The Brimmed Hat barely jerks back in time just as a wall of flames rips across the square. The heat is so intense Qifrey gasps, each shallow breath scorching the back of his throat, eye stinging, burning. But then it's Olruggio who hurtles out of the smoke-filled sky—a whirlwind of charred sleeves and singed robes, but otherwise unharmed—and the sight brings such relief Qifrey almost doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. He takes in the tableau at a glance, bright blue eyes darting over the battlefield, before they catch on the dark stain spreading through the white of Qifrey's robes, his ashen pallor. Olruggio's face goes slack with horror.

"Qifrey! What—"

Olruggio sounds dangerously close to panicking, which isn't the best of signs. Qifrey must look almost as terrible as he feels. Don't worry about me, he wants to say. There are far more pressing matters to be concerned about right now. But it's too many words, and Qifrey hasn't the breath.

"Stop… my apprentice…" Copper floods his tongue, hot and thick, but he swallows it down and forces up a trembling hand. The Brimmed Hat's grin widens at the other end of his accusing finger. "Forbidden magic… to save me…"

His words are barely comprehensible to his own ears, but understanding flashes across Olruggio's face nonetheless. His gaze snaps towards you and then back to Qifrey. For a brief moment he looks torn—dread and uncertainty warring openly across his soot-streaked features—and Qifrey knows what he is thinking. It's like wagering on a roll of the dice with Qifrey's life hanging in the balance; every moment spent arguing, hesitating—is another second his condition continues to worsen. Too long and he might bleed out before help arrives. But if Olruggio stands aside and lets this happen, Qifrey will never, ever, be able to forgive him for it.

Fortunately, Olruggio's indecision only lasts a moment. Olruggio plants his feet between you and Qifrey, the singed hem of his cloak swishing around his ankles as he turns to face you fully. Your expression darkens.

"Don't get in my way, Mr. Olruggio."

"Look, I know what you're thinking." Olruggio raises his hands slowly as though approaching a cornered animal, just as likely to lash out as it is to bolt. "You're worried about your master, and you want to save him. Believe me, so am I." His voice emerges steady but Qifrey instinctively tunes to the fine tremor beneath, the urgent strain. He's afraid, too. "But this isn't the way."

You remain silent for a long moment. The square lies hushed beneath the lingering crackle of distant flames, the hiss of cooling stone.

"Then," you say quietly, eventually, "can Mr. Olruggio save my master?"

If Qifrey had to pick a moment when everything crossed the point of no return, it would be here—your question hanging in the smoke-thickened air, Olruggio's silence answering for him before his mouth can. There is no half-hearted reassurance, no comforting lie quick enough to overcome that hesitation. Olruggio knows it as well as you do.

"Please," Olruggio says, and this time his voice is softer, almost pleading. "I don't want to hurt you."

In the narrow gap between Olruggio's sleeve and side, your gaze finds Qifrey for a brief second—and then he is standing in the atelier again with papers spilling to the floor and one hand on the door, unable to face the accusation in your eyes. Now, however, something more painfully fragile wavers behind them instead.

I'm not going anywhere, Qifrey wants to say, suddenly desperate. Again and again, for as many times as you need to hear it. But before he can say anything, do anything at all—the moment has already slipped through his grasp.

Your wand cuts across your quire.

The dark clouds gathering low at the foothills shudder and break apart at your spell. Water coalesces midair, droplets gathering like glass beads on gossamer strings. They swell into a churning mass above the square, swirling violently until with a flick of your wrist they splinter—into thousands upon thousands of razor sharp needles, glittering coldly like shards of glass embedded into the smoke-darkened sky. A cloud of deadly rain, simply awaiting the command to fall.

The Brimmed Hat claps enthusiastically at the display. "What a pretty spell!"

It's magnificent, but all Qifrey can feel at the sight is horror. He has never taught you this, never taught you magic to harm another—yet Qifrey recognises the spell all the same. It'd been a sunny afternoon the day he'd insisted on a picnic; a brief intermission stolen between lessons after you'd spent weeks indoors studying. But the flowers had already gone to seed by then, leaving the slopes outside the atelier green and empty stemmed, and Qifrey could tell you were disappointed despite your lack of complaints. So he'd drawn his wand and filled the hillside with flowers made of water instead—rampion and daisies, trefoil and cornflowers—every species and genus he could call to memory. But not even magic could grant them a living bloom's fragrance, and their petals had been colourless and cold to the touch. Yet when you turned back to him there'd been the faintest hint of a smile on your face nonetheless; and later, you'd asked him to teach you that spell.

The very spell you've now turned against Olruggio.

Olruggio throws up a shield of fire just as the needles fly. Qifrey can't see past the cloud of steam that erupts less than a second later, but the furious hissing of water vapourising in an instant tells him that Olruggio's barrier held. You're already drawing your next spell, however; hand moving in those confident, bold strokes Qifrey has become so intimately familiar with, and the steam in the air siphons into a long, trailing ribbon that writhes like a live snake in your grasp.

Olruggio dives aside with a shouted curse just as it snaps towards him. It strikes stone with a crack so deafening Qifrey's ears ring, the ground where Olruggio'd been standing only moments before exploding into a shower of cobble and mortar.

"Olruggio!" he cries out, but Olruggio doesn't seem to hear him, attention wholly consumed by dodging your blows. You're not holding back—it's the only reason you're managing to hold your own against a witch of Olruggio's calibre—and Qifrey can see the way his friend constantly deflects instead of retaliating, always choosing the option least likely to hurt you. Yet every spell you cast aims to incapacitate at best and main at worst, and Qifrey can only watch in horror as you send a blade of water slicing towards Olruggio's throat.

Olruggio barely twists to evade it. The blade flashes a hair's breadth from his jugular but catches his shoulder instead, and blood soaks through his sleeve almost immediately. Olruggio stumbles back with a harsh grunt of pain, one hand flying up to his bleeding arm.

"Fuck…"

Qifrey wants to scream. Or perhaps cry, or run, or throw himself between the two of you, force this nightmare to end before either of you can inflict another wound upon the other. But his body stubbornly refuses, limbs so heavy they might as well be made of lead. You don't hear the cries that never make it past his bloodied lips, and Olruggio hasn't even regained his footing before your next spell is complete.

Once again, moisture strips itself from the air. It surges skyward where it twists and coils upon itself—and as Qifrey watches one massive, batlike wing unfurls from the churning mass followed by another. A monstrous beast emerges from amidst the torrent like a hatchling breaking out of its shell. Its maw opens in a soundless roar.

Olruggio staggers back a step, face paling as he stares up into the snarling jaws of the dragon. For a brief moment, Qifrey cannot tell what he is thinking. Then something shifts across Olruggio's expression—depair, perhaps, or resignation—and his shoulders sink by the barest fraction, as though he has finally accepted a truth he's been fighting not to see.

"I'm sorry."

Before Qifrey can conceive just who that apology was meant for, the dragon lunges. Olruggio's wand flicks in a perfect circle.

Stone and dirt tear upwards in a rumble powerful enough to shake the foundations of the entire village. They rise and rise and rise—into a massive wall, tall as a fortified tower—until it collides headlong with the dragon. Water explodes in every direction. Like a raging torrent it rushes, drenching the square in surging wave, filling Qifrey's nose and mouth. Familiar terror floods Qifrey's veins for a moment, the cold reaching all the way into his bones. Almost like drowning in that box, all over again…

Qifrey collapses to the ground the second the water recedes, coughing and spitting it from his mouth. But Olruggio's spell doesn't stop there.

The wall collapses forward and races across the square once more. Your eyes widen, wand already halfway to your quire—but you are just a fraction too slow. It crashes into you with enough force to send you flying, and Qifrey's mouth falls open in a soundless scream.

You hit the edge of the square hard enough to bounce. Your small body skids across the broken cobblestones before rolling once, twice, before crumpling into a motionless heap. The silence that follows is deafening in Qifrey's ears.

"Apprentice,” he chokes out wetly. You don't move.

Qifrey forces himself upright, but he doesn't even make it a couple of paces before he collapses to his knees again. His entire mouth tastes of iron. Pain radiates throughout his entire side, black spots flickering in and out at the edges of his vision, but Qifrey barely notices any of it. All he can see is you—limp and lifeless, like a discarded doll. Your hand, lying pale against the cracked cobblestones, half-hidden beneath the torn edge of your cloak.

"Apprentice," he says again, and the word leaves him as a dreadful, breathless cry instead.

He tries to drag himself over to you. But the ground is slick with mud and Qifrey's fingers have gone numb. There is an incessant sound in his ears that drowns out everything else—he cannot hear anything over it other than the sound of his body scraping over stone, his own laboured breathing. He blinks and it is as if minutes have passed; when he opens his eye again there is a hand pressing hard over the wound at his ribs, trying to stem the flow of blood. He shoves weakly at it, struggling to wrench himself free.

"Qifrey!" Olruggio's voice sounds disembodied, strange, as though his head is being held under water. A firm hand clamps desperately around his shoulder. "Stop moving—you're making your injury worse! Stop—"

He can't. Qifrey yanks himself from Olruggio's grasp with what little strength he has remaining and crawls, trying to hold on to consciousness with each shuddering breath. You are only a few feet away, now. So close that he can see the water pooling in the hollow of your palm, spilling in rivulets down your wrist.

But his knee slips in a puddle and he crashes heavily to the stones. Agony flares so fiercely in his chest that he almost passes out. This time, his arms refuse to lift again. Qifrey claws at the mud anyway, dragging himself the rest of the distance before reaching out with a shaking, bloodstained hand.

"Apprentice," he whispers.

His fingers strain toward yours, but the last of Qifrey's strength deserts him before they can touch. Darkness envelopes the remnants of his vision like a spell, and the last realisation Qifrey has before everything goes black is this:

It's raining.

Qifrey's dreams usually comprise of darkness.

It's difficult to explain, the difference between dreaming of darkness and nothing at all. Both look very much the same when one's eyes are closed. But Qifrey is intimately familiar with their distinction—darkness is clawing at smooth metal until fingertips split and bleed, the sound of echoing screams swallowed by relentless rain. Terror with no shape or end, the certainty of being trapped somewhere no one can reach. It's what he'd spent the first few years dreaming of after Beldaruit pulled him from the ground, after all.

And it's all that surrounds him now.

Consciousness gradually trickles back into him, like woodcruour bled from a silverwood tree. His senses return in fragments: first the hushed voices by his bedside, their murmurings too indistinct to distinguish, and then the faint camphorous of crushed herbs.

Spineneedles, his muddled mind supplies, although why the scent stirs such comfort he cannot recall. But pain follows closely behind, sinking between his ribs until even breathing becomes too much, and sleep mercifully drags him under once more.

 The next time Qifrey opens his eye is to a familiar ceiling. It still takes him some time to recognise where he is—lying in one of the medical spire's narrow cots, a light blanket pulled carefully up to his shoulders. Watery half-light filters in through the far window in soft shades of iridescent blue. Qifrey lies unmoving for a moment, lethargy clinging to his limbs like tar, before the tip of his tongue probes slowly at the back of his teeth. White willow bark and feverfew—both herbs you'd used to steep for him whenever the pain behind his eye grew too severe. The taste is so familiar it aches, the ghost of your presence lingering even in the hollow of his mouth.

Realisation cuts through the dense fog clouding his thoughts. Qifrey lurches upright at once—and immediately pain ignites throughout his chest like oilpaper set alight. Even dulled with anodynes it is enough to make his head spin, and Qifrey hunches over the side of the bed with one arm wrapped himself, the wisps of a pained moan slipping out from behind gritted teeth.

The door flies open. "Qifrey!"

Olruggio is at Qifrey's bedside in an instant, firm hands catching him by the shoulders before he can topple from the cot. "What in the world are you doing?" Olruggio demands, hastily shifting an arm behind Qifrey's back to support him as Qifrey groans. "You’ve been awake for all of ten seconds and you're already trying to tear your stitches open. One of your lungs was punctured, for crying out loud!"

"My apprentice—"

"Could you try being concerned about yourself for once?" Olruggio grunts, his exasperation fraying at the edges. He grabs Qifrey by the arm again when he tries to swing his legs over the side of the bed. "Argh—seriously, Qifrey! You have the survival instincts of a moth throwing itself at a bonfire!"

Qifrey pushes weakly at Olruggio's chest, uncaring. "I need to know if they're—"

"Stop squirming and I'll tell you."

Now that stills Qifrey at once. Olruggio glares at him for a few moments longer as though fully expecting him to make a run for it, but when he doesn't, Olruggio's vice grip on his arm finally loosens. His shoulders sag. "Fine. They're fine. A few contused ribs and a mild concussion, but nothing life-threatening. You, on the other hand…" Olruggio sighs through an exhale, lips pursing as though he wants to say more—but thinks the better of it and shakes his head instead.

Qifrey barely hears the rest. Fine. You are fine. Relief floods through him, more potent than any opiate or sedative. It's so overwhelming that he is struck by the sudden urge to curl into a fetal position beneath his blankets and simply cry until there is nothing left in him. The image of that day is still etched starkly into his mind: the dreadful stillness of your body sprawled across broken cobblestones, wand-hand gone slack beneath falling rain. He remembers terror swallowing every other thought and the near certainty that he had been too late—that he had watched you die only a few inches beyond his reach.

But you hadn't. Olruggio said you were fine, and so you must be.

Qifrey looks up properly at Olruggio then. His beard is longer and more unkempt, and he's wearing the same clothes he had been in Hearthglen. The shadows beneath his eyes have deepened to the colour of old bruises. Olruggio looks as though he hasn't slept properly in days.

"What happened after I passed out?" Qifrey's question comes out stilted, his voice hoarse and scratchy from disuse. Olruggio huffs, turning away.

"I'm not completely sure—it's like everything happened at once." He crosses his arms over his chest but pauses, wincing slightly. Right, Olruggio's shoulder… "The Brimmed Hat disappeared in the middle of the chaos—I don't know whether they fled or simply decided they'd had enough—but by the time I reached you they were already gone. I brought you here through the nearest windowway as fast as I could."

"The one in Azmar?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Thank you."

The conversation peters out awkwardly. Olruggio stares down at his folded arms while Qifrey keeps his eye fixed on the blankets pooled in his lap. When he speaks again, his voice is so quiet Qifrey almost misses it.

"You had us all scared out of our minds, Qifrey."

The quiet rawness in his words makes Qifrey's chest ache. Duller than the pain in his ribs, but far harder to breathe around. Qifrey picks at a loose thread on the blanket, unable to look his best friend in the eye.

"I'm sorry for making you worry, Olly," he says, softly. This much, at least, he can say with complete honesty.

"I'd much rather you show your remorse through your actions than your words," Olruggio grumbles, but he looks marginally more mollified than before. He reaches for the pitcher on Qifrey's bedstand and pours out a generous amount into a cup. "Drink up."

Qifrey does, obediently. He doesn't realise how thirsty he is until he begins to drink; he drains that cup and then another, until his lungs smart and he has to pause. Olruggio watches Qifrey wipe at his mouth with the back of his hand, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Qifrey doesn't know how long he's been unconscious, but it must be a significant duration to leave Olruggio looking so haggard—well, more haggard than usual, at least. You must be worried too. Qifrey will have to apologise—for frightening you, for failing to protect you as a master should, for leaving you alone and vulnerable when you'd needed him most. But whatever happened in Hearthglenn with the Brimmed Hat can wait.

Right now, Qifrey only needs to see you.

"I'm feeling better now," Qifrey says. He doesn't even have to lie—the water has done him much good, and Qifrey can feel some strength returning to his limbs. He pushes the blanket aside. "Which room is my apprentice in? I'd like to make sure they're alright."

Olruggio doesn't answer. He's standing by the bedstand with his back half-turned to Qifrey, busied with tidying the sundries. Perhaps Olruggio didn't hear him.

"Olly," Qifrey repeats, more clearly this time. He shifts towards the edge of the cot, one hand braced against the mattress to support his weight. "Where are they? I want to see them."

Olruggio's shoulders tense. Perhaps, in retrospect, that should have been Qifrey's first indication that something was very, very strong. But lethargy still clouds his mind like a morning brume, and Qifrey is too late to recognise it for what it is. Slowly, Olruggio turns to face him, though his gaze falls between Qifrey's shoulder and bandaged chest, just short of meeting Qifrey's eye.

He hesitates. A cold weight sinks in the pit of Qifrey's stomach like heavy stone, earlier relief curdling into dread.

"Olruggio, where is my apprentice?"

According to the timepiece on the mantel, it takes Olruggio about a whole clockmark to properly answer—bronze innards ticking, oscillators whirring. But to Qifrey it feels like an eternity. Olruggio is normally so candid one would call him almost brutish with his words, so seeing him fumble and wince in an attempt to placate Qifrey's distress only sends it ratcheting higher. He is unable to elude Qifrey's persistent hounding, however; he cracks eventually when Qifrey tries to force himself from the cot despite his protests, brittle eggshell fracturing beneath pressure.

"What do you mean, you had them locked up in the Tower of Tomes?"

Olruggio hesitates at Qifrey's raised voice, the blunt edge of his teeth worrying over his bottom lip. He looks pale with nerves but Qifrey cannot bring himself to be considerate, not after hearing what Olruggio just said.

"Qifrey, let me explain—"

"Then explain." Olruggio flinches.

"I didn't know where else to send them, alright? You were unconscious and the healers didn't know when—if—you would wake up at all and I just—" Olruggio's hand rakes agitatedly through the dark mess of his hair before it falls back to his side where it hangs, clawlike. Qifrey's own trembles where he grips the edge of the cot, chest tight—whether it's from the half-healed wound or his rising dismay, Qifrey doesn't know. "The Tower—I have a friend who owes me a favour there, and they agreed to watch over your apprentice until you woke." Olruggio's eyes dart towards Qifrey before they drop to the foot of his cot again. "I thought… I thought it would be best for you to do it, as their master."

The healing spire is spelled to keep its interiors perfectly warm like the rest of Deepwater Castle, but Qifrey's blood runs cold regardless.

"Do what, exactly?"

Olruggio's mouth twists in that uneasy, restless way; the way it always does when there is something he must say but doesn't want to. But it doesn't stop him from getting the words out, this time. "Turn them in to the Knights Moralis."

"You're treating them like a criminal—"

Olruggio's expression tightens. "They tried to kill me, Qifrey. You saw it with your own eyes."

"They were worried about me," Qifrey argues back immediately. "The Brimmed Hat was manipulating them—"

"And they very nearly cast forbidden magic!" Olruggio throws his hands up, visibly frustrated despite the guilt that still mars his face. "Not only that—they attempted collusion with a Brimmed Hat! I'm not—I'm not just your friend, Qifrey. I'm the Watchful Eye of your atelier, and I have a responsibility to report what happened whether they're your apprentice or not." Olruggio's voice falters, but he wrestles it down with remarkable control despite the tense situation. "The Knights will have to be told."

It's a terrible realisation, that there is no convincing argument to be made. And perhaps Qifrey already knows that deep down, which is why he doesn't try to wrack his mind further for one.

His heart pounds hard and fast in his throat. "Report me as well, then."

Olruggio goes still. "What are you talking about?"

Qifrey takes a deep breath and lifts his eye to meet Olruggio's. "They're my apprentice—therefore, their conduct is my responsibility." He knows this is unfair—to force Olruggio into such a choice, wielding their relationship as leverage against the duties of his post. But the thought of you standing before the Knights in chains, terrified and alone again, leaves no room in him for shame. "If you intend to hand them over to the Knights Moralis for something they nearly did, then you should deliver me together with them."

"You're being unreasonable—"

"I'm being their master!"

Olruggio's jaw tightens. For a moment Qifrey thinks that this might be when Olruggio's infinite patience finally snaps—when his words might turn ugly or cruel in a way Qifrey has never witnessed firsthand, were Olruggio capable of such a thing. But then the anger in Olruggio's expression drains all of a sudden, leaving nothing but quiet weariness in its wake.

"Only their master?" he asks, almost tiredly.

Olruggio's unspoken accusation hits Qifrey like a blow to the chest. For a moment Qifrey finds himself unable to breathe—it slips between his ribs and unearths the buried shame he has spent so long refusing to name, like a tracker led unerringly by a guidance orb. Had Qifrey truly been so obvious? All this time, had the ugliness he'd been trying so hard to conceal been showing through?

Some frightened part of Qifrey wants to deny it—lying is, after all, all he's ever learned to do, and Qifrey has done it to Olruggio often enough that it should come easily now. But one look at his best friend's eyes, burning blue like twin candleflames in the dim light, steals every half-formed falsehood from his mouth.

His silence is confession enough. Qifrey drops his gaze to his hands, unable to hold Olruggio's any longer. Shame crawls up his throat. It's all too much—Qifrey wants to tear off his own skin and flee, a twiglizard abandoning its own tail to escape. Because this is Olruggio, who had saved him the first time fate allowed them to cross paths, unaware that it would become the foundation for all of their relationship that followed. The whole world could turn its back on him and Qifrey could bear it, but not Olruggio.

"Qifrey," Olruggio says helplessly, and just the sound of his name in Olruggio's familiar timbre is too much. Qifrey squeezes his eye shut until it stings, trying to block out the sudden rush of hot tears behind his lid.

"I didn't—I didn't mean to." The words escape him before he can stop them. Choked and wet, as though his guilt might somehow be sufficient to render iniquity into innocuity. "I really didn't, Olruggio, I swear—"

"I know."

"I was just going to be their master," Qifrey continues, almost miserably. "I just wanted—all I wanted was to teach them magic and watch them grow. Oh, Olly, I never meant for it to become—"

"I know, Qifrey."

Olruggio’s hand settles heavily on his shoulder. Gripping tight, dragging him back from the brink. Still warm, somehow, despite everything, and Qifrey's gaze lifts, unable to help it. It's almost cruel, he thinks despairingly, that he can find no trace of digust or condemnation in Olruggio's eyes. Only quiet sympathy, and something so profoundly sad it hurts to look at—like an open, still weeping wound.

He waits for Olruggio to speak, but Olruggio remains silent. Perhaps it is for the best. There are no words that could comfort Qifrey, and no version of the truth that would hurt less, anyway.

The atelier is quiet upon Qifrey's return.

The door creaks softly on its hinges when he pushes it open, the sound echoing in hollow space. Qifrey's shoes scuff lightly on the flagstones as he steps across the threshold—he still feels weak and loose-limbed; symptoms the healers had warned wouldn't dissipate until a week or so later. They'd been reluctant to discharge him at all, to tell the truth, but Qifrey had insisted. Sinocia had sighed while Ermile's crossed arms said everything on her mind, but Qifrey's persistence won out in the end.

That Olruggio had been easiest to convince unmoors Qifrey somewhat. In every scenario, either real or imagined, it is he who would be most adamant that Qifrey recuperate properly before setting foot out of the spire. But Olruggio hadn't spoken a single word of protest the entire journey back to the Downs; instead he'd remained inscrutable and silent—leaving Qifrey to run his fingers over the dark silk tied to his hat again and again, unable to divine the thoughts occupying Olruggio's mind.

"Your apprentice is waiting for you in their room," Olruggio told him, when the pegasus carriage had dropped them off just a few feet from the atelier's door. He pressed a key etched with a locking spell into Qifrey's hand, then hesitated. "I'm envious, you know."

Qifrey had been caught off guard. "Of what?"

"How much you love them."

Those words sit heavy in Qifrey's chest as he climbs the stairs to the upper floor. There is no hiding any longer, not after Olruggio has seen through him so transparently. These inappropriate feelings will have to be excised and fed to the fire sooner or later—preferably sooner, before they have the chance to root themselves any deeper. Yet the moment Qifrey stands outside your door, familiar woodgrain melding against his fingertips in anticipation of reunion, every concern fades away to nothing in comparison to the person who is behind it.

Qifrey pushes the key into the lock.

The soft glow of a completed spell emits from within the keyhole, followed by a quiet click. Qifrey sets his hand to the knob but does not turn it—all of a sudden, he finds himself overcome. What sort of expression will you be wearing, when he opens that door? Anger? Hurt? Worse still, will you have retreated behind that quiet, guarded composure of yours once more—the one that gives nothing away and asks for nothing in return? Qifrey does not know if he could bear it.

Before he can muster sufficient courage, however, the door flies open of its own accord. And then you are there—standing in the doorway, hand tightly gripping the other side of the knob. Alive.

Qifrey does not manage to catch what expression is on your face, in the end. The instant you see that it is him, you surge forward and throw yourself into his arms with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. Qifrey staggers back half a step before he instinctively wraps both arms around you, holding you as tightly as his injuries will allow.

For those few seconds, nothing else exists: only your warmth enfolded within his embrace, heart beating in tandem with his—close enough that your ribcages could mesh together were it not for the separation of skin and flesh, and yet Qifrey still feels like it isn't enough. He counts every breath you take against his collarbone and relishes in the sensation of each one; it is proof—proof that you are alive.

"Master. Master." It takes him a moment to realise, with some degree of horror, that you are crying. It's an awful, near foreign sound—Qifrey has never heard you cry before, not once in all the years he's been your master. "I thought you—I was so afraid. Master…"

"Shh. Shh. I'm here." His fingers swipe gently at the tears wetting your cheeks, but when they continue to fall without ceasing, Qifrey laughs a little helplessly. "Oh dear…"

You're inconsolable. The thought of you alone and afraid in that Tower, not knowing if he would ever wake, twists painfully in his chest. Yet some part of him shamefully finds relief in it—that you are clinging to him, still crying into his robes; despite everything that has happened, you do not seem to hate him.

"I heard you sustained a few injuries," Qifrey says, lowering himself carefully into a crouch before you in spite of the painful twinge behind his ribs. His hands stay on you even as he moves, unwilling—or perhaps unable—to let go. He takes the opportunity to study you closely; you're dressed in a fresh set of plain robes, and aside from the gauze taped to your left temple, you seem otherwise unharmed. There's no indication that you've been interrogated or mistreated during your time in the Tower. "Are you still hurting anywhere?"

It takes you a while to calm yourself, though not nearly as long as he would like. Eventually you shake your head wordlessly, eyes shiny and nose a faint red.

"No."

"Are you certain? I will be quite upset if I find out that you are lying to me."

You sniff once. "Master should be more concerned with his own well-being."

Those words again. "Olly said the same thing." The words slip out of him without thinking, half-humoured and wholly-defeated—but the moment the name leaves his mouth, your expression falls. Guilt passes over your face like a shadow.

"I'm sorry," you say quietly, "for hurting Mr. Olruggio. I know Master—"

Qifrey stops you before you can say any more. "I understand why you did it." He squeezes your hands gently in his, careful of the still-healing scrapes on your palms. Your eyes dart up to meet his, hesitant. "I won't… pretend what happened wasn't dangerous, or wrong. But you thought I was dying, and someone used that fear against you. It's this master's fault, for putting you in such a situation in the first place. I promise it will not happen again."

The words are as much a vow to himself as to you when he speaks them aloud. Qifrey will have to be more careful. Quicker, smarter, better prepared. Whatever thread of interest that the Brimmed Hat might have caught hold of, Qifrey must sever it before they can further entangle you in their machinations or schemes. He will not allow whatever horrors happened to him all those years ago to so much as touch you.

He is still deep in thought when you speak.

"Shouldn't we be seeking out the Brimmed Hat instead, Master?"

The notion is so baffling that for a moment, Qifrey doubts whether he has heard you correctly. "You want to seek out the Brimmed Hats?" he repeats, staring at the straight line of your mouth, the determined set of your shoulders. But you nod with perfect seriousness, eyes dropping to where his hands are clasping yours.

“They said they have a cure for Master’s silverwood,” you say quietly.

The word on your lips alone is enough to send a chill down his spine. Silverwood. Stars, how could Qifrey have forgotten. Or rather, been foolish enough to hope that you would?

His laugh comes out first too quick, then too gentle. "My dear apprentice," Qifrey says, deliberately softening his voice to a comforting hum, "whatever the Brimmed Hat said that day was nothing more than a lie designed to frighten you. I assure you—"

"Master needn't lie to me." Your fingers tighten around his wrists—and then it is you stepping closer, eyes fixed upon his with terrible clarity. "The Tower of Tomes; the whole time Master was unconscious, I read everything I could find about the silverwood—every book, every record. I understand now—I understand why Master kept it from me. Master can't ever let himself be happy or at peace, or the silverwood takes over his body. That's the reason Master took me in, isn't it?"

Horror unfurls within him like a slow poison. It is cruel irony, truly, that the silverwood in him has never been more silent. But Qifrey had never meant for you to know this—so why are you setting the weight of his sins upon your own shoulders?

"No," he says, but his denial comes out faint.

"But it's all right now. Master doesn't need to worry." The words spill from you in a rush, your lashes fluttering rapidly—almost feverish in their intensity. "Now that I know, I can help Master. I'm good with plants—I daresay my knowledge surpasses that of every witch on the Peninsula. And I'm confident I can find out more about the silverwood, too! Experimenting on another human host would be unethical, of course, but there is nothing else more efficient…"

"Stop."

"And the Brimmed Hat—they mentioned there is a way to help buy Master more time until a cure is found. That means such a spell must exist, Master."

"Stop."

"If we find that Brimmed Hat again, I could ask them—"

"I told you to stop it!"

Qifrey slams his hand against the wall. His strike is so violent the entire doorframe rattles in its place, and whatever you'd been about to say next dies in your throat as you flinch back.

Self-abhorrence fills him like a cloudburst overrunning a river, but the fear has sunk too deep to allow him to soften. It claws up his throat, turns every breath desperate, every word vicious.

"Master—"

"The Brimmed Hats are dangerous. They are not saviours, and they are not healers. Healing magic is forbidden, and they know that better than anyone." Qifrey's fingers curl against the doorframe until his knuckles turn bone white. Only then does he realises that he is shaking. "They will twist their words and manipulate your emotions to get you to use forbidden magic. You cannot."

You swallow. Your voice, though trembling, still carries that faint edge of determination when you speak. "But if it can help Master, why should it matter whether it is forbidden or not?"

And there it is. His greatest fear, spoken aloud at last. Some wiser part of Qifrey should have seen this coming, the day you had brought home those spineneedles stained with your own blood and said, I don't like to see Master in pain. But Qifrey has never been wise, only selfish, and the next time it happens will not be serpentines but—

"Didn't I teach you what happens to witches who cross that line?" Qifrey demands. Every of his words comes out as a harsh whisper. "Do you not remember any of it? Forbidden magic does not suddenly lose its consequences because its caster means well, and the Brimmed Hats never offer help simply out of the kindness of their hearts. You cannot trust a single word they say!"

"And so I should trust Master instead?"

Qifrey goes very still.

But you don't stop. "Master has kept this from me all this time. He told me his headaches were nothing, and that he would be fine." Your eyes are bright, clenched fists trembling at your sides. "Master looked me in the eye and lied to me every single day! The Brimmed Hat was more honest with me than Master has ever been."

"That's not—"

"Would Master have ever told me?" Your voice cracks. "Or would he have just slipped away without a word one day, and abandoned me all over—?

"Enough." Qifrey cannot bear to listen to you sound like thaat any longer. Not when he knows that he is the cause for it. He turns away abruptly and bites down on his lower lip until the taste of iron blooms across his tongue; only when he is certain he has regained his composure does he speak again. "This conversation is over. Tomorrow, I'm confiscating every book you have on pharmacognosy." For a moment Qifrey contemplates burning them—to ensure every foolish ambition of yours is reduced to ash before you can stray further down this dangerous path. But the thought of you hating him even more than you must already do cuts him too deeply. "If I ever catch you looking into the subject of a cure again, I'll—"

"—expel me from your atelier?" you finish for him, bitterly.

The thought does cross his mind briefly, but in that instant Qifrey knows that it would not be enough. He is certain of it. You would leave, grieve and hate him, but it wouldn't stop you from searching. You'd run headfirst into ruin with both hands outstretched if you thought there was a chance it might save him.

"No," Qifrey says. What he says next will hurt him more than it will you, he thinks. "I'll wipe your memories myself."

For a moment, there is nothing in your face at all. No anger, nor defiance—only a stunned, hollow disbelief, as though Qifrey had reached inside you and cut some thread holding you together. Then your expression crumples, folding inwards, and your mouth trembles once before you force it flat.

"I understand, Master."

Somehow, beyond any of the words the two of you have exchanged today, this is what wounds him deepest. The ruin he has made of the one good thing he was meant to protect. The realisation that meeting him might not have been a blessing at all, but your greatest misfortune.

"I should never have taken you in."

The words escape him barely above a whisper. But in the pin-drop silence of the room, you hear them all the same.

Qifrey hadn't thought you could make an expression more heartbreaking than the one already on your face, but somehow you do. The anguish that flickers across it is almost enough to make him wish he could take the words back.

You step back as though you've been struck. Qifrey nearly reaches for you on instinct, but his hand falters halfway between you. Who is Qifrey to try and comfort you, when it was he who hurt you in the first place? He hasn't the right.

You push past him before he can say anything, shoulder shoving hard against his arm as you hurry from the room, as if you can't stand being in his presence for a second longer. And then you are gone—down the stairs and out of sight, leaving nothing but the fading echo of your footsteps behind.

Qifrey remains where he is for a long moment. The hand that had been half-lifted towards you slowly falls back to his side, where it curls into a tight fist—if only to prevent himself from reaching for you again. Something damp touches the left side of his face. Qifrey absently lifts his fingers to wipe it away, and only then does he understand.

Tears. He's crying.

The realisation does not move him immediately. Qifrey stands there, surrounded by the silence and your absence, until all of it becomes too much to bear. Then, slowly, as if his body belongs to someone else, Qifrey crosses the room to stand over your desk. He picks up an empty inkwell.

And presses it to his cheek.

By the time Qifrey emerges from his room, the sky outside is as dark as the ink staining his fingertips, and you still have yet to return to the atelier.

The guidance orb sitting on the counter is the only thing keeping him from doing something rash. A scented sachet smelling faintly of lavender hovers within it—turning lazily, oscillating on occasion—but otherwise pointing steadily in the direction of Azmar Village. You might have thought to seek out the baker's daughter again for comfort or companionship, or perhaps you simply wish to be rid of his presence for a time. But having you out of his sight so soon after everything stirs an irrational fear in him, and some part of him is itching—no, clawing—with the need to fly there right now and drag you home himself.

But despite the unease, maybe it's better this way. It would be too easy to mistake possession for protection right now, and Qifrey doesn't trust himself to know the difference. Perhaps some distance is exactly what you both need, and Qifrey—

Qifrey is just so tired of fighting.

He shoves his hands under the vapour bubble, scrubbing hard as if the friction would scour away the impulse loitering beneath his skin. The water runs until it is cold. Still dark smudges cling stubbornly to his knuckles and the creases between his fingers, refusing to wash out.

He wrings out his hands in frustration, jaw tightening as he does. Water drips down his wrists and onto the floor.

"Stars," Qifrey mutters to himself. "I need a drink."

Stashed discreetly in an upper cabinet behind a row of preserve jars are two moderately sized, round bottomed flasks. The first is a silvernectar mead—sweet and pale gold, the kind of thing meant for celebrations rather than a night like this one. The other is dark as a bruise and twice as potent, gifted to him by some minor lord a couple of years back in exchange for diverting a flood on his territory.

"This twenty-year Willowgrape vintage is strong," the servant had joked as he pressed the bottle into Qifrey's hands, "It could probably kill a horse."

Perhaps that's what he needs right now. Qifrey grabs it off the shelf, glass cool and heavy in his hands as he walks—out of the kitchen, up the stairs, across the catwalk—boots echoing faintly on wood. He comes to a stop before a familiar door.

Qifrey hesitates, knuckles hovering over wood. Surely he's imposing—Olruggio has his own wounds to nurse tonight, his own silence to keep. He deserves a night of peace away from Qifrey as well. But before Qifrey can lose his nerve and withdraw, the door swings open on its own.

Olruggio stands on the other side. His eyes flick briefly to the bottles in Qifrey's hands, then back to his face. Neither of them speak.

Then Olruggio steps aside, and lets him in.

Qifrey clutches the wine to his chest as Olruggio sets about clearing a space for them to sit, shoving books and loose papers into somewhat neater piles with the practiced ease of a man used to his own clutter. Despite the mess there's a warmth to the room that is uniquely Olruggio's—tasseled pillows and worn rugs scattered across the floor, the embers of a fire left to burn low throughout the evening—that Qifrey had tried to replicate when you'd first taken residence in his atelier. He'd never managed to get it quite right.

Olruggio kicks aside a stray blanket and gestures for Qifrey to sit. He does, lowering himself carefully onto the nearest cushion. The ache in his ribs flares briefly before settling to a dull throb.

The two of them drink in silence, pouring the wine out of cracked cups that Olruggio produces from amidst the clutter. Qifrey knocks back one cup after another but barely tastes any of it—only the fiery burn as it goes down, sharp and bitter in the back of his throat. But it numbs the sting of the wound carved across his heart ever since the two of you had fought, at least, and that is what Qifrey needs most of all right now.

Olruggio doesn't comment. He simply refills Qifrey's cup when it empties between sips of his own, gaze fixed on some indistinct spot beyond the window. The firelight catches the edges of his face, carving shadows into the space just beneath his jaw, and Qifrey finds himself watching the way his friend's throat moves when he swallows. But eventually even the silence becomes unbearable.

"Aren't you…" Qifrey hesitates. "… going to ask what happened?"

Olruggio's cup pauses halfway to his mouth. His eyes meet Qifrey's over the rim, firelight flickering within their depths. "Would you tell me if I did?"

Qifrey swallows, hand curling tentatively into the fabric sitting over his knee. He's aware of the answer as much as Olruggio is. The drink has loosened his tongue somewhat, but Qifrey knows that he cannot tempt himself any further beyond this point. Because there is so much he wants to tell Olruggio—the reason for the distance he's kept, why he had left the Great Hall so abruptly, even every terrible thought he has ever had about you. The silverwood. Oh, the silverwood. That if it weren't for this cursed tree, Qifrey would have fallen at Olruggio's feet years ago and begged his forgiveness for everything.

But that would bring him too much relief. Instead, Qifrey confesses. "I'm scared."

Olruggio watches him for a moment—a dog eyeing a bone left just out of reach, unsure if it should bite. Then, slowly, he sets down his cup and straightens up to listen. Still caring, despite everything. Despite how little Qifrey deserves it.

So Qifrey tells Olruggio what he can. About how his failure in Hearthglen might have set you upon a dangerous path, and the subsequent argument the two of you had because of it. The guilt that gnaws at him, knowing you only did any of that because you care so deeply for him as your master—and the quieter, uglier shame beneath that, the certainty that he is undeserving of affection so pure. By the end of it his words are coming out slower, the bottles between them dangerously close to empty. Qifrey isn't sure when he started slurring, only that the room has gone warm and unsteady and almost muggy at the edges—in a way that has little to do with the fire.

And Olruggio—at some point, Olruggio had reached across the low table to put a hand on Qifrey's shoulder. He looks, Qifrey thinks blearily, squinting through the wine-thick fog creeping in on his mind, so sad.

"You don't have to bear it alone, Qifrey," Olruggio says.

The words are soft enough to wound. Olruggio is always making this sort of expression around Qifrey these days, and it stings Qifrey to know that he is the cause for it.

Perhaps this is what spurs Qifrey's impulse, to impetuously shove the table between them aside and kiss Olruggio; except he misses; so inebriated that his lips land hard at the corner of Olruggio's chin instead. For a blurred moment there is only the clumsy tangle of limbs and blankets, the two of them knocked half-sideways into the cushions. Olruggio's body is tense and rigid beneath his.

Then, just as Qifrey's mind clears enough for shame to catch up and he begins to withdraw, mortified—Olruggio's hand finds the back of his neck, and pulls him back down to properly meet his mouth.

Olruggio doesn't miss.

The kiss is hot and messy, all teeth and too much tongue. Olruggio's other arm snakes around Qifrey's waist—one hand still curled in the hair at Qifrey's name—and pulls him forward without breaking the kiss until Qifrey is straddling him, his knees bracketing Olruggio's hips. He tastes of the wine they'd shared but on Olruggio's tongue it turns honeyed, intoxicating and sweet. Qifrey's head spins. Each touch seems to immerse him in a muggy daze yet every inch of his skin feels like it is burning up, so sensitive to the calloused fingers stroking his jaw, heat pooling low in his stomach. Qifrey never knew it could feel so wonderfully, mind-numbingly good. He moans into Olruggio's mouth when the hand at the nape of his neck squeezes, and it is as though every bone in his body has gone liquid, pleasure shivering down his spine.

When they break apart it's with a soft, wet sound, and for a brief second there is a gossamer-thin string of spit connecting their mouths before it snaps. Qifrey's eye darts upwards, unable to focus on anything except the reddened hue of Olruggio's lips, still glistening.

Olruggio swallows hard, throat bobbing. "Qif—"

"Please," Qifrey whispers. He slides his hand up Olruggio's chest until his fingers find the edge of his collar, his other hand dropping down to Olruggio's belt. "Help me forget. Just for tonight."

Olruggio hesitates for a long moment. His blue eyes are so dark in the wavering firelight that they appear almost black. "You know this won't fix anything."

Qifrey's throat tightens. "I know."

"And you still want this?"

"Yes, yes." Qifrey tries to kiss him again but Olruggio catches him by the chin, forces him to still. Qifrey nearly whimpers. His grip is firm but not harsh, tilting his face up until Qifrey has no choice to meet his gaze. Olruggio looks up at him as though he can see straight through him; down to the marrow of his bones, the rotten heart sitting in his chest. "Please, Olruggio—"

Olruggio's hold on him doesn't relent. Qifrey feels caught in the open, a rabbit with one leg snared in a trap. "But that's not the same as wanting me."

"Does it have to be?"

The question, whispered hoarsely in its shame, slips out before Qifrey can catch it. It hangs in the air between them like residual smoke. Olruggio's expression flickers—something quiet passing briefly across his face, unreadable—before it settles into resignation.

"No," Olruggio finally says. "I suppose it doesn't."

The words are barely out before Olruggio is moving—pushing at Qifrey's hip until it is he beneath Olruggio instead, cushions pressing into his shoulder blades, the base of his spine. Qifrey's heart pounds so loud he is certain Olruggio must be able to hear it. But if he does, Olruggio gives no indication—instead his hand wraps around Qifrey's ankle, pushing his knee up and to the side—and then his fingers are slipping beneath the hem of Qifrey's robe, rucking up the fabric until they find the straps cinched around his upper thighs.

Qifrey's breath hitches, hands gripping the pillow beneath him. Olruggio leans in.

And this time, he doesn't ask any more questions.

Qifrey wakes to the pale grey of dawn filtering through Olruggio's curtains, the cloying smell of sweet wine and stale sweat still lingering on the sheets, and the slow, sinking realisation of what he's done.

He lies still for a long time, counting the heartbeats between each breath. Next to him Olruggio is still fast asleep—one arm thrown over his eyes as he snores lightly, bare chest rising and falling beneath the rumpled sheet. The same blanket that Qifrey had gripped with white-knuckled hands as Olruggio pushed into him for the first time, his embarrassingly loud cries muffled into its linen weave. Qifrey does not dare look any higher.

He should leave before Olruggio wakes up.

But Qifrey's body refuses to move. His limbs feel heavy, weighed down by guilt and something that feels akin to shame, though he can't name exactly what it is that he is ashamed of. The sex? The using? The fact that he'd crawled into his best friend's bed like a wounded animal and taken what solace he could without once asking what Olruggio needed—or wanted—in return?

Yes. All of it.

Qifrey sits up carefully, wincing when his lower half twinges. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, careful not to jostle the bed as he gets shakily to his feet. His clothes are scattered haphazardly across the floor. Qifrey gathers each item one by one in the muted half-light, moving furtively as though he can erase the night by absconding with its evidence.

"Running away?"

Olruggio's voice is rough with sleep. Qifrey freezes, halfway through pulling his shirt on. He turns his head slowly to find Olruggio propped up on his elbows, the blanket pooled around his waist. His hair is dishevelled, eyes still heavy and half-lidded with sleep, but there is a quiet knowing in them that makes Qifrey's stomach want to drop straight to the floor.

"I was just—" Qifrey starts, but the words die in his throat. How is he supposed to lie to Olruggio's face now, after he's had Qifrey red-faced and sobbing into his shoulder, after he'd watched Qifrey come apart on his cock? The memory surfaces, vivid and unbidden, and Qifrey can already feel the beginnings of a lurid flush creeping up the back of his neck. "I didn't want to wake you," he offers instead, lamely.

"Well, it didn't work. Your thoughts are too loud."

Qifrey finishes pulling on his shirt, fingers quickly lacing the straps at his thighs with practiced movements. He cannot look at Olruggio, despite the way he can feel his eyes on his back. Neither can he look at the rumpled sheets on the bed, or the empty wine bottle tipped over on the floor, or anything else that might remind him of the sounds he'd made in the dark. His fingers fumble with the straps at his throat, the leather suddenly stiff and uncooperative under his touch. Qifrey tries twice, then thrice, but when his attempts remain frustratingly unsuccessful he gives up and lets his hands fall back to his sides.

Finally, there is nothing left to delay the inevitable with. Swallowing, throat as dry as sandpaper, Qifrey turns around to face Olruggio.

"Last night—" Qifrey begins.

"Don't apologise." Olruggio's voice is surprisingly gentle when he interrupts. His expression is unreadable but his eyes are steady, fixed on Qifrey with some sort of wordless understanding that feels heavier than any accusation. "It doesn't have to be something we talk about."

"But—"

"We're friends, aren't we?" Olruggio says simply. "Friends help each other."

For a moment, only their quiet breaths fill the silence between them. Qifrey's hand fidgets with the door handle, brass cool against his skin, but finds himself unable to open it. Friends. For some reason the word sends a wave of nausea rolling in his stomach. If Olruggio spoke only the truth, and last night was nothing more than a careless tumble in the sheets between close companions, would there be such aching pain behind his eyes when he looks at Qifrey now?

"Thank you," Qifrey whispers, regardless. The words are woefully inadequate, but they are all he has.

He doesn't look at Olruggio as he pushes open the door. For the first time, selfishly, Qifrey wishes he had his palm quire in hand, the familiar three-pronged spell inked carefully on its second-to-last page. But the mere thought of expunging the night from Olruggio's mind brings too much relief, and Qifrey can already feel its branches shifting beneath his skin.

So Olruggio has no choice but to remember.

Outside the door to his own atelier, Qifrey hesitates. His mind turns itself over and over gain, and despite the hours he had lain awake the night before, thinking of the words he should say to make things right, he still comes up empty. A satisfactory apology eludes him—he cannot find the right arrangement of syllables to undo what he has done, cannot find a way to say I am sorry for hurting you again without it sounding like a hollow echo of every other time he has failed you. But more than that, Qifrey is afraid. Afraid that you might not be willing to listen, that you might have finally reached the final straw of your adoration. Something in him cringes at the thought of your rejection—as deserved as it is.

He hates that this is all he seems to be able to do. To you, to Olruggio—to every person who has ever been precious to him.

Qifrey exhales slowly, forcing his trembling hand to still on the latch. Azmar is not too far from the atelier. Qifrey will quickly make himself presentable, rehearse his apology in his head on the journey there. And then—

The door swings open in front of him.

You stand in the doorway, the morning sunlight curving across your profile, casting half of it into shadow. Qifrey's breath catches—not just from the sight of you, but the sudden unease writhing in the pit of his stomach. When did you return to the atelier? Was it just this morning? Or perhaps… his mind trails off, unwilling to finish the thought. Qifrey glances up to find you looking at him with wordless intent, expression inscrutable. Your eyes drift downwards, settling on his neck.

A second passes, and then another; still your gaze does not falter. Discomfort scrapes beneath his skin, and Qifrey's hand rises unconsciously to shield himself—fingers brushing awkwardly along the side of his throat—and then he feels it. The straps, undone, still loose at his collarbone where he'd failed to fasten them. And beneath his fingertips, the throbbing bruises left by Olruggio's mouth last night, still tender and aching to the touch.

His heart sinks in his chest.

Qifrey cannot move. There is not a single word that he can think of that might explain this away, the marks like hot-iron brands burned into his skin. He stands frozen, hand still at his throat.

Then you speak.

"Good morning, Master," you say, calmly. "I made tea."

The normalcy of your response unnerves him more than anger would. Qifrey cannot help but feel as though he is treading on the surface of a frozen lake, unable to see the hairline cracks spanning the ice underfoot, unsure which step will be the one to finally send him through. But then the corner of your mouth lifts, and Qifrey realises, with a terrible ache, just how long he's been waiting to see that expression directed at him again. How desperately he's been craving proof that he has not lost it all.

"Would Master like some?"

"Y—yes," he answers too quickly. "Yes. I'd like that."

You turn back towards the atelier. And like a coward Qifrey follows you inside, footsteps trailing quietly after yours, and lets the door close behind him without another word.

The weeks that follow settle carefully into a fragile rhythm. The atelier and its occupants return to a semblance of normalcy—tea in the mornings, spell theory and practice in the afternoons, quiet evenings spent in front of the warmth of the hearth. You hand over your books obediently and do not bring up the silverwood again. All these combined nearly lulls Qifrey into a sense of security—almost makes him forget the argument ever happened in the first place, its dark stain gradually washing out like watercolour beneath incessant rain. But it also makes him apprehensive—too fearful to disturb this fragile peace, afraid that a single misstep might shatter it all over again.

So he says nothing, when you begin leaving the atelier more often on your own.

Because of this, Qifrey finds himself unintentionally spending more time in Olruggio's company. After the sun has gone down and the atelier has grown too quiet for him alone, Qifrey lingers in the kitchen and shares a cup or two with his oldest friend while the fire burns low.

But never more. Qifrey has learned his lesson, now.

He brings it up only once, on an evening when the sunset stains the low-hanging clouds burnt sienna and fading gold. A note sits on the kitchen table, detailing that you have gone to Kahln to pick up some books on compound spells in your neat handwriting. It is a perfectly reasonable request. You've been spending more time in your room lately, intensely focused on preparing for your fourth test—The Goodwill of Her Grace. Passing this would allow you to graduate from his atelier and be recognised by the Great Hall as a fully independent witch. It is what Qifrey has always wanted for you: your own path, your own magic, a future that belongs wholly to you.

But yet he finds himself staring at the empty chair across from him, worry sitting quietly beneath his ribs. It is not silent, and neither is he alone. But the atelier simply feels different when your presence is absent from it, and he hates that he is sensitive enough to notice.

"They're gone again," Qifrey comments quietly. He says it thoughtlessly, the words slipping out without intention, but it's enough to make Olruggio glance up from his cup. Qifrey tries to ignore it, but the restlessness in him refuses to settle; he rises and begins to pace, until he finds himself standing by the window facing the road to Kahln. The sun is disappearing beyond the hills in the distance, shadows stretching slowly across the downlands.

You're more than capable of taking care of yourself now. Qifrey knows this. Still, it does little to assuage his concern.

“You’re worried they’re still upset,” Olruggio observes. Qifrey doesn't answer, knows that he is right.

Olruggio is quiet for a moment. He turns his empty cup over in his hands slowly, before he speaks. "Your apprentice is at the age all young witches begin to seek their own independence," Olruggio says carefully, his voice taking on that cautious tone he always slips into when he's unsure of how Qifrey will receive his words. "It's what you've been preparing them for, isn't it? Perhaps… perhaps a little distance will be healthy for them." He hesitates, thumb tracing the wettened rim of his cup. "And maybe for you, too."

The words settle in the tenuous silence between them. Eventually Olruggio continues.

"They care about you, Qifrey. That much is obvious." Olruggio's voice softens. "I think all you need to do right now is give them some space. Let them sort through their own thoughts."

Your apprentice cares about you.

Qifrey is fairly certain that Olruggio means to be reassuring. But he does not know the whole truth, the full extent of the knowledge you've unearthed—the reason why those words are not a comfort but a warning. He looks at the face of the man who'd once stood in your place and cared too much—who'd seen the ruin the silverwood made of him and decided that he was an acceptable sacrifice in Qifrey's stead.

The thought of you stepping willingly onto the same pyre, content to be razed to ash, keeps him awake long after Olruggio has returned to his own side of the atelier. Eventually Qifrey finds himself sitting alone in the dark, wondering how many more months he will let pass before he finds the courage to say what he must.

Tomorrow, Qifrey tells himself. I'll do it tomorrow.

But tomorrow always becomes today, and today always ends up being never. The weeks grow into months. And the things left unsaid grow heavier with each passing day, until one day Qifrey realises the silence has become a spell of its own—one he no longer knows how to break.

Then one day, Qifrey realises it has been too long since he's last seen you.

He tells himself it is nothing at first. You are studying hard, still taking the rose glowtarts and fewberry jellies he's been leaving outside your door. You've always been like this when something wholly captures your attention—disappearing into books, notes and research until the rest of the world falls away. It's not unusual. Qifrey has to remind himself not to worry excessively; he does not want to become another source of pressure, hovering over your shoulder when you're trying to focus.

But this time, something feels off.

Qifrey occupies himself with chores. He spends the morning tending to the weeds that have sprung up along the walls of the atelier, then reorganising a shelf of spell supplies that he'd only finished arranging a week ago. Anything that keeps his hands busy, that stops him from glancing too often towards the stairs. If you need anything, you will come to him.

That is what he keeps telling himself.

Eventually, unable to ignore the unease gnawing at him, Qifrey finds himself standing outside your door. He hesitates there longer than he should, knuckles hovering just above the wood.

He's being ridiculous. Qifrey knows that. You are his apprentice, no longer a child. You are allowed your privacy—your own time, your own thoughts, your own space. And yet…

“Apprentice?”

No answer. He knocks again, a little louder this time.

"Apprentice? Are you awake?"

Still nothing. Frowning, Qifrey puts a hand to the handle. It does not turn.

Qifrey feels like he's been plunged headfirst into icy water. He has never explicitly forbidden it, but you've never locked your door before—never had reason to. The realisation hits him with the force of a physical blow, and then his hands begin to shake.

"Apprentice," he calls, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Open the door, please."

For an elongated moment, there is nothing but silence and the rapid thump of Qifrey's heart in his own ears. Then, faintly, muffled through wood—a sound.

A low groan of pain.

Fear takes over before reason can catch up. Qifrey steps back and, without thinking, drives his shoulder into the door with all his body weight behind it. Once, twice, until finally, the lock gives with a sharp crack.

Qifrey bursts into the room only to find you collapsed on your knees next to the bed, hunched over yourself with one hand clutched to your face. The heavy smell of rust and iron is what hits him next, so thick it clogs his nose. His gaze drops to the floor, where something dark and liquid drips steadily between your knees.

Horror floods through him at once. "Apprentice—"

Qifrey is across the room in an instant, shaking hands gripping you by the shoulder and dragging you upright. He's far too frantic to be gentle. "What happened? Where are you hurt?" His voice comes out sharper and higher than he intends, panicked and breathless. "Why didn't you call for me? We need to get you to the medical spire right now—"

But you only look up at him and smile. Blood slips between your fingers and trails down the curve of your cheek, falling like raindrops from your chin. Your hand is pressed tightly over your left eye, and Qifrey cannot get a clear enough view to piece together what happened. His mind races through every possibility. A fall? An accident? Some spell gone terribly awry?

His hands search frantically for something to stem the bleeding, but can find none within reach. His own robe will do—Qifrey reaches for the hem, ready to tear it—but before he can, your hand settles over his, stopping him. He glances up, heart pounding in his throat, and finds you still smiling.

"Ah." You sound almost pleased, though for what reason he cannot possibly fathom. Why would you sound like this? Why would you look at him like this when you are bleeding, when something is so clearly, terribly wrong? "Perfect timing, Master. I was just about to look for you—I have a spell I wanted you to see."

"This is hardly the time to be—"

"Watch."

Before Qifrey can ask what you mean, you reach for one of the sheets scattered on your table and press it against your bleeding eye. Qifrey barely has time to take in the concentric rings, the unfamiliar sigils woven between your precise lines—before the spell begins to glow. Light seeps through the conjuring ink, and Qifrey watches in frozen horror as the blood on your face slowly recedes. When you pull the paper away, the skin around your left eye is whole and unmarked once again, as though the injury had never existed in the first place.

You've healed yourself. This is no simple time reversal or counter-clock spell—Qifrey can tell from the dried flecks of blood still clinging to your lashes, its faint remnants along your closed eyelid. His breath comes out short and uneven, mind struggling to reconcile with what he has just witnessed.

You've just cast forbidden magic in front of him.

You are still speaking, explaining the technicalities and calibration of the healing spell—but Qifrey can hardly comprehend a word. The words wash over Qifrey like water over stone, fragments of sound swallowed by the pounding in his ears. His eye drifts around your room like an untethered boat, unable to look directly at the truth that has just unfolded before him. All he finds is disorder—you're surrounded by crumpled seals and crossed out sigils he vaguely recognises, and steel instruments of various shapes and sizes of purposes beyond him lie scattered on your bed. But only one thing is clear—that in his attempt to bury his own problems, to keep you from a tragic fate of his own causing—Qifrey has only pushed you beyond the point of no return.

His gaze finally comes to a stop on your table. Sitting in a small glass jar, suspended in clear brine, a familiar eye looks back at him through glass. The same eye Qifrey has spent years looking at from across the table through tea-brewed steam and watched search his face carefully for approval, praise, attention. The one he has spent nights trying not to dream of, the way it holds him in place without needing a word. It floats there—iris dark and empty, pupil dilated and fixed on him just as it always did in life.

Bile rises sharply at the back of Qifrey's throat. He bites back a choked sound, stumbling back when his knees suddenly buckle beneath him.

"Master—"

Qifrey whirls around only to find you looking back at him. It is then that he sees it—silver branches, like slivers of moonlight frozen into bone, extending out of the socket of your left eye. Their leaves curl outward delicately. Face to face like this, it is though Qifrey is staring into a perfect mirror—of the curse that has haunted him for his entire life.

"It took multiple attempts," you're saying, seemingly unaware of the horror that has overtaken him. Still explaining, as though this is nothing more than a difficult spell from a textbook you've been trying to perfect. "Did you know, Master? The silverwood rarely takes root in people because they hold too much anxiety. But after my first few tries, I realised I could increase my chances of success if I—"

Qifrey does not hear the rest. His hands move before his mind does, and he grabs you by the shoulders, pinning you against the bedframe. You gasp when your shoulder collides with solid wood, but Qifrey cannot stop—cannot even notice how tightly he is holding you with the panic tearing through him. His mind is filled with nothing but the sight of silver branches and empty eyes, the irreversible proof of what you've done.

"What did you do?" Qifrey can hardly recognise his own voice, an ugly sound caught between a cry, a roar, a scream. "What did you do?!"

In response, you only tilt your head as though the answer should be obvious. "I infected myself with a silverwood, of course. The Brimmed Hat from before gave me a seed that day." Qifrey's heart sinks. "Like I said, not much is known about the silverwood, but I wanted to be of use to Master. I knew Master wouldn't be happy if I experimented on someone else, though, so I—"

"Happy?" The word tears out of Qifrey, half-hysterical, half in disbelief. His fingers dig into the softness of your upper arms, so tight it almost tears through fabric. He wants to reach into your eye and yank out the silverwood before its roots can spread any further within you, but he knows better than anyone that it is too late now—that it has already woven itself into your flesh, your skin, the very marrow of your bones. "Happy? Did you think that I would be happy if you sacrificed your own eye to become a test subject? Did you think that casting forbidden magic for my sake would ever bring me happiness?"

Your expression softens.

"Perhaps not," you admit, your voice quiet, almost apologetic. Your hand reaches up to cup his cheek, thumb tracing tenderly over the scar tissue there, and it is only tthen that Qifrey realises his entire body is trembling. "But Master's silverwood… it's quiet now, isn't it?"

Qifrey stares. He had not noticed until you said it—the familiar ache in his chest, the constant pressure behind his missing eye, the low thrum of the parasite that has lived in him for years—has gone still. For the first time in a long while, the silverwood is completely silent. The truth of it tastes like poison in his mouth.

Qifrey stumbles back before you can say more. You are simply not listening. "This is madness. This is ridiculous." He wrings his hands together, fingernails leaving crescent marks against his pale skin in their distress. "No. No, no, no. You cannot be allowed to continue down this path."

"Is Master going to turn me in to the Knights Moralis, then?"

Qifrey stares down at the forbidden spells scattered across the floorboards like fallen leaves. His heart pounds painfully against his ribs, rabbit quick. Olruggio had already protected you once by hiding what happened in Hearthglen, but this—this cannot be concealed from the Great Hall forever. Not with what you've done. And far worse than that—Qifrey knows you will not stop. You believe that this is the only way to save him, and you've already proven that you will stop at nothing if you think it will spare him pain.

Without another word, Qifrey lunges.

You grunt in surprise when your back hits the ground, papers scattering like startled birds taking flight. Qifrey pins both wrists in one hand when you struggle against him, pressing them above your head with an iron grip, settling his weight firmly over you. Your strength is nothing compared to his. With his other hand, he slips off his hat.

The sequence of actions is burned into Qifrey's memory. The removal of the pin, the undoing of the flap. A familiar three-pronged spell unfolds before his eyes, oblivion etched in ink as dark as a moonless night. He raises the hat over your head with a shaking hand.

Now. Qifrey must do it now.

But he cannot move. Because Qifrey understands, intimately, what it would mean. It is memories that make a person—the accumulation of moments, the weight of shared words—two plants growing side by side, until their roots intertwine beneath soil and their leaves reach for the same light. Memory erasure spells are imperfect, imprecise things; for who can truly define the boundaries of a memory, the extent of sorrow from one's tears?

The apprentice he has raised and grown to care for, the person he has come to love more deeply than he can ever allow himself to admit—all of it might be erased. All of you.

The memories spill out, unbidden, like a flood of water through a broken dam. I want to cure Master. I don't like to see Master in pain. Meeting Master was my greatest fortune. Master can't ever leave me. I love Master. Master is everything to me.

Master. Master. Master.

The word echoes, a repeated refrain cradling his crying heart. And Qifrey—he cannot do it. The hat slips from his trembling fingers, and it falls to the floor with a soft thump.

His breath comes out in ragged, uneven gasps. His head is spinning. Qifrey cannot see through the tears blurring his vision—hot and relentless, spilling down his cheek without permission. He is drowning in his own despair, so consumed by it that he does not realise you have pulled yourself free until his face is cradled in your hands, thumbs brushing away the tears that refuse to stop falling.

"Then, Master must love me as well," you whisper. Your voice is soft at the edges, without an ounce of triumph or satisfaction—as though you are aching just as much as he is. "Oh, Master."

You say it like a prayer, a lament. Qifrey only weeps harder, his shoulders shaking. Everything—his shame, his failure, his helplessness, all of it—is too much to bear.

"Since Master tried to erase my memories, it is only right that I get to cast a spell on him in return," you say gently, through his sobs. "An equivalent exchange."

Before he can ask what you mean, Qifrey feels your lips against his.

The kiss is soft but aches like a bruise—a collision of everything Qifrey has never dared to say aloud, everything he's been too afraid to name. Qifrey can taste himself on your lips, the salt of his own despair mingling with the heat of your breath, and it breaks something open within him. He does not know how long it lasts—seconds, minutes, an eternity—but when you finally pull back it is like every cell in his body is crying out for you, already mourning the loss of your warmth.

And then you move. You slip out of his trembling hands, and Qifrey watches you cross over to the window, silhouetted against the pale light of the moon. You pause only for a moment, your hand resting on the frame, and look back at him.

His greatest fortune, his most terrible curse.

"There," you whisper softly. "Don't ever forget me, Master."

And then you are gone.

The window is empty. Moonlight pools on strewn papers, spills across scattered inkwells. The room is quiet, save for the sound of his own ragged breathing. Qifrey's hand reaches out, grasping at empty air.