#tom knowles

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.