Chapter Fourteen: To Go Back | Part 1
Thirtyx didn’t move for several bars.
While his body and mind both yearned to shut down, his heart knew that was an admission of defeat. He needed to get back on his feet—literally and metaphorically. He needed to start the trek back to Wydewood, even if it meant navigating dense brush through a nearly moonless night.
But if he managed to make it back, where would he go from there? Nearly half his class had banded together to kill him. How would he ever feel safe there again?
He could report them. But even in a mythical world where they were all expelled, he’d have the other half of the class—the magically adept half—to contend with. And reporting them was a pipe dream in itself, given that, if he wasn’t half-conscious in the mud right now, he’d be half-conscious in the headmistress’ quarters, fighting off a trance. Instead of punishing them, she may just as soon conspire with them. If each entity alone had very nearly broken him, what could they do together?
The thought turned Thirtyx’s weary and waterlogged stomach. He didn’t want to admit that they may have finally—collectively—run him out of Wydewood for good, but going back would be like signing his own death warrant. Then again, where else could he survive with no money or clout or marketable skills?
If the people he’d known most of his life wouldn’t let him live in peace, who would?
At long last, he forced himself into a sitting position. A cold wind exacerbated the damp chill of his back, and he shivered. Perhaps he hadn’t decided whether to stay at Wydewood, but either way, he had to go back. These muddy clothes and drenched shoes certainly wouldn’t get him far. If he planned to run away, he’d need some essentials.
And he owed Rhea and Benn an explanation.
They’d try to find him. They’d succeed. Thirtyx would have to write quite a letter to keep them from dragging him back. Drafting this hypothetical letter was far less challenging than shoving his way through the underbrush, so he sat there for a while longer, pondering what he’d write.
Dear Benn and Rhea, I know you’ve tried so hard to keep me safe, but it’s not quite working anymore.
Dear Benn and Rhea, I’ve decided that finishing school is far less important than keeping my head firmly attached to my shoulders and air in my lungs.
Dear Benn and Rhea, Remember when I mentioned my career aspirations as a palace caterer? Do you happen to know if Grimmary is hiring?
A snapped twig and a muttered profanity shook him from his descent into progressively more absurd letter starters. Had he imagined the muttering? He hoped he had. Tonight, he’d much rather take his chances with an animal than with angry Selkies who had circled back to finish the job.
Footsteps. Distinctly humanoid footsteps, but only one pair. In a flare of panic, he leapt to his feet, but he slipped in the mud and landed on his back with a thud and a squelch.
The footsteps sped up. “Thirtyx? Thirtyx, is that you?!”
He could have melted into the mud with relief. The voice was Seerla’s.
She was crashing through the brush with abandon now. “Thirtyx, please. By the Twins, please be alright!”
It could still be a trap. Vocal glamours were simple enough work for a magic minor. But he didn’t have time to consider what he’d do if it wasn’t her before she emerged from the trees—at least, Thirtyx thought it was her. Her face, so meticulously painted earlier, was now smudged with dirt and bore several scratches. Her braid unraveled near her scalp. Her clothes sported tears where the underbrush had snagged it.
But it was Seerla—passionately, unapologetically Seerla, and within moments, she knelt in the mud beside him.
“Twins, Thirtyx. Say something! Are— are you—”
“I’m okay.”
Calley Jones 