Chapter 6: Couldn't Sleep
Hello. I'm still Feyri Virelle, atleast I hope. I couldn't sleep tonight. It felt off, even the wards for sleep didnt work. It's as if magic didn't work—very hour since midnight had felt like a trapdoor ready to spring—anxiety curled in my chest, coiling tighter with each tick of the warded clock. I pressed my face into the pillow, chasing sleep through circuits of thought: the arcane cascade we'd sketched, Rowan's tremulous grin, Caelen's bronze‐light glare, the silhouette on the dunes. None of it would quiet.
When I finally peeled back the blankets, dawn was still reluctant to rise. My chemise—threaded with dream wards—dangled from my shoulders like a ragged banner. Beneath it, charcoal undergarments hugged me, warded for comfort and secrecy. I barely registered them as I moved: the fabric was just part of the shield I wore every day. No robe, no cloak, no ceremony. Just intentions and ink on skin.
I stumbled to the basin and splashed cold water on my face. The wards glowed faintly, blinking into wakefulness. I bent low, eyes on the polished granite, and repeated the mantra I'd carved into my mind: intention guides magic. Then I flicked the basin's runic switch back to sleep mode and turned toward my dresser. I wore basic clothing. Black "kungfu" pants. Similar to hakama pants. I also wore a white t-shirt. I tucked it into the pants just for the style. Then I headed toward the door.
It wasn't usually like this. Strategy session—the times I had done them. Which was long ago but they still were routine,efficient, and almost comforting. Today, every nerve felt ragged under the weight of what was to come. And yet, I dressed with determined precision.
My mood was brittle, as if a single touch would splinter me.
The north tower's door slid open to wards humming a litany of welcome and warning. Snow‐white runic light pooled on the flagstone floor, revealing Caelen Aranthir already seated at the broad oak table. His posture was impeccable—spine straight, cloak folded across one knee, bronze‐steel eyes calm yet intense.
Rowan Graves sat opposite him, hunched forward, fingers drumming on a parchment covered in containment‐spiral sketches. He glanced up when I entered, face brightening with loyalty and something more anxious—hope, admiration, love-struck awe. His curls were damp, and he wore only a simple tunic over trousers. No cloak, not like it mandatory or anything.
I closed the door, closed off the dormitory world. The wards clicked into alignment. I stepped to my stool and sat. I managed a curt nod to both of them.
"Let's begin," I said. My voice cracked slightly—an almost imperceptible tremor. "I didn't sleep. I'm not in a great mood. Keep this targeted."
Caelen's brow lifted, but he nodded. "Understood." Rowan's face faltered—he'd wanted me to notice his enthusiasm, but this was no time.
I laid out my scrolls: three layers of vellum, ink glistening with ward‐ink. "Phase one: Core Harmony Ward," Caelen said immediately, voice steady. "Feyri, you anchor emotional resonance. I provide elemental structure." He unrolled a diagram, emerald and cobalt lines coiling around a central glyph. "Phase two: Momentum Ribbons—mobile wards to maintain speed and endurance through the relay." He tapped slender ink‐trails. "Phase three: Reflection Cascade—mirror wards to shield and return hostile magic and to protect the main weave."
Rowan leaned forward. "I've reworked the containment spirals to match Feyri's resonance frequency," he said, sliding a separate sheet across the table. "If we tighten the spirals by two degrees, they sync perfectly with her Core Harmony." He flashed a smile at me. "Your resonance… it's so fluid. Like water meeting runes."
I resisted the urge to snarl. My hand shot out, grabbing the containment sketch. "Don't flirt," I seethed. The ink trembled under my grip. "Focus on the wards."
He looked wounded—eyes darting between me and Caelen, who remained unmoved. Rowan cleared his throat. "Of course. Sorry." I don't believe that he was sorrry. I almost prepared myself for the next time he'd try to flirt.
I cleaned my stylus on a ragged cloth. "We're layering more complexity than any trial we've been in. Precision is not optional." I shoved the containment sheet toward Caelen. "His spirals integrate or fragment. Your reflective shields must catch every stray pulse."
Caelen examined the nested spirals. "He's right about the degrees," he said to me. "Two‐degree adjustment ensures constructive interference." He looked at Rowan. "Keep the spirals. But manage bleed with FailSafe Ripple Wards at each spoke intersection."
Rowan exhaled, relief mingling with fresh anxiety. "Done." He turned to me. "Feyri, your guidance makes this possible."
I pulled the scrolls back to my side, hands trembling not with fear but irritation I couldn't drop. "Next time, speak of wards—not me."
He swallowed. "Right."
I tapped the Momentum Ribbon lines. "Assemble these layers, codify the interplay. Then we practice under pressure." I looked at Caelen. "Any objections?"
Caelen shook his head. "None. It's efficient."
I exhaled. The earliest threads of frustration loosened. Maybe we could finish. Maybe I'd keep it together.
Rowan leaned in, though not so close I'd mention boundaries. "Feyri," he murmured, voice soft enough to almost count as strategy. "Your magic—watching you shape it—it's… exquisite. Like each rune is part of you."
Strike one.
I glared. "Focus."
He blinked. "Right. I—I'm focusing."
I bit back a retort, swallowing. If I let myself snap, the team would fracture before the trials. Just keep going.
We continued: refining the reflective shields, aligning pentagrams to Arcane Bounding North, scattering Ripple Wards. Caelen sketched the final glyphs; I inscribed corrections; Rowan provided occasional numbers to optimize spacing.
Then he said, "Your hands—so steady. Even when the wards tremble, you make them firm."
Strike two.
I froze mid‐stroke. The swirl of Bronze Empowerment Glyph hovered on the scroll. Flames of temper flared so bright I tasted ash. I set my stylus down. "Graves. Enough."
He opened his mouth, but Caelen cut in. "He means well, Feyri. His admiration is genuine."
I fixed Caelen with a look. "So genuine it's a distraction." Then I swung back to Rowan. "If you can't speak about wards without praising me, keep it to yourself. We have rules: strategy, not sentiment."
Rowan ducked his head, reddening. "I—I'm sorry."
I look at Rowan. "I'm sorry doesn't cut it."
Caelen leaned back, voice cool. "We approach the trials with this design. Let's finalize the coordinates."
I glared at Caelen—once an ally, now a mediator in my meltdown. Then I whirled on Rowan.
He stood, shoulders tight, voice low. "Feyri, your eyes—seafoam green—they pierce wards like sunlight through water. I can't help–"
"STOP!" The word cracked like a whip. The runes flickered. Rowan froze, front legs unsteady like a fawn. Caelen's brow furrowed in surprise; he was of steel nerves, but even he paused.
I rose to my full height—not that I am tall or anything, throat aching. "I need professional. Wards. Strategy. Spell‐craft. Not compliments on my life‐force. Not metaphors about sunlight. Not—"
Rowan swallowed, voice trembling. "I… admire your soul. It resonates with mine—"
"ENOUGH!" I bellowed, startling even myself. The wards around the table pulsed violently, sensing conflict. Rowan recoiled as if struck. Caelen rose as well, slowly, as if speaking a silent warning.
My heart hammered an accusatory rhythm. "This is not a workshop for your worship! Keep your admiration stored, or leave!" I had snapped my stylus in half. Ink flew and splattered all over me. Fragments of the stylus impailed my hand and blood tickled from the wounds.
I ignored the pain in my hand, "F-Feyri, your hand is bleeding.." Rowan offered me a rag. My eyes stared sharply at him and my voice dropped, crackling with fury. "You are a student here to learn. I am your instructor. My body, my skin, my soul—none of it is an invitation! You do not get to sprinkle me with praise until I bloom into your idea of grace!"
Caelen's hand dropped to the table. "Feyri—"
I turned on him like a gale. "And you, Caelen Aranthir—Strongest student alive—don't think you're above it. You invited me into a race, and I agreed on terms. But do not pretend your interest is purely professional if it's not. I'm not your trophy!"
Silence crashed down. Rowan stared at the table; Caelen stared at me as though seeing a storm face to face.
My breath came in ragged shards. Every fiber of my wardcraft felt unspooled. The rogue silhouette on the dunes, the trials looming, their half‐spoken feelings—it all coiled inside me, and I broke.
I snatched my satchel from beneath the table. Papers tumbled out, scrolls unrolled. I stomped backward, robe and hair swirling. "I'm done!" My voice rang through the vaulted chamber. "Do your trials without me!"
Rowan's chair scraped back. "Feyri—wait—"
I held up a hand, ward triggers clicking in frantic response. "Don't speak!" My eyes flicked to Caelen. "You wanted my heart in your weave? Well, you can have it—broken and bitter! I'm not your secret weapon!"
Caelen's mouth opened, but no words came.
I stormed out, boots clattering across flagstone, ward‐runes flaring with every angry step. Caelen and Rowan remained, framed in runic light, watching me go. I didn't slow until the door to the corridor shut behind me, drowning their calls in hissing wards.
At the stairwell landing, I paused, back pressed to the cool stone. My heart hammered so loud I thought they'd hear it in the chamber below. I gulped air, trying to quell the tremor.
They'd still need me—both of them. But I refused to walk back in until they earned my focus again. Or maybe even if I... forgave them.
I crossed the dormitory bridge without looking at the dunes. I reached my door, slapped the ward‐lock open, and slammed it shut. Inside, the hush was mine alone. No scrolls. No parchments. No quills. Only the faint hum of my bed's dream wards.
I fell onto the mattress, back flat, arms splayed. I didn't care, I didn't want comfort. I wanted the silence to stretch until the trials began—until I could prove that my magic needed no distractions.
I get up and pace the width of my dorm, sending scrolls tumbling off the desk in my wake. My braid swings like a pendulum, counting out the seconds since I lost control. My robe drags behind me; ink smears my palms and stains my white clothes. I can still taste the metallic burn of blood where the stylus shard impaled me—my own fault for letting anger fracture what I had built.
Rowan's voice echoes in my head: "Your magic is like poetry." Poetry. I nearly laughed when he said it. As if wards and runes bend to sentiment. As if I exist to inspire admirers instead of commanding power. And Caelen—cold as forged steel—saw me snap and said nothing. He didn't call me weak, but his silence cut deeper than any blade in his belt.
I reach my bed, clutching the sheets so tight the runic filigree wrinkles under my grip. I collapse, robe sliding off one shoulder, and let the room spin. Ink stains the mattress where I've sat drawing spirals. The broken stylus lies on the floor—a jagged confession.
My heart pounds in uneven rhythms. Rage hasn't left me, but now it tastes sour. Exhaustion seeps in around the edges of my fury, and I'm too tired to stand. I curl into myself, tracing damp smudges on the sheets with one ink-black fingertip, remembering every snapped line, every shouted word.
In the silence, I feel the cut in my palm throbbing. I peel skin back and find the shard embedded in splintered wood. My blood has dried around it. I make a tiny rune I carved it with tar and iron. I yank it free, crying out despite myself, my blood trickles and mixes with the ink that remains on my shaking hands.
I clasp my palm over the wound, willing tears away. The burn of regret surges through my veins, hotter than any ward. I realize I'm afraid: afraid that my temper makes me unreliable, that I can't hold myself together when it counts most.
I stand, unsteady, light headed—probably because of the sudden blood loss, and limp to the basin. Cold water hisses across my cut, washing away ink and guilt in equal measure. I wrap the wound with a scrap of cloth—robust enough to ward infection, fragile enough to let me feel every pulse. Pain is honest; wards can lie.
Back at the bed, I prop myself on one elbow and stare at the rune-etched ceiling. The dream mesh glows softly, a lullaby I can't summon. My shoulders sag; the fight drains out of me. I close my eyes and let the ward-light sketch shadows behind my lids.
Alone with my breath, I shift into something quieter. I picture the tide-struck beach where Rowan found me earlier—endless, rhythmic, patient. Each wave rises and falls without rancor, without hurry. It doesn't judge the broken stones it polishes or the sea grass it tugs at. It simply moves, alive with steady purpose.
In that moment I understand: magic, like water, needs both force and flow. I've been all force—unyielding, sharp, thorough. But flow… flow demands softness. Flow forgives breaks and shapes them into new curves.
I let myself lie back, the robe pooled around my waist like a shield I no longer need. My braid is loose now, threads curling free. My cut throbs, a heartbeat I can't ward away. But I'm not broken beyond repair.
I close my eyes, inhale the faint scent of lavender from the healing oil, and let the runic ceiling guide me toward calm. A single thought anchors in my mind, clear as carved stone:
"I've shouted when I should've whispered. But silence never saved me either."