina Mevitable. Alan Abraham. And, of course, Headmaster Wahlberg Baigan.

There’s surely more to the council than that; you can hear their voices and tell as much, but you don’t want to look like a gawking fowl with a freshly chopped-off head, so you dedicate yourself to affirming the information you already have on those within your eyesight. Their specialties, accolades, dorm allegiances, and specially-offered classes flash through your mind as clearly as if your hand-written flashcards were still in front of you.

You must admit, though. It’s a surprise to see Professor Claude Lucci here after your…less than savory interaction following the labyrinth incident.

<><><>

There is a silence that follows Mash’s words; everyone seemingly too stunned to do much else than stare before breaking into a crescendo of screams.

He did it. He really did it. Mash shattered Professor Lucci’s wand.

Granted, from what you could tell, it seemed to just be plain oak (purely unimpressive and could do with a visit to your family’s business for an enhancement), a standard school-issued wand used purely for the exam. But still, the point stands. One does not simply shatter another’s wand with their bare fist.

“... That’s it.” Professor Lucci’s shoulders rock and shake with what could only be described as barely concealed rage and murderous intent. “I’m not just going to fail you, I’ll kill you as well—!”

“Enough!” Bellows a deep voice from above. Everyone, even Professor Lucci and Mash, stop in their tracks to turn skywards. Lo and behold, up in the air, obscuring the sun, is a singular figure, one you recognize immediately once your eyes pierce through the glare that shines from behind him.

Headmaster Wahlberg Baigan.

“We will now move on to the final interviews, and from this point on, I shall be leading the examinations.”

“Headmaster, what are you doing here?” Professor Lucci’s voice is weak, unsure for the first time since he appeared in a showy cloud of smoke and flame. The titles of Magnus Cum Laude and genius prodigy seem to pale and waver in the face of true, genuine authority as he sinks to his knees in what is either reverence or fear. You’re willing to bet it’s some sort of combination of both, though.

“What indeed…” Headmaster Wahlberg shakes his head in stern disappointment. “Lucci, I shall see you in my office following this. We must discuss your…conduct…today.”

Professor Lucci stays down, all the fight drained out of him. “Y-yes, Headmaster…”

You shake your head.

‘Poor sucker.’

<><><>

There, Professor Lucci sits, set off to the side like a child put in time out. As your gazes meet, he averts his eyes, electing to set his interest in the riveting ceiling tile displays above you. You wonder whether this means you’re not getting into that honors seminar after all…

“Tell us: why it is that you chose to apply to our academy.” The headmaster asks.

You raise your head and straighten back up as the first question is presented. Classic, exactly what your brother reported was asked at his exam. The words flow through your mouth easily, practiced, and none of them your own.

“Easton Magic Academy has been, for generations, a pillar of society in this part of the world, be it through exchanges of power, war, or any other sort of upheaval. Why, of course, such a prestigious boarding school with such a long line of accolades would catch the eyes of one such as myself. But the grandeur of this academy’s history aside, I believe that what I seek most is to engage with my fellow prospective students, fostering an environment that not only advocates for future growth, but strong connections as well.”

You raise your hands as you recite your address, waving and motioning on just the right beats to get your points across. Obviously, you personally think that this could all be summarized with “I need a ticket into the upper magic society via some honors guy’s raging hormones,” but your parents took pride in their little speech, and so it is the least you can do to recite it with the closest thing to earnestness you can muster.

A chorus of approval follows your conclusion, and throughout it, you notice a good amount of nodding heads. Seems the appeal to authority really was as powerful as your father told you it was. Lowering your chin, you lock eyes onto the middle podium, the one position that really matters, and have to stop yourself from almost balking.

Headmaster Wahlberg looks completely and utterly unmoved.

To say he looks unimpressed would be too generous to you, as disappointed seems to be the much better descriptor. As he rests his chin upon his knuckles, he shakes his head slightly, motioning for the rest of the staff to quiet down. They do so obediently.

“Insincere.” Is all he murmurs.

“Pardon?” You do not stutter, as you are far too above such faltering, but your eye does twitch ever so slightly as you reapply a fresh coat of your signature beaming smile.

“An admirable answer, Miss Verdelune, but I suppose I went into this interview with the expectation that the words you uttered would be your own.” The headmaster amends, bringing both of his hands forward to lace together in front of them. “Perhaps a rephrasing of the question is in order: What is it that you yourself are looking for from our academy?”

This was definitely not on the script, nor the schedule. No, by now you should be listing all the honors you’ve achieved in your secondary school and how that can apply to continuing your curriculum here, not defending your parents’ desires that must be, by extension, yours.

“Apologies, Headmaster Wahlberg, but I do mean what I have said. To attend this academy would be an honor not only for myself, but for my family, and I hope to find like-minded individuals to exchange ideas and connections with while here.” There. Hopefully the slightly less asinine phrasing will appease him.

He sighs. Not good.

“Miss Verdelune. As someone with as much respect for this academy as you, surely then you must recognize we have no place for the artificial.” Your heart sinks into your stomach. Is he really saying what you think he is? “And thus it is with a heavy heart that I must fa—”

“I want to become a divine visionary.” You interrupt, which is decidedly most unladylike and out of line on multiple fronts. The other professors gasp at your lack of manners, but you have no time to mind them, or even your parents right now. You can’t let this chance slip through your fingers when you’ve come so close.

You want the headmaster’s attention? Well, this is sure to get it.

“Oh? Do go on.” Headmaster Wahlberg, unlike the others, does not seem displeased in the slightest as he urges you.

“I want to become a strong mage. Strong enough to put even double-liners to shame.” You confess.

“The audacity…” One professor utters to murmurs of agreement. You ignore them. No time to worry about sucking up for classes now, when you might not even be eligible to attend them in the first place.

“Interesting. I see.” If you’re not mistaken, a gleam of amused mirth enters the headmaster’s eyes as he leans forward in his seat. Well, at least it seems that you’ve regained his interest. “Let us move on to the next question, then.”

You nod your head. One hurdle cleared. Likely two more to go.

‘What extracurriculars that we offer interest you?’ You expect to hear next, but to your surprise, that’s not what he asks.

“And what exactly makes you think you could ever accomplish such an ambitious task? What with your meager skill level and all.” Ouch. Hearing things like this from your parents was one thing, a bitter sting you had long since grown used to, but from a stranger, and the headmaster of the academy you’re hoping to attend, no less? It’s absolutely brutal.

“Isn’t that the point of all this?” You ask before even thinking, a cardinal sin in both your and your parents’ books of social strategy.

“Hm?” Headmaster Wahlberg smiles innocently.

“This exam. This school. Your job.” Well, you’ve already started to dig your own grave; might as well see it through with grace until you can comfortably lie in it. “The whole point of a magic academy is to take in promising students and improve them until they reach their actual potential.”

“I suppose you have a point, but then that brings us to our next question: Do you really have any potential to speak of?” Was this allowed? Was this really the actual headmaster and approved interview questions list? Judging from the pitying looks you’re getting, it doesn’t seem like it. But then, what did you do to earn this? Schmooze up a little too much with Professor Lucci? Happen to tag along after Mash broke through those maze walls? Give bullshit answers right off the bat during your interview? What was it that made the headmaster so adamant about belittling you?

Your family’s faces flash before your eyes, and you look up, once again just a small child being told she has no place playing with the big boys.

“I…do.” Your voice breaks, and you hate yourself for it. Never before have you needed so much feigned strength other than now, and yet, you’re coming up empty, unsure. You were weak, and despite all your fifteen years of effort, you remained so.

“I’m not so sure. After all, if you can’t even convince yourself, how are you meant to convince us?”

Your fists ball at your sides, fingernails digging into flesh so deeply that they draw blood. You can feel it, the anger that’s bubbling beneath the surface, begging to be freed, to breathe. It’s been there for a while now, since Lucci, since Crown, since Drake, since the car ride, since home.

Why do people think they can talk to you like this, treat you like this?

Because you let them, that’s why. You let them and you don’t do a single thing about it afterwards.

“You know what?” You bite. “Maybe you’re right—of course you’re right, actually. I know I’m not naturally gifted, that I’m nothing compared to someone like Virid, or Crown, or even Burnedead. And maybe I never will be. But I’ll be damned—”

You jab your wand, pointing up, up, up at Headmaster Wahlberg; the professors gasp, some standing up with their own wands at the ready. The headmaster, however, motions for them to sit back down and for you to continue on. You do so, but you would have also done it either way.

“—If I let a man meant to bring out the best in his students put me down like everybody else. I will learn magic, I will become stronger, and I will become a divine visionary and show you all that you’ve made a big mistake turning me down.” You throw your wand hand down and turn on your heel. “I’m leaving. Thank you for the opportunity, and have a good day.”

“Well, I suppose I can’t stop you.” The headmaster shrugs, raising a singular finger. “One more question for the road, then.”

“I’m listening.” You stop, if just for a moment.

“Would you please make your way down the Southern hallway to enter the Sorting Ceremony?” You look back up, confused. Headmaster Wahlberg simply smiles. “Welcome to Easton Magic Academy, Miss Verdelune. That is, if you’ll have us?”

 

ii.

It’s only once you get inside the actual Easton Academy hallways that you allow yourself to collapse to your knees, not minding the curious side-eyes sent your way by passing students.

‘Oh my gods, I almost completely fucked everything up.'

Now really, what was it that you were thinking, snapping at the headmaster and even threatening him with your wand like that? Threatening to walk out? Insane. What you should have done was continued grovelling and making pretty remarks like you had before, not throwing attitude and breaking your mask every which way and then some.

‘But…I still got in.’

The thought that whispers itself through your ears is a small, but dangerous one. Was it true? Yes. Was it also going against everything you were taught to believe about how the world works? Also yes. Were you then going to do the smart thing and begin to dismantle and reassess your world beliefs? No. You don’t have nearly enough time for that.

Getting back up to your feet and dusting off your skirt, you reassume your usual good posture, opting to wipe everything that happened in the past hour from your mind. You have a sorting ceremony to attend, after all.

And with that, surely everything will go back according to plan.

<><><>

“We will now sort new students into their respective dorms.” Professor Marvina Mevitable announces, addressing the crowd with her stern, signature ‘listen well because I won’t repeat this’ voice. “Place your hand upon the Sorting Unicorn’s horn and channel your mana into it. From there, it will be able to read your mind and understand your personal values, placing you into the dorm that most suits you.”

You stand amongst the rest of your fellow, newly-enrolled students. An excited whisper carries across them, everyone seemingly anxious to find out which dorm will be theirs for the next three years. You can’t say you share the same enthusiasm, knowing that the decision relies completely on Lance, and, if your parents are correct, the outcome has already long since been determined.

There are three dorms, or, houses, that compose Easton Magic Academy, each with its own values, halls, prefects, robes, and more.

Adler. House of the Red Eagle. Selected students exhibit bravery and confidence in their actions in order to uphold its values of courage and conviction. Fighters, public servants, and knights are often the ones belonging to this muscle-headed main-character-syndrome house.

Orca. House of the Yellow Whale. Students in this dorm show great knowledge and good judgment in their willingness to face any challenge and display its values of wisdom and willingness. Scholars, medics, and future caretakers are the usual crowd that keep this house somewhat relevant.

Lang. House of the Violet Wolf. The final house, which boasts students of high skill levels and grand desires, it emphasizes the values of ability and ambition. Political leaders, those of noble bloodlines, and social climbers such as yourself often flock to its meritocracy-based halls.

“First up, Egalt Vansen.” A timid student of little note takes a step forward, raising his hand to the Sorting Unicorn’s horn. Upon connection, a gentle warm glow is emitted from the point of contact between hand and horn. He gasps, taken aback ever so slightly.

“Ah…yes. Yes!” The Sorting Unicorn speaks, the bones in its skeletal form clicking together with each syllable it utters. “I sense in you a willingness to learn and a fair bit of wisdom to match.”

Vansen beams, seemingly tickled by the assessment.

“For that, I will place you in…” The unicorn pauses for dramatic effect. You roll your eyes. These magical beings always have such a penchant for drawing out moments in the name of performance. “...Orca House!”

“Alright!” Vansen jumps for joy, running over to one of the three bannered tables which sit in the hall before you. A swath of students clothed in olive and ivory robes welcome him into the fold as he takes a seat beneath a Yellow Orca flag.

“Next!” Cries the bony unicorn. What follows is a series of students sorted into the three respective dorms, each house rising in cheer the moment a new member is added. There are a few hiccups here and there (mainly just Mash short-circuiting it with his empty head occupied by nothing other than creampuffs), but aside from that, everything goes as smoothly as planned. Leave it to Professor Mevitable to run a tight ship around these parts; there shall be no shenaniganery like there was in the entrance exam.

“Next up, Lance Crown.” Your ears perk up when you hear the name. You hadn’t seen Lance since your little spat before the exams began, but you can’t say you’re surprised to see he’d made it through. “Place your hand upon my horn and clear your mind.”

The Sorting Unicorn seems to ponder for a moment, the ghost of a traumatic memory flashing across its face, before it amends its words. “But not too much. Please do still think of anything relevant.”

It sends a pointed look to where Mash sits with a still confused House Adler, but he doesn’t pay it even the slightest of mind as he munches down on another creampuff. Speaking of which, where does he even get all of those pastries from!?

Stepping forward, Lance does as told, taking the Sorting Unicorn’s horn in his right hand and closing his eyes. A gust of magical wind blows through the hall when he makes contact, prompting a few students to gasp in amazement as the unicorn’s horn and his hand glow a dazzling blue the color of lightning.

‘Show off.’

“Hm… I see. You hold great ambitions…” You nod your head, following along and already eying the students of House Lange that lean over the table to get a good look at their newest member. “But beneath that, I see a motivation. One to stand in protection of others weaker than yourself. And for that, you shall be placed in House Adler!”

You blink. So you weren’t that far off in the beginning. And your parents had the gall to laugh at you when you had asked about this very situation…

Lance moves to take a seat at the red-bannered table, ignoring the looks of shock from his new housemates and the looks of betrayal sent from an envious House Lang. He doesn’t seem to be able to care less about the development, scooping a modest amount of food on his plate before he pulls out what looks like a locket and stares at it as he eats. Hell, he probably could have been placed in House Orca (Or House Dork-a as you like to call it in your mind) and wouldn’t have cared either way.

Just what was his game…?

“Moving on… (Y/n) Verdelune!” You don’t have time to dwell on the schemes of Crown as your name is finally called to attention. Scooting your way past the other teen bodies that still crowd the front of the hall, you make your way over to the skeletal unicorn, stopping just before it.

Now that you get a close look at it, it really is majestic. Sure, you had given it some grief about all the dramatic flair it was drumming up, but as you stand before it, feeling its gentle breaths blow your bangs out of your face, you begin to understand the desire to embellish such ceremony.

“Place your hand upon my horn, miss.” It lowers its head, allowing you to take your left hand and wrap it around its horn. Unlike with Lance, no strong breeze rushes through the room, but instead, the smell of flowers begins to permeate the area around you. A soft lilac glow ties your hand to its horn, and as you clear your mind of all other thoughts, you focus on the mantra your mother had taught you beforehand.

“Lance Crown. Lance Crown. Lance Crown. I’ll give you a sugar cube if you place me with Lance Crown.” You’re squeezing your eyes shut in tight concentration, focusing yourself on the words, but not their meanings.

The Sorting Unicorn snorts, and not for the first time today, you are laughed at.

“Lance Crown?” It utters, and you quickly pivot your thoughts.

‘Don’t say that aloud!’ You can feel your cheeks heating up at the curious murmurs as the other students try to piece together whether they’re hearing correctly or not.

“Aha, aha! My apologies.” It doesn’t sound the least bit apologetic. “But the purpose of this ceremony is to look at your core values. Those which transcend petty things such as crushes.”

‘I do not have a crush on Lance Crown!’ You internally seethe, because what? Who’s going to police you on your thoughts, the dignified wishbone horse?

“I heard that.” The Wishbone Horse growls indignantly before soothing its tone once again. “Listen, whatever lets you sleep at the end of the day, but I need something more. Something real. ”

Holding your breath, you give in, focus. Your mother had taught you the most straightforward way to communicate your desires to the Wishbone Horse—

“Hey!”

—But there was still a way. All you had to do was recall the values of Adler House and apply them to your own desires, echoing them in your head for it to hear. Simple. But…

You didn’t want that, did you?

You shake your head. First, the headmaster’s interview, now this. What was it with your traitorous heart running rampant with desire? No wonder your parents addressed you the ways they did; you obviously were lacking in the obedience department!

“Do not bother with your half-baked plans.” The bony unicorn interrupts. “Allow me to take care of this.”

“You lack conviction, not only in others, but within yourself, and fail to have the courage to admit to such shortcomings and wander your own path.” It recites in front of the whole damn hall. Snickers float past, other students shocked but delightedly entertained at the slights leveled upon you. “But, I will give you this. You have ambitions, even if you’ve yet to embrace them fully. For that I shall place you in…”

No. No.

“House Lang!”

…

Well…um. Surely you’re not the one to blame for this. Your parents said Lang, right? And, well, you definitely gave them Lang!

All according to plan…?

 

iii.

The first dinner at Easton is… rough, to say the least. After the Sorting Unicorn’s riveting analysis of your character flaws, you defeatedly remove yourself (though you’d love to pounce on it and ride it into obedience) and trudge your way to the Lang table.

Maybe, just maybe, if the Sorting Unicorn had at the very least kept its mouth shut about the beginning of the assessment, things would have been fine. Sure, you wouldn’t be in the dorm you were angling for, but at least no one but you would know that. Now, however, the students at the violet table give you looks ranging from pity, to suspicion, to downright disdain. Not many ways to show house spirit quite like being exposed for wanting one dorm and then being rejected into another one.

Needless to say, you didn’t feel very hungry when you sat down, not to mention that you probably wouldn’t be passed whatever you asked for anyway; just dirty looks instead of sweet rolls.

Whatever. Give it a couple of weeks, and everyone will forget about it. Not your parents, and not you as the personal victim of the trauma, but everyone else. And isn’t that enough?

Walking down the halls of Lang Dormitory, you count each numbered room, the digits slowly decreasing one by one. See, like the other dorms but also not quite, Lang has a certain method to how it organizes its students.

Whereas Adler pairs new students with returning ones and so on, preferential treatment is given to the higher-ranking students in Lang who demonstrate their skills and power. To put it simply and most relevantly, that means you’re in the middle of the bottom. Not just because you’re a first-year, and not just because of your little Wishbone Horse stunt, but mainly because you’re a single-liner with a pathetic repertoire when it comes to examples of magical power.

Yeah, maybe your parents didn’t consider that not only did being a little weak endear you to others, but it also actively isolated you in your own dorm. Thanks mother. Thanks Father. And what the hell? Thanks Virid.

Soon enough though, you’ve made your way from the 1100s to the 300s, where you finally find the room you’re looking for: 312.

Taking your wand, you utter a simple spell, made specialized for your door like the others, and watch as the knob slowly turns open with a click! At least there’s something you can do with your magic. You wonder what sort of bullshit Mash is pulling to open his.

‘Whatever. I’m going to lie in bed and rot and die before classes start.’

With a low creak, you pull the door back and survey the room. Tall stone walls make up the perimeters, wooden beams used as supports up in the ceiling helping to visually contrast with the stone floors. It would all look damp and dreary had it not been for the cushy furnishings provided. Lamps, desks, chairs, rugs, tapestries, wardrobes, and beds—all already set up and coming in a variety of purple hues. Arched windows stand at the far side of the room, bringing in some much-needed evening sunlight. There’s even a little reading nook below them, decorated with small plush pillows and throw blankets embroidered with the Violet Wolf.

“Welcome in!” A light, feminine voice calls from the right side of the room. You look over.

A girl with short, straight silver hair parted to one side of her head sits on one of the beds, her trunk seemingly in the middle of being unpacked. Mole on the lower left side of her face and magic mark on the right beneath her eye; she’s got quite the cute look going on.

“Verdelune isn’t it? I’m Lauren Cabesse, just call me Lauren though. Nice to finally meet you.” She giggles and tilts her head. Man, she’s got the cute mannerisms down to a science. “I’ve gotta say, your reputation precedes you.”

You smile, the weariness melting from your face, but not your bones. True, you’re at a bit of a disadvantage considering your most recent social stint, but two can play at this game.

“That’s right. (Y/n) Verdelune. You can call me (y/n) if you want.”

“Hm… I think I’ll stick to Verdelune—last names help me remember people by how much they actually matter.” She says it plainly, innocently even, putting a finger to her mouth as she looks up in thought.

You blink. So the kitty has some claws.

You’re not as surprised as you would be if this were any other dorm, but considering this was Lang, you assumed being two-faced was par for the course. It’s not to say this is a bad thing, though. Your upbringing has had you acting much of the same way, even if you’ve kept from voicing your more scathing thoughts aloud. You can tell from the way that she says it, Lauren’s words are blunt but not biting, straight to the point and unapologetic.

You shrug. “Alright. Have it your way.”

She smiles.

“You know, Verdelune, the others were talking a lot of crap about you being a kiss ass, but I get it.”

Arms cross and a brow quirks up. “You do?”

She nods and throws her hands up in the air dramatically. “That’s just the way it is for girls like us, isn’t it? We’ve got pretty faces and can act cute enough to get someone else to take care of the dirty work. How’s that any different from some souped-up magic spell? I, for one, think your haters are just jealous hypocrites. Believe me, I’ve had them myself.”

The first thought that comes to mind, despite your initial assessment, is that she’s lying. You mean, you’re the latest social pariah. Of course you’d make for an easy target if anyone was feeling particularly antagonistic or anxious about their own social standing. You’d be the perfect stepping stool to weekly popularity, after all.

But, as you look at Lauren, really look at her, all you can see is understanding. Not the fake empathy your parents taught you to sniff out like a bloodhound, but a sort of kindred spirit to your own. But…there’s some bite there as well; a willingness to throw you under the bus if you become an obstacle, a sharp ambition akin to your own. Well, she is in Lang dorm after all, so you suppose you shouldn’t be surprised. Like she said, for either of you to damn the other would be hypocritical.

While you’re not looking to let your guard down for no reason any time soon (you wouldn’t have done it even if she were a saint’s second coming), you also don’t see the harm in playing nicely.

“I think I like you. Lauren.” You fib easily.

She grins, jumping off the bed and going in for a handshake. You graciously reciprocate. As you do, she leans in close to your ear and whispers:

“Believe me, everyone does either way.”

 

iv.

It’s been a few days at Easton Magic Academy now, and as you can happily report, things seem to be dying down. Luckily, just as you theorized, there was more interesting drama to be circulating, as well as a good portion of the dorm just seeming to have not actually been paying attention at the ceremony. After all, who cares about newbies all that much?

Time spent with Lauren is also pretty uneventful. Wolf-in-sheep’s clothing aside, she’s harmless company, delivering all the latest gossip and rumors straight to your dorm without you having to so much as lift a finger. Who’s angling to date who, who’s cheating in what subject, et cetera.

Classes are, of course, of little issue for the most part. You’ve always been a good student (as well as a teacher’s pet), and simple beginner spells are what occupy the majority of the Fall course curriculum. All review, and all so textbook-compliant. Really, you’re in your element. So long as you’re not put out in the field to fight magic scorpions and whatnot, you should be fine. That’ll be Winter quarter (y/n)’s problem.

“Excellent work as usual, Miss Verdelune.” Professor Mevitable shakes her head in clipped approval. “Combining Dupliply Ipso with Audius Exto? It’s unheard of in the realm of illusory spells to amalgamate sensory spells this way, but genius all the same! Full marks!”

You preen under the attention, ignoring the few dirty glances sent your way by students who probably couldn’t enchant their way out of a cardboard box.

“I shouldn’t be surprised, considering what an excellent student your brother was. Perhaps he taught you a thing or two before you entered the academy?”

“Ah, Virid.” Your egotistical illusion cracks somewhat at the mention of him. “If only. But my brother is a busy man, and I’m sure he had more important things to do than mentor someone of my simple caliber.”

“Nonsense.” Professor Mevitable clicks her tongue. “Why, you two must both make your parents so proud.”

Ah. If only she knew the half of it. Still, praise is praise, and you quickly return to your shower of glory. It’s best to cherish moments like these now before the curriculum catches up to you and you inevitably show your true single-liner non-combattant colors.

‘No! Bad (y/n)!’

You’re here to learn, aren't you? Sure, your parents enrolled you with their own ulterior motives, but despite their surveillance of your social life, they’re not here right now.

Sure, you’ll prance and preen and charm as need be, but who’s to say you can’t also make the most of your time here at Easton? Annoying as that Wishbone Horse was, it did have a point: you have ambitions, ones that extend beyond a possible change in lastname and a lifetime of baby showers. Maybe, now that your life is relatively uninterrupted by your parents breathing down your neck, you can finally get back to your training, and with the help of all the professors you’ve been working to endear yourself to, you should by all means be unstoppable. You’ll make a strong mage out of yourself yet!

It’s with these thoughts and resolve that you make your way down one of the main hallways, an extra-long stride in your step and a variety of textbooks in your hands. The place is relatively empty considering the time of day, and rounding the corner, you’re prepared to enter the library when you encounter a…concerning sight.

“Oh, hey (y/n).” Mash the mushroom head calls from a few meters away.

Beside him stands a boy you assume to be around your year, though thinking back on it, standing is a bit of a generous word. No, he’s cowering, and turns to stare at you with a look of unspeakable horror. What? Do you have something on your face?

“A witness!” He cries in anguish, his two-toned hair falling into his eyes. “Now we’re really screwed!”

You’re about to ask the freckled, single-liner boy what the matter is in your usual amicable persona (it usually gets the job done when you have to deal with someone in hysterics) when you turn to look at the ground next to them.

It’s…steaming. There’s also a series of bodies lying next to it—wait, is that a head popping out!?

“V-Vice Principal Cregos…?” You recognize him, but simultaneously don’t. After all, you’re much more used to seeing him with his whole body attached, and while you will admit he always seemed the slimy, slinking type, you’re not quite sure you equated him to something like a worm. You’re not even going to give the blond-haired boy faceplanted in his own crater the time of day. 

You turn to look at Mash, his fist is similarly steaming. “What…did you do?”

“Just taking care of some business.” He shrugs. “Excuse me, it’ll just be one more sec.”

His knuckles crack and pop one by one. You and the boy who’s still cowering behind Mash shiver. “Now, Mr. Vice Principal. I can bury you at any time. Even if you cut my body in two or throw me in prison to rot away, I’ll still come back—”

He scoops up a handful of dirt and places it on the vice principal’s head.

“—And bury you.”

He takes another handful of dirt, then another, and another, tossing them onto the hole in which Vice Principal Cregos’s head resides. He does not stop, even as the vice principal screams and begs and threatens, and it takes both you and Mash’s now implicated accomplice to stop him.

Surely saving his life will get you into the vice principal’s good graces, right?

… Right?

<><><>

“Finn Ames. Nice to meet you.” The freckled boy is finally able to introduce himself to you after all of the hullabaloo is over, Mash skating out of suspension for physical assault by some divine miracle you were not made privy to. If anything, the black-haired musclehead got out of it even richer than before, the students of his dorm having given him their respects for putting the beatdown on such a baleful bully.

“(Y/n). (Y/n) Verdelune.” You smile as you shake his hand.

“Oh, Verdelune? Like from Verdelune Jadeworks?” He tilts his head, the freshly applied bandages wrapped around the top rustling with the movement.

“Verdelune what now?” Mash asks through a mouthful of creampuff.

You beam. Normally, like with Lance Crown, you have to be the annoying one to bring up your family’s second pride and joy (the first being your brother), but with this, you finally have an excuse to bust out your sales pitch.

“Verdelune Jadeworks. It’s the business my family’s been running for the past couple of decades, back when my grandfather established it during wartime. We deal with all things magical gemstone and jewelry related. Whether it be through detection of new veins or the refinement process down to helpful enchantments, we’ve got all your magical and fashionable needs covered!”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you deliver the spiel all in one singular breath. Mash and Finn offer you a polite round of applause. Even though you’re sure Mash absorbed little beyond the name of your company, you feel affirmed either way.

In fact, you’re about to break into the second part of the presentation: the investor pitch, when you're oh so rudely interrupted by the whooping call of someone far down the hall.

“You there! The one with the mushroom hair!”

Tan skin, cropped gray hair, and a line under his left eye. You recognize him almost instantly as an upperclassman from the Adler dorm: Tom Knowles, Adler Duelo captain.

“How would you like to represent House Adler in a Duelo match!? Come on, man, and burn out with me together in this blazing fire we call life!”

Mash stares blankly. You and Finn exchange looks.

“I don’t think I will.”

Notes:

Turnaround for chapters usually isn't this quick but I was so excited to write more after getting comments that I just couldn't help myself >_<

[Crossing fingers] Please don't fumble please don't fall off please don't fumble please don't fall off please don't fumble please don't fall off--

Chapter 3: Verdelune and the One That Got Away.

Summary:

A duelo match leads to some shocking revelations. A wild male lead makes his grand main appearance.

+Featuring a little doodle of one possible version of Verdelune. She is, of course, canonically what your imagine makes her though!

i.

It’s a clear, sunny day. No clouds that allude to possible storms nor overly strong winds that threaten to knock you over—the perfect weather for an interhouse Duelo match.

Bodies soar over and past your head at speeds easily breaking the usual records, the riders gripping onto and leaning against their brooms as they clash midair, a flurry of warring colors of red and violet.

Today’s the day of the Adler v. Lang match, and the colosseum is packed with students of all houses in cheer. As you sit next to your roommate, Lauren, you watch as players rise and fall, taking to the air with a gusto you never could have imagined leading with during your own broomriding classes.

That, however, is a story for another time.

What matters now is the one player who does not follow suit with the others, his feet still planted firmly on the ground. That player, being Mash.

‘What is he doing?’

You look on, but are careful not to let too much concern enter your eyes. You are a Lang student after all, and after your little sorting fiasco, you don’t need any more rumors of you being Adler’s reject. Moving your gaze from field to stands, you spot Lemon and Finn on the opposite end of the colosseum, their expressions showing off the same confusion and worry that you’re feeling deep down.

The game’s started, Lang’s winning, and Mash, the Adler MVP’s personal invite, is doing absolutely nothing.

Ding!

The familiar sound of the Duelo bell rings across the surrounding area as Lang scores their forty-ninth point over Adler’s measly ten.

Seeing this, Tom Knowles, the same guy who went out of his way to pressure invite Mash flies down and lands upon the ground, pulling said raven-haired boy into a terse huddle. You can’t make it out fully, but there is the occasional yell of “burning” and “bamboo” that echoes into the stands. Mash looks unmoved.

A thought then creeps into your head, one you hope that is surely off the mark.

‘Did Tom even explain the rules to him?’

You watch as Tom points out the players riding on brooms, the ball, and then the ring, motioning wildly. Mash nods his head in a new, vague understanding. Ah, so he didn’t.

Forcing a rousing war cry from his throat, Tom jumps back on his broom, rising into the air as he motions for Mash to join him. He’s so focused on Mash that he completely neglects to notice the flash of violet heading right towards him.

With a crash and a sickening crack, Tom Knowles crashes down into the ground, body long since separating from broom as he tumbles straight into the colosseum wall. Gasps break out from the Adler and Orca dorms as the Lang students around you cheer in approval. You keep a straight face, stopping yourself from cringing as you watch his body crumple up in an unnatural way. Lauren bites her lip in rapt excitement. You hope that her energy covers for your lack of.

The Lang student that crashed into him—Crispin Blaise, if you remember correctly—looks less than apologetic as he stays in the air, not even bothering to check on his victim. With a self-satisfied smile, he goes back into the fray, scoring a sixtieth point for Lang as the rest of the stunned Adler team helplessly flail at their captain’s predicament. Mash is over to Tom in an instant, helping to prop him up into a sitting position.

A sinking feeling enters your stomach as they exchange words that someone from a distance like yours could never hear. Taking your wand, you mutter a simple set of words, Audius Exto, pointing in their direction and flicking the tip to your ear. With it, you’re able to make out the tail end of the conversation.

“...But Mash, I want you to know—” Tom starts, a hand gripping Mash’s. “In the end, what matters isn’t winning. It’s just the fact that you gave it your all.”

Ding!

“—And with that, another point goes to Lang! With a score of ten to sixty, the outcome of this match seems plain as day!” The announcer calls, ending the little moment between the two of them. You cheer along with the crowd, despite how rotten it feels doing so. There’s something to be gleaned from Tom’s words, but you know for a fact that some part of them is misguided. Winning does matter, and anything said against that is either losers trying to cope with themselves or winners feigning humility for the sake of a further image boost.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Three more points to Lang. With this, the game’s end feels all but assured.

That is, until Mash stands up, plucks his broom from the ground, and takes to the air.

“So he can fly…” Lauren mutters beside you, she and the rest of the crowd watching in amazement as he remains floating in place. Soon enough, he jets forward, almost knocking the entirety of Team Lang off their brooms completely. With one hand, he grabs the ball and tosses it through the ring, its speed as fast as a bullet, not to mention the curvature of its throw that allows it to boomerang back to him.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

The score bell continues ringing, but this time in service of Team Adler over Lang, the ball never once leaving Mash’s position. In fact, he needn’t move at all as he hovers in place.

At least, that’s what it appears to be.

But, upon closer inspection, you notice something strange. He’s…kicking. Rapidly. It’s almost as though what’s keeping Mash afloat isn’t the broom at all but simply the displacement of the air from his legs. But that should be physically impossible without magic, right? And to use magic during a Duelo match would be cheating! And Mash really doesn’t seem like the type to cheat, or even care enough to try.

Besides, you didn’t see him perform a spell. You don’t even think he has his wand on him.

Of course, this could all be the work of someone else, but to do that would mean they’d need to keep their concentration on Mash to control his rapid movements. Scanning the crowd, you find people focused on him, but none of them in the middle casting a spell, which means…

Mash is doing this on his own. Without magic.

…Have you ever seen him perform magic in the first place?

You think back, concentrating on the entrance exams where you first met. You didn’t want to entertain the thought at the time, because doing so would be insane, but everything he did could technically be explained by something other than magic—a finger trick here, a few rapid movements there. Normally, you wouldn’t even think to consider the alternatives. After all, who can just lift a boulder with their thumb or run fast enough not to sink in water? But then again, who could do that without uttering a spell or so much as pulling out their wand? Even less possible.

The frown on your face this time is not one feigned to appease the displeased Lang crowd as you watch your team lose. And when it finally does happen, you get up from your seat, ignoring a bummed Lauren, and make your way to the colosseum’s underground tunnels.

You and a certain musclehead need to have a talk.

<><><>

Wandering around, you pass swathes of friends and foes alike, the twisted results of the match the hottest topic to discuss. Adler students grin, Orca students recalculate their Duelo bracket predictions, and Lang students are on the prowl to berate a certain losing team of theirs.

Through it all, you navigate the crowd, moving like a salmon through opposing rapids as you go against the flow of foot traffic. It takes a bit, but finally you find who you’re looking for.

Mash. He stands, surrounded by newly-earned adorers. Your eyes meet his.

He turns, looks at you, and raises a hand in greeting. You don’t greet him back, instead grabbing him by the collar and yanking him away from the festivities, though you have a feeling that if he cared, he wouldn’t have budged an inch.

Steering him through the inner workings of the Duelo colosseum, you watch as the number of surrounding students begins to fade until there is no one left around to hear you. Good.

Turning, you affix Mash with a cold stare.

“You don’t have any magical affinity, do you?”

<><><>

“Not once have I heard you utter a spell, and I mean a real spell. Listing muscle groups and then saying ‘magic’ after does not count.” You chide, pacing back and forth, listing inconsistencies on your hands. “You don’t even use wands unless it’s to stab or hit something. If anything, all the power is coming from your biceps. And another thing—”

Mash sits in the corner of the now deserted Adler Duelo locker room, looking absolutely defeated as you give him the point-by-point breakdown of your hypothesis. Not once has he tried to speak up in protest, though you’re not sure whether it be out of an inability to deny what you’re saying or a general respect to not interrupt a woman when she’s speaking.

“I’ve had my doubts, since what the implications of this would mean...” Your tone darkens.

This is a world where your propensity for magic dictates everything in your life. To be magicless? It’s unthinkable. Not just out of social rejection, but the very scary and very real reality that governmental termination in the name of “genetic purity” waits around every corner.

You care about power, you do. You’ll be the first to admit how scathing the thoughts that come to your mind are when you see someone stumble on a simple spell or act above their marking amount. You’re not a perfect person, and you won’t even venture to say you’ve got the greatest personality around when it comes to ideas about lines and potential and such. But damn it if it isn’t a bit extreme or horrifying to think that there are people below you whose very existence is threatened for something out of their control. You don’t like your life as it is being a single-liner, but at the very least, you have a working one.

Maybe there’s a method to this power-scaled society that you give in to, but you still don’t think people deserve to die for it.

But they do. Every day.

“Everything you’ve done up to this point, while it should be physically impossible, can still only be explained by raw might over any sort of use of mana.” You eye the locked door for what feels like the twentieth time in the past five minutes, making sure to lower your voice despite casting a silencing spell over the surrounding area. “Is your magic line even real? Or is that another trick too?”

Getting up in Mash’s personal space, you wait for him to push you away. He doesn’t. So, you look at his face closely. The mark is the usual deep black, seemingly seared into his skin like it would be on any other person.

“I mean, it looks real… Do you just have mana channeling difficulties or something?”

“No. Brad’s just really good at counterfeiting. Kinda scary since he’s supposed to be a cop, but, y’know.” Mash speaks up for the first time since you dragged him here. He shrugs his shoulders, rubbing at the mark in demonstration.

“Who the hell is Brad?”

“The guy who blackmailed my family and wants to mooch off of me becoming a divine visionary.” He says it with utter apathy in his voice. “—Which is fine, since all I want is to live in peace with Pops.”

You stop, taken aback by the earnestness that’s entered his voice. Not once in the many days you’ve known him have you heard much emotion or care for anything besides creampuffs come from Mash, so this is a surprise.

“... That won’t stop the Bureau of Magic from coming after you. You know that, right?” You shake your head. “Even if you become a divine visionary—which is next to impossible, mind you—do you really think one guy can make a difference like that?”

“I do.”

He says it, not with his usual uncaring naivete, but with a stubborn sureness so sharp, you can’t help but look up in surprise. That’s weird. For a second there, you almost wanted to believe him.

You massage your temple in hopes that the feeling will bring you back down to Earth. If societal change were that easy, then things wouldn’t be the way they are now. This is your life, you can’t just start to doubt it because some boy with insane core strength says and thinks he can do whatever he wants. That’s not the way the world works, and it definitely is not what your family has taught you time and time again. So fine, if Mash wants to play pretend and say that he’ll become a divine visionary, he can do just that—you, for one, won’t encourage him, but you won’t try to stop or expose him either.

This is something between him and the rest of the world. You have your own life to manage.

“Alright.” You concede, making your way over to undo the door lock you’d set. “Believe what you will, but just know—”

The lock comes undone, and with it, the silencing spell. You open it, swinging the door open with a bit too much force. Finn and Lemon appear on the other side, faces filled with excitement morphing into confusion at the sight of you leaving Adler’s changing room. You ignore it, and you ignore them.

You look back at Mash, just for a moment.

“—If someone like you thinks they have a shot, then don’t be surprised when you see me taking mine.”

 

ii.

A week has passed since the now-famous Duelo match, as well as since you last spoke to Mash.

It’s not that you’re avoiding him on purpose (or maybe you are just a bit), but you don’t really know how to approach him now that the cat’s out of the bag. You mean, Mash doesn’t have a magic mark! He should be dead! But he isn’t, and it’s all because of his absolutely insane musculature. How do you just casually continue to hang out with someone like that?

The answer is: you don’t. It’s probably better off this way anyway. Even if Mash were some normal single-liner guy, his rapidly developing friend group wouldn’t have done you any favors with your parents. A poor girl, a musclehead, and a painfully average nobody. You were obviously slacking in the socials department.

Mother and Father seem to think so as well, if their latest Yowler has anything to say about it.

“... It’s been almost a month, and all you have added to the Verdelune name is humiliation after humiliation. Threatening the headmaster with your wand, letting the Sorting Unicorn read your weaknesses, and getting involved with the delinquent who tried to bury Vice Principal Cregos alive!? Unbelievable!”

The unmistakable voice of your mother screeches from the unfolded red parchment. Around you, fledgling owls squawk in aggravation, some even coming down to peck at you and the hands holding the Yowler. Perhaps you should’ve waited to unseal the enchanted envelope after you exited the owlery.

Your father’s voice rises next, like your parents are operating as some sort of tag team squad to berate you.

“And don’t bother with any excuses! If you were really serious about this, then you would have been placed in a dorm next to Crown as planned. Instead, you’re off gallivanting near the bottom rungs of Lang like some common tail-chaser.”

“Perhaps it’s time we pivot…” Your mother’s voice has calmed, but contrary to what one may think, this is a sign opposite of good. Your mother is the type to enjoy hearing the sound of her own voice, so the moment she goes silent, you know she’s plotting something, and whenever she’s plotting something around you, you usually have a good idea of the nature of her plans.

“Nolan Drake was also placed in Lang, yes?” Her words are slow, deliberate, like a snake swallowing its prey. “The Crowns have a more prestigious bloodline, but they’ve been a pain to attempt to infiltrate. The Drakes, on the other hand—”

Your father finishes for her, seemingly having entered the same page.

“—They were always a much more amicable sort. Especially when it came to their Nolan and our (y/n).”

It’s like a peach pit has taken root in your stomach and has begun growing its tendrils. Not Nolan. Anyone but that slimeball they call a mage. He’s always been such a tough act to be around, ever since you were kids, and you have a strong feeling that things will only get worse once you start courting.

But it’s not like there’s much room for you to protest. Yowlers are prerecorded letters, so screaming back at one will do nothing but further invoke the owls’ wrath upon you. And even if you were face to face, you doubt your parents would listen to anything you have to say. You’re not your brother, your thoughts don’t matter, and, in the end, what they’re doing is what’s best for you. Maybe if you were born a better mage, things would be different, but in a society based on power scales, you were lucky to even have led the life you’ve lived up until now.

You’ve been throwing yourself into your studies, you really have, but outside of your usual areas of comfort, you haven’t shown much of any progress. The time for being selfish is beginning to wane.

“Two lines are two lines.” Your parents agree in unison, voices laced as sweetly as a poisoned apple. “Maybe it’s best we reevaluate our expectations for you. Perhaps even asking for mediocrity has its limits.”

You stand there and take it, the reminder of what you are, what you lack to be, and let a familiar feeling climb up from your feet, through your back, and settle over your chest as disappointment after disappointment is expressed. They were overbearing, but, ultimately, right—just like the headmaster, and just like the Sorting Unicorn. You’re nothing, no one, a little fish that’s nothing more beyond the predators it attaches itself to to clean. How could you ever dream of becoming more than what was already expected of you?

You’d never realized before just how greedy you are.

“... Well, I suppose that’s all for now.” Your mother sighs, resigning herself to their newly concocted plan B. “Just, remember (y/n)—”

Your father finishes for her again, but you know the sentiment is shared between the two. “We love you. Just… in the future, try to make it less difficult to do so.”

With that, the Yowler settles, folds back up, and tucks itself away into your hands.

You stand there for a few precious moments, allowing the owls to continue in their pecking as the last words of your parents fully absorb. You don’t want to go after Nolan, you really don’t. But for them…? You suppose everyone has sacrifices they must make in life.

After all, did you really ever think you had a chance with Lance Crown? How laughable.

<><><>

You’re exiting the owlery when you hear it: the sound of voices talking, terse with the unmistakable crackle of magic in the air. Straining to make out what they’re saying, you once again cast Audius Exto (such a handy spell for curious people like yourself) and slink closer into the bushes.

“... We’ll have a duel for each other’s silver coins. The school may look down on magical duels, but it’s not like you have any choice other than to accept. Not as long as I hold this, that is.”

That voice… It’s Lance Crown, but what is he doing out here? Not to mention, a duel? And what was this about his opponent not having a choice? Your usual logic tells you that this isn’t your business, that the best course of action is to flee and leave the flashy displays of power to the double-liners. But another part of you, some twisted sense of reasoning, perks up at the mention of silver coins.

Becoming a divine visionary isn’t easy, and it isn’t cheap either. Easton Magic Academy runs on a system composed of coins: gold, silver, and bronze. A certain amount of gold coins allows you to enter the competition to become a divine visionary, with five silver coins or ten bronze coins being able to be fused into a singular gold coin. Though, it’s always better to err on the side of caution and gather as many coins as you can, even if you meet the requirements to enter the Divine Visionary Candidate Exam.

Through your studies, you’ve amassed a singular bronze coin, nothing particularly special in of itself, but still considerably impressive considering how long it’s been since you’ve entered Easton. Of course, there are those like Mash or Lance, or even the Magia Lupus who boast a host of silver coins, but they are examples far above the normal crop you lie in.

“And judging by your personality, the fact that I could use a trick like this to get you out here says enough. Not that I’d ever need the handicap to beat you.”

Arrogant, but, likely correct.

“You know, I saw what you did during the entrance exams, how soft you were. Prioritizing a couple of girls over your own goals.” You stop. That description… Could he be talking to whom you think he is? “Some would call that selfless, but I call it a loser mentality.”

You’ve stopped moving, electing to crouch still in the bushes by this point, and by the gods, are you lucky that you did. A shockwave erupts from the direction of Lance and possibly Mash, the wind whipping your face even when concealed behind the foliage. The ground in front of your bush is forced down, trees shooting back, and grass being packed into a sturdy dirt pit, almost like an arena floor. Noticing the pulsating dark purple mana in the air, you quickly come to a conclusion. This is the work of a Crown’s gravity magic, no doubt.

Covering your eyes from the impending dust and debris, you make out the two figures that stand tall in the manmade clearing. Lance Crown and Mash Burnedead, just the men you expected, as well as the two men you most wanted to avoid, Nolan aside.

“There. Now we have some clear boundaries.” Lance’s voice rings clear and true across the field, the concentration of your spell broken but no longer needed.

“I’m not into flashy displays.” Mash lunges forward at an incredible speed, fist pulled back in preparation to strike. “—I’m a more direct kind of guy.”

“Trying to win against me without magic?” The blue-haired double-liner scoffs, flicking his wand with a practiced ease. “Graviole.”

Instantly, Mash is forced into the ground, flat with cracks spiraling out from beneath him. He looks pitiful next to Lance, who stands tall and proud, and who you notice is holding something quite curious: an ornate bottle that contains Finn, Lemon, and Tom. You recognize it to be an antique, able to hold multiple people inside upon the opener’s removal of its seal.

‘Was this what he meant by Mash not being able to refuse his challenge?’

If that was true (which seems likely), then Lance really was being absolute scum, endangering the lives of his fellow students to start a fight with an uninterested party. You understand the desire for coins—the sooner and the more one gathers, the better—but this was just being plain reckless. What would happen if a prefect or professor were to find out? He’d be at risk of losing a lot more than a silver coin.

“—Scum like you can spend the rest of your lives crawling on the ground.”

Mash stays pinned down and silent, struggling and failing to raise himself any higher than his hands and knees. Lance sneers. “Don’t bother trying to stand up. No human can bear the force of this gravitational spell.”

But, you notice, Mash isn’t trying to do that—no, he’s shoving a fist deeper into the ground, burying himself to his upper arm. He stays there for a moment, then pulls back, the ground splitting beneath Lance as he does so. From it erupts thick roots, the remnants of one of the trees blown away by Lance’s Graviole spell.

Falling back, Lance waves his wand, gliding through the air before landing in a crouched position a few levels below Mash.

“Funny. Now you’re the one crawling on the ground.”

“Graviole!” Lance is quick to the draw, but Mash is quicker, rushing in with another punch even as the modified gravity takes its effect on him. He misses the attack, Lance managing to dodge out of the way, but he doesn’t stay down for long, somehow moving even quicker than before. On and on they continue like this, Mash on the attack whilst Lance maintains defense. You have a feeling this can go on forever, their skills equally matched.

Then, Mash throws an uppercut. It misses Lance, but not his pendant, the chain snapping free as it soars through the air right in front of Mash. Lance’s concentration breaks, and with that, his gravity spell disappears. Mash crouches down, picks up the locket, and opens it, pausing for a good long while before slowly looking back up at Lance in a rare, never-before-seen display of horror.

“L-l-lolicon…” His voice wobbles, and he takes a step back in disgust. “I need to call the police. Y-you’re a pervert.”

Your eyes widen. You can’t see the image in the pendant from the bushes, but judging by Mash of all people’s reaction, it must be bad. Or completely innocent, and he’s just being the usual idiot he is.

“I don’t have a Lolita complex, you idiot. I have…” Lance speaks with a deadly seriousness. “...a sister complex.”

This is too much. It is at this moment that you can’t help but trip over yourself in the bushes, mind reeling from the revelation that Lance Crown is an incestuous, perverted, and possibly still lolicon weirdo. So he was rejecting you and every other girl in the school…for his little sister!?

On your way down, your ankle snags on a branch and a small gouge cuts into your flesh, making you hiss in pain.

“Who was that!?” Lance snaps, his head swiveling in your direction. You freeze, your hands midway through to cuddling your leg. Maybe if you don’t move further, he’ll think it was just a deer or a bird or something harmless. You then notice the extremely inconvenient head-level hole in the bush, allowing Lance and Mash a crystal clear view of your face.

“Verdelune.” The double-liner says with bared teeth. “Get over here, you damn stalker.”

‘Well,’ you look around at the flattened ground and blasted trees, ‘Too late to try and run now.’

Ducking down and out of sight for a moment, your bush rustles before a figure pops out of it. It’s you, obviously. You make your way over to the two men, trying your best not to let them see the way you hobble. That damned branch had drawn blood.

“Gentlemen. What fine weather we’re having today.” You look up at the sky in wonder, hands clasped loosely behind your back. “I just love taking walks out in nature during my free periods—”

“—Save the bullcrap for your Lang man-slaves.” Lance spits, cutting straight through your little front with an absolutely brutal look of disdain. “What the hell are you doing spying on us here? This duel is between the idiot and me.”

“Am I an idiot?” Mash asks earnestly.

Stopping before them, you shrug your shoulders noncommittally. “I just happened to be in the area, is all. By the way, is it true you’re into your little sister?”

“W-what!?” Lance sputters, looking absolutely appalled. Funny, he was so adamant and proud about saying he had a sister complex just a few moments ago, and now he’s the very picture of scandalized at your words. What was different now? Was it the fact that a girl was calling him out on his perversions instead of a guy? Was that it? Or maybe you were more charming than you remembered, and he was utterly embarrassed at having a girl such as yourself specifically lay witness to his fetishes.

… Nah. Not likely.

“The only thing I have for my sister is a pure, brotherly love!”

“Then I don’t think you know what a sis complex is…” Mash shakes his head, still keeping a fair amount of distance between himself and the pervert. “Anyways, hi (y/n). Long time no see.”

“Hey, Mash…” You reply awkwardly, not quite sure how to hold yourself in front of the guy you’ve been avoiding for the past month.

“Enough of this!” Lance cuts through the weird tension that hangs in the air. He points at Mash first. “Give it back.” Then you. “Stay.”

You both obediently obey, Mash tossing back the locket and you standing next to Mash, not daring to make another run for it now that you’re in recognized Lance Crown range. He catches the keepsake with one hand, stuffing it into his robes before leveling the two of you with an even glare.

“Tell me, what is the most precious thing in this world?”

“Cream puffs?” Mash ventures forth.

“Magical power?” You offer up.

“Human life?”

“Bloodline status?”

“Love?”

“Genetics?”

“Freedom?”

“Money?”

“Cream pu—”

“Wrong. Wrong. Wrong!” Lance interrupts your brainstorming, growing more agitated with each incorrect answer. He grips at his head in frustration, teeth grinding and hands clenching. “Gods, could you be any more dense or vapid!? It’s as simple as one plus one equals two; blue and yellow make green! The answer is obvious!”

“What is it then?” You ask.

Dragging a hand down his face, he levels you with a dark stare you can’t help but shiver at. His eyes are focused, but wild, glaring at you with an intensity you’re only used to receiving from your family. “My little sister.”

…

……

………

“Creep.” Mash summarizes skillfully for the two of you.

 

iii.

You’re nine years old. Face still full of baby fat and knees always inexplicably covered in scrapes.

For what feels like the thousandth time over, you brace, leveling your wand at the practice dummy, and shout. “Aestus!”

You can feel it before you see it: the suctioning force of environmental mana moving into your body and through your wand, a pale green glow emanating as the particles bunch and join together. A heated breeze wafts over you, even though you’re indoors, and your left hand, which holds your wand, begins to warm.

“Aestus!”

Lights flicker, there’s a slight tremor in the ground, and the wind picks up, swirling around your form as you hold on and grit your teeth. But beyond that, nothing happens. The dummy remains untouched.

“Aestus!” You repeat again.

Nothing seems to change as you recite the spell over and over and over again, the channeling energy beginning to phase out and give way to empty air.

“Aestus! Aestus! Aestus!”

The glow dims, the buzzing recedes, and you are left alone in a room with nothing to show, save for a dripping spurt of light from the end of your wand, pathetic and useless. You’re about to readjust your stance and try again, when a clear voice rings out from the doorway behind you.

“Don’t bother.” Virid steps out from the shadows, arms crossed and expression unimpressed. For a twelve-year-old, he looks surprisingly stern, more serious than many of the tutors you’ve met with. “Sloppy form, thin concentration, and you’re tripping over the pronunciation.”

Your cheeks burn a deep red as he points out the last part. Try as you might, you’ve still been struggling with the last remnants of a lisp that’s come from your younger years, though by no fault of your own efforts. Day in and day out, whenever you’re not in lessons or training, you’ve been running those word exercise drills your mother hammered into you. It was bad enough having your parents breathe down your neck whenever you tripped on your teeth, but Virid now too?

“You’re pushing yourself too hard.” He shakes his head as he walks up, stopping beside you just to pluck the old training wand you’d snatched from your tutor’s satchel out of your hands. “Mana doesn’t respond to insecurity.”

You bristle, your face still swelling from the last slight. You can’t even get a word in edgewise as Virid rolls the wand between his fingers, spinning on his heel and pointing it towards the still untouched dummy.

“Aestus.”

There are no surrounding effects; there doesn’t need to be. In an instant, the mana surrounding the two of you is channeled into Virid and travels out of the wand, erupting with gusto in a show of glowing emerald tides which engulf the training dummy. The waves swell, crashing into the wall and almost touching the ceiling before they neatly drain down into nothingness, taking the dummy with them.

‘... Show off…’

Virid doesn’t turn back to you, doesn’t even bother addressing you directly as he lowers the wand.

“Leave the spellcasting to me, sister.” Is all he says before he leaves the training room, the clacking of his heels punctuating your thoughts as he exits. The doors slam shut behind him, and again you are alone, fists clenched and eyes watering.

He embarrassed you. Again.

You look dumbly around the room, legs wobbling and hands useless without a wand, though something tells you they would be equally ineffective even with a magic tool in their clutches. Cursing your brother and giving the spot where the training dummy used to sit a final glance, you hang your head in defeat, trudging out of the room only once you’re sure there’s a sizable distance between your brother’s and your departures.

Table manners lessons are next, and you know how much your parents loathe when you’re late. An hour of memorizing forks and spoons and knives.

… Maybe that’s all you’re good for after all.

<><><>

“I’m going to drop this bottle off the cliff. Then, I’ll speed it up with my gravity spell.” Lance dangles the antique over the edge. You look down. The fall is easily tens of feet, no way survivable for a normal human, much less a bottle full of tiny ones. “I know you’ll try and catch them. But just know that when you do, I’m going to make a bid for your silver coin.”

He stops, falters, if just for a moment, before readjusting his grip on the bottle. “I’ll do anything for my sister, even if I have to play the monster.”

Your brows furrow. Freak nature aside, what does he actually mean by that? Why does he need to become a “monster” for her? You rack your brain for clues.

Lance’s younger sister, the second Crown, Anna.

You don’t know much about her, just that she's a few years younger than you and that she’s a single-liner like their parents. She hasn’t been seen in public in recent years, whether it be due to sickness or scandal or something else, you’re not quite sure. Her parents never seemed to give much away, didn’t even look all that concerned when she stopped appearing with them. It was only after Lance rejected them that they started to scramble.

But, whatever it is that ails the Crowns, it can’t possibly be able to justify endangering human life over a singular silver coin. Keep excelling in class or break sports records like Mash, you don’t care—but a move like this? It’s a level of scumminess that even you feel the need to take a step back from.

You’re about to do just that, to step back and wash your hands of such an illegal situation, because Nolan Drake is slimy scum, but at least he isn’t an attempted murderer, when it happens. Not even Mash can react in time to intervene. Lance lets go of the bottle, just as he says, and mutters “Graviole,” forcing an even quicker, deadlier descent.

You scream, you can’t help it. Finn, Lemon, Tom—they’re relatively low-level nobodies, but that doesn’t mean they deserve to die! Tom has a Duelo team, Finn’s brother is a divine visionary, and Lemon—well, all human life has some inherent worth to it, doesn’t it!?

“Well, what’ll you do?” He turns to Mash, ignoring you entirely.

The scream has died down in your throat, and you too turn to Mash, expecting a similar look of helpless horror. Instead, you find him stripped down and stretching like this is all some sort of elaborate pre-workout. His robes lie to the side, the silver coin sitting atop them out in the open and ripe for the taking.

“I’ll do hamstring magic.” He gets down into a sprinter’s crouch. “Big Bang Dash.”

‘Is that supposed to be some sort of spell?’

“The choice of losing, and the choice of not rescuing them…” Mash raises his head, an almost magical glow emanating from his golden yellow eyes. “Neither are choices I’ll settle for making.”

With that, he breaks away, running at a speed almost imperceptible to the human eye. Shockwaves and dust ripple out, just like when Lance first cast the gravity magic to make his field, and within the blink of an eye, Mash is gone. Now it’s just you and Lance, the two of you standing atop a cliff with a silver coin just begging to be snagged.

You look at it out of the side of your eye as it gleams atop Mash’s shed clothes. So open, so free, so vulnerable. You could take it…

…

… But you won’t.

Yes, the thought is a surprise, even to you, but the staunch tug of your heart keeps you from making a grab for it. Conflicted as you are about everything you’ve learned of Mash, you still can’t find it in yourself to betray the same simple-minded guy who came to your and Lemon’s rescue during the entrance exam.

The same can’t be said for Lance, however, as you see the look of dark determination in his eyes.

He warned Mash. He said he’d do it. And now here he was.

You take a step forward, placing yourself between him and Mash’s robes.

“Move.” It’s not a request, it’s a demand—you know the difference well. Still, you do not budge, moving closer to intercept him. When Lance takes a step to the right, you do too, and when he slides to the left, you follow, like some sort of goalie on their way to confront the offensive line.

“I don’t care if you’re a girl, I’ll use my magic on you all the same if you don’t get out of my way.” Lance threatens, brandishing his wand. There are still a few meters between him and you and the robes which hold the silver coin. For once, you don a serious look, no longer all sugar and smiles, and puff out your chest.

“Try me.”

“Graviole!” He commands, the familiar dark purple and black magic bursting from his wand to form a column of raw mana over you, forcing the world down. Grass flattens, a bird flying overhead plummets, and you—you look Lance Crown in the eyes, and smile.

Back straight, legs strong, you stand tall. Lance’s eyes widen, brows raising in utter disbelief. You don’t blame him, even Mash couldn’t help but be affected and forced down by his spell, so why were you unaffected? It’s not like you could have slipped out a counterspell in the moment; you didn’t even have your wand pulled out.

Speaking of that, you reach into your robes, retrieve said wand, and rush forward.

Lance flinches, not being able to help the instinct to step back when being rushed, the confusion and surprise of you resisting his magic not helping him. You close the distance between you within a few strides, getting right up in Lance’s face and—

—And pass right through him.

Lance blinks, turns, and comes face to face with you. You’re standing, but not on the cliff.

“What the hell are you doing?” He hisses, reaching out to cast his overused gravity magic again. He may be a double-liner with a family signature, but that’s no excuse to overrely on just one spell. What is this, amateur hour?

“Stalling for time.” You answer simply, motioning behind him. He turns and looks, only to be met with the sight of Mash, bottle in one hand and silver coin in the other. He freezes, likely wondering the same as you did in that Duelo match all that time ago.

“I don’t have time for this. Gravi—” Not one to give in to defeat so easily, Lance turns his wand from you to Mash, just about to fire off that same damn spell. You move to try and intercept, but Mash holds a hand up. You stop.

“You’re right. Let’s stop this.” Mash dons his robes, tucking his silver coin safely inside an inner pocket. “You don’t seem like a bad guy. I don’t think we’re the ones that should be fighting here.”

“... What?”

“The bottle’s empty. You dropped a fake.”

‘... Huh? So all this about threatening Mash was…?’

Mash tosses it to Lance, walking over before pulling at the double-liner’s robes with incredible speed and precision. Before long, he pulls out a bottle—the real bottle—and shrugs as his friends cheer from inside. “And…we’re done.”

“Huh!? You can’t just stop this here!” Lance shouts. “Why would you give up the chance to win my silver coins? Are you trying to screw with me!?”

“No, not really.”

He bristles. “Then why…?”

Mash isn’t even looking at either of you anymore, busy trying to unscrew the bottle without ripping the thing in half and shattering it entirely. He answers with the same casualness as though he’s been asked about the weather. “I guess I’m not really the type to make rational decisions. Call me clumsy.”

You don’t know what it is exactly, but something in Mash’s words seems to strike a chord in Lance. He stops, drops his wand, and rubs at his temple with an exasperated sigh, looking between the both of you. Dropping his head, he mutters, “I’m done. I’m heading back. The fight will stop here for now.”

He walks past, not even bothering to spare you a glance, but looking at Mash for a brief moment instead. “But, a deal’s a deal. Take it.”

He tosses him one of his silver coins, and walks away. Mash catches it, pockets the coin, and goes back to releasing his friends, who fly out from the bottle’s opening with a puff of gray smoke. They swarm him in an instant, Lemon swooning and planning their wedding, Finn crying in gratitude, and Tom whooping with way too much energy.

Mash just looks tired, and a pinch regretful for being so trigger-happy about opening the bottle.

“By the way, thanks for the assist—” He turns in the direction where you were standing (levitating?), but finds nothing, no one.

You’ve gone, and this time much more quickly than you appeared.

 

iv.

“I never took you as the soft and sensitive type, Crown. Just another new facet of you I can’t help but admire.”

Lance stops in his path, not bothering to turn and look as you appear, leaning against a tree behind him. He doesn’t deign to give you a proper response, instead opting to switch the subject around.

“Cheap trick you played back there, Verdelune.”

You smile, and maybe just a bit of it is real for once, a semblance of pride at getting the best of the Lance Crown, if only for a few moments. “Really? Because the professor had a much more charitable assessment of my ‘tricks’ when I presented them to her.”

“Excellent work as usual, Miss Verdelune.” Professor Mevitable shakes her head in clipped approval. “Combining Dupliply Ipso with Audius Exto? It’s unheard of in the realm of illusory spells to amalgamate sensory spells this way, but genius all the same! Full marks!”

“Dupliply Ipso. Manufacturing visual clones of the self. Audius Exto. Projection of auditory stimuli. Quite handy for when you want to make people think you’re somewhere you really aren’t.” You explain sweetly, doing your best to keep your voice modest. It was quite the lucky shot, being able to cast it so fast when Lance called out to you, but it paid off in dividends (thank you, foliage). After all, gravity magic does jack squat to the incorporeal.

Lance rolls his eyes, opting to continue forward and leave you behind in the brush. “Like I said—cheap.”

A slight pep in your step, you walk along after him, arms folded behind your back, and your usual charming mask cranked up to eleven. The walk back to the academy will take a bit, so how could you even think to waste it on anything other than charming Lance? The answer is you wouldn’t, and you won’t. Your parents may want to pivot to Nolan now, but that doesn’t mean you need to give up on Lance entirely. Self-preservation is all about the self, isn’t it? You can’t be faulted for being a little selfish in the social game that is your life.

“‘Cheap’, ‘brilliant’, who’s keeping track of what my thinking would be described as?” You just barely make it to Lance’s side, completely aware of the way he speeds up every time you get close. But, it’ll take much more than that to deter you. You quicken your steps until you’re essentially jogging. ”Enough about me, I want to hear about you. Graviole, wasn’t it? I’d love to practice form with you some time… ”

It’s cliche, but easy bait. After all, if you’ve learned anything from shadowing your parents at social events, it’s that people with pedigrees and passed-down power love flaunting said assets as their own when asked.

“You say that like you could ever keep up.” Lance ducks to the left, letting go of a branch he pulled back. Luckily (or unluckily for him), your ever-present poise allows you to duck in time, avoiding a stinging whap to your face. “You act smart in class, Verdelune, but I’ve seen your pathetic attempts at casting more than the basics, so don’t act like we’re equals.”

You keep smiling, and it reaches your eyes, but it’s more so in a bare-teeth display of primate aggression than genuine amicableness. So he has the gall to act all high and mighty even after you beat his ass in a battle of wits?

“You’re so right.” Your pride swallows like a large pill, but by the gods, do you get it down with gusto. Just accept it and smile and turn it into an opportunity. “Then maybe I need some pointers from the top student in our class. How about it, Mr. Crown?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Oh, so you’d like us to be on a first-name basis? How forward La—”

“Don’t call me that either. In fact, don’t speak to me at all, Verdelune.” Lance stops, and you, unable to acclimate to the sudden change in speed, barrel right into his elbow. You rub your nose. He continues glaring, nary a hint of sympathy to be found in his expression. “Don’t touch me either.”

You flutter your eyelashes. “Waiting until marriage? How romantic.”

“...” What’s the opposite of interested? Disinterested? No, that’s not a strong enough word. Perhaps repulsed? Yeah, that’s how he looks. Repulsed. “... You’re unbelievable, you know that, right?”

‘Sorry, Lance, but if your desires and their antitheses had any effect on me, then I wouldn’t have tailed you this far during a free period.’

“Of course I do, Crown—”

“—Again, don’t call me that.”

“I get told it allllll the time.” You put a finger to your lips in thought, making sure to drag your teeth across them so they redden ever-so-slightly. “Though usually the connotation is more positive than this.”

He gags. You choose not to dwell on or take offense at the gesture, instead finding a strange sense of pleasure at his discomfort, as though it makes up for your own deep unwillingness to be in this situation either. This is actually kind of… fun.

… What was that thought just now?

You blink a couple of times, eyelashes batting in that overextended way you’ve trained into muscle memory. It takes a moment to register, but you tally the expression on your face. You’re smiling, but not in the usual forced way that hurts your cheeks and pulls at your mouth. It’s almost subconscious the way your eyes have crinkled and your lips have lifted, and you quickly scramble to undo it.

Before long, the approved-style smile is back on your face, but now Lance is looking at you weirdly.

Great. You overstepped, got a little too ballsy pushing his buttons (something which your father would vehemently reject for a girl like you), and now you were grinning like an idiot in the middle of the forest.

You clear your throat, smoothing your skirt, and wincing ever-so-slightly when you hit the snag on your leg from that little fall earlier. Still, the smile stays on.

“Apologies.” You’re careful not to call him anything when you finally address him again, now with a drooping, puppy-dog expression. “It seems I was acting a bit too forward. Let’s start over.”

“Let’s not.” Lance is walking again and avoiding your eyes. You limp after him.

“Is this about the silver coin? I’m sorry. I just didn’t want you sullying your image with—”

Again, you get a faceful of back as you smack into Lance’s still body. You pull away, already ready with your next spiel, but the words on your tongue die away the moment you lock eyes with his icy blue ones.

“It’s always about ‘image’ for people like you, isn’t it?” He hisses, eyes narrowed and cold. “Always about making yourselves look good and hurting anyone you need to in order to do just that.”

‘Well, that’s unfair.’

“That’s not—” You start, but unlike Mash, Lance seems to hold no qualms about interrupting a woman.

“I told you, Verdelune. I’m done. Piss off, leave my sister and me alone, and go find some other double-liner purse dog to wag your tail at.” He pulls out his wand, and once again, you force yourself to not flinch. You’re with him in the flesh now, meaning your presence no longer holds immunity to his Graviole spell.

Lance ignores you, though, muttering something under his breath as green flames spark at his feet and engulf him, burning at his figure until nothing is left standing in his place. You stand there, looking dumb for what can’t be the first time in the day.

‘Ah. A teleportation spell.’

Honestly, you’re surprised he didn’t do this sooner. Maybe your irresistible presence was enough of a distraction to him that he didn’t think to do it… Or maybe he just enjoyed your conversation that much?

You smile, for real again.

‘… Heh. What a funny thought.’

Notes:

Look I don't go in with the intention of making chapters this long, but we have to be faithful to canon, damnit!

Speaking of that, I'm still feeling my way through balancing describing what actually happens in the anime/manga and deviating to do my own thing, so please bear with me :33 As far as I've planned though, I think the Lance confrontation will be one of the most faithful instances of following the OG dialogue and action flow, but we'll just have to see if that holds up.