Chapter 6

  Breakfast at Alaric’s

  Dawn doesn’t look the same here.

  It’s not something I can quantify—no obvious “the sun is blue” nonsense—but I’m not used to the light here. It comes in at a different angle, like it’s trying on my apartment and deciding whether it fits. It makes the dust in the air look… thicker. And for half a second, when I blink too slow, I swear I can smell rain even though the window’s cracked and the street outside is dry.

  Second day in a new world. Still doesn’t feel like a real sentence.

  It should feel bigger. I should feel like I’m losing my mind. I should be screaming into a pillow or praying or writing a manifesto about cosmic kidnapping.

  Instead, I’m walking into the apartment’s kitchen, fresh out of a shower with a notebook in hand like I’m back in college, and there’s a man at my stove standing on a stool as he makes eggs.

  Alaric in a kitchen with his sleeves rolled to the forearms, tie loosened, hair—whats left of it—still annoyingly neat. His reading glasses sit low on his nose, which makes him look like a professor who’s about to nuke your GPA.

  Speaking from experience on that one.

  I hear the soft scrape of a spatula, the sizzle of butter, the little clink of a spoon against a mug.

  He doesn’t look up when he says, “You always sleep like someone who has never had to be anywhere on time?”

  I squint at him as I take a seat at the table. “Good morning to you too.”

  “I’m saying it as an observation, not a moral judgment.”

  “Well, it sounds like something you would say right before you judge me.”

  He finally glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow lifting in that calm, clinical way that makes me want to throw something soft and annoying at his head. “If I were judging you, Jesse, I’d be doing it silently.”

  “Wow,” I reply with a slight chuckle. “It’s like you do have a sense of humor.”

  “Aha.” He vocalizes with a smirk. “Coffee?”

  “Sure, thanks.” I say, reaching for the mug he’s set near my hand like he’s been here long enough to memorize my habits.

  I take one sip and immediately regret it. Extremely bitter, violently bitter.

  “Jesus, that’s strong.” I reach for the sugar.

  Alaric’s voice, without turning: “Please don’t.”

  “Please don’t what? Live?”

  “I’m trying to help you acclimate to this world, not watch you mummify your pancreas before noon. You know other students will be physically fit and in shape when classes begin.”

  “That’s not very supportive.”

  “Because that’s not very wise.”

  I ignore him and dump in sugar anyway. And then, because I’m petty, I add more.

  Alaric watches the sugar cascade with a blank expression. “You know, there is a point where it stops being coffee.”

  “Yeah,” I say, stirring furiously. “It becomes palatable.”

  “That’s not—” He pauses. “Never mind. Drink your dessert.”

  I grin despite myself. This feels oddly nice already. I could get used to it.

  I flip open the binder in front of me. It’s quite heavy. The sight that spills open before me makes me feel like I just opened an FBI file from a TV show.

  “Oh shit,” I vocalize as I see it all. Names and faces.

  A handful of photos clipped into sleeves, with notes in crisp, tidy handwriting.

  And when I look at them, there’s a faint sensation, for another time again. That almost-memory. Like I’ve seen these people… not in a dream, but… I can’t really explain it.

  Deja vu with teeth.

  I drag one photo free and slide it across the table toward myself.

  A boy—kid, really—staring dead-on at the camera with a blank expression. Pale hair so light it reads white, not blonde. Skin too clean, like it’s never known sun. And his eyes—

  He has to be wearing contacts, right?

  They were purple. Not like the “kind of hazel under weird lighting” purple. No, this was Amethyst purple.

  I tap the edge of the photo. “Okay. I’m gonna be the one to say it.”

  Alaric plates the eggs with maddening composure. “If you’re about to call him an ‘anime character,’ I assure you someone already has.”

  “I wasn’t—” I stop, then decide honesty is easier. “Yes. Yes, I was.”

  He sets the plate in front of me and sits across the table with another binder, like we’re having brunch and not building a strategy around people’s lives. He folds his hands, the picture of patience.

  “This is Xankoris,” he says. “And before you ask: yes, Russian. That’s an old photo, the most up to date I could find.”

  “Xankoris,” I repeat, already reaching for my notebook. I write it down—Zank—

  “No Z, it starts with an X,” Alaric corrects instantly, without even looking.

  “How the hell…” I mutter, then scratch the name out, and rewrite it. “Okay. Mr. X.” I over enunciate. “What’s with the… eyes and hair? He looks like he fell into a paint bucket.”

  “Magic poisoning,” Alaric says, as if he’s explaining seasonal allergies. “Exposure from a young age. It altered his pigmentation and ocular structure.”

  “Oh,” I say slowly. “So… that’s… infection?”

  “Not fully,” Alaric replies. “He is on the cusp.” The way he says cusp makes my skin crawl.

  I look down at my eggs. “And what happens when someone goes over the cusp?”

  Alaric’s mouth tilts, “Well, it depends on the individual. The type of magic and the duration of exposure; and the interventions available.”

  “That’s a whole lot of explaining just to say ‘it’s bad.’”

  “Yes,” he agrees, “it is bad.”

  I stare at the photo again. The footnote on the edge says fifteen. Fifteen and already looking like that. My brain tries to make it a costume, but this kid’s already so messed up.

  “It says here he wears a mask?” I ask, finding my voice again. “Is he like really fucked up now or something?”

  Alaric shakes his head. He flips open his folder to a different page. “No, he is just in need of a special respirator—it has a filter that eliminates magical particles in the air. The mask is as much for him as it is for everyone around him.”

  “For everyone around him?” I echo.

  He looks at me over his glasses. “When you operate magic the way he does, Jesse, you don’t just change yourself. You change the air you breathe. The air around him becomes toxic if he were to exhale without the respirator. Quickly.” Alaric explains simply.

  Oh.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “That’s… grim,” I say, because I don’t have a better word. “Is he going to die?”

  “No.” The speed of the answer almost startles me.

  “No?” I repeat.

  “No,” he says again, like he’s stamping a form. “And ideally none of our cast will die.”

  Our cast.

  “Ideally? Like, there’s a chance they will, then?”

  Alaric turns a page. “They are intended to live until the end.”

  My fork stops mid-air. “Intended by who?”

  His gaze lingers a beat too long. A sort of ‘you already know the answer but you don’t want to say it out loud’ look.

  He returns to the file. “We would be in a difficult situation should we lose any of them.”

  “And what counts as ‘lose’?” I ask. “Like… death only? Or are there other ways someone can—”

  “Leave the narrative,” Alaric says, mild as milk. “Be removed from the path. Become unreachable. Become… unwilling.”

  I set my fork down. “So. Other ways.”

  Alaric steeples his fingers. “Yes.”

  I glare. “I hate how casual you are about this.”

  “I hate how you assume I’m casual,” he replies, and for the first time there’s a thin edge under his tone. “Do you know how much work it takes to keep a story intact when it resists being told?”

  I stare at him.

  He blinks, as if realizing he’s said too much. The edge smooths back into his usual composure.

  “Risks,” he continues, flipping another page, “include guild recruitment.”

  Makes sense, I suppose.

  “There are guilds with aggressive strategies,” he says. “They target talents and don’t let up, so we must make sure to prepare ourselves.”

  “So what would happen if one of our cast members were to join the wrong after-school club?”

  Alaric’s gaze sharpens. “If they do, you don’t get to complain later that you didn’t see it coming. But it means we lose our strength for the inevitable conflicts that will be at our doorstep.”

  I pick my fork back up. “Okay. We will… fight the recruiters. I guess.”

  “Not literally,” he says.

  “Obviosuly” I reply. “Not literally. Maybe just a little.”

  He gives me a look that says ‘I know what you’re doing and you’re not as funny as you think you are.’

  Which is fair. I’m just giddy today.

  I take a few more bites.

  “So,” I say after swallowing, “where is Xankoris now? If he’s fifteen in this photo, I’m assuming he’s older in reality.”

  “Yes, he’s your age now. Twenty-one.” Alaric confirms. “Currently, he is hiding in southern Alaska. A fishing village.”

  My brow furrows. “Alaska? That’s… far away.”

  “It’s secluded,” Alaric says, as if that explains everything. “And it used to be a useful place for certain organizations.”

  I don’t like the way he says used to.

  “A few years ago,” Alaric continues, and I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully now, “he escaped capture from his old guild. Sable Directorate.”

  I recognize that name from the other files. It doesn’t sit in my head right.

  “And why did he escape?” I ask.

  Alaric looks down at his papers. “He killed the guild head.”

  My mouth opens.

  Nothing comes out.

  Then, very intelligently, I manage: “Oh.”

  Alaric does not react to my reaction. He just turns the page like we’ve moved on from discussing murder to discussing tax policy.

  My eyes flick back to the photo. Fifteen. Purple eyes. Looking too old for his age.

  “This guy kills people,” I say, finally finding words that feel like they belong to me.

  “He killed someone,” Alaric corrects.

  “Semantics? Really?”

  “No, accuracy,” he says. “There is a difference.”

  “There’s also a difference between ‘kidnapped’ and ‘relocated,’ but you seem fine with that.”

  Alaric’s jaw tightens, just a fraction. His gaze meets mine, flat and cold and older than the apartment.

  “Careful, Jesse. I am in a decent mood this morning.” he says softly.

  I laugh, sharp and humorless. “Look, I’m sorry, should I call it ‘surprise inter-dimensional exchange program’?”

  “Jesse.”

  “What?”

  “You will call it what it is in your own head,” he says, very carefully, “but you will not let it control how you behave. If you spiral, you become useless. We’ve been over this already.”

  There it is.

  The leash.

  I want to throw my coffee at him.

  Instead I take a sip of my sugar-sludge and force myself to breathe.

  “Fine,” I say. “Fine. So. He killed someone—the guild head?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now he’s hiding in Alaska… fishing?”

  “Yes.”

  “And we’re just… going to collect him? Somehow.”

  “We’re going to recruit him,” Alaric corrects, because of course he does.

  “Same difference.”

  “It isn’t.”

  I look at him over my hand. “Okay. Christ. Does the majority of this cast include assassins and murderers? Or is he a special case?”

  “I assume you’re trying to make a joke?” Alaric says.

  “I am,” I confirm. “It’s my coping mechanism since I no longer wanna drink myself stupid.”

  He exhales through his nose. “He was a victim exploited for his talents for personal gain. He became aware of what was being done to him, and he acted.”

  “By killing the guy,” I say.

  “It’s survival,” Alaric replies, and something in his tone suggests this is a subject he knows personally, “and it isn’t random violence; he is not a murderer. He is an operator.”

  “Operator,” I repeat, rolling the word around like it’s a new flavor I don’t trust. “You keep saying that.”

  Alaric’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Because that’s what he is.”

  “Why not just say ‘mage’ or literally ‘assassin’. What’s with this operator bullshit?”

  “Because ‘mage’ is romantic, and ‘assassin’ is incorrect.” Alaric says, and there’s a faint disgust there.

  “And operator implies… what? HR-approved violence?”

  He actually chuckles—quiet, brief, like he hates that he finds me funny. “It implies control. Operators cannot function without control over their respective instruments and elements.”

  “Control,” I echo. “Yeah. Okay.”

  He taps the file once, as if sealing it shut. “One of our scouts will contact Xankoris around this time.”

  “We have scouts?” I ask, genuinely a little confused at that introduction.

  “Elias Harrow,” Alaric says, and that name lands with weight even though I don’t yet know why. “Top recruiter. Former New York Institute.”

  “Former,” I repeat. “Meaning he changed sides?”

  “Meaning he follows the work,” Alaric says.

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s the only one you’re going to get at this hour,” he replies, then glances at his watch. “Now—”

  “Wait,” I say, holding up a hand. “If Elias is going to make contact with Xan—Xankoris—then that means this is all in motion already. Like… right now?”

  “Yes,” Alaric says simply.

  “...and we’re sitting here eating eggs.”

  “Correct.”

  “Oh. So… what are we doing then? This feels irresponsible…”

  Alaric leans back in his chair, folds his hands again, and looks at me like I’m a child asking why the sky is blue. “Jesse, the story does not wait for you to feel ready; but there is nothing right now you need to be doing except learning who the cast are and where you need to be applying your efforts.”

  I hate him for packing so much sense into that delivery.

  He reaches for another folder and slides it toward me.

  “Now,” he says, voice shifting into lecturer mode, “we need to get going on this. I have a meeting this afternoon.”

  “With who?” I ask automatically.

  Alaric’s eyes flick up. Then he smiles—small, polite, infuriating.

  “With people who will be very displeased if I’m late. A faculty meeting if you must know.”

  “Oh. Nevermind then.”

  Alaric opens the folder.

  “Malika,” he says.

  I brace myself. “Right. She is the main character?”

  “Our one and only shining star,” Alaric agrees. “The St. Claire twins are very, very important.”

  I glance down at the next set of photos. A brother and a sister.

  And my brain does that deja vu thing again—they look very familiar.

  Alaric’s voice softens, not kinder, but more intent. “Listen closely.”