Chapter Text
9:08 Dragon
He sees her before she sees him.
The new girl, perched on a desk in a dim corner of the empty classroom. Coiled in upon herself, knees tucked tight toward her chest. Fine clothes—fancier than anything he’s ever so much as touched—a stark contrast with her scuffed boots and unkempt hair.
She reminds him of the stray cats who used to hang out behind his father’s shop: well-fed. Guarded.
Feral.
Emmrich had been bitten once, back in his less cautious days, his hand near-doubling in size before his mother had caught on and dragged him to the apothecary.
In her defense, he’d been hiding it.
He knows better now than to look directly at cornered animals. Instinctively, he ducks his head before the girl can see him staring.
But then she catches him unawares, pushing herself off the desk with a thump. Startling, Emmrich looks up.
Their eyes meet.
And just like a cat, she takes it as a challenge.
He should run, but just like last time, he doesn’t. Not because running is cowardly, the truth is even worse than that: he can’t. He’s too scared to flee, too afraid to save himself. His legs might as well be stone for he’s rooted to the spot.
If he dies tonight, then at least he’ll see his parents soon. The thought should balm his terror but it doesn’t help at all.
But then the girl actually speaks, and whatever terrible outcome he had been imagining in the back of his mind disappears in the presence of the sheer banality of the actual situation.
Her words are direct. Unsubtle. To the point. “You’re the corpse-whisperer, aren’t you?”
He envies it, the confidence.
And there’s so much he wants to say in response. Like that he has a name. That he’s more than just the ‘corpse-whisperer’. But he knows his words won’t come out quite right, the way he wants them to. He’ll get there one day—the Watchers are teaching him. But not yet.
Fingers curling against the hemmed sleeves of his ill-fitting robes, he gives the only response in which he has any degree of confidence: an academic correction.
“Mortuis loquere,” he says. Even now, his tongue trips over the syllables.
“Mortuis loquere,” the girl parrots back effortlessly, the corner of her mouth curling into a smirk. Her eyes narrow as she continues. “I thought you’d be more impressive.”
Now the terror in his ears is ringing a little less loudly, Emmrich realises just how strange her accent is, too. The rhythm is wrong. The shape of the vowels. Orlesian, maybe. Or Nevarran, once removed.
The girl takes another step towards him.
He fights the urge to shrink against the wall and fails. Finds himself apologising instead. “I’m sorry,” he says, knowing full well he can’t even fault her for the observation, knowing just how she’s developed the misconception in the first place.
Besides, he wishes he was more impressive, too.
He’s not expecting a follow-up question to an apology but the girl is full of surprises—it’s probably one of the least surprising things about her.
“Why?” she asks, leaning in close like she expects him to know the answer.
The problem is that he’s learned there are two different types of sorries: the type you give when something is your fault (like hiding a cat bite from your mother for hours), and the type people give when overwhelmed, like at funerals.
Right now, he’s still not sure which type of sorry he is.
Maybe both.
But he still can’t run—still can’t force himself to simply walk away—so instead he takes the only other path available to him.
He doubles down.
“That I’m not more impressive.”
He’s not expecting her to burst into laughter but she does, the sound echoing off the flagstones before she claps a hand to her mouth as though someone’s reminded her to keep quiet, to behave herself.
It doesn’t work very well.
Or at all.
But mostly he’s just glad she’s no longer looking at him like half-preserved organs in a specimen jar.
The girl’s still struggling to stifle her giggles when Emmrich’s thoughts are interrupted by the sound of steady, determined footsteps. The fear of being discovered by somebody else—someone with authority—sends a rush of energy through his veins.
Unfortunately, his body isn’t quite sure what to do with it all: it’s like his feet have been severed from his brain. Before he can even properly process what’s happening, he finds himself having tried to jump in two different directions at once, pain radiating outward from his kneecap for his troubles, a collision of skin and bone and stone.
The girl howls.
“Johanna,” comes the steely tenor of Watcher Pentaghast behind him in the doorway. “There you are.”
A few more peals of laughter escape Johanna’s throat before Emmrich sees her process the situation. Suddenly, she’s shut up and straightened as though she’d never been laughing at all, every muscle in her body tensed ready to either run or pounce.
Emmrich’s seen this before, too. Not with people, but with the cats. She’s assessing the threat. Calculating. Making herself seem bigger than she is. In case it’s necessary.
Then, he feels it. The Fade, rippling around them. The displacement of kinetic energy. Pentaghast must feel it too, but says nothing. Nobles never do. And Pentaghast is more than that: he’s a Pentaghast, no matter how much he may insist it doesn’t matter.
It’s all making sense now. The whispers Emmrich had heard around the Necropolis. Of the complications of her presence.
She’s magic. Just like him.
It shouldn’t shock him even though it does. It’s certainly old news to Pentaghast, who remains steadfast in the doorway, as though he might be able to reinforce reality through sheer force of presence.
“Johanna,” Pentaghast repeats, more firmly this time. A warning.
Even though they’d been expecting it, the sharp blast of air catches them both off guard. Emmrich’s slammed against the wall before he knows what’s happened, slumping to the floor as Pentaghast stumbles, his fingers just missing the sleeve of Johanna’s dress as she streaks past him, laughing hysterically once more.
Emmrich expects Pentaghast to give chase—hadn’t he come down here to find Johanna in the first place? Instead, the senior Watcher extends a hand to Emmrich.
Trying not to think about just clammy his palms are, Emmrich accepts the offer of assistance, allowing himself to be hoisted upwards. Still dazed, he stares in the direction of Johanna’s receded footsteps.
“I don’t understand,” he admits quietly.
“Young mages,” Pentaghast starts slowly, with all the gravitas of a man choosing his words carefully, “can be either taught or contained.”
Emmrich is not oblivious to the threat and promise in those words. Pentaghast gives his hand one encouraging squeeze before releasing it entirely. “But you should be in bed.”
Yes, he really should. It’s not like him, breaking rules like this, no matter how minor. The Watchers have been so kind to him ever since he’s come to live here. But Johanna’s words—corpse-whisperer, corpse-whisperer, corpse-whisperer—ring through him, remind him of the fear he tries not to examine too closely, that maybe if his talents hadn’t blossomed and been recognised so quickly in the aftermath of everything, who knows what would have happened to him?
That’s why he’s out of bed tonight. The anniversary is soon. The nightmares are back again.
The ones where he’s choking.
The ones where he’s dying, too.
So, he’d gone down to the classrooms. To get some…not fresh air, exactly. But to be somewhere familiar.
Less alone.
Now, though? Now he’s exhausted. He hadn’t even noticed, but his legs are shaking.
Pentaghast frowns at him, concerned. “Or perhaps to the infirmary. That was quite the blow to the head.” He offers Emmrich his hand again.
It had been quite the hit—now that it’s been pointed out to him, he notices his temples are throbbing, too. Maybe that was the real reason for the ringing. It would be nice to have a reason other than the fear.
“Thank you,” Emmrich whispers, letting Pentaghast take his hand into his own.
They walk together to the infirmary in silence.