Dry leaves flitted in circles along the path as Fabrisse rounded the final corner, slowing at the sight of familiar figures clustered near the empty stone benches that edged the courtyard in front of his dorm building. The fifth bell had rung; glyphlights had lit even though the sky had nowhere near darkened, and a faint violet haze now laced the upper air, catching where wards met weather.

Tommaso was sitting on the bench's backrest instead of the seat, boots planted on the stone ledge. As always, gravity to him was just a polite suggestion. He spotted Fabrisse first.

"Hey! There he is. The Sharpshooter himself," Tom called out, standing to wave with his usual reckless cheer, though the strain behind his grin was a little too tight to miss. "You took your time, stoneboy. Heard what you did from Celine. Great call on that Stupenstone throw."

Celine gave a half-smile and a nod in greeting, arms folded as she leaned back against the bench wall. Her uniform was scuffed, but neatly repaired at the seams with a few hasty stitch-charms. Her earrings still swung back-and-forth in a slightly dizzying momentum. Ilya, perched beside her, gave a quieter wave. She looked more tired than hurt—pale, but calm.

"We're all fine," Tom added preemptively, thumbing over his shoulder as Fabrisse came closer. "Agents questioned us separately, poked around for inconsistencies, but turns out we're extremely charming when threatened with institutional consequences."

Celine's half-smile turned into a full smile. "I think Kaldrin already gave them the clean version." Which would be the agreed-upon version of how Fabrisse had to be there to feed his pet clucklebeak, and everyone went looking for him, then . . . the rest happened.

Fabrisse let out a slow breath. The low-grade adrenaline that had been coursing through his limbs since Draeth's office finally began to settle. His eyes scanned each of them, needing the confirmation more than he'd admit.

"So . . . how bad's Lorvan's arm?" Tommaso asked. His grin wavered now.

"Well . . . he might not have it by next week," Fabrisse grabbed the hem of his robe and rubbed his fingers on it.

"Have what? His arm?"

He didn't answer; instead, he only brought his robe to his satchel and clutched both tightly. Everyone suddenly fell quiet.

Tommaso's grin evaporated. For a second, he just stared, chest half-risen like he'd meant to say something and forgot how. "Oh." Then he turned to Ilya. "I think we'll stay for another week."

"Were you planning to leave?" Fabrisse asked.

"We're here as guardians, after all," Ilya said. "Our leave ends next week." Then her crow swooped down and perched on her shoulder.

"We can extend for another week for unforeseen circumstances, but that's the max," Tommaso added, wincing.

Fabrisse didn't like that idea. He hadn't even been able to spend that much time with his buddy since his 'vacation' was just extra work. But since they had limited time, they might as well spend it wisely. "We should visit Mentor tomorrow. He's staying in his private quarter. Headmaster Draeth had called upon a healer from the Outer Fold—the best one the Order had, apparently. He will . . . be fine."

"Good to hear, man." Tommaso, ever allergic to silence for too long, clapped his hands together and gave an exaggerated nod. "Alright, alright. Well, since we're all alive and in one piece, and since our favorite instructant might get to keep at least some of his arm, how about we raise a toast to improbable survival?"

Nobody said anything.

He hopped off the backrest and slung an arm around Fabrisse's shoulders before the boy could dodge. "I've got a half-case of alderroot ale stashed in our room. I say we crack it open. One bottle per near-death experience. That's, what, four tonight?"

Ilya cleared her throat.

Tommaso's arm dropped from Fabrisse's shoulder like a puppet string had been snipped. "Right. He gave a lopsided smile. "Rain check, then. I'll put the good bottles on reserve. Maybe next time we can call Linny over. She loves a good ale."

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Hold on. Liene. Today's Wednesday.

Liene said she'd wait. In front of the pie shop. On Wednesday afternoon.

His gaze darted to the sky. She might have been waiting for at least two bells.

"I have to go," he muttered.

"You saying something?" Tommaso arched his brow.

"Liene. I have to go see her," he muttered, even lower now.

"What do you need her for?" Celine's earring swayed as she gestured to the space Fabrisse's shoulder with her chin. "Because she's right there."

Fabrisse turned around.

Liene was standing just a few paces off, shadowed beneath the old ironwood tree at the edge of the courtyard, where the glyphlight didn't quite reach. Fabrisse noticed, almost mechanically, a careful sweep of muted charcoal along her eyelids, subtle enough to avoid drawing attention yet precise enough to accentuate the shape of her eyes. Her hair was tied up messily, possibly because there wasn't any quill to keep it in place. She wore a fitted cobalt blouse, pressed and buttoned to the collar, tucked neatly into a charcoal wrap skirt that hit just below the knee. Her shoes even matched—matched—not just each other, but the outfit. And she had earrings on. The last time she had those on was during an open verse night, the one where she read that scathing piece about love being a badly transcribed spell and made an upperclassman cry.

But here she was again, pressed and polished and standing very still.

This was the kind of moment he wasn't built for. He didn't know how to arrange it. She looked like she had so much to say and not a single word could get past her face.

He did the only thing that made sense.

He reached into his robe pocket, pulled out a neatly folded list, and held it toward her without meeting her gaze. The folded parchment—creased neatly into eighths—crinkled against his knuckles. He'd spent twenty minutes making a visual to help decide how to say sorry in these sorts of situations. There were three circles and twelve categories, each labeled in firm handwriting. But now that he was here, it felt . . . stupid. Like showing up with a quiz sheet after missing someone's birthday.

"I was going to come," he said. "I didn't forget. I wrote it down. I just . . . didn't get there in time."

A breeze rustled the ironwood leaves above them, brushing dry shadows across the ground. Liene looked at the paper, then at him, but didn't take it. Her hands stayed at her sides.

"It's not the first time," Liene said, quietly now. "You left me waiting for hours too, once, so you could . . . with Zan." She brought up his ex-girlfriend. That could not be good. He knew exactly when that happened too, and how he'd tried to apologize for it. Back then, Zan and him weren't even together yet.

Tommaso let out a low whistle as he took a step back.

"But you saw her on the green, and you forgot I was supposed to meet you. I waited outside the Archive like an idiot, thinking maybe you'd got the time wrong. Or the location. Or you were in a focus fugue again. Turns out you just got yourself a new friend, and you guys just figured you'd better off hanging out without me."

Liene gazed past Fabrisse, to Tommaso, then to where Celine stood by the benches. Celine looked like she'd stood up partway, and her mouth moved very slowly as the words uttered, equally slowly. "There's a good explanation for this—"

But Liene just shook her head once. "I want to hear it from him." Then she turned to Fabrisse. "What do you have to say?"

He stood for seconds, hoping someone would say something. Nobody did, so he said, "I mismanaged my time."

Liene blinked several times. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed. Her hands finally moved, and for the briefest second, it looked like she might reach for the paper after all. Then she pulled back.

"Is that the best you've got?" She asked.

Fabrisse didn't know what to say. Liene was left out of the loop for a reason; she wasn't supposed to know. She was a student, and the Archmagi had forbidden any student knowledge regarding the Voidspawn incidents. He would face severe consequences if he dared speak one word about it, as would Celine, and Tom, and everyone else.

He briefly thought about using Lorvan's condition as an excuse, but how would they explain the wounds? Lorvan had hidden in his room for the same reason why he wasn't allowed to talk about the void in public.

Liene's voice was thin when she finally spoke. "It's fine if you don't want to hang out with me. But you can't hoard my friends too . . ."

Fabrisse's throat bobbed. He still had the list in his hand. The creases were digging into his palm.

Liene backed up a step.

"Anyway," she added, trying to shrug, like it didn't matter. "It's whatever. I know you've got, like, important stuff now. So. I'll just . . ."

Then she ran off.

A shove to the back jolted Fabrisse out of stillness. Then came a voice, low and urgent in his ear. "I don't know what you did, but run after her now." It was Tommaso.

[NEW QUEST RECEIVED: "Threads Left Unspooled"]

Objective: —

Fabrisse swatted the glowing text out of his vision, and bolted.

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