Winter Break, Animusphere Estate
The estate was exactly as she remembered—cold, empty, and echoing.
Olga stood in the entrance hall, luggage at her feet, and waited for someone to acknowledge her arrival. The baroque architecture loomed around her, all marble and gold leaf and centuries of magical history. Beautiful. Imposing. Utterly devoid of warmth.
A servant appeared after five minutes. "Miss Animusphere. Your rooms have been prepared. Lord Animusphere sends his regrets—he's currently at Chaldea overseeing final preparations for the next phase of the project. He may return before the end of break. Or not."
The casual delivery of her father's absence hit exactly as it always did—a dull ache she'd learned to ignore.
"Of course," Olga said, keeping her voice level. "Thank you."
She'd known he wouldn't be here. Marisbury Animusphere didn't take vacations. Didn't celebrate holidays. Barely acknowledged his daughter existed except as a potential component in his grand design. The fact that she'd hoped—even for a moment—that this time might be different was her own foolishness.
Her rooms were pristine. Untouched since she'd left for the Clocktower months ago. The books on her shelf arranged by size, the desk empty of any personal items, the bed made with military precision.
It looked like a hotel room. Sterile. Temporary. Not like anyone actually lived here.
Olga unpacked methodically, trying not to think about how the library at the Clocktower felt more like home than this ever had. How Cicero's cooking sessions felt more like family than formal dinners in the estate's cavernous dining room.
She ate dinner alone that first night. A servant brought the meal to her room—perfectly prepared, nutritionally balanced, utterly joyless. She picked at it while reviewing her notes, trying to fill the silence with something productive.
The bracelet on her wrist pulsed softly. A message.
Made it home safe?
Relief flooded through her so intensely it was almost embarrassing. She tapped out a response.
Yes. The estate is as welcoming as ever.
That bad?
My father is at Chaldea. I'm dining alone in my room. The servant who delivered my food didn't make eye contact.
Oof. Want me to send poisoned cookies?
Despite everything, Olga smiled. Don't tempt me.
Too late. Already baking. What's your stance on arsenic vs cyanide?
Cicero.
Fine, fine. Boring conventional poisoning it is.
She found herself laughing quietly, alone in her empty room. The sound felt strange in the silence.
Thank you, she sent. For checking in.
Always. Now go practice those Bounded Fields. I expect progress reports.
Demanding.
I prefer 'invested in your success.' Much more flattering.
The exchange shouldn't have meant as much as it did. But sitting in the cold estate, surrounded by centuries of Animusphere legacy and completely alone, those few messages felt like a lifeline.
The days blurred together in isolation.
Olga trained in the estate's extensive practice rooms—spaces designed for high-level magecraft that hadn't seen regular use in years. Her enhanced cognition made the exercises almost trivial now. What had taken hours of frustrated effort at the Clocktower flowed smoothly, naturally.
She should have been pleased. Instead, she felt oddly hollow.
There was no one to share her progress with. No professors to prove wrong. No Cicero appearing with coffee and gentle encouragement. Just empty rooms and the echo of her own footsteps.
On the third day, she encountered one of her father's assistants in the hallway—a stern woman named Helena who'd overseen much of Olga's early magical education.
"Miss Animusphere." Helena's gaze swept over her with clinical precision. "You look different."
Olga straightened automatically. "I've been maintaining a better exercise regimen."
"Hmm. Your posture has improved significantly. Magical capacity seems more stable as well." Helena made a note on the tablet she carried everywhere. "Lord Animusphere will be pleased to see measurable progress."
Will he? Olga wanted to ask. Will he even notice?
But she just nodded. "Thank you."
"Continue your current regimen. The Animusphere heir should be in peak condition." Helena paused, then added with something almost like approval, "You're finally starting to look the part."
She swept away before Olga could respond, leaving her standing alone in the hallway with a complicated knot of emotions in her chest.
Later that night, she messaged Cicero.
Question: Is it normal to want validation from people who've never given it to you? Even when you know logically that it doesn't matter?
His response came quickly. Extremely normal. Also extremely frustrating. Your father?
His assistant noticed I've improved. Said he'd be pleased.
But he's not here to see it himself.
No.
There was a pause. Then: For what it's worth, I'm proud of you. And I'm here. And I actually see the progress you're making.
Olga stared at the message, throat tight.
Thank you, she managed finally. That... that means more than it should.
It means exactly as much as it should. You deserve people who actually acknowledge your effort.
She fell asleep that night with the bracelet still warm against her wrist, the closest thing to comfort she'd had since arriving.
On the fifth day, something unexpected happened.
Olga was practicing in the main training room when the door opened. She spun, Bounded Field half-formed, and froze.
Her father stood in the doorway.
Marisbury Animusphere looked exactly as she remembered—tall, composed, expression utterly neutral. His eyes swept over her with the same clinical detachment he might use examining a new piece of equipment.
"Father." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "I didn't know you'd returned."
"I haven't. I'm here for approximately one hour to retrieve research materials before returning to Chaldea." His gaze fixed on her Bounded Field—still active, shimmering in the air. "You've improved."
It wasn't a question.
"I've been studying more efficiently. And exercising." The words felt inadequate.
"Good. Maintain that trajectory." He moved to leave, then paused. "Helena mentioned your development. Continue. The Animusphere name requires competence."
And then he was gone, footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Olga stood frozen in the empty training room, Bounded Field dissipating around her.
That was it. Thirty seconds. Maybe less. No questions about her well-being, her classes, her life. Just clinical assessment and expectation of continued improvement.
She should have been used to it by now.
The bracelet pulsed.
Making any progress on those Field techniques?
She looked at the message, then at the empty doorway where her father had been.
Some. Still struggling with the third configuration.
That one's tricky. Try anchoring the boundary nodes to conceptual space instead of physical. Might work better with your Element.
I'll try that. Thank you.
Anytime. How's the family drama?
Olga glanced around the empty training room. Thought about her father's brief, emotionless assessment. The days of isolation. The sterile perfection of the estate.
Existing. Barely.
Oof. Are you really sure you don't want me to send the poisoned cookies?
Despite everything—the loneliness, the disappointment, the crushing weight of being an Animusphere—she smiled.
Let me think about it a little more.
You hesitated too much.They're already on the mail.
And there, tucked away in the cold estate where no one could see, Olga Marie Animusphere let herself feel something approaching happiness.
Not because of where she was.
But because somewhere out there, someone actually cared enough to check in.
The rest of the break passed in relative isolation. She practiced her Bounded Fields, marveling at how much easier everything was with her enhanced cognition. She read through the estate's extensive library. She planned for the coming semester. And she corresponded with Cicero, short messages that became the highlight of her days.
She smiled despite herself, tucked away in her room where no one could see.
Return to the Clocktower, January 2010
Olga stepped off the train onto a snow-dusted platform, luggage in hand, and felt something settle in her chest.
Home.
The Clocktower felt more like home than the Animusphere estate ever had.
She made her way through familiar corridors, nodding to classmates who seemed surprised to see her looking so... healthy. Confident. Different.
The west wing library was quiet when she arrived, her usual corner waiting like an old friend.
And there, at the front desk, sat Cicero.
He looked up when she entered, and his smile could have lit the entire building.
"Welcome back," he said warmly. "How was break?"
"Tolerable. Barely." She set her bags down, suddenly feeling awkward. A month apart shouldn't have felt this long, but it had.
"Well, I'm glad you're back." He gestured at the desk, where a familiar cup sat steaming. "Coffee's fresh. And I may have experimented with a new pastry recipe while you were gone."
"May have?"
"Definitely did. It involved cinnamon and possibly too much butter."
"There's no such thing as too much butter."
"That's the spirit." He stood, moving around the desk. "Seriously though—how are you feeling? The enhancements settling okay?"
"Better than okay. Everything's..." She gestured helplessly. "It's like I was living in fog before and didn't even know it."
"Good." His expression turned warm. "You deserve to feel like that. To actually have the tools to be yourself without constantly fighting uphill."
Olga felt heat creep up her neck. "Yes, well. Thank you. Again."
"Always." He paused, then added with a grin, "Now, ready to start that training I mentioned? Because I wasn't joking about the morning workouts."
"How early are we talking?"
"Six AM. Every day."
"I take back every nice thing I ever said about you."
"No you don't."
No. She really didn't.
The training sessions were brutal but effective.
Cicero pushed her—not cruelly, but consistently. Combat training, circuit optimization, Bounded Field practical applications, even mundane things like public speaking and strategic thinking.
"If you're going to help build something new," he explained during one particularly exhausting session, "you need to be comfortable in every arena. Magic, politics, combat, diplomacy. All of it."
"I'm going to die of exhaustion first."
"You have enhanced stamina. Stop complaining."
"Having enhanced stamina doesn't make early morning sprints enjoyable."
"Nothing makes early morning sprints enjoyable. That's why they build character."
"I have enough character!"
"Agree to disagree."
But despite the complaints, Olga found herself... thriving. The structure helped. The clear goals helped. Having someone who believed in her potential—really, genuinely believed—helped most of all.
And slowly, she began to believe it too.
March 2010
"I did it!"
Olga burst into the library, practically vibrating with excitement. Several students looked up, startled, but she didn't care.
Cicero glanced up from his book, eyebrows raised. "Did what?"
"The Bounded Field! The third configuration, the one I've been struggling with for months—I did it! Perfectly! Professor Kayneth actually said 'acceptable' which coming from him is practically a marriage proposal!"
She was babbling. She knew she was babbling. But she couldn't stop.
Cicero's face broke into a brilliant smile. "That's amazing! I knew you could do it!"
"You literally told me to anchor the boundary nodes differently and suddenly everything just—" She gestured wildly. "—worked! It was perfect! It was beautiful! I wanted to cry!"
"Did you cry?"
"Obviously not. I have dignity."
"Uh-huh."
"There might have been some moisture in my eyes. From allergies."
"In March."
"Shut up and let me have this."
He laughed, standing to meet her. "I'm proud of you, Olga. Really proud."
Something in his tone made her pause. The genuine warmth, the lack of any condescension or surprise. Just... pride. Like he'd never doubted she'd get there.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For believing in me when I didn't believe in myself."
"Always." He squeezed her shoulder. "Now, I believe this calls for celebration. What do you say to—"
"If you suggest studying, I'm going to scream."
"—trying that new tea shop in town? The one that just opened on Baker Street?"
Olga blinked. "Oh. That's... actually a good idea."
"I have them occasionally." His smile turned teasing. "When I'm not making you do morning sprints."
"One good idea doesn't erase months of torture."
"Fair enough."
They walked to the tea shop together, Olga still buzzing with success, Cicero listening as she explained the exact technique she'd used. The conversation flowed easily, punctuated by laughter and gentle teasing.
And for the first time since coming to the Clocktower, Olga felt like she'd found something worth holding onto.
Not just success. Not just validation.
But genuine connection. Real friendship.
Maybe even something more—though she wasn't ready to examine that particular thought too closely yet.
For now, this was enough.
More than enough.
Everything.
April 2010, Late Night Library Session
"You know what I realized?" Olga said, setting down her coffee.
"That instant ramen is an abomination and you should let me cook for you instead?"
"Besides that."
"That morning sprints are actually good for you and you love them now?"
"Absolutely not. Try again."
Cicero grinned. "I give up. Enlighten me."
"I'm happy." The words came out softer than she intended. "Actually, genuinely happy. I can't remember the last time I felt like this."
His expression softened. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I mean—everything's still hard. I'm still behind where I should be in some subjects, my father still barely acknowledges me, and the Clocktower is still a nightmare of political maneuvering. But..." She met his eyes. "I have this. The library sessions. The training. Our terrible jokes and arguments about literature. You."
Heat crept up her neck at the admission, but she pushed through.
"You make everything feel bearable. More than bearable. Like there's actually a point to all of it."
Cicero was quiet for a long moment, something complicated flickering across his face.
"You make it bearable for me too," he said finally. "This whole plan—building something better, finding the right people—it could easily feel hollow. Manipulative, even. But with you?" His smile turned genuine. "It feels real. Like we're actually building something worth having."
"Even though I'm a disaster?"
"You're not a disaster. You're a work in progress. There's a difference."
"That's just diplomatic phrasing for disaster."
"It's realistic phrasing for human." He leaned forward. "Nobody gets to skip the messy parts, Olga. Not even enhanced super-soldiers with destiny manipulation on their side. We all struggle. We all fail. The trick is having people around who don't give up on you when you do."
"Is that what we are? People who don't give up on each other?"
"I'd like to think so."
Olga felt something warm and dangerous bloom in her chest. She quickly looked away, focusing on her coffee.
"Well. Good. Because I've invested significant effort into this friendship and I refuse to let it go to waste."
"How pragmatic."
"I'm very practical."
"You cried over a book last week."
"That was different! The ending was emotionally manipulative!"
"It was The Count of Monte Cristo. You knew how it ended."
"Knowing intellectually and experiencing emotionally are two different things!"
Cicero's laugh echoed through the library, warm and bright and perfect.
And Olga thought—not for the first time—that maybe, just maybe, she'd found something worth more than all the Animusphere legacy combined.
Something like hope.
May 2010
The phrase slipped out during combat training.
Olga had finally nailed a particularly complex maneuver—disarming an opponent while maintaining her Bounded Field integrity. It had taken weeks of practice, countless failures, and more bruises than she wanted to count.
But she'd done it.
"Yes!" She pumped her fist, slightly out of breath but grinning. "Did you see that? I actually did it!"
Cicero was smiling, that proud expression she'd come to crave. "Perfect execution. Good girl."
The world tilted.
Olga's brain short-circuited.
Her face went supernova. Her entire body locked up, paralyzed by a sudden rush of something—hot and electric and completely mortifying. Every nerve ending seemed to light up at once, and she couldn't form a single coherent thought past the roaring in her ears.
"I—you—that's not—" She couldn't string words together. Could barely breathe past the sensation flooding her system.
Cicero's expression shifted from proud to surprised to absolutely delighted in the span of about two seconds.
"Oh," he said, drawing out the word with obvious amusement. "Oh, that's very interesting."
"Shut up." Her voice came out strangled. "Don't—we are not discussing this."
"Of course not." But his eyes sparkled with barely suppressed laughter. "Though I'll definitely keep that reaction in mind for future reference."
"I hate you."
"You really don't."
"I'm going to murder you in your sleep."
"No you won't."
He was right. She wouldn't.
But she was absolutely going to die of embarrassment right here in this training room, and it would be entirely his fault.
"I'm leaving," she announced, gathering her things with as much dignity as she could muster (which was approximately zero). "I have studying to do. Important studying. Elsewhere. Far away from you."
"Olga—"
"Goodbye. Forever. Never speak to me again."
She fled.
His laughter followed her all the way down the corridor, and she absolutely, definitely, certainly did not stop to catch her breath halfway there because her heart was racing for completely normal, exercise-related reasons.
Completely normal.
Totally.
She was going to kill him.
She avoided him for exactly two days before the guilt and loneliness won out.
"I'm sorry I ran away," she mumbled, sliding into her usual library spot.
Cicero looked up from his book—something about agricultural policy, of all things—and smiled. "I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable."
"You didn't—" She stopped, took a breath. "Okay, you did, but not in a bad way. Just in a... surprising way."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Absolutely not."
"Fair enough." He set the book aside. "For what it's worth, I'm not going to tease you about it."
"You literally just teased me about it two days ago."
"That was different. That was immediate-reaction teasing. This is me being mature and respectful."
"You're never mature."
"I'm occasionally mature."
"Name one time."
"I'm being mature right now."
"This doesn't count."
"Why not?"
"Because you're still smiling like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you know something I don't and you're enjoying it."
"Can't help my face."
Olga threw a wadded-up piece of paper at him. He caught it without looking, grin widening.
"I missed this," he said.
"It's been two days."
"Two very long days." His expression softened. "I'm glad you came back."
Something in her chest loosened. "Yeah. Me too."
They fell into their usual rhythm—coffee and conversation and comfortable silence punctuated by occasional debates. And if Cicero was extra careful about his word choices for a while, and if Olga blushed whenever he praised her work, well.
Neither of them mentioned it.
Some things were better left unspoken.