A top broomsports player once said: "The faster you fly, the fewer people you
have around you." That isolation is more frightening than anything—worse than
the pressure to set a new record, worse than the risk of any fall.
"…Hahhh…!"
Words every broomrider knew but few experienced for themselves. The witch
rocketing across the practice field was one of those few. The howl of the wind
snatched away all other sounds, the view streaming past her blinkered vision
too fast to see. She was in a world of her own—not even metaphorically.
"…Yo, Ashbury! Break—!"
A teammate yelled up at her, but the wall between their worlds batted his
words aside. Her back was to him before he could even finish. The Blue
Swallows shook their heads.
"…See? She ain't listening. Can't even hear us."
"I dunno how she stays that focused. She's been at it for five hours! The
catchers are dead tired. We've gotta make her stop or…"
They turned around, looking at the girl behind them: a second-year student in
a Wild Geese uniform.
"Welp, there you have it. I reeeally hate to ask, but can you step in, Ms.
Hibiya?"
The Azian girl nodded with quiet authority and mounted her broom. "I give
my word—assuming I can even catch the lady."
She looked up at Ashbury again and took several deep breaths, heightening
her focus. Then Nanao kicked the ground, and she was in the air. Her launch
alone was at top speed, and she was only getting faster. Far more technically
proficient than she'd been a year before, she had the crowd of players below
crossing their arms and groaning.
"Hrm…!"
But even at her speed, catching the Blue Swallows' ace would be a tall order.
Two or three laps of the field would not be enough to get anywhere close to her
velocity. There was a grin on Nanao's face. She couldn't even catch Ashbury's
shadow. The technical gap was a gulf.
"Hahhh...!"
And that was why this chase was so much fun. Her mana running high, turning
her black hair white, she poured everything she had into her beloved broom,
Amatsukaze, flying faster still. Five laps, six, seven, eight, each lap's time
shrinking. The players below gulped, and the catchers on standby grew tense.
She was far beyond speeds any underclassman should be capable of.
However—that also meant Nanao had one foot inside the world of the witch
ahead. Ashbury registered her presence and slowed her broom, adjusting her
trajectory so that she and the Azian girl were flying side by side. The ground
crew cheered. It had taken Nanao twelve laps to make contact.
"What do you want, Ms. Hibiya?" Ashbury asked from right beside her.
Barely maintaining this speed, Nanao responded, "I would have words with
you. What say you to a landing, Ms. Ashbury?"
"Some other time. I'm too busy to play with you."
And with that, Ashbury sped up, easily leaving Nanao behind. The crowd let
out a moan, but Nanao did not give up. She aimed to fly as long as she had the
strength within her—and a lap later, as they lined up once more, she slid
alongside Ashbury.
"Yet, you know full well play is a necessity."
"…Give it up."
Paying her no attention, Ashbury sped straight on by. She likely intended that
as outright rejection, but Nanao saw it in a very different light—to her, this
simply meant she could get a word in each time Ashbury passed her. She need
only pile those on until her rival's mind changed, even if it took a thousand tries.
And she stuck to that plan. Lap after lap, speed never wavering, calling out
each time Ashbury drew near. Bones creaking from combatting the inertia and
g-forces at each turn, biting the flesh of her cheeks when her consciousness
threatened to slip away, flying on and on all for the sake of a second's repartee.
"In my land…we say: 'In a hurry? Look around!'"
"..."
Ashbury ignored her, flying on—but then she bit her lip. The Azian girl's
steadfast determination spoke more than any words. How much strength was
this girl using for this fragmented back-and-forth? What kept her going?
And she was still thinking on it when Nanao caught up once more, clearly well
past her limits and barely clinging on to her broom.
"…Perchance…a moment of respite…?"
"...Argh, fine!"
Ashbury threw in the towel. She turned off her course, and Nanao followed.
Their two brooms traced an arc toward the ground below.
"Have it your way! But ten minutes! No more."
"…The honor is mine," Nanao managed.
A few seconds later, the players on the ground cheered their arrival—and
Nanao collapsed in a heap.
In short, a lack of blood flow to the brain. High-speed maneuvers took their
toll on the circulation, and incidents like this were all too common among
broomriders. The players knew what to do, and she was soon resting in the
breeze beneath a tree.
"Here. Drink this."
"Much appreciated…"
Nanao was flat out on her back, so Ashbury gently poured the contents of the
vial down her throat. She gulped away and finally managed to catch her breath.
"Hmph," the older girl said. "You're a decade away from matching me in a
time attack."
"Indeed, I am not yet capable of keeping up… Truly prodigious speed."
Nanao meant every word. The back she'd pursued had been a distant target.
Ashbury planted herself next to her. "Naturally. Broom wars and broom races
just demand far greater speed than anything else. Brooms are capable of
speeds the human body cannot withstand—even a mage. You need a body built
for that purpose from the moment of your birth."
"From birth, you say?"
Nanao turned her gaze, inspecting the witch at her side from head to toe.
Ashbury had a physique with all excess chiseled away, like a blade forged to
perfection. A body achieved not only through constant daily training but
through devoting every aspect of one's life to the cause.
"Actually, that phrasing's off the mark. Real construction begins before birth…
My body was designed for this, from the flesh to the etheric body. Generation
after generation of selective breeding."
Birth was too late. Mages had always seen children as a means to achieve
goals a single lifetime could not hope to realize. Ashbury's origins lay long
before her conception, at the moment such sorcery began.
"Children from mage households often have their goals decided for them. In
my case, that goal is to be the fastest broomrider. If I cannot achieve that goal,
my entire life is forfeit."
"…Forfeit," Nanao echoed.
The girl born to fly let out a long sigh, one tinged with the bitterness of selfreproach.
"And yet, I spent too much time playing at war."
Her eyes were on the sky above, where her teammates were swinging clubs
around. Their battles vicious yet delightful. Felled or feller, all took pleasure in
the outcome.
That was the essence of a broom war. It was a brief respite from the
pressures and duties that weighed on every mage. That was why the rules and
equipment were minimal, and the players were allowed to fly free. It was little
more than an extension of games children played with sticks. However high the
craft involved, that essence remained. No one wished to change it.
Sensing Nanao's eyes upon her, Ashbury glanced her way.
"Look…I'm not knocking broom wars. I'm just…conscious of my own
priorities."
"Mm, understood. Is there a reason you struggle to improve?"
Nanao's eyes bored right through her. Ashbury pouted.
"…You don't even hesitate to ask? I suppose that's a strength."
If anyone else had asked, she'd have dismissed the very notion. But this girl
alone had no trace of ridicule, no hidden motivations. Flying with her had made
that very clear.
And if she couldn't dismiss the question, then it deserved an answer. Giving
up the struggle, Ashbury sighed.
"…I used to have a catcher of my own."
If you compare extraordinary talent to top-class liquor, then "barrels" capable
of containing that talent are equally rare.
"…Hmph."
That was the challenge facing Ashbury on her admission to Kimberly. She
soon found herself struggling to be a part of the team.
Every broomriding team had wanted her. She'd chosen the Blue Swallows
because they placed the strongest emphasis on individual skill. Given her own
personality, the choice made sense—and yet, she still failed to fit in.
She was alone on the practice field. The cold night sky above only drove that
fact home.
"Now, now, hold up. No one's here yet. You gonna fly without a catcher?"
Ashbury was already on her broom when a voice boomed out behind her.
Surprised that anyone else was here, she turned to find a big, burly man—so
oversize, he made the broom in his hand look tiny by comparison.
"Who are you?"
"Good question!" he said, as if in jest. "I'm a second-year—and I believe I'm
on the same team as you."
Ashbury frowned—and then remembered.
"…Right, there was a ridiculously huge guy at the back. You were clearly in the
wrong room, so I just forgot you were even there. That's hardly a body built for
broomsports."
"None of us is built like you. But don't you frown at me—I was only ever
trying to be a catcher. That's why I'm here."
The man flashed her a grin, and she snorted.
"I'll have you in tears by day three. You're the eighth wannabe catcher I've
had! If you're just gonna shuffle uselessly around under me, I'm better off not
having one."
"Lots of faith lost there, I see! But don't you worry; I ain't gonna run around
like a chicken with my head cut off. I've been watching how you fly. I only need
to be under you when you fall."
His confidence was blistering. He sounded like he already knew every wrinkle
she could offer, and Ashbury resented that.
"You're all talk," she told him with a harsh glare. "But sure, let's see if you can
back it up. You take on a five-hour practice with me, you'll soon know better."
"Afraid I've only got two hours for you. I have plans of my own!"
"Huh? Like what?"
"Barbecue party with the Labyrinth Gourmet Club. They always have the best
meat!"
He flashed her a grin so bright, she shot straight past resentment and into
frothing rage.
"So those animals matter more than backing me up? You've got a lot of
nerve."
"Gah-ha-ha! Simmer down—you have my undivided attention for two whole
hours. No matter how bad you fall, I'll be there for you. Screw up all you like!"
He just kept on winding her up. Ashbury tore her eyes off his aggravating
smile, rocketing skyward and swearing the first blunder he made, she'd kick his
teeth in and ban him from the practice ground without ever learning his name.
But after two hours of practice, his name was on her lips.
Those who know little of broomsports often scoff at the idea that the catcher
role requires finely honed technique or compatibility with the rider. In their
minds, catchers are scattered across every inch of the field, using spells to catch
anyone who happens to fall their way.
Naturally, this is transparently false. If you tried covering the field in catchers
so brainless they were capable only of catching people who fell their way, you'd
need more than a hundred of them. But there were actually thirteen. And
naturally, each was covering a wide range of ground.
"Tch!"
"Whew!"
Ashbury's club swung in from the side, and the opposing player dodged by the
skin of his teeth. When she clucked her tongue, her prey roared back.
"That was close! But I'm not going down that easily!"
"Hahhh—"
And that just made her hell-bent on downing him this time. Her eyes never
left her foe. His dodge had sent him shooting toward the ground, so she turned
the tip of her broom down. As he skimmed the surface, pulling up—she was
right on top, swinging down.
"…Huh? Ah, wai—!"
Her opponent saw her a moment too late. A fast swing from above—with the
ground inches below. That could mean only one thing.
"Aughhhhh!"
And the instant her club downed her foe—before her lay an unavoidable
obstacle. The ground itself, leaving her no room to maneuver.
"Hahhhhhhh!"
The tip of her broom brushed the grass. As it did, she yanked up hard,
skimming the surface, the wind shaking the grass in her wake. The sheer force
of the maneuver scrambled her guts, and her broom bucked, barely under her
control. She forced all that aside, trying to ascend again.
" !"
But then it all caught up with her. Pulling up on the tip had lowered the base
of the broom, and it caught a bump on the ground. She'd barely been
maintaining her balance, and this was a fatal blow; she tried to compensate
with a forward lean, but that just sent her into a vertical spin. No longer in any
position to catch herself, the ground came at her—
"Elletardus! You're good."
Morgan had been waiting right in her path, a spell and his burly arms there to
catch Ashbury.
"You never defy my predictions. Absolutely classic too-deep pursuit, there."
"…Can it, asshole."
Held tight in his arms, she spat venom and punched his chest. Her catcher
didn't even flinch; he just flashed his pearly whites.
"It kills me to admit it. I couldn't for a long time," Ashbury said, pulling her
gaze from the past back to the present. Looking her own weakness in the face
was akin to poking a finger in an open wound. "But since he disappeared, I've
been afraid to go all out. I can feel the brakes inside me as I hit the higher
speeds. I don't want to go beyond… And ugh, I just can't stand that."
Ashbury's hands mussed her hair in irritation.
Watching her closely, Nanao said, "…You can't ask him to come back?"
"He went down to the labyrinth two years ago. Hasn't been seen since. Given
what he was researching, odds are he was consumed by the spell a while back.
Bet we'll see his coffin in the joint funeral next year."
Nanao said nothing. That was how Kimberly operated. She'd learned that
truth her first year here.
"Even if he is alive—no way I'm putting my life in his hands again."
She snorted once and said nothing more. A silence settled over them.
Eventually Ashbury broke it.
"…I've talked too much. Don't just listen—share something of your own.
What lies ahead of you?"
"My path in life?"
"Yeah. If you wanna live by the broom, you'd better set your goals early. Try
to make it as a pro broomsport athlete or be an ace flier in aerial combat—
you'd shine in either role. Only difference is you're either downing people or
beasts."
The moment the focus shifted away from herself, Ashbury's lips loosened. She
prattled on about which pro teams would fit, how strong the player base was,
which coaches she liked or couldn't stand…
A ton of specialized knowledge. All presented as options for Nanao's future—
yet, to the samurai's ears, it sounded like someone else's life. Nothing that far
off felt real. She could manage a few days ahead—but Nanao still struggled to
picture the distant future.
"Talk to Dustin, if you're curious. He'll be more than happy to help. He's been
itching to step in; I can tell."
Ashbury had an idea what was going through Nanao's head but grinned at her
anyway. Nanao nodded, appreciating less the specific advice than the kindness
the older girl had shown.
After classes that same day, the usual six friends gathered in the Fellowship
for dinner.
Mid-meal, Guy paused his fork. "Been meaning to ask, Nanao," he began,
glancing across the table.
"Mm?" Nanao said, not used to this gravity from Guy. "Something on your
mind, Guy?"
"Kinda, yeah. What's up with Ashbury? You know, the Blue Swallows' ace. You
and her went at it your first match, but she hasn't been playing much lately."
In Nanao's mind, Ashbury wasn't nearly such a distant memory, having talked
with her just hours before.
"I spoke to her this very morn," Nanao said. "She's distanced herself from
broom wars, devoting herself to speed training."
"Oh, going for time attack? How's that working out?" Guy pressed for more
information.
But the samurai just crossed her arms, eyes downcast.
"A rare sight," Chela cut in, surprised. "Nanao at a loss for words."
"Hrm. 'Tis less that I know not what to say but how much I should."
She was silenced by discretion and decorum. The Blue Swallows' ace did not
often confide in others—and that knowledge made Nanao reluctant to relay
their conversation. Nanao was magnificently candid, but she knew where to
draw the line.
And that meant Guy couldn't exactly pry any further. Seeing their interaction
at a standstill, Pete offered a helping hand.
"…He's not asking out of idle curiosity. Guy, Katie—we should share our side
of things."
Pete glanced at both of them in turn and got nods back. With that, he
launched into an explanation.
He started with the magical beasts attacking them on the labyrinth's second
layer and how Guy had fallen off the irminsul. How an upperclassman named
Morgan had stepped in to save him.
Oliver had kept silent this whole time, but his surprise was clear.
"Sounds like you had quite an adventure."
"Yeah, I know. I suck. But this guy was asking about the Blue Swallows' ace.
He kinda saved my life and all, so I figured I should see what was up. He said he
still swings by the second layer on the regular, so I'd like to give him an Ashbury
update if I run into him again."
"Please do!" Nanao said, leaning across the table. Everyone stared at her,
surprised. She looked grave. "Ashbury spoke to me about her old catcher. I
imagine the man you met was one and the same. If he still lives, then I should
like to reunite them."
Nanao spoke with passion, but Guy folded his arms, frowning. He
remembered what else Morgan had said.
"I'm actually not gonna get better. Don't have much time left."
"This inferno's a real ravager. Gah-ha! I was pretty sure I could control it, but
no such luck."
"I agree, but like we said, Morgan can't leave the labyrinth. Easier said than
done."
He turned to Oliver and Chela, hoping their knowledge could offer a solution.
They exchanged glances and took turns replying.
"No use in us worrying about the particulars. We should start by telling each
of them the facts."
"Precisely. Nanao, you talk to Ashbury. As for Morgan—Guy, Katie, Pete. If
any of you find him again, fill him in."
"Will do."
"We owe him for saving Guy!"
"Always meant to."
All three nodded. But Oliver had a different concern.
"Glad to hear it," he said. "Are you sure you guys can handle the second layer,
though?"
All three smiles froze. Katie and Pete both stared at their hands, their voices
getting much smaller.
"…We still haven't made it over the irminsul…"
"…We got as far as the eighth marker. We're practically almost there."
"Don't forget the descent, Pete. But, uh, I think we'll manage it sometime in
February."
"You can say that again! That giant tree is a huge hassle."
This last voice was far less familiar. Surprised, everyone turned toward it and
found the new transfer student—Yuri Leik—grinning back at them.
Oliver narrowed his eyes, making his suspicion evident. "If you wish to join a
conversation, Mr. Leik, manners dictate you say so first."
"Please, call me Yuri! And my bad—I caught ear of labyrinth chatter and
couldn't stop myself. I recently got roughed up by the second layer, as it so
happens! See?"
He held up his left arm and the cast on it. An unusual treatment for a mage's
injury—Oliver raised an eyebrow.
"A broken arm wouldn't leave you in one of those," he said. "Was it torn off?"
"You betcha! Bird wyvern beaks are sharp. I've gotta keep this thing on for the
next three days. It's really cramping my style!"
"You're already going that deep? Didn't you just get here?" Chela asked.
"Everyone said it was reckless! But it sounded like such fun, I couldn't stay
away! I'll be right back in when this arm heals up."
Yuri was clearly not letting this get him down. But at this juncture, he lowered
his voice and shot them a meaningful look.
"Still, it is a little nerve-racking on my own. Wish I had some friends to
accompany me. I mean that."
"Absolutely not."
"You're a long way from that, Mr. Leik."
Oliver and Chela spoke on top of each other, and Yuri staggered backward as
if he'd been hit by a truck.
"Harsh! But fair enough. See you in the depths! Later!"
He didn't press his luck. Yuri beat a retreat, waving his bandaged arm. Pretty
sure that wasn't good for the severed limb, Oliver glanced at the next table
over.
"Rossi, what do you make of him?"
"…I 'ave nothing to do with any of this. Why drag me into things, eh?"
The Ytallian-accented boy had been swirling pasta around his fork.
"You two made an equally shady first impression," Oliver said.
"And you 'ave grown far too inclined to speak your mind!"
Despite his grumbling, Rossi turned toward them. He kept an eye on Yuri's
back as the transfer student left the Fellowship.
"I 'ate to disappoint," Rossi said, snorting. "But your catch-a-thief strategy will
get you nowhere. Even I find 'im sinister."
"…Specifically?" Chela asked.
Rossi put his fingers to one of his eyelids, pulling his eye wide open. "'is eyes,
they are unsettling. Like a child peering into an ant'ill."
He frowned after the departing stranger.
"I 'ave a feeling I could punch 'im in the nose, and 'is smile would not waver.
And I find that honestly unnerving."
Having said his piece, Rossi turned back to his meal. Oliver frowned, chin in
hand.
"…Helpful. Appreciate it, Rossi."
"You're welcome. Just remember we 'ave an appointment at seven two days
'ence."
"I'll be there," Oliver said, turning back to his own table.
Guy leaned in, whispering, "…Making a new friend?"
"Well…you fight a man once a week, you start to find some common ground."
"…Mm, I envy that," Nanao said, pursing her lips. She would love to spar with
Oliver as Rossi was, but the risks were too great.
Chela gave her a pat on the back—and then yet another outside voice broke
in.
"Oh, there you are. Everyone's here! Mind if I join you?"
"Er, Ms. Miligan?"
A witch with hair obscuring one eye was approaching their table. Vera
Miligan.
Katie blinked in surprise, but Chela was already pulling up a chair.
"Please have a seat. We don't often see you in the Fellowship."
"Thanks. I've found a reason to ensure I'm better known around the campus."
"What reason?" Katie asked, picking up on the loaded phrasing.
Seeing the curious looks on the six friends' faces, Miligan took a sip of the tea
Chela had handed her and nodded.
"Let me start from the top," she said. "Everyone's buzzing about the missing
teachers, but let's not forget the more pressing issue for the students here.
Anyone know what I mean?"
Katie, Guy, Pete, and Nanao all looked lost. The remaining two caught her
drift and frowned.
"That's right, Oliver, Chela," Miligan said. She grinned. "It's time for—"
"We've gotta settle the problem of Godfrey's successor."
Meanwhile, behind a door emblazoned with the imposing words CAMPUS WATCH
HEADQUARTERS, the current members of the Kimberly Student Council were in
session.
All sides of the square table were filled up. From veteran upperclassmen to
fresh recruits, from frontline fighters to behind-the-scenes support—everyone
was here. And that showed how important this decision was.
The speaker sat to the left of the president's seat, a sign of her own status
here. A sixth-year girl named Lesedi Ingwe.
"Those of us in the sixth year will be graduating next year. Given the time
needed for the handover, we've got less than a year left. Eager beavers will
already be campaigning."
"…Which means we need to choose who to back."
Alvin Godfrey sat between his two closest comrades. Purgatory himself, the
current student body president. He had a grim look on his face, his hands folded
—and the mood in the room was equally downbeat.
"Why the long faces?!" said a cheery voice to his right. "I'm the obvious
choice!"
"Shut it, toxic gasser!" Lesedi roared, punching the table. "We've got long
faces 'cause we know we can't run you!"
The blond fifth-year at Godfrey's right—Tim Linton—looked rather surprised.
"…Tim," Godfrey said reluctantly. "I appreciate your desire to succeed me.
Really, I do—"
"Don't mince words, Godfrey! Give it to him straight. Nobody likes the little
shit!"
Lesedi took her own advice, and there was a murmur of agreement from the
room.
"It's just, everyone has their fortes, Tim," Godfrey added.
"And everyone remembers the time you poisoned the entire Fellowship,"
Lesedi growled. "If it weren't for that incident, we might have a chance of
pushing you through, but…"
Every member present nodded, wincing. Trying to shake off the mood, an
older student clapped their hands.
"But hey, that's in the past. No use yelling at Tim now. We'll just have to find
a decent candidate from the fourth-or fifth-years. Not me, though."
"Or me…"
"Honestly, I don't think I even could."
Half the members present—primarily back-line members—quickly ruled
themselves out. Predictable but nonetheless cause for Lesedi's headache.
"…Please, people. We're not saying you need to be Purgatory II. Just keep the
Campus Watch going as the new president—"
"Yeah, but that's the thing."
"We will be compared. Constantly."
"Kimberly isn't exactly peaceful as it is."
"You need substantial might. You've gotta be in the top third of the
upperclassmen, at least."
An accurate analysis. As much as Lesedi wanted to argue otherwise, she and
Godfrey knew better. Everyone bowing out was not doing so out of fear but
from a rational assessment of their own prowess.
Still, that wasn't everyone. A few hands went up—about half the remaining
members.
"…I really don't think I'm meant for it, but if there's nobody else…I could try?"
"Same here. Godfrey got things moving in the right direction. I don't want to
see that fizzle out."
"…Me neither!"
Godfrey looked the volunteers over, smiling.
"Thanks. We appreciate it," he said.
"Hmm… I figured as much, but they're all front liners," Lesedi muttered. She
was stroking her chin.
All the volunteers had served on the Watch's vanguard. They'd been through
one battle after another. Absolutely worth relying on in a fight—but their
strengths leaned hard that way. Not many of them had a mind for politics.
Godfrey himself had never been a political mastermind but had the charisma
and leadership skills to make up for that.
"They're better than Tim, but none of these options is exactly a sure thing.
Let's change tactics. Who are we expecting to run who isn't part of the current
council?"
Sensing they were at an impasse, Lesedi turned to other matters. A girl across
from her pulled out some documents: a list with several student names.
"It goes without saying, but the former student council faction will be
nominating several candidates. They're really gunning for it."
"Of course they are," Godfrey said with a nod. "They've been out of power for
three years and want it back."
Wincing at the tension, the student with the list looked for better news. "Um,
but there are candidates with positions closer to ours. Especially viable ones
include—"
"—Vera Miligan, next student body president. Has a ring to it, yes?"
The Snake-Eyed Witch flashed an intrepid grin. All eyes widened.
"…Um, you mean…?"
"You're gonna run?"
"Yes. I thought it might be interesting, running for Kimberly student body
president on a pro–civil rights platform."
Miligan took another sip of tea. Oliver and Chela fell silent, considering her
plan.
"…If the Godfrey camp doesn't have a clear successor, the election could be a
real free-for-all."
"And you mean to take advantage of that? Teaming up with the current
council?"
"I knew you two would get it. Exactly. With the current spread, the votes
could well swing my way."
Oliver nodded. Without an obvious candidate, elections might end up
snatched away by a dark horse. Kimberly was no exception. Miligan was likely
one of several candidates making a similar play.
"That said, I'm not hell-bent on winning no matter the cost. It's more that I
don't want the current student council displaced. I rather like Kimberly as it is
and am loath to see it revert to pre-Godfrey days."
"…Was it that bad?"
"Mm. In case you weren't aware, the Kimberly elections give the student
body president the power to assemble a council. Who is assigned to what role is
entirely up to that president, so a single election could well replace everybody.
As Godfrey himself did when he founded the Campus Watch," Miligan
explained. "I've known the current core members since they took over, ever
since they were simply a neighborhood watch with no real authority. You can
imagine why I'd want to have their backs now."
Miligan was looking for sympathy. It might not be a complete fabrication, but
none of the six friends was dumb enough to think that was her real reason for
running. She definitely had goals of her own. The question was—what did that
mean to them?
Katie had suffered more than any of them at Miligan's hands. There was a
long, weighty silence, an internal struggle like holding your face in a basin of
cold water, and at last Katie croaked out her answer.
"......…You have…my support."
"Thank you, Katie. I hoped you would say that."
Miligan reached out both hands, tenderly rumpling that curly hair. Then she
turned her eyes to the others.
"If the need arises, I can redirect my votes to the current student council's
candidate. Depending on how the election is going, I may end up having their
votes flow to me. That's how alliances work."
Oliver knew this was true. From what he'd heard, Miligan was currently
expecting nothing more than a decent shot if the election turned her way. She
didn't see herself as any more viable than the other candidates. And that meant
she was unlikely to be too caught up in winning. There were substantial benefits
to having whoever was elected owe you.
But while Oliver considered her motives carefully, Guy raised a hand.
"Question for ya."
"Naturally. Ask anything you'd like, Guy."
"Gotcha. The election's next year, so anyone chosen would take over then.
But you'd be a sixth-year, so even if you're elected president, your term would
end the year after when you graduate. Does that mean there'd be another
election?"
"Ah, I see. A technical question. Basically, no, there wouldn't be. The
presidential term is a hard three years. If the president graduates during that
time, they name a successor at will, who serves out the remainder of the
president's term. Which means anyone from the fourth-through sixth-years can
run. Seventh-years are disqualified, though."
"Okay, that makes sense. So you'd graduate halfway through your term, but
anyone you choose could take over."
"In theory, yes…but I'd likely find myself beholden to the opinions of others.
Even if I do manage to claim the presidency, Godfrey's faction would be heavily
involved. At best, I could make a strong push for a successor. Katie, what say
you? You'd be a fifth-year by the time I graduate."
"Stop! My head's about to explode! I can't afford to think about anything else
right now!"
Katie had both hands over her ears. Miligan smiled at her and turned back to
the others once more.
"I believe I do have some measure of popularity. Whether I'm elected or not, I
have no intention of being a mere fringe candidate. Once I commit, I'm all in,"
Miligan told them. "And that's where you come in. Your group stands out from
the underclassman crowd, and your voices will influence the decisions of
students in your year or below. I'm not asking for anything outrageous, simply
that you make it public knowledge that Vera Miligan has your vote. That alone
could turn the tide."
Her position made clear, she now sought direct support. Everyone exchanged
glances.
"I won't force you into it," Miligan added. "I'm sure Godfrey has helped you
all, and if there's someone from the current council camp you'd like to back, do
so. Just remember what I've said: A vote for me counts as a vote for them. Bear
that in mind."
And with that, the Snake-Eyed Witch rose to her feet.
"That's my piece. Now I'm going to make the rounds and ensure some more
kids know who I am."
Miligan turned and left the table. The group watched her go, and eventually,
Pete broke the silence.
"…I'm gonna vote for her. There's nobody else I'm particularly enthused
about. And given what she did for us during the Salvadori incident…I can't really
blow her off."
"I didn't even get to tag along then…so I guess I'm in the same position," Guy
said.
"I see no reason to refuse," Nanao proclaimed. "Ms. Miligan has my vote as
well."
Chela took note of all this and considered the matter. "…It's hard to just
forget about her kidnapping Katie. But she has done a lot to make up for it. And
Katie herself has put it behind her. Still…I think I want to see how the field is
stacking up before making a decision."
Her eyes turned toward Oliver.
He thought a moment longer, then spoke with caution. "…Same here. There's
a few things I'd like to check on first."
Their choices here could transform the school, and he wasn't in a position to
make that decision lightly. Chela nodded her agreement and reached for her
now-cold tea.
"…But if the election's going to be a free-for-all, I'm curious who else will
throw their hats in."
Like Miligan had explained, elections at Kimberly chose a single president—
and that president picked the council. No matter the role, the people chosen
would all be from that candidate's faction.
Naturally, that meant nobody ran for the office without some level of
support. The vast majority of candidates had a sizable crowd of supporters—
and once elected, that crowd would become the new council. Godfrey had
pulled members of his old neighborhood watch—Tim Linton, Lesedi Ingwe, and
the late Carlos Whitrow. All people who'd been with him from the start.
But the opposite was equally true. Groups gave rise to connections, and even
if they lost control of the council itself, the ties among members were not easily
lost. In other words—those students involved with the previous student council
were still around. And they were looking for a comeback.
The labyrinth's first layer—the quiet, wandering path. A layer packed with
unofficial meeting spots for students of all ages. The comforting, polished sound
of a shaker filled one of these secret rooms.
"…And done," a slender man said, pouring the cocktail into three glasses. "A
toast to the start of war—is it too early to celebrate our victory?"
He threw the very full glasses across the room like darts. The drinks spun
through the air, spilling not a drop, landing neatly in the hands of their targets.
"We've spent years planning for this," said a woman leaning against the wall.
"Nothing but total victory is even worth considering."
She had pale skin, even by the standards of Yelgland natives. Coupled with
her long, pointed ears, she was unmistakably an elf.
The slender man set the shaker down, raising a brow. "I thought three years
were but the passing of the wind to your kind."
"I'm impatient. That's why I left the forest. Don't make me say it again,
Barman."
The elf grinned and knocked back the contents of her glass. She licked her
lips, savoring the burning of the liquor in her throat and letting it intoxicate her,
then conquering that feeling. Students with a taste for spirits had deemed the
Barman's work worth ten thousand belc a glass for good reason.
"Watch me trample all competition," a fussy-looking male said. "Not only
Godfrey's would-be heir but all the other bric-a-brac."
He set his drink down untouched, kneeling before the upperclassman seated
at the back of the room. The man so honored nodded quietly, his long blond
hair swaying. He was tall, with strong, handsome features, and half his face was
covered with red scars from an old burn. His once-flawless visage now held an
unsettling intensity.
"Make it so. This shall be the final year this campus lies in Purgatory's hands,"
the blond man said. "We shall declare your candidacy. And with it, the
restoration of the old ways. Let all voices cry out—we alone are fit to be the
Kimberly Student Council!"
The man's scarred beauty twisted as he spoke. His name—Leoncio Echevalria.
Alvin Godfrey's primary opponent in the previous election.
"You want to see Noll spitting blood, writhing in agony?"
A stabbing pain in her chest. Gwyn's words echoed through her mind, forcing
her to confront her own shortcomings.
"There is nothing you can do here."
That much, she'd known from the start. Everything seemed to remind her of
that fact—of how the lord she'd sworn to protect with her life fought against
the old man, burning himself as fuel.
She could still see it: inexhaustible admiration for his late mother paired with
self-loathing for how little he resembled her. Those volatile emotions clawing
their way out of him. How could so much adoration, pain, conflict, and
consternation fit inside one boy?
She'd fallen into a trance, unable to tear her eyes away. Once the machine
god appeared and the soul merge began, there wasn't a single thing a covert
operative could do. And that realization made her feel like a feeble, worthless
puppet.
She wished to ease his pain.
To heal his suffering.
To be far, far closer to his heart.
Yet, the means to that eluded her. Hide, peek, and ambush. Her role had
taught her those skills and nothing more. She'd learned that nothing else was
needed, that everything else must be left behind.
And that left her wanting to say something to him, but she was unable to find
the words.
"—sa? Um, Teresa?"
In a lounge filled with chattering underclassmen, a girl was worrying about
her friend.
Teresa had been staring fixedly at space, not moving a muscle. Rita Appleton
was watching her carefully, fretting. When Teresa still failed to respond, the boy
in the seat across from her—Dean—slapped the table.
"Hey! Rita's talking to you!" he snarled.
At last, Teresa's eyes snapped into focus. She gave Dean a look like one might
regard a pebble in one's path and then turned to Rita.
"…I didn't notice. Did you need something?"
"N-not need, really, but…you're being extra quiet. Is something wrong?"
Rita appeared scared to even ask, but Teresa just looked away.
"Not really. And if there was, I wouldn't talk to any of you about it."
Without thinking, she reached for the cup in front of her and took a sip. When
she tried to swallow, her throat spasmed, and she spat tea everywhere.
"T-Teresa?!" Rita yelped.
"Finally gotcha!" Dean cried, pumping a fist.
Teresa spluttered a few moments longer, then looked up, her lips red and
swollen.
"…What is this?" she asked.
"Tea. With a secret ingredient."
Dean dangled a little vial by the side of his head. Inside was essence of angry
radish. As delighted as he was by the success of the prank, his smile faded fast.
"You'd normally see right through a trick like this. But today, you straight-up
chugged it. That's not like you at all. Your mind must be somewhere else
entirely."
"I don't…know what you mean. Do you have a death wish?"
There was undeniable hostility in her eyes. When he saw that, Peter Cornish
quickly poked his friend in his side.
"D-Dean! You'd better say sorr—"
"Hell no. I finally got one in."
Not only was Dean not backing down, he got up and moved right into Teresa's
face. There was a lot of pent-up anger and frustration involved, and neither Rita
nor Peter dared intervene.
"Take a hint," Dean said. "Ever since you mocked me in our first class, I've
been trying to start this fight."
"..."
"I don't care if you think less of me. That pisses me off, but I know full well I'm
totally outclassed here. What I can't stand is how you don't even notice us. Not
me, not Peter, and not even Rita, no matter how much she looks after you."
He ground his teeth together—then spun on his heel, tossing the next words
over his shoulder.
"I ain't one to stand around bitching. Neither are you! Let's take this outside."
"..."
He stalked off, and a few moments later, Teresa shot out of her seat, heading
after him. Rita and Peter trailed behind.
By the time the four of them reached the gardens outside, quite a crowd had
picked up on the front pair's scowls. It was clear at a glance where this was
heading, and an audience was gathering.
"Oh, first-years fighting?"
"A duel, huh? I'll ref it!"
To the older students, this was less a spectacle than an obligation. The
upperclassmen had stepped in to watch over their fights, and they were doing
the same. A school tradition passed down through the years.
Out on the grass, Dean turned to face Teresa, muttering, "Seriously, nobody's
coming to stop us? That's Kimberly for you."
He was half impressed and half appalled. But that thought soon faded away.
He drew his athame, pointing the sharp end at her. Teresa blinked, then
belatedly drew her own. Both chanted a dulling spell. If they skipped that part,
the older kids would definitely intervene.
"Y-you don't have to…!" Rita warbled, unable to bear it.
Peter just put a hand on her shoulder. "Watch closely. Once Dean gets like
this, there's no stopping him."
"But…!"
"I figured he and Teresa would go at it eventually."
She hadn't expected Peter to take this in stride. And he had a point—Rita had
certainly been well aware of the friction between her two friends. She'd also
been worried it would explode one day. Still…
"But…Dean can't win," Rita whispered.
She'd gone so far as to envision the fight's outcome.
"Maybe not," Peter said, looking tense. "Still, though…I have faith in him."
His voice didn't waver. This faith was earned. And as they watched, Dean
finished casting the dulling spell, raised his left hand, and punched himself in
the nose.
"Er…?!"
"Don't worry. That's how he does it."
Peter made that sound reassuring. Dean was letting blood drip from his nose
onto the grass at his feet.
"Nosebleeds clear his head."
As if proving that, the stance he struck was legitimate. A Lanoff high stance
with clear indications he'd originally been self-taught.
"I'm ready," he said, his voice calm. "You?"
"…Anytime."
Teresa was barely in a stance at all. She didn't rate her opponent high enough
to even bother. And Dean's athame shot out, trying to overturn that dismissal.
"Huff…!"
There was a quiet tink as Teresa's blade deflected it. They'd started at onestep, one-spell distance. Neither had made any prior demands on the rules, so it
defaulted to all-inclusive—incantations allowed. But neither seemed inclined to
step back to that range for the simple reason that neither wanted to be the first
to back down.
"…Haaah…!"
Yet, Dean's bladework showed an eerie calm. He wasn't letting his temper get
the best of him and lunging too far in or being too tentative; he was keeping up
the pressure from above, watching for an opening. Teresa was fending him off
without difficulty but also not taking the offense herself. The crowd hadn't
expected such a quiet duel between two first-years, and they began discussing
it among themselves.
"Hmm, they've both got moves."
"The boy's swings are a bit too wild still."
"Snap decisions, bold when they need to be."
"The girl's far more skilled, but her heart's not in it."
Ten ripostes in, and anyone with a good eye would have a read on the
duelists. Rita looked genuinely surprised.
"Since when can Dean fight like this?"
This was heartfelt. She'd been convinced Teresa would down him in seconds.
Teresa was definitely being unusually passive, which worked in Dean's favor,
but Dean's own skills left Rita wide-eyed. He was like a totally different person
from the hothead she knew.
"…Rita, have you heard of the Warren Peak Tragedy? It's been five years now,
but…"
Rita hadn't expected Peter to bring that up in the middle of a fight. She
blinked at him. But the name sounded familiar, and she soon dug up the
memory.
"…I do. It was in the papers. A wild griffin snatched a bunch of children from a
village, and several perished before it was taken down."
"Yeah. Nineteen kids were taken. The griffin killed and ate seventeen of
them."
Peter's voice was grim. That was a tragic end, even by animal-attack
standards. And just as Rita was starting to wonder how this was relevant…
"The two survivors…were me, and Dean."
She stopped breathing. In front of her, the fighters hit their twentieth
exchange, neither finding a decisive opening, both still locked in the one-step,
one-spell range.
"You really are way off your game. I can feel it."
Dean's voice was a low growl. He'd known the gap in their abilities from the
start. The bloodletting had cleared his mind, and he was fighting passably, but
there were also things he could see because he was calm. For instance—how
she could have cut his head off ten times by now if she felt like it.
"What's eating you, anyway? Does it really matter more than kicking my ass?"
"..."
Teresa wasn't talking, wasn't letting her face show any emotion, but inside,
she was completely at a loss. She couldn't make up her mind what outcome she
was even hoping for.
She had chances to get her blade to his throat or pierce above his heart with
the tip. But she worried if she went for those, she'd betray the assassin training
drilled into her. She had to fend off Dean Travers within the parameters of a
first-year's skill, in a fair fight. And those constraints meant less than a tenth of
her real abilities were on offer.
On top of that, there was the question of her own motivation. If simply
winning would satisfy her, she'd have done it already. But that wasn't it. This
irritation wasn't going anywhere, even if she shucked off the dulling spell and
chopped his head off. She had no clue how to release this emotion, and
because of that…
"Okay, lemme guess. I bet…it's that older boy you dote on. Did he turn on ya?
Was he all like, You're such a downer! Never show your face here again!"
The upshot: For a second, she forgot her worries.
She stopped thinking. She balled her left fist and slammed it into his chin.
"Gah…!"
The blow caught him by surprise, and he reeled backward. Teresa followed it
with a toe kick to his abdomen, and when he fell to his knees, she flung herself
at him. As the audience gaped, her athame went flying, and she unleashed a
barrage of blows to his face.
"Oh… Ohhh…!"
Dean did his best to ward them off, using his arms as a shield, watching her
through the gap. He had never seen her look like this. Rage and frustration,
shame and disappointment, all crumpled up and mixed together. Like she was
shouting something, like she was about to burst into tears—her expressionless
mask was completely gone. This was the face of an actual person.
"…Ha-ha. See, you can do emotions!"
Even as she hit him again, he found himself grinning. This was what he'd been
after. It all made sense. So he dropped his own athame and punched her right
back. Blood started gushing from her nose.
This was no longer a duel. No techniques or skills involved. Just a children's
brawl, both swinging fists fueled by rage and tenacity. The fistfight lasted a
good five minutes, ending when yet another blow to his chin finally knocked
Dean down. Teresa jumped right on top of him, trying to hit him more, but that
was when the ref stepped in and pinned her arms behind her back.
"Okay, okay, that's enough! The girl wins!"
"Um, hmm. The back half was a total shit show."
"Ha-ha! C'mon, it was very first-year."
With the fight over, the crowd began to shuffle off. The ref was gradually
talking Teresa down, and her head got level enough to take in the scene. Dean
was on the ground, his face swollen up—and judging by how Teresa's eyes
barely opened, she likely wasn't in any better shape. Meanwhile, off to the side
—their other two friends appeared to be at a loss for words.
"…Teresa…," Rita managed, cautiously approaching her friend. Teresa
instantly turned tail and fled, gone before anyone could say another word.
"And there she goes… Uh, Dean, you alive?"
"…Ugh…gah…"
There was a faint groan from the ground. Peter winced and knelt down.
"Yeah, that chin's broken. Better get you to the infirmary. Rita, help me carry
him."
"Uh, okay…"
Rita hustled over, and they each got a shoulder under his arms, staggering off
toward the school building.
That evening, Oliver was on the first layer of the labyrinth, quietly heading
toward his cousins' lair. The stony paths changed on a daily basis, but he'd been
making this trip long enough to recognize the patterns. Choosing branches that
would help him avoid traps, beasts, and other students, he could now make
smooth, steady progress.
Twenty minutes in, he stopped.
"I know you're there, Ms. Carste," he called out.
His voice echoed through the hall, returning only silence. He waited, not
moving.
"…If you don't want to show yourself, I won't insist."
He sighed and took a step forward. The air behind him rippled.
"…I'm here."
Oliver turned to find his covert operative kneeling at his feet. Her head was
much further down than usual, preventing him from seeing her face. He could
imagine why.
"Look at me."
"..."
If her lord ordered it, Teresa could not refuse. She reluctantly lifted her head.
Her cheeks, forehead, and eyes—every part of her face was covered in painful
bruises.
"Quite a beating," Oliver said, grimacing. "That's all from Mr. Travers, I
assume?"
As he spoke, he gently ran his fingers down her cheek. Teresa had clearly
done her best to patch it up. With her healing skills, however, it would take
more than a few hours to eliminate that kind of swelling. Skilled healers could
leave no trace at all, but this girl hadn't been trained for that.
"I'm aware you were fighting with your hands tied, but even so…your
classmates are better than you thought, right?"
He spoke softly, drawing his white wand and bringing it to her face. He
chanted a spell and carefully eliminated the injuries, leaving no detail
untouched. Teresa silently let him get to work but eventually asked, "…You're
not going to reprimand me?"
She sounded confused.
"I am not. I was in far more fights my first year."
Clearly, he was still kicking himself for some of those. He gave her face one
last check. This whole time, she'd kept her eyes screwed tightly shut, as if she
didn't dare meet his gaze.
"But I was surprised to hear you went at it. You've always ignored the bait
and walked away before. What's going on?" he asked.
This question took her a long time to answer. At last, her voice quivering, she
managed, "I owe you…an apology."
"An apology…? For what?"
"When the target broke through the barrier—I failed to finish him off."
Her voice broke from the remorse. It caught Oliver unguarded, and he
winced.
"Of all the— That's nothing to be ashamed of. Quite the opposite, actually.
Landing a deep cut on him made all the difference. No one else could have
done it. You should be proud."
Oliver lavished praise, but Teresa was shaking her head, rejecting it
emphatically. Her feelings on that were clearly set in stone.
"If I had finished him there, we'd have lost far less."
"All of us could say the same. It's not on you."
He spoke with force this time. This had been his plan, and no one bore more
responsibility for the outcome. He was not putting one iota of that on her.
"But I get why you feel that way. Eleven deaths. Eleven of us gone. Under my
orders, to slay my enemy."
He remembered each face that had perished for his desire. The days he'd
spent with them, the words they'd exchanged echoing through his mind.
Oliver's hands grasped Teresa's shoulders, so grateful for her warmth that he
could cry.
"And that's why it's such a relief…that you're still here."
He let that relief permeate his voice.
You being here, alive—that's what matters. Not what you did or didn't do.
Only your survival.
And before his very eyes—large tears started spilling down the girl's cheeks.
"?!"
Shock took his breath away. It was as if the dams on Teresa's tear ducts had
broken. Nothing in her previous behavior would have suggested this was even
possible, and Oliver was at a loss.
"Wh-what's this, Ms. Carste? Why…are you crying…?"
He could not offer solace when he didn't know the cause. He listened closely,
trying to ascertain the source of the girl's despair from between her sobs.
"…It's…my role to…serve you. But I…"
Her words came in fits and gasps. Pain she could not share, suffering that lay
beyond her means—and that had been too much to bear.
"…I couldn't…do anything… I couldn't ease any of it… Your pain, your
worries…your torment…"
From that point on, she managed nothing else with meaning, simply wailing
like a lost child. Oliver found his arms around her, her body held close against
his—a body so much smaller than he had imagined.
"You helped," he said. "This here—this helped, Teresa."
For the first time, he spoke her name. He'd kept her at arm's length, but that
impulse vanished without a trace.
"I should have realized. When you didn't show yourself right away—this was
why."
If only he'd been more perceptive. Instead, he'd overlooked the intensity of
her feelings until she put them into words, allowing her to stew in this anguish.
"…Please don't let that prey on you. My pain and suffering—those are things I
earned. All these indelible sins one on top of the other… Having you serve me is
but one of those sins."
He did not deserve her concern. To Oliver, this girl and her role were yet
another transgression. But that was merely his perspective. If the vassals
staking their lives on his cause had feelings for him—
"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked. "I would like…to make amends.
To honor your efforts and feelings."
She was already in his arms, but he felt the need to inquire. He entreated her
to ask something of him. Her feelings had grown without his knowledge; he had
been ignorant of her suffering, and only with her tears did awareness dawn. He
didn't wish for their connection to end with that.
"...h..."
"Mm?"
Her answer was lost in a sob, but his ears caught a fragment of a word. And as
if atoning for his previous oversight, this time, he could sense her desire.
"…Like this?"
One hand beneath her knees, the other around her back, Oliver gently lifted
her up. She was achingly light. Teresa's slender arms wrapped around his neck,
pulling herself closer, her nose burying itself in his shoulder. Like a child clinging
to a parent.
"Oh," he said. "You just needed a hug."
" !"
She pinched his shoulder in protest. He smiled and patted her back.
"Didn't mean to ruin it. Stay like that as long as you need," he said. "…Let's go
for a stroll. That's what I'm in the mood for."
With Teresa in his arms, he faced front and resumed his trek. He didn't care if
anyone saw them. If a child cried, you held them until they were done. No one
in this world could possibly argue otherwise.
*
They were still like that when he reached his cousins' atelier.
"...…"
"I told her to take as long as she needed. Let her have this one, Gwyn."
His brother had certainly given them a piercing glare, but he took that in
stride. He carried Teresa over to his usual chair and settled into it. She didn't
budge. He'd assumed she'd let go once they got here, but clearly not. Seeing
the look of resignation on his face, Shannon smiled.
"That's good. Teresa…wanted this. For…a long time."
Teresa didn't respond to that, either, but her ears turned red—clearly caught
between the desire to remain in this embrace and the shame of having
everyone looking.
"…Is that true, Teresa?" Oliver asked, stroking her ear with one finger. She
jumped and then pinched his shoulder hard. "Sorry, sorry," he said.
Then he managed to gather himself, glancing at Gwyn.
"We need to talk about the student body president. Who do we want
winning?"
Given the state of the school, this was a pressing concern. Gwyn was busy
working on his viola but spoke as he worked.
"It's more who do we not want winning."
"Namely…?"
"Under Godfrey, Kimberly has been much more favorable to our operations.
Primarily because we've maintained cordial relations with his camp. But if we
revert to the previous leadership, that all changes. We have comrades on their
side, too…but since we've been openly supporting Godfrey for a while, I can't
say we have much influence in the previous council faction."
"So we're inclined to back the Campus Watch's candidate?"
"Yes, but if that looks doomed, we'll have to push someone who leans
Godfrey's way. We're planning on having a few comrades run as well. Some of
them are already on the current council."
Gwyn's explanation all made sense. Oliver thought for a moment, hesitating,
then asked, "…No plans to place it entirely under our control?"
He owed Godfrey and was therefore reluctant to wrest power from him, but
Purgatory, too, was a lord—one with a powerful following. And if his power
could be theirs, the attempt might be worth considering. That sentiment fueled
the question.
"We've certainly thought about it. But it puts us in the limelight. Our strength
derives from staying hidden—nobody even realizes we're such a force to be
reckoned with. Slipping a few comrades in, we can do, but if we band together
and run the council ourselves, there's a risk of revealing our hand. We don't
want to give the faculty any leads."
A sound argument, and one that came as a relief. There was no need to
betray Godfrey's kindness or strength—at least, not yet.
"And one more thing—there's an investigation underway. We expected as
much, but the student body isn't exempt from the suspect list for the slain
instructors."
A new topic to consider. Oliver set his mind to it. They might be backing the
Godfrey camp in the election, but this fight was entirely their own.
"We can assume they'll place spies among the students. We won't allow them
to infiltrate our comrades—but make sure you're careful about associating with
anyone new."
"I always am. That said…"
Gwyn's comment had brought a shady face to Oliver's mind. From day one,
that boy had been suspicious—and not a faint suspicion but a clear and obvious
one.
"…is a second-year named Yuri Leik on your radar? He claimed to have
transferred in from a nonmagical school."
"I've been briefed. The timing alone makes him impossible to ignore, but if he
is a faculty spy, the means of injecting him is a tad too obvious. It could be
merely coincidence—or maybe that's the intent. I've yet to get my head around
it. We'll keep probing."
Oliver nodded. Mages residing in villages or towns often grew up with
ordinaries, and it wasn't unheard of for them to enroll in a magical school later
on. If they took Yuri at his word, then he was one of those. Calling that a
"transfer" was less common, but it could be he was just using language
common in nonmagical facilities or had simply decided "transfer" would be
easier to grasp than "late enrollment."
It was all highly unusual, but Oliver also felt that if this was a ploy, the faculty
would have hidden it better. Whatever the plan—or lack of one—was, Oliver
and the rest would just have to watch the boy carefully.
"While we can't ignore the election itself, our priority lies elsewhere. We
already have plans in place to turn the teaching staff against one another. I'll
need your double for a few days."
"Theo? Go right ahead. Who are we targeting specifically?" Oliver asked.
Gwyn's next words sent a chill down his spine.
"Vanessa Aldiss. The teacher with the loosest hold on her temper."