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Chapter Twenty-Two: Demon-Named
Fyodan stood with one of the widest smiles on his face, topless and in Kilvic’s way where he stood a few feet from the door to the head student’s room, obstructing him and delaying his goal.
“So tell me,” the hall representative was saying. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
Kilvic swallowed his impatience.
Being the last of his two friends to leave the training hall this morning, Haru had sent him to find the head student and give the boy a message. This had been his purpose for knocking on the door of a room he had been to only once before so early in the morning. Sadly, it was also the reason he was having to deal with another of Fyodan’s pestering.
Gyra hadn’t been the one to open the door after his patience had begun wearing thin. And now Fyodan stood before him, topless, with a boyish grin. His hair was a disheveled mess and he still had his morning breath seeping through each word while he smelled of sex, but despite that, there was an appeal to his ap
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The thought that an exercise in mind melding required a pen and a book was a tough concept to wrap his mind around. But the book before Kilvic was as unmistakable as the pain in his back from his morning lessons, and the pen, fueled with blank ink like burned wood twirled between his fingers, holding his focus.The instructor for the class was the same man who’d brought him to Skanriv’s office on his first day; the same man who’d been displeased for having been expecting him. That day, he’d looked mean and old in his robe and wrinkled frown but the first day he’d walked into the class and Kilvic had set eyes on him for the second time, he could have easily been mistaken for someone else. His smooth skin, the glint in his eyes, the smile always teasing his lips as if holding back the most exquisite of allusive jokes was the sharpest contrast to what Kilvic had seen. It was also the most perfected expressive lie he’d ever come across.
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“You know it’s not the same, right?”Moss let out a soft chuckle. “And you are pointing this out because…?” he replied.A startled Stratin quirked an unsubtle brow. His hands were held out before him, the littlest flicker of air swirling between them. This, as had been a good number of times over the semester, was another one of their attempts at bound magecraft.“This isn’t true, as it should be,” Stratin pointed out. “This isn’t bound. It’s a mixture, not a compound.”Moss shrugged. “I’m not sure what you mean, but to that I’d say let’s create mixtures till we can create a compound.”Stratin pouted but it seemed that was the end of his opposition to it.All the while Kilvic stood at a safe enough distance, watching his roommates attempt something less deadly than what they’d been doing for a good while. He wasn’t certain
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