the hardest part

“The Archmage wants to see you.”

Six words no apprentice ever wants to hear, least of all mere days after their disaster of an aptitude exam. That they come from Nalfein’s mouth only makes them worse. Vizaeth’s throat tastes like acid—he threw up before his exam and he threw up after and he’s thrown up almost every day since. Pharaun hasn’t told him what he scored yet, only kissed him twice, fucked him once, and told him to be patient.

Being patient makes his skin crawl.

Nalfein pokes and prods with incessant, pointless questions all the way to the Archmage’s office. Vizaeth replies in monosyllables, and with every step they take his throat grows tighter, his legs weaker, his heart faster. Did his exam really go so poorly? Or maybe…maybe it’s nothing to do with the exam at all. Maybe someone finally put the administration functionary he killed back together enough to question him, or perhaps the spell he put on Kenafin didn’t take. House Kenafin isn’t that powerful, but House Thaezyr is nothing.

Rhylfein could have betrayed him, of course. That would be understandable, and no more than he deserves for letting someone else get involved. Especially someone so transparently determined to ruin his life.

Then, as they ascend the final staircase into the Archmage’s tower, real fear grips him. Veryan. Veryan could have exposed him, despite their agreement, despite how the Szarkai smiled to see Kenafin scurry into class, head ducked in a vain attempt to hide the patch over his missing eye. Now would be the perfect time, just when Vizaeth is poised to enter his final years, to gain the powers that mean something. And just what might the Archmage do, on learning what he’s done? What might the Archmage undo?

Panic claws at the inside of his skull and he finds himself clutching Nalfein’s arm in a desperate attempt to stay in this reality. He can’t walk into that office. He won’t come out again.

“Relax,” Nalfein murmurs. He raps on the door and offers Vizaeth a quick smile. “You’ve nothing to fear.”

The Archmage calls sharply for them to enter and for a moment Vizaeth is certain he’s going to pass out. But alas, no such fortune favours him, and so, with his fingers in a death-grip on Nalfein’s sleeve, he’s forced to follow the Master into the Archmage’s office.

It’s as intimidating as the last time he was here, and nearly as crowded. Gromph sits behind a stack of papers that Vizaeth knows must all bear his name. To the left of the desk is Master Zaurett, who instructs in necromancy, and who—aside from Pharaun—is the only person Vizaeth ever really wants to please. He’s furious, judging by the faint teal glow in his eyes. If anyone could have drawn life back into the man Vizaeth tore apart, it would be him. If anyone would believe Veryan’s tale of body-theft and murder, it would be him.

Standing to Gromph’s right is his only chance of salvation. The sight of Pharaun makes his thigh throb, where his unhealed wound is bound tight. Relief sinks through his chest—if Pharaun is here, everything will be alright.

“Thank you for meeting with me, apprentice,” the Archmage begins. “There are a few grade discrepancies I wanted to go over with you. I’m also quite alarmed at the results of your aptitude exam.”

He skipped breakfast, so why is his stomach churning? Vizaeth swallows the thin burn of rising bile as the Archmage continues.

“Just so we’re all on the same page—your final grades of last year would have qualified you for the four advanced classes required to enter your final decade in Sorcere. You received a six in enchantment and illusion, a seven in transmutation, and an eight in necromancy. Your aptitude exam, however, shows a very different story.” The Archmage fixes him with a hard look. “Now, I can understand you scoring lower on enchantment and illusion; as you know, those schools are more difficult in practice than in theory. But you received a zero in necromancy. This discrepancy could be grounds for expulsion.”

A zero. Defiance like a scream slams into howling despair and he can neither breathe nor think nor move. Expulsion. That’s it. He’s finished. Matron Yvael will have him killed for this, and what does that matter anyway when a zero how can I have a zero it’s not possible no no no.

“Masters Do’Urden and Zaurett have spoken on your behalf,” Gromph says, because apparently there is yet more of his life to rip out from under him. “Both have stated to me, privately, that they believe this judgement is unfair, and expected you in their classes this coming year. Master Zaurett has already praised the pre-work you turned in. Early, I might add.”

And now none of it matters. Vizaeth nods, can’t stop nodding. He twists his hands together, digging his nails into his knuckles.

“Master Mizzrym, on the other hand, vouches for his own judgement, and recommends you repeat the last five-year cycle.” What? “He also recommends you be deemed ineligible for future classes in necromancy and enchantment.”

A mistake. This has to be a mistake. But Pharaun doesn’t make mistakes, which means the only thing wrong here is him. He meets Pharaun’s gaze and there’s something in his eyes, some undecipherable gleam to the crimson—he’s missing something. He has to be, because there must be a reason for this, Pharaun knows how he feels about necromancy, knows that without it he’s less than nothing.

Pharaun loves him. There’s a reason. There is. He’ll explain it later, when all this is fixed; they’ll share wine and Pharaun will smile and reveal all his plans and they’ll laugh together at how stupid the Archmage is for not seeing it.

“I have looked over your coursework for the past semester,” the Archmage blathers on, oblivious to his own manipulation. “I can vouch, at least, for your theoretical knowledge. You lack the qualifying grades for advanced courses in abjuration, divination, evocation, or conjuration, so I will not ask you to demonstrate your practical abilities in those fields. However, I would like to see the other four—do you think you can do that with limited preparation?”

Vizaeth bows, wrenching his eyes from Pharaun. “Yes, Master Baenre.”

“Good.” Gromph rises. “Follow me, apprentice. And you three, if you could come with me to observe.”

They file in silence into a small atrium, with a drow-sized construct stood in the centre. Plain grey walls, just like those of the exam chamber, press close—five people in here is far too many. Already Vizaeth’s palms are clammy with sweat. He taps his fingers over the spider armlet, as he did in the exam. He can’t use it now, didn’t use it then. It would be cheating.

The Masters spread out around the room, Gromph and Nalfein behind the construct, Pharaun and Master Zaurett in opposite corners. Master Zaurett’s eyes are still faintly glowing, his lips pressed into a thin line as he glares at the other teacher. It’s an expression Vizaeth’s only seen before when a student has done something exceptionally foolish. He dislikes that it’s directed at Pharaun, who’s done nothing wrong.

The Archmage beckons him towards the construct. “We’ll begin with an enchantment,” he announces, as Vizaeth takes a stumbling step forwards. “Confusion should be a suitable gauge.”

Pharaun had him cast a memory modification which, thanks to Kenafin, he knew far better. It’s fine. He knows confusion. He can cast it. Vizaeth fumbles in his pockets for the components, fingertips brushing bone fragments and nail slivers and sharp twists of wire before finding what he needs. He squeezes the cracked walnut shells tightly in his fists and dredges the spell up from the depths of his mind.

It’s like pulling a lead weight through tar, making the passes. The words catch and snag on the Weave as he first forces it into the shape of the spell, then directs it at the construct. His palms ache as the shells crumble, but the construct’s eyes light up yellow and he bites back a sigh of relief. White-knuckled, he grips the threads of the magic and holds the spell in place as long as he can.

Less than a minute later, it fails. He shoves the remains of the walnuts back into his pockets to keep from hurling them across the room. A first-year could do better.

“You’ve learned the more advanced invisibility passes, correct?” the Archmage asks, as if nothing is wrong. He’s determined to make Vizaeth perform every possible error, it seems.

“Yes, Master Baenre.”

“If you would.”

His aching hands shake as though palsied as he tries to pull the magic together. Weave clogs his throat and he spits the words out, stuttering the final syllables in a tangle that brings the whole thing crashing down around him. His face heats and he stares at the floor in front of the accusingly visible construct, blinking back furious tears.

This is exactly what happened in his exam. It’s such simple fucking spell—all he has to do is twist the Weave around the construct, the magic is already there, it just has to do what he tells it but it never does, it never will, not unless he’s bleeding—

“Again,” the Archmage says.

“The spell failed,” Pharaun interjects. Vizaeth’s chest tightens. It’s fine, Pharaun has to say it, he can’t show any favouritism here, it would mean the end of both of them. “It did the same during my aptitude exam—”

“Then why did you give him a three?” the Archmage cuts him off. “Apprentice Thaezyr, you have three chances to successfully execute the spell. I would expect nervousness with so much on the line. Try again.”

Vizaeth takes a deep breath, too loud in the quiet of the atrium. He mouths the spell to himself, one piece at a time, trying to wrap his tongue around the ever-shifting words. The Weave presses close, eager to rip the magic away from him.

It feels like peeling off skin, but at last the construct vanishes from sight. The Masters throw force missiles at it and it remains vanished—Vizaeth feels each impact like a knife in his brain. Somehow, he stays upright.

A polymorph is requested next. He grits his teeth and wrenches the construct into the form of a large spider, the effort making his pulse throb in his temples. Sweat sticks his robes to his back, his scars itch beneath his sleeves, and he’s fairly certain his leg has started bleeding again. He prays it won’t seep through his leggings.

Then, finally—necromancy. A blight spell. He hardly has to think at all to call the magic; it exhales forth on a sweet sigh, the Weave no longer clawing at him but caressing, his bones humming with pleasure. A simple flick of his fingers and the construct’s eyes glow teal. Bright, perfect, powerful teal.

“Well done,” Master Zaurett says, and Vizaeth straightens for a moment. Master Zaurett doesn’t praise often, and to hear it in front of the Archmage sends a sting of pride through him. It quickly fades. He scored a zero. Just because it feels good doesn’t mean the spell was worth anything. It didn’t impress Pharaun, after all.

“Indeed,” Gromph says. “It seems your aptitude exam was unfairly graded. I am satisfied with these results.”

Satisfied? But things went worse than in the exam, save the necromancy, how can he be—

Gromph calls his name and he starts, bowing to cover his confusion.

“You will be placed in the advanced classes for enchantment, illusion, necromancy, and transmutation, as well as advanced arcane theory.” Despite his words, the Archmage sounds tense, irritated. “I will keep a close eye on Master Mizzrym’s courses to ensure no further grade tampering occurs. I should hope after this event, Master Mizzrym, you will keep personal matters out of your grading. I can always give the aptitude exam myself, if you cannot be objective.”

“Your point has been made perspicuously apparent, Master Baenre,” Pharaun says, half under his breath. He’s furious—humiliated and furious, and it’s all Vizaeth’s fault. He’s misunderstood Pharaun’s plans, gotten the Archmage involved, endangered his position and likely his life. Vizaeth wants to apologise, but if he says anything now, he’ll only make it worse. He tries to meet Pharaun’s eyes, to let him know without words how sorry he is, but Pharaun won’t look at him. Vizaeth doesn’t blame him.

He stares at his feet as the Masters file out, leaving him alone in the atrium with the Archmage and stinging eyes and a pinprick throat and blood unseen trickling down his thigh.

“This is not a disciplinary meeting, apprentice,” the Archmage says quietly. “You may relax.”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. Maybe he can salvage some part of this before anything happens to Pharaun. “Master Mizzrym and I fought a few weeks ago, and—”

“That is not an excuse on his part.” Gromph clasps his hands behind his back. There’s anger in the tight line of his jaw, and Vizaeth tries not to cringe from it. “Master Mizzrym is nearly four centuries old, and the behaviour he displayed does not befit a Master of Sorcere. It nearly cost you much more than your place here, do you understand?”

“Please don’t throw him out!”

“If I dismissed every Master that broke conduct over an apprentice, I would have to dismiss myself,” Gromph says. “I want to ensure you understand this was not your fault.”

Yes it was. Vizaeth drops his head.

“Come with me.” Gromph turns to the door. “It may be best if you’re sitting for the rest of our discussion.”

The rest of it? What more can there possibly be to say? Or is the Archmage going to use him to punish Pharaun, eliminate both problems in one decisive move? Vizaeth gnaws the inside of his lip and reluctantly follows after him, mind awhirl with nightmarish possibilities.

After all, House Baenre aren’t known for their mercy.

---

He liked the office better when it was crowded. With just the two of them, the dim light is overwhelming, the space too large and full of power that could crush him in an instant. Vizaeth takes a seat in one of the reading chairs at Gromph’s bidding and grips his knees tight, trying to control the shaking in his hands. The Archmage sits across from him, as inscrutable as ever.

“Do you find casting difficult?” he asks. Vizaeth almost rolls his eyes—hasn’t he just very aptly demonstrated that he does? “As if the Weave is a hard stone wall you must claw at?”

His breath catches. How does he know? How can he possibly know that?

“I…no, I just…I’m tired most of the time—I don’t sleep well—and illusion, enchantment, I’m…they aren’t what I’m good at, and the other students always distract me, I—”

Gromph holds up a hand. “Let me ask a different question. Have you ever cast a spell, of any kind, that was far above your skill level?”

This has to be Veryan’s doing. How else would he know to ask such a question? Vizaeth shakes his head. Gromph’s eyes narrow, ever so slightly.

“Please be honest with me, apprentice Thaezyr. Your connection to the Weave may be in danger, as may your life. You cannot graduate Sorcere if you cannot cast any spells, and you certainly cannot graduate dead.”

Vizaeth goes very still. “I…I may have performed a necromancy ritual before my time at Sorcere.”

“Alone?”

No. “Yes, Master Baenre.” He swallows, tasting old blood. “Is that…bad?”

“Ill-advised, but not bad, no,” Gromph says. “There are some spells—more powerful spells—that can affect our connection to the Weave if our fundamentals slip. It’s uncommon, but I have seen it happen. Without any fundamentals to fall back on, you may have tangled the Weave around and in you. It is probably why you struggle so much with schools that rely heavily on the Weave, like conjuration and divination, and why you find it hard to concentrate when you do make connections.” He sits back in his chair, his expression grave. “I will not mince words: this could kill you. If your inner Weave unravels incorrectly, you will literally decompose where you stand.”

Vizaeth’s ribcage aches, as if something is trying to crack it open from the inside. No, not something—someone. His breath stutters, fast and unstable, he can’t focus on anything, the room is spinning, trying to take his head off. He pulls his knees to his chest, as if making himself smaller will hide him from the inevitable.

He’s going to die.

“But…but…”

He can’t die. He’s not ready, Pharaun’s not ready. If he dies now, it won’t be Lolth waiting for him—it will be Xunhrae, with bloody teeth, ready to take back her flesh.

“This is not a permanent condition,” the Archmage says. The statement doesn’t slow Vizaeth’s heart a single beat. “But it will take time and care to undo the damage. That is why I am telling you.”

“At what price?”

There will be one. There always is. That’s how magic works, that’s how Menzoberranzan works.

“Normally, I would give you a task. But I’m not the one who will be helping you—Master Do’Urden is.”

“And what’s his price?”

“That’s up to him.” Gromph stands. “He’ll be waiting for you in his office. Once you’ve gathered your bearings, you are dismissed.”

It takes a minute or more to convince his limbs to move. When they do, it’s like casting again, forcing his way through antagonistic sludge to get from the chair to the door.

Dying. He’s dying. Magic birthed him and now it’s going to kill him.

Vizaeth stumbles to a halt halfway down the stairs and presses his face to the wall. His ears are ringing, like someone’s screaming an inch from his head. He digs his nails uselessly into his hair, thumps his forehead against the cold stone in a futile attempt to make it stop. There’s a presence in his throat, clawing hands ready to force their way out of his mouth, turn him inside out; he can feel her fingers scraping over his molars, her thumbs pressing down on the back of his tongue.

He covers his mouth with his hands as he retches. Hot, wet foulness seeps through his fingers. He spits out a prestidigitation and even that cantrip terrifies him—each time he uses the Weave it’s unravelling him. Any spell he casts might be the one to unmake him.

There’s no choice. He has to go to Nalfein. He doesn’t want to; he doesn’t want to go anywhere near the Archmage’s pet and whatever hateful price he’ll charge for salvation. He needs to find Pharaun, warn him, save him—save them—before it’s too late.

He gave you a zero.

It’s love, the thing that scrawls through his veins as he drags himself to his quarters. Pharaun made him feel it, so it has to be love.

The bandage on his leg is soaked through. The wound isn’t healing as fast as it should—probably because he keeps toying with it. Blood streaks his skin and Xunhrae hisses in delight even though it’s on the outside of his thigh, his knee, his calf shut up, you’re dead (you’re dying) you’re dead, shut up!

He cleans his leg. Smears salve on the wound. Binds it tight, puts on fresh leggings, and, sick with dread, heads to Master Do’Urden’s office.

---

Nalfein pokes his head out from behind a frosted glass screen as Vizaeth steps cautiously through his—apparently unwarded—door.

“Go ahead and sit,” he says. “Doesn’t matter where.”

He retreats out of view. There’s a kitchen or something back there; Vizaeth can hear him clattering about. It’s not what he expected Nalfein to be doing. This entire room isn’t what he expected: dimly lit, the same as the Archmage’s office, but somehow the low light makes the place feel cosy, which no Master of Sorcere’s chambers ought ever to be.

He takes a seat in one of the dark, high-backed chairs, tucking his knees up under him. All the furniture is carved with strange vines and unfamiliar flowers, made normal only by the spiders crouched amongst the decorative plantlife, waiting, watching. A vast spiderweb covers the ceiling—false, not real, to Vizaeth’s mixed disappointment and relief. White dots are scattered across it, and he can’t make any sense of them. Some kind of mould, maybe? No, they’re swirling, moving; an illusion? Of what?

He’s still trying to puzzle it out when Nalfein joins him. He’s discarded his formal robes, the ones that make him look so much like the Archmage, and his slim, lithe arms are bare beneath a dark, loose-necked vest. He sets a tray of tea things on the table between them—a strong, cloying scent rises with the steam from the teapot’s spout. Vizaeth clamps his lips shut and tries not to inhale. He knows of too many substances that can claim a mind through scent alone.

Nalfein sits cross-legged in the chair opposite him and smooths out the panels of his skirt. The black-on-black embroidery matches the carvings on the table legs, all creeping vines and strangling roots.

“How are you feeling?”

Vizaeth shrugs. Nalfein follows his gaze to the tea set.

“It’s a surface tea, chamomile,” he explains. “It’s calming. Trust me, it will help.”

If it’s from the surface, it’s guaranteed to be poison. Which might be a faster, cleaner death than the one he’s doomed himself to. Vizaeth swallows thickly, feeling fingerbones pressing into the walls of his throat. Tea aside, he can’t forget the reason he’s here. When he speaks, all that comes out is a choked whisper.

“I’m dying.”

“But your fate isn’t sealed. That’s why I’m here.”

“For what price?”

Nalfein sighs and leans back in his chair. “You pay the price by treating your affliction. I require nothing else.”

What a bald-faced lie. Nothing is free. Nothing.

“No,” Vizaeth snaps out. “No, you want something else. You wouldn’t be offering to help if you didn’t want something in return.”

And what might Nalfein want? He has everything: the Archmage’s favour, a Master’s place at Sorcere, a whore’s hold on the mercenary Jarlaxle. He has beauty and power and respect, what more does he crave?

Not what, Vizaeth realises, clarity expanding like a migraine inside his aching head. It’s not what he craves; it’s who he hates. He bolts to his feet.

“Apprentice Thaezyr—” Nalfein starts.

“I’m not here to be some pawn in your power play against Pharaun!” If Nalfein thinks a little false kindness is enough to subvert his devotion, he’s more a fool than the rest of his dead House. “I’m not an idiot. I know you look down on me. You can’t bat your eyes and get me to cave, I don’t care how perfect you are!”

“This isn’t about Pharaun,” Nalfein says, ignoring everything else. It is about Pharaun. It’s always been about Pharaun.

Pharaun who gave you a zero. Pharaun who ‘recommends you be deemed ineligible for future classes in necromancy’. Pharaun who LOVES ME YOU’RE DEAD SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP.

“I heard you badmouthing him,” Vizaeth spits. “‘A good teacher does not an Archmage make.’ You don’t need me to tear him down, the Archmage already hates him.”

“After the stunt he pulled today, can you blame him?”

“He had his reasons!” Which he would have shared if Gromph and his pet Do’Urden hadn’t interfered. “You don’t know him!”

“I attended classes with him for fifty years,” Nalfein says flatly. “I know him a lot better than you do.”

“Bullshit! You just hate that he’s better than you!”

“Vizaeth.”

His name snaps out of Nalfein’s mouth like his mother’s whip. It’s so sharp it silences him, and he realises his eyes are hot with tears. He scrubs at them, furious. Just because he’s going to die doesn’t mean Pharaun has to go down with him. He won’t let Nalfein hurt him.

Nalfein rises—slowly, as if trying not to provoke him—and takes his hands. He lays his own in them, palms up.

“What do you see?” he asks softly.

Nothing. Slim fingers. Smooth skin. Delicate, unscarred wrists. Vizaeth tries to ignore the way his wounded leg is shaking and thinks about how nice it would sound to snap them.

Nalfein whistles magic through his teeth. Skin shimmers and Vizaeth, who can hardly recognise any spell at all without effort, knows what this one is. He’s wrapped the same strands of magic around his own arms too many times to count. The illusion melts away, revealing a patchwork of pale blotches, and he’d think it Szarkai’s blessing if he hadn’t seen blister burn scars just like this on other unfortunate apprentices.

“When I was in your year, I miscast my transmutation spell during the aptitude test and created a burst of steam, right in my hands.” Nalfein flips them over, revealing similar scars on the other side. “I got a one, and the Master administering the exam made three boys get a tub of ice water to plunge my hands into while they fetched a Mistress from Arach-Tinilith.”

“You struggle with transmutation?”

“And abjuration. I’ve gotten a lot of practice, but skill comes with time and effort. No-one becomes great overnight.”

“But…” Vizaeth’s grip tightens. “But something is actually wrong with me. Right?”

“An accidental tangle.” Nalfein squeezes his hands back. “One that can be undone. You are not broken forever.”

His voice is soft and low and if Vizaeth had a knife he’d cut his throat to make him stop sounding like that, like he cares.

“Why are you helping me?”

“Because I am very aware of what it’s like to sit in those classrooms, walk those hallways, stand in front of the Masters, and feel like nothing,” Nalfein says. “And I know how easy it is to cling to scraps of attention, to give up every part of who you are, because you think someone sees you. I meant what I said; you could be something really special. But you can’t reach those heights by chasing someone else’s desires.” He pauses a moment. “What do you want, Vizaeth?”

Vizaeth wants to let go of his hands, but he can’t. He wants to believe the scars are fake, the story too, but he saw the spell unravel, can feel the texture of the burns beneath his fingers. He wants to go back to righteous fury and escape the strangling terror of a question no-one has ever in his life thought to ask.

“I don’t know.” He blinks hard and fast, pressure throbbing behind his eyes. “I just…I want to be me.”

“I can’t tell you who that is,” Nalfein says. “That’s for you to decide. But you know something? The first time I think I saw the Vizaeth you want to be, he was standing in front of a Netherese longsword, proud of his own skills.”

His shaking leg finally gives up. All of him gives up. Something ruptures in some deep place inside him, tearing its way out of his mouth in a hideous cry. Nalfein catches him before he hits the ground and pulls him against his chest. Sits with him, stays there whilst his shoulders hitch with ugly sobs, crying like some iblith child.

Who he wants to be is meaningless—he’s going to die. He’s not even managed a full century yet and all he’s done with the life he stole is fail to keep hold of the only person who ever loved him.

The only person? You’re walking around inside the only person, you ungrateful little shit! You deserve to rot where you stand.

Vizaeth clutches his wrists tight. Nalfein doesn’t want him to die. The Archmage doesn’t want him to die. Why do they want him alive, but Pharaun never even noticed what was wrong with him?

Or maybe he did see and never told you because he doesn’t SHUT UP YOU DEAD BITCH.

His nails dig in harder, sliding beneath the hem of his sleeve until the ragged edges break a scab. The sharp spike of pain silences the ghost in his head and he pushes deeper until enough blood flows between his fingers to drown her.

“Hey, hey.” Nalfein sits back, catches his arms. He pulls them apart—but gently, a soft tug to separate one hand from the other. “It’s okay. We’re okay. Breathe with me.”

Why do you care? Why why why why—

The word thumps on repeat in time to the beats Nalfein taps into his palm, inhaling to match the pattern. Four beats in, two beats out. He keeps doing it until Vizaeth follows him, each breath thin and useless. He presses a thumb over the cut and Vizaeth hisses—if it were Pharaun it would hurt the way it’s supposed to, beautiful and pure. Like this it just hurts.

“I have a friend who used to box his ears every time he stumbled over a prayer,” Nalfein says quietly. “And my stepfather used to drink until he didn’t hurt any more, but you know something? Once their heads stopped pounding, the ache here—” he taps Vizaeth’s chest, “—didn’t go away. And I know you’re hurt, and angry, but making yourself hurt out here…” Nalfein wipes the blood from his wrist. “That’s not going to do anything.”

Vizaeth sucks in a ragged breath. He wants to shove Nalfein away, scream at him to just leave him alone, stop all this…this theatre of compassion. He needs, desperately, for Nalfein not to understand because how could he, how could he ever—!

But he does. Vizaeth might be too stupid to see what Pharaun’s plans were, but he’s not such an idiot he can’t put the pieces of Nalfein together and see that, horribly, he does understand. He understands all too well.

Nalfein makes a gesture and the lamps dim, the room falling into gloom. The white specks on the ceiling above still glow, faintly.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. Vizaeth shakes his head. He’s never been less. “Can I coax you to eat regardless?”

He’ll throw up again if he eats. But he hasn’t the strength left to argue, to do anything other than nod, mutely.

“If you ever need to talk, my door is usually open. Just make sure you knock first.”

That means he has to leave. The thought of making it back to his quarters is exhausting. All of him is raw and red and empty.

“Could I…” His throat is ragged, full of glass. “Could I stay here? I don’t—”

“I have another room,” Nalfein says. “A drawback of being the eldest of five is that you always have one sibling or another sleeping at your place.”

An ugly laugh forces its way out of his nose. The idea of siblings who enjoy your company enough to want to visit is ridiculous. If he ever showed up at Arach-Tinilith looking for a bed, Jhinlara would use him for flogging practice—and she likes him best.

Nalfein helps him to his feet and leads him to the spare room. He doesn’t try to talk, to pull anything else out of him. There’s nothing left to pull. The door clicks shut, leaving him in silence. It’s a nice enough room; more creeping vines everywhere, carved tendrils crawling up the walls around moonlamps clasped in the petals of strange stone blooms, the same blooms that pattern bedsheets in shades of blue and silver.

Vizaeth leaves the lamps unlit and falls onto the bed, curling into a tight ball. He wants Pharaun so badly he could scream. Heavy heartbeat after heavy heartbeat thuds in his chest, and he clings to his ribcage to keep it from breaking apart. Pharaun kissed him first. Pharaun gave him a zero. Pharaun put his hands inside him. Pharaun wanted to hold him back five years, take necromancy away from him forever. Pharaun’s the only person alive who cares about him—he gave him the armlet, didn’t he? He let him stay the night, didn’t he?

Maybe he did know about Vizaeth’s broken magic and this was the only way he could see to protect him. If he didn’t know what caused it, or how to fix it, keeping him away from necromancy was just…just a way to keep him alive.

Even thinking it, he knows it’s not true. He waits for Xunhrae to add her taunting piece, but there’s only silence. She can’t speak up, of course. She’s dead. The only voice in his head is his own.

He curls tighter, biting his fist to keep Nalfein from hearing him cry again. He knows what the truth is. He’s known since the Archmage told him his grades.

Pharaun doesn’t love him anymore.

And since Nalfein intends to save his life, he’s going to have to live with that.