I realized something as I left them and headed back toward the bunks, the corridor feeling quieter now that the rush of bodies had thinned out.

  Neither Devon nor the healing instructor had made any remarks about my eyes, which were very clearly and obviously different. That would not have been strange just yesterday. Yesterday, my eyes would have drawn nothing more than a passing glance, if that. Now, though, with the way they had changed, with the wrongness sitting plainly in my face, I looked like a criminal child.

  Well, maybe not a criminal exactly.

  They probably would not assume that I was one. People rarely jumped straight to blaming a child. More likely, they would assume that whoever had done this horrible, mangled job to me was the criminal. Some back-alley butcher with more confidence than skill. Someone who lacked skill. Someone careless. And in reality, that judgment was not even wrong. I was the one who had done it.

  Or, technically, Myrda was the one who had done it. But that was beside the point, and not a thought I lingered on. What mattered was how it would look once the others noticed. I wondered what Winnie and the rest would say. I wondered what they would think when they found out that I had done this to myself.

  I kept turning it over in my head as I walked. Why had they let it go so easily? Why had neither of them even paused, even hesitated, to ask what had happened to my eyes? It was not subtle. It was not something that could be politely ignored without effort.

  Maybe they were simply being polite. Adults often were, especially around children who already looked out of place. Maybe they had decided it was kinder not to ask why the strange child had strange eyes.

  I could understand that from the instructor. Healers saw damage every day. Some of it accidental. Some of it inflicted. They learned when to ask questions and when not to.

  Devon, though, was harder to explain. That stretched belief a little too far. He did not strike me as the sort to hold his tongue out of courtesy alone.

  Then again, it sounded like he had some sort of criminal past.

  Or perhaps a criminal present.

  By the time I reached the bunk room, the thought had settled into something dull and unresolved, the way questions sometimes did when there was no immediate answer to be had.

  I retrieved the lock-pick from where it had skittered off earlier, its metal cool and familiar in my fingers. I unlocked my chest, the mechanism clicking softly, and dropped the lock-pick into the bag of threads. I paused there for a moment, looking down at what I had accumulated so far.

  I had not really spent any of the money from my quest rewards. I had one hundred and seven freds. Which was basically nothing. From what I understood of local prices, that was about the cost of a chicken.

  Still, I could buy a chicken.

  The thought made me almost smile. I did not want one. I had no idea what I would even do with a chicken if I had it. But the fact that I could afford one mattered more than the chicken itself. It meant I understood the scale now. The value of things. The amount freds had depreciated in value over time.

  That counted for something.

  I locked the chest again and lay down on my bed, the mattress creaking softly beneath my weight.

  As I settled, the long night finally catching up with me. I felt the new circuits along the staff I held. Myrda had shown me an interesting configuration of runes; one I had not encountered in my past life. Apparently, it was fairly common now, something any competent enchanter would use.

  It was an invention that had come about roughly two hundred years ago. Not new, exactly. But new to me.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  And that made it exciting in a way I had almost forgotten.

  I set the staff beside me, unwilling to let it out of reach even as exhaustion weighed heavier on my limbs. It was probably the most valuable thing I owned at this point, when I considered all the enchantment work Myrda and I had done on it together. Winnie’s log was the next most worked piece, and it had its own merits, but this staff and Meka’s were easily the best results to come out of last night’s efforts.

  They were proof of progress. Quiet, careful progress.

  I stared at the ceiling for a while, staff within arm’s reach, thoughts slowing as my body finally began to rest.

  I could not wait to test it.

  It would give me enough of an advantage to keep up. A small one, perhaps, but a real one. And now, with the way everything was changing, it promised something more important than raw power.

  I was no longer nearly as stressed as I had been when I first tried the nothingness exercise earlier. It had not been meditation, not really. It was more like letting go, like loosening a grip I had not realized I was holding so tightly. I would not call it meditation even if someone insisted. Words mattered, and that one felt wrong.

  Even then, I had not managed to become empty. My mind had wandered, drifting into a story instead of dissolving into blankness. That, apparently, was the best I could do.

  It had been a good story, though. A quiet one. One that did not drag guilt along with it or demand anything of me. I took that as a victory.

  With my thoughts finally slowing and my body heavy against the mattress, sleep came easily.

  I dreamt of eyes. Not ones piercing into my soul, but ones that held it. I had not thought about those eyes for far, far too long, and yet I knew they were still out there. If I went looking, they would be there, just waiting.

  I dreamt of fire wrapping around me, holding me tightly rather than burning. I dreamt of a young boy looking up at me and asking me to teach him magic. Then I woke sobbing, already knowing where that dream would lead, and knowing how much it would hurt.

  I climbed out of my bunk, wiped my face, and picked up my staff. I walked over to the chest at the foot of my bed and stopped.

  The realization came a heartbeat later, sharper for the delay. It was only after seeing it this time, after Devon had tried to steal from it, that the wrongness fully clicked.

  It should have been in the enchanting hall, where Greta had brought it in the first place. Unless Myrda had returned it afterward. I realized I had not actually thought about that at all. Sleep deprivation had a way of flattening details, of making obvious things slippery. Maybe Myrda had brought it back while Greta was dressing me down. That was the most likely explanation.

  With no better answers and no desire to lie back down, I did the only thing I knew I could deal with in that moment. I left the bunk room, walked to the mess hall, and sat down. I waited for a few minutes before I heard the kitchen door open.

  I expected Myrda.

  The person who set a plate of food in front of me was not someone I had wished to see.

  But maybe I needed to see them.

  As they finished setting the plate down and began to turn away, I stopped them.

  “Could you please sit down for a moment?” I asked. “I… want to talk to you, if that’s okay. I think we need to discuss some things, and I want to apologize for what I did.”

  Randall looked at me, openly judging. The foppish nature of him was fully on display, every inch of it intentional. And yet, he seemed happier than before, more alert, more willing to engage with the world around him.

  I met his gaze and added, “It’s all right if you don’t. I would just appreciate the moment, if you’re willing to spare it.”

  After a brief pause, he nodded and sat down across from me.

  It struck me then how perfect his posture was. He sat like a refined noble, back straight, shoulders set, every movement controlled. His clothing, on the other hand, was something else entirely. Garish, obtuse, and unmistakably Randall. A purple chef’s outfit decorated with stars, flares, and embellishments that defied any sensible aesthetic.

  “I wonder,” I said, unable to help myself, “is that a normal chef’s outfit? I’ve never seen anything like it, in this life or my past one.”

  He raised a brow. “Is that what you wished to speak to me about?”

  Then he exhaled and relaxed slightly. “Sorry. I am a, well, semi-professional chef. I’ve won quite a few competitions alongside my guild work. Being a pyromancer has its benefits when it comes to the culinary arts.”

  I nodded. “That may be true. But in my past life, I was a terrible chef.”

  “Well,” he said dryly, “that’s what happens when you’re not a pyromancer.”

  “I started as a pyromancer,” I said. “I was an...” The word refused to come. My mouth moved, my intent was clear, but nothing followed. Divine order pressed down, subtle and absolute, and what came out was only the first half of the truth. I had said pyromancer. The rest remained unspoken.

  I smiled despite myself. That was not what I had meant to say, but it was what I had been allowed to say.

  Randall studied me with renewed curiosity. “Interesting,” he said. “Then perhaps you can explain to me how you taught...”

  He waited, deliberately not pressing further. I knew he was holding something back, something he suspected would offend me if spoken aloud.