Somewhere far beyond the Archive, past a bunch of half-dead trees and a suspiciously moody scarecrow, lay an abandoned training field. It was where forgotten spells, bad ideas, and poorly aimed fireballs came to die.
Leo stood in the middle, holding the ancient language book like it was a pressure cooker manual written in Morse code. "Alright, time to test my Russian wizardry."
Vellum stretched. "What's the worst that can happen? You turn into a potato?"
Leo took a deep breath. "Согнись," he whispered.
The light pole above them—pure golden sunshine—bent. It actually bent. Not like an illusion, but full-on 90° curve like it got drunk and forgot gravity existed. The beam now lit the grass sideways, as if the sun had decided to prank the shadows.
"No way," Vellum whispered. "You just curb-stomped physics."
Leo grinned. "I'm basically a language-based god now. Let me try the next one."
He flipped a few pages, focused, then whispered something that sounded like a Russian lullaby with a hangover.
A soap bubble popped into existence.
But it didn't burst.
Instead, it flapped.
"Wait—is that a pigeon?" Vellum said, squinting.
Yes. A pigeon. Made of soap. Wings flapping, eyes blank, looking both majestic and mildly shampoo-scented. Leo puffed out his chest. "Behold—Golubka the Soapy One!"
But then, he got cocky. "Let's do it again. This time... BIGGER!"
He repeated the phrase with a little too much enthusiasm. This time, the pigeon screeched like a tea kettle in a horror movie. And bubbles started pouring out of its beak like a washing machine possessed by a banshee.
"Shut it up!" Vellum screamed, ducking as a bubble slapped his face.
Leo panicked. They grabbed the screaming soap bird, ran to a nearby river, and chucked it in like they were disposing of a cursed tiffin box.
SPLASH.
Bubbles floated downstream, still carrying faint screeches.
"Let's never speak of this," Leo panted.
"Agreed. If Ari finds out, we're dead. Or worse—viral."
But fate wasn't done playing peekaboo.
As they walked back, trying to pretend the pigeon never existed, a figure stood at a distance—arms crossed, head tilted.
It was Ari.
She'd been casually walking back from the canteen and just happened to see Leo chucking a soapy screamer into the river like a soap opera villain.
She stared. No words. Just stared.
Then she pulled out her journal, scribbled something... and slammed it shut.
Leo's curiosity burned like indigestion. "What'd she write?"
Vellum peeked when she walked ahead.
"Saw Leo's face post-bird event. My gut just committed suicide."
Leo held his chest. "I think I just lost 30% of my self-respect."
"Only 30%? That's optimistic."
Later that night, Ari and Leo sat in their dorm, quiet. She didn't mention the bird. He didn't ask.
She just muttered, "You even try peeking again, I'll use your eyeballs as marbles."
Leo nodded solemnly.
Then went to bed... and dreamt of screaming soap pigeons chasing him through a Russian-speaking IKEA.