Chapter 397.5 - Interlude Tim 1

The alarm artifact blared loudly, and after a few seconds of being ignored, it began pulsing with stroboscopic light.Tim groaned, rolling over on the narrow mattress, and slapping the crystal until it went dark. For a moment, he simply lay there, staring at the stone ceiling of the dormitory on the twelfth floor.

To his left, a roommate was snoring as loudly as a foghorn. To his right, the smell of someone’s unwashed socks was waging war against the ventilation enchantments.

Fortunately, he’d long since figured out how to make the artifact only audible and visible to himself, or he’d have to put up with their complaints, too. Although his roommates weren’t particularly skilled mages, they could whine like the best.

"Up," Tim whispered to himself, swinging his legs out of bed. "Move or die.”

It was his father’s mantra, one of the few lessons he had managed to instill in his son, and though Lord Poules probably would have preferred he learn the sword, Tim still appreciated being able to wake up at the crack of dawn without feeling like death warmed over.

He grabbed his toiletries and shuffled toward the communal washroom. The water was cold, since the heating enchantments were always unreliable on the lower student floors, supposedly to motivate students to learn how to fix them themselves, according to the older students, but it definitely worked to wake him up.

As he scrubbed his face, he looked in the mirror.

Unruly brown hair that refused to lie flat? Check. Ears that were just a little too big for his head? Check. The face of a boy who looked like he should be herding sheep in Oakenhallow rather than studying arcane theory in the Alluria? Check.

"Yer a wizard, Timothy," he muttered to his reflection, trying to flatten a cowlick. "Try to look like one.”

He quickly dressed in the standard robes, which were clean but already starting to wear at the elbows. Unlike the silken, custom-fitted robes worn by high nobles or the mysterious, high-level gear Nick used, which were enchanted to the brim, Tim’s uniform was strictly standard issue. He definitely wouldn’t spend the little gold his father sent him on fixing them up, especially when he just needed to study a bit harder to figure it out himself.

Silently grabbing his bag to avoid waking the others, he slipped toward the mess hall, where the breakfast rush was just beginning.

Tim grabbed a tray with porridge, soft buttered bread, and a surprisingly decent tea, and looked around the room.

The atmosphere was different today. Usually, the gossip was about who was dating whom, which mortal feud might turn violent, or which professor was secretly trying to become a lich. Today, there was only one topic: the Trial.

"...heard he stood in the Circle of Veracity and lied, but the magic failed to affect him,” a third-year whispered as Tim squeezed past.

"...no, my cousin said the King’s Shadows were there. Crowley is a secret agent," another replied. “You know his betrothed’s uncle is a full mage, so it must be true!”

Tim kept his head down, but he felt the eyes on him grow as he moved. People knew. They knew he was part of circle, the strange, eclectic orbit of Nicholas Crowley.

He found an empty spot at a long table and sat down, opening his textbook on Advanced Debuff Theory.

“Is it true?”

Tim sighed and looked up. A group of students he recognized from some of his own classes were staring at him, wide-eyed.

"Is what true?" Tim asked, spreading some jam on his bread and throwing a handful of nuts on his porridge.

"That Crowley threatened to blow up the Tribunal with forbidden magic if they dared question him?”

Tim snorted. "No. Nick probably just explained very politely why they were wrong, then dismantled their arguments until it seemed pointless to argue. He’s surprisingly eloquent, you know.”

The others exchanged glances and hurried off, likely to spread even crazier rumors.

Tim shook his head but didn’t try to stop them. It wasn’t like they would understand without experiencing it firsthand.

Nick wasn't a monster; he was just... intense. He was a force of nature wrapped in human shape, and being his friend was like being friends with a hurricane; you felt proud of his power, but you also spent a lot of time holding on to your hat and hoping you wouldn't get blown away.

He quickly finished his breakfast and headed to his first elective class for the day, Hexes and Hindrances.

This was where he truly excelled. He wasn't a monstrously powerful mage like Nick. He couldn't hurl fireballs like Drusilla or shake the ground like Bellamy. But he could make a Fire Mage stumble over his own feet, forget his spell, and feel a sudden, overwhelming urge to cry, all in just three seconds.

The lesson was exhausting. Master Tatin was a strict instructor who demanded perfection in somatic components. While other students struggled to weave the spellform for a hex, Tim’s mana flowed smoothly into place, and everything clicked together just right.

He felt the structure come together into a subtle, sticky energy that clung to the target dummy, whose enchantments flared, signaling a successful hit, and he smiled.

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"Adequate, Mr. Poules,” Master Tatin grunted as he moved past him. “But do tighten the casting frame. You're wasting mana by widening the targeting too much when you have a single enemy before you.”

"Yes, Master," Tim said, wiping sweat from his forehead. That was something he’d been working on, making the jump from using generic formulas for every situation to adapting his magic to fit his circumstances, but apparently, he wasn’t there yet.

. That was the ceiling for people like him. For Nick, such a judgment would have been a complete failure, but Tim knew his limits and took it as the compliment it was. They’d just started working on , so casting it with any proficiency was more than most could claim, as could be seen by the terrible spectacle going on around him.

He didn’t mention having already practiced the spell on his own, as shown by the absence of a System message. There was no need to further diminish his already plain image.

After class, he met up with the others in the artificial courtyard on the eleventh floor.

Bellamy was leaning against a pillar, looking effortlessly noble in his tailored robes, while Eona was polishing the pommel of her sword with a focused intensity that kept away most passersby.

"Tim!" Bellamy grinned, waving him over. "Survived Tatin?”

"Barely," he admitted, dropping his heavy bag onto the bench. “He was in a mood, especially since not even half the class managed to get the dummies to react.”

“He’s always in a mood, which is why only those truly dedicated to hexes or those who desperately need to pass a class take his lessons,” Eona said, sheathing her blade and looking up. "You look tired. Are you sleeping? They’re not giving you trouble still, right?”

“No, I’m fine,” Tim said. “Just some late-night practice, you know how it is.”

They settled into a relaxed rhythm, chatting about classes and the latest gossip, and eventually the conversation shifted to Nick.

“He sent a message to say he’d be busy for the next couple of days, but he’ll still attend some lessons, so we might get to see him,” Eona said. As the sister of one of House Crowley’s most valuable allies, she would also get to go to the Boer Ball, so she’d probably spend more time with Nick than anyone else, but Tim appreciated how little importance she gave to such social occasions.

“I heard word that there might be a special lecture sometime soon,” Bellamy interjected, and Tim turned to him. As always, Bellamy was the most well-connected in their group, being from the ducal house, despite his insistence that he had very little to do with them these days.

Ignoring the smug smile that the other always had when he knew something they didn’t, Tim asked, “What’s it about?”

“No one knows, but it’s pretty important, since all the teachers are talking about it,” Bellamy replied.

It wasn’t a very charitable thought, but Tim didn’t hold any ill will toward Bellamy. That was just how the guy worked, and he’d come to terms with it. It wasn’t like he was a particularly nice person either.

As they chatted, Tim noticed a group of students from noble backgrounds watching them. He saw the sneers, the whispered comments.

they were saying.

"Ignore them," Eona whispered, catching his gaze.

"I am," Tim said, forcing a smile. "So, lunch? I heard they have thunderhoof meat today. It’s been months since I had any.”

The afternoon was free, so most students were napping or socializing. Tim headed to the training grounds.

He avoided the main areas where older students dueled each other, showing off their skills in as flashy a way as possible, and instead went to the private rooms at the back of the floor, where no one ever bothered him.

Locking the door, he set up the target dummy.

"Six levels," Tim whispered to himself. "I gained six levels this semester. That’s good. That’s fast.”

But it wasn’t, not really. Sure, compared to other students, he was making decent progress, but when he thought about the tournament, of Drusilla Boer standing over him, power crackling around her fingers, he knew it wasn’t enough.

Even as he was now, he would still lose to her, and she wasn’t even the strongest of the lot.

When he thought about his father fighting dwarves in the frozen north, he knew it was a pathetic result. And when he thought of Lady Chandra, his stepmother, it was hardly worth considering.

The woman had twisted his father’s house around her finger until Tim felt like a stranger in his own home. As he was now, he still wouldn't be able to do anything before her.

She had told him once, smiling as she took away his mother’s locket.

"," Tim grunted, and stones tore themselves from the floor, hovering around him.

“.” The stones started spinning faster and faster.

".” He poured his mana into the spell. Gray fog erupted from his hands, filling the small room. He pushed more mana into it, straining his channels. He wanted the mist to be thicker. He wanted the effect to be strong enough to stop a knight, and the effect to be heavy enough to ground a flying monster.

Sweat poured down his face, and his head started pounding.

He held the spell until his vision blurred, his knees buckled, and the stones hit the floor as the mist dissipated.

Tim lay on the cold stone floor, gasping for air, his mana channels throbbing with the fiery ache of overuse.

Timothy Poules

LEVEL

MANA

STR

DEX

CON

INT

WIS

CHA

Status Mage/Human

By the time he showered and dragged himself out of the bathroom, Tim was so tired he felt like a thrall.

Finding a quiet corner in the library to review his notes before eating, he sat down, just wanting to read a chapter on Positive Support Magic and then go to sleep.

"Is this seat taken?”

Tim looked up. Standing just inches away was a truly stunning girl. Long, dark hair, eyes the color of the Valis River, and robes that were cut to flatter a figure that most statues would envy. She wore the crest of a minor but wealthy noble house.

"Uh," Tim blinked, his brain misfiring. "No. Go ahead.”

She sat down, not across from him but beside him. Close enough that he could smell her perfume; lilac and honey.

"I'm Lysa," she said, flashing a smile that was equal parts shy and dazzling. "I've seen you around in Master Tatin’s class. You're really good with hexes.”

Tim felt a flush creep up his neck. "Oh. Thanks. I just practice a lot.”

"You're humble, too," Lysa giggled, placing her hand on his arm. Her fingers felt warm. "It’s rare to find someone talented nice in this place. Most of the guys here are so arrogant.”

She leaned in, lowering her voice. Her eyes were wide and inviting. "It must be hard, though. Keeping up with your friends. I see you with Bellamy and Crowley.”

Tim’s spine stiffened, though he kept his face relaxed. "They're good friends.”

"I bet," Lysa said, her fingers tracing a faint pattern on his sleeve. "Crowley seems so mysterious. Everyone’s talking about the trial. You must know what really happened, right? Being his friend?”

She moved closer. Her voice lowered to a husky whisper. "I'd love to hear the real story. Maybe... somewhere more private? My dorm mate is gone for the weekend. We could talk without anyone disturbing us.”

It was an irresistible offer. A beautiful girl interested in him, offering intimacy and attention. For a lonely, tired teenage boy, it should have been impossible to refuse.

But Tim didn't see Lysa; he saw Lady Chandra leaning over his father’s chair, whispering sweet poison in his ear, touching his arm just like this, smiling that same dazzling smile while she systematically dismantled his father’s will.

His expression went cold. The boyish awkwardness vanished, replaced by the hardened, tired look of the heir to House Poules, and he pulled away from her grip.

“No, thank you.”