Luke's day went from :D to :) to :l to :(, and by the time it hit >:(l, he was considering going back to sleep and pretending it never started.
It began, as great disasters often do, with oversleeping.
The sun filtered through the enchanted skylight above his dorm room, dappling the floor with gold. It was beautiful. Peaceful. Calming.
Also very, very wrong.
Luke blinked at the clock crystal hovering above his desk. The numbers glowed in cheerful blue:
09:13
His next class—Advanced Combat Theory—will start in -13 minutes.
"Damn it," Luke muttered, launching out of bed. In his haste, he caught his shin on the corner of the desk, stumbled, and nearly face-planted into his boots. He summoned his uniform with a flick of his hand, the enchantment half-cast in his groggy panic. His cloak twisted itself backward, and his tunic refused to button properly, leaving him looking like a drunken apprentice who had dressed in the dark.
Still, it was good enough.
He rushed toward the kitchen nook to grab the last pastry he'd saved from the market—only to find the plate empty and a familiar note written in crumbling pastry sugar on the countertop:
"Last donut was lonely. I adopted it. You're welcome.
– A."
Luke stared at the note. Then at the empty plate. He felt the hope of a good morning dissolve in powdered sugar.
:).
Usually, Cosima waited for him just past the courtyard gates of Crystal College. She liked to pretend she was casually passing by—never "waiting," of course—but it had become their habit. She'd always greet him with something snarky like, "You look like you lost a duel with a laundry spell," or "Nice boots. Are you trying to blind someone?"
But today, the space near the gate was empty.
A breeze tugged at his already-mangled cloak as he paused, puzzled.
He tapped his comm crystal, expecting her usual snappy response. Instead, the message shimmered slowly into view:
"Sick. Can't make it today.
Don't die without me.
—C"
He frowned. Cosima never skipped class. Not even during magical flu season, when half the dorms were on fire from sneeze-triggered hexes.
She must've been really unwell.
He hesitated, debating whether to go check on her. But the academy gates buzzed again—a warning that he'd now be counted officially late-late instead of just kind-of-late.
"Fine," he muttered, and turned toward the main path alone.
:l.
That's when it started to rain.
And not the pleasant kind. Not a soft drizzle or the misty sort that added charm to stone towers and ivy-laced courtyards.
No. This was Crystal College Downpour™, complete with magical static in the air, booming thunder, and rain that seemed to seek out the gaps in his clothes.
The waterproofing charm on his cloak fizzled after thirty seconds.
He muttered an old nursery charm under his breath:
"Rain, rain, go away, come again another—"
Lightning flashed in response, and Luke decided that even the weather hated him today.
:(.
He might've let the whole day slide, accepted the misery as cosmic punishment for oversleeping.
But the universe wasn't done.
As he crossed the arched stone bridge over the rune-lit ravine that marked the boundary of the inner college, he felt it—a spike of magical pressure.
Luke pivoted, instincts screaming.
A jagged spear of ice tore through the air where he'd stood moments before. It slammed into the stone with enough force to shatter part of the railing.
Luke's pulse spiked. "You've got to be kidding me."
A second spell followed—a net of arcane energy, sizzling blue, crackling like fire. He countered it midair with a flare burst, then backflipped behind the bridge pillar.
From the mist emerged a figure—tall, cloaked, masked in silver, wand raised.
"Luke," they said, voice distorted by enchantment. "Hand it over. Now."
Luke frowned. "Hand what over? My lunch? 'Cause if that's what this is about, you're too late."
Another spell lanced toward him—a tethering charm designed to bind and drag. He dodged it, fired off a mirror-doubling hex, and darted down the garden path toward the alchemy wing.
Spells flew behind him, shattering statues and singing hedgerows.
A blast of thunder rolled across the sky as he ducked into a covered walkway and launched a series of decoy illusions to scatter his attacker.
They didn't fall for it. The masked figure moved with trained precision, slicing through his misdirections like they were paper. A real professional.
Luke's eyes narrowed. Not a student. Not a random mugger.
He'd seen that serpent-shaped insignia before—on a page Cosima had once shoved under his nose during one of her "you should care more about magical conspiracies" rants.
The Serpent Order.
Bounty casters. Rogues. Illegal even by underworld standards.
And someone had sent one after him.
By the time Luke burst through the doors of Advanced Spellcasting—soaked, scuffed, and trailing residual magic—the entire class turned to stare.
Professor Mirron looked up slowly from the spellboard. "I presume you have a reason for this dramatic entrance, Mr.Stunner?"
Luke shoved wet hair out of his face and took his seat with all the grace of a drowning cat.
"Slept in. It's raining. Someone tried to kill me. That covers about it."
A silence.
Then someone at the back snorted.
Another giggled.
And soon the whole class was laughing—half in disbelief, half in amusement. Even Professor Mirron cracked a reluctant smile.
"Well then," the professor said, returning to his notes. "Let's hope your dueling skills are as dramatic as your excuses."
Luke didn't respond. He just slumped forward, arms folded on his desk, and closed his eyes for a moment.
He could still hear the hum of the masked caster's magic. Still feel the thrum of the sigils burned into the path. And worst of all—he hadn't been carrying anything important.
No artifact. No crystal. No secret document.
Which meant someone had sent a killer not for what he had...
…but for who he was.