from now on, we are enemies

Vizaeth doesn’t need to look down to take his notes. He can follow the shape of his words by feel alone, neat cursive script whose lines entrap the cadence of Pharaun’s voice onto his page. He keeps his eyes on Pharaun, as he delivers the lecture with his usual subtle humour and elegant turns of phrase. Vizaeth knows it will take him a while to grasp this spell—transmutation isn’t his favoured sphere, it doesn’t come as naturally as necromancy—but under Pharaun’s instruction, mastery will come.

All he has to do is exactly as Pharaun says.

Pharaun pauses in his pacing, hip cocked, one hand lifted in a delicate twist, thumb tapping his manicured nails as he scans the lecture hall. Vizaeth sits up straighter, lifts his chin. He might not know the spell perfectly yet, but if Pharaun needs a demonstration, he’ll provide one. Certainly no-one else in the class knows it properly yet; they’ve only just begun to study the particulars.

“Apprentice Despana,” Pharaun calls. Vizaeth’s lip curls, then shifts to a smirk when he looks around and sees who it is Pharaun’s selected. She stands, and tucks her hands behind her back, no doubt to hide their shaking.

“Yes, Master Mizzrym?”

“Perhaps you could demonstrate this spell for the class.”

Vizaeth’s smirk widens. Viconia, she’s called—some upstart female burrowing into Sorcere like a parasite, tossing her hair and sneering down her nose at the males she’s so unpleasantly forced to tolerate. Some of the others are clearly scared of her; heads down, avoiding eye contact. Vizaeth can barely contain his glee. Pharaun called on her to show her up, he knows it—Vizaeth can see him trying not to laugh outright as she stands there, eyes darting back and forth over the hall. If she’s looking for a way out, she won’t find one.

Viconia adjusts her stance and raises her hands, motioning through the gestures with pathetic arrogance. Vizaeth rolls his eyes. Now she’s just staring into space, not focusing on anything, and if there’s one vital aspect to casting telekinesis, it’s focusing on your intended target.

Posturing bitch. She’ll be exposed soon enough.

She flicks her left hand up, shoving her right behind her back; probably because she got a motion wrong and is trying to hide it. Vizaeth waits for the spell to fail, and as he’s waiting, an iron band of unseen force snaps around him and yanks him into the air. He’s too startled to bite back his cry of alarm, slapping at the Weave ensnaring him—it does no good, his hands just slide off.

He’s shoved through the air toward Pharaun’s lectern, almost ramming into it before all at once he’s flung across the hall. The spell drops and he falls, skidding to a sprawl on the cold stone floor.

Echoing snickers go skittering like spiders throughout the room. Every eye is on him, burning into him with vindictive delight. His hair is a tangled curtain over his face, and one of his clips has fallen out, but he won’t go scrabbling for it, not in front of the other students, not in front of Pharaun—Pharaun, who has seen him like this now. Pharaun, who kissed him and now won’t want to, not ever again.

He gets to his feet, shaking, anger like bile clogging his throat. She’s laughing at him. That bitch, she’s laughing at him! Vizaeth looks to Pharaun, who surely won’t stand for this invasive cancer of a girl to get away with such behaviour. Pharaun arches an eyebrow.

“Very impressive, apprentice Despana,” he says, restrained annoyance in his tone. She’s not supposed to have been able to cast that. None of them are, not yet, not until Pharaun has shown them how. She’s ruined the lecture. “In the future, perhaps using both hands to control a heavier object is preferable…as is not using your fellow apprentices as hapless victims.”

“Yes, Master Mizzrym.” Viconia’s bow is the merest incline of her head. The disrespect sets the acid in Vizaeth’s stomach to boiling. “Thank you.”

“You may be seated,” Pharaun says. “You too, apprentice Thaezyr.”

“But—” Vizaeth starts to protest; Pharaun must see the manipulation behind her casting, that she did this on purpose!

“Now, apprentice Thaezyr.”

His face heats with fury as he retakes his seat. His nails dig crescents into his palms, and he glares at Viconia, who’s smirking at the back of the class, pleased with herself.

“Apprentice Despana and apprentice Thaezyr have demonstrated a key aspect of telekinesis.” Pharaun resumes his lecture, leaning calmly against his lectern. “The spell can be applied to living creatures and inert objects. Thusly, a living creature is capable of resisting—”

Oh, next time he’ll resist alright. The next time she tries something, he’ll snap her in half while Pharaun watches. He tries to focus, but he can’t keep from finding her, over and over, as the class continues, her vicious little scheme dragging him from Pharaun’s lesson as surely as it was intended to. Not enough to humiliate him in front of everyone—in front of Pharaun—no, now she’s toying with his focus, ruining his chances of retaliation. Typical female.

When the class is over, he recovers his clip. The careless feet of his classmates have kicked it to the dusty base of Pharaun’s lectern, but though the setting’s dented, the ruby is intact. Vizaeth polishes it on the hem of his robe until he can see his crimson reflection in the facets.

Viconia Despana. His hand clenches around the clip. The pin pricks his palm and blood wells, a single drop splattering the floor.

He’ll make her regret ever setting foot in Sorcere.