~Chapter Thirty-Five: Reflection~

Instructor Clearance took one look at Eola’s stomach wound when they staggered into the hospital, sniffed in that way only hamadryads could, told one of the on-duty healers to handle it, then went to check on Patrice’s ribs in the next room over.

The healer pointed at a second-year and told him to heal the wound, then disappeared to examine a boy who wouldn’t stop coughing up bugs and was pretty sure his ex had cursed him.

The second-year rolled his eyes, glanced at Colin, and said, “You’re learning rituals from Clearance, right? Deal with this. I’ve got studying to catch up on. I’ll be back in an hour to check your work. Scream if something goes horrifically wrong.”

So Eola got to grit her teeth and deal with her severed abdominal muscles while Colin’s soul refilled enough for him to cast one of his healing rituals. The pale green rune was a far cry from Instructor Clearance’s spellcraft, but the spell did work. Slowly. “You’ll probably be here overnight, but maybe you’ll be back in class tomorrow?” Colin asked hopefully.

At the moment, Eola didn’t care whether she was in class the next day or not. She rolled over the few inches the bed would allow her to, crossed her arms over her chest, and humphed in what she hoped was an annoyed manner. It must have worked, because Colin left, the door clicked shut behind him, and Eola was left lying on half of a hospital bed, at an uncomfortable angle, with a blue cat that hissed and growled every time she tried to adjust but refused to talk to her at all.

“What did I do to make you so mad?” Eola asked, but the cat said nothing in response.

Just as Colin said, she ended up having to stay overnight, but she didn’t end up alone in the room. Patrice joined her after a few hours, and they shared a dinner of hospital rolls, vegetables that, according to Patrice, were inoffensive and uninspiring in equal measure, and water. Then, Eola got to spend the night listening to Patrice’s labored breaths, snoring, and coughs.

By the time they both returned to their suite the next morning, Eola was grumpy. And a full day’s worth of classes didn’t help matters, either. She walked into Instructor Tarik’s room after Magical Dueling sore, tired, and frustrated.

Instructor Tarik wasn’t there.

He’d written a note on the chalkboard, though.

Apprentices,

I have an urgent meeting with Headmaster Tomlish. While I’m gone, please discuss yesterday’s library trip—what you did well, what you did poorly, and how you can improve.

– Tarik

Needless to say, that didn’t help Eola’s mood one bit.

“Alright. I’ll start,” Colin said after a minute of silence only broken by Patrice’s occasional coughs. He took a piece of chalk and drew three vertical lines below the note, then one more across those, dividing the space into eight. As he talked, he jotted a few quick notes. “I messed up. The ritual I used was unnecessary, and it drained all my Mana to cast it. I should have been looking for ways to leave the fight, not ways to win it. If I had, maybe Patrice and Eola wouldn’t have—“

Patrice rolled her eyes. “Like Y’aer we wouldn’t have gotten hurt. I’ve got the heavy armor for a reason, Colin. It’s so I can get in the way. It’s just bad luck that one of them—“ she coughed and winced.

“It wasn’t bad luck,” Colin shot back. “We could have done the whole fight better. I could have been faster to cover you two.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

Eola let the two of them argue for a minute while she got her thoughts together. Her stomach still hurt, and she was just about ready for dinner. But Instructor Tarik was right. This was important.

And, unfortunately, she could only see one way to re-center the conversation. She glanced at Roth, mouthed a silent apology, and got in between Colin and Patrice before she ripped him in half. “I think Colin’s right. We all could have handled ourselves better yesterday, and if we can’t improve in the next few days, the third floor’s going to eat us alive.”

“What do you propose, then?” Roth asked.

Eola bowed her head gratefully and took the chalk right out of Colin’s hand. What she had to do next would betray that tiny gesture of cooperation, but it still had to be done. “ We need to be systematic about this. Everyone could improve. Let’s begin with Roth, since he started everything off.”

Eola ate alone that night.

So did the others. None of the four wanted anything to do with each other—not after spending almost an hour and a half second-guessing every decision from the moment they stepped into the library until the second-years responded to Colin’s whistle. It had been painful. Tempers had flared. Instructor Tarik hadn’t shown up at all. And it was for the best that Colin and Patrice had both separately headed for Varin’s Town, leaving Roth and Eola to split the cafeteria between them.

The whole process had left her with a bad taste in her mouth. Of the four, Colin was the least at fault for the debacle in Row Ninety-Five. He’d filled his role well, even if he was convinced he’d chosen the wrong spell for the job. Patrice had fought hard and done exactly what everyone had expected from her, but as long as she refused to use magic, the team couldn’t rely on her. Roth’s spell had failed unexpectedly.

As for Eola…all she’d been was a sword. Her only cast hadn’t made a meaningful difference against the trog shaman, and without Colin, she couldn’t have even done that.

And, worse, she didn’t have a plan to fix it in the next few days. She needed help—and that meant making a peace offering.

Eola carried her half-eaten tray to the rubbish bin and the nearby counter, folded a single forkful of pinkish, strong-tasting fish into a napkin, and pushed the rest into a small, sealing bowl. Her body demanded food—loudly—but her wound was still raw, and just thinking about the third floor made her stomach churn.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Maybe later, she’d be hungry.

She fled back to her room, shut the door, and cleared her throat. “Come out, Atta. I’ve got no idea what you’re mad at me, but I’m bribing you.”

The cat’s yellow eyes peered down at the desk as she unfolded the salmon. Then, almost without moving, Atta appeared next to it. She ate it in a flash, then cleaned her face with her paw briefly. “You’re forgiven.”

“I thought so. But why were you so angry?”

“No reason. No reason at all,” the cat answered. She stared at Eola until she had no choice but to turn her gaze down at the notes and away from the cat. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Eola cleared the desk, wiping the spot where the napkin had soaked through down more carefully than the rest, and pulled out her spellbook. She’d had time for two quick sketches, and she flipped to the first one. “What do you think of this spell?”

Atta glanced at it, then shrugged dismissively. “Mediocre. It’s a cantrip to—“

“I know what it does. I’m the one who cast it. I’m more interested in the modifying mark, though.”

“Where?” Atta watched as Eola touched the paper gingerly. “Ah. That. It’s not complete. Past that, I can’t say.”

“You can’t say, or you don’t know?” Eola asked.

“The first one, of course. Believe me, I wish I could. It’d make things much easier for me. Tell me why this matters to you.”

“Because when I fought the trog shaman, I cast this cantrip, but not that modifying mark. And then when it was over, I couldn’t identify the modifying mark. Not during the fight, and not after it was over.”

“Ah. You want to know what that mark was, and what it does?” Atta asked.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Eola leaned back in her chair, exasperated. “The problem isn’t what the modifying mark did. I know I can’t figure that out without seeing it again and getting a better view of that part of the rune. It’s that even if I fully understand a spell, I don’t know what to do with it, and I’m running out of time to figure it out.”

“You’re being stupid again, girl. Think back to the trog you fought early in the year. It had a torch. How did you handle that?”