Vellum and Vapors: The Scholar’s Three-Month Memories part 2

                                                                             2

      I walked back up the carved wooden stairs, but this time I didn't feel the heavy, bone-deep exhaustion from before. The full day of rest had worked wonders, restored my energy, and cleared my head. I walked past the first two doors and entered the third door on the left, stepping back into the quiet of my attic room.

     ​The room was peaceful, with its slanted ceilings and celestial models hanging still in the air. I laid out the new clothes on my bed; the indigo, magenta, and pink colors of the tunic seemed to glow against the blankets. With a bit of excitement, I changed out of my sleepwear and began to put on the gift from the Princess.

      ​The light blue trousers went on first. The fabric was a soft but sturdy twill that moved easily as I stepped into it. Next, I pulled on the purple leather boots. They reached up to my calves with a snug, firm fit that made me feel more grounded and ready for the day than I had in weeks. Finally, I reached for the indigo tunic. As I slid my arms into the sleeves and fastened the silver clasps at the collar, the fabric felt perfectly tailored. 

     Before checking the mirror, I gathered my long hair—a vibrant cascade of indigo and magenta streaked with bright pink—and deftly tied it up. I secured it into a high ponytail, though even bound together. The length was significant, and it draped down to the middle of my back.

     ​I turned to the tall mahogany mirror in the corner. The change was incredible. I no longer looked like a tired, messy student. At seventeen, I actually looked like the scholar I was meant to be. I began to inspect the fit, turning my body from one side to the other. As I moved, my hair followed, swinging in a rhythmic side-to-side motion across my shoulder blades. The weight of the ponytail felt familiar and disciplined, a sharp contrast to the wild mess it had been during my all-nighter.

      ​I stood there for a moment, just taking it in. I wasn't just the kid who used to play with a Smarty-Pants doll anymore; I was a researcher with a real job to do.

      Satisfied, I turned on my heel, my purple boots making a soft creak on the floorboards. I left the room with a quick, confident stride, the hem of my tunic snapping behind me. I wasn’t shuffling anymore; I was moving with a purpose. Every step down the stairs echoed with a solid clack against the oak wood.

     ​I made my way down the spiral staircase, my hand lightly brushing the banister for balance. Reaching the ground floor, I hurried down the hall, my nose catching the sharp, spicy scent of dragon-fire tea coming from the kitchen.

     ​I pushed the kitchen door open with a firm shove. Spike was by the stove, busy with a copper kettle. He jumped slightly at the sound of my entrance and turned around, steam swirling around him like a cloud.

     ​“Well,” Spike said, letting out a low whistle as he looked me over. “I guess you’re done looking like a ‘forgotten sock.’ You actually look like you’re ready for a royal meeting, Dusk.”

     ​I pulled out a heavy wooden chair, the legs scraping loudly across the stone floor as I sat down. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Spike,” I said with a small smile, my fingers tapping a quick beat on the table. “Right now, I’m just ready for breakfast. Is that tea still hot?”

     ​Spike laughed and slid a steaming mug over to me. The warmth felt good against my palms—one last moment of peace before I got back to work.

      Spike didn’t just slide the tea over; he moved with the practiced efficiency of a seasoned aide, clearing a space on the wooden table for a large, ceramic platter. The meal was a colorful, vegetarian spread that smelled of fresh herbs and sun-ripened produce.

      ​At the center of the plate sat a savory vegetable tart, its crust golden-brown and flaky. It was filled with a rich mixture of sautéed spinach, sun-dried tomatoes, and a creamy almond-based cheese substitute. Accompanying the tart was a side of crispy roasted potatoes seasoned with rosemary and sea salt, along with a small bowl of fresh, chilled berries.

   ​  “Dig in,” Spike said, hopping into the chair across from me. “I figured you needed something substantial that wouldn’t make you feel sluggish. No heavy meats, just clean energy.”

      ​I picked up my fork, the weight of the metal familiar in my hand. I took a bite of the tart, the flavors exploding across my palate—a sharp contrast to the stale toast I’d been picking for weeks. “It’s excellent, Spike. Truly. Your culinary skills are beginning to rival your organizational ones.”

     Spike beamed, leaning his elbows on the table. “Well, someone has to keep the ‘Great Scholar’ from wasting away. So, now that you’re dressed like a prince and fed like a king, what’s the first move? Back to the rifts?”

      ​I took a slow sip of the dragon-fire tea, the spicy warmth spreading through my chest. “The rift project remains a priority, but I find my mind wandering back to the letter from Princess Celestia. Her timing was… impeccable. It’s as if she knew exactly when my morale was at its lowest.”

       ​“She usually does,” Spike replied, popping a strawberry into his mouth. “But don’t wear new clothes as an excuse to avoid the hard math, Dusk. I saw the stack of scrolls on your desk. They aren’t going to translate themselves.”

      ​I chuckled, feeling a genuine lightness I hadn’t experienced in months. “Your lack of sympathy is noted, Aide. Once I finish this meal, I’ll return to studying. I believe the Temporal Paradoxes text has a chapter on anchor points that I previously overlooked.”

      ​Spike nodded; his expression turned a bit more serious. “Just promise me one thing. If you start smelling like a ‘forgotten sock’ again, I’m allowed to stage an intervention without a three-week warning.”

      ​I reached across the table and gave his shoulder a playful nudge. “Agreed. Though with this new attire, I suspect I’ll be more inclined to maintain my dignity.”

      ​We sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sound being the clinking of silverware and the steady rain against the kitchen window. The meal was exactly what I needed—a moment of normalcy before diving back into my studies.

      The savory vegetable tart had provided a surge of vitality that was almost physical. Once finished, I gathered my plate and carried it to the sink, the purple leather boots clicking with a new, energetic cadence on the stone floor.

      ​“That was truly divine, Spike,” I remarked, drying my hands. “Your culinary intuition remains unmatched. However, I’ve decided on a brief change of plans. Before I return to the Temporal Paradoxes, I intend to go for a run. I need the fresh air to clear the last of the mental fog.”

      ​Spike paused, his fork hovering mid-air as he looked me up and down, taking in the indigo tunic and the mandarin collar. His expression was one of pure, unadulterated confusion.

     ​“A run?” he repeated flatly. “Dusk, if you were planning on a sprint through the dirt, what was the point of putting that entire imperial ensemble? You spent all that time getting fancy just to take it right back off?”

      ​I couldn’t help but offer a small, knowing smirk. “Actually, Spike, the primary reason I donned the attire immediately was for your benefit. I wanted you to see the results of your successful intervention—and Princess Celestia’s generosity—while I was still presentable.”

     ​Spike’s confusion softened into a bashful, slightly proud grin. “Oh. So, was it a private viewing for your favorite aide? I guess I should be honored you didn’t just stay in your pajamas.”

      ​“Consider yourself honored,” I replied with a chuckle. “But now, I must prepare for the physical aspect of my recovery.” ​I returned to my room, but this time my movements were quick and efficient. I carefully removed the imperial tunic and the glacial blue trousers, hanging them with meticulous care so they wouldn’t wrinkle. They had served their purpose for the morning; now, I needed utility.​ I reached into the back of my wardrobe and pulled out my standard exercise gear. I swapped the regal indigo for a simple, breathable shirt and stepped into a pair of typical grayish joggers. The fabric was soft, loose, and slightly worn at the knees—the kind of clothing that didn’t demand respect, only movement. I replaced the high-top leather boots with sturdy athletic shoes designed for forest paths.

     Finally, I checked my high ponytail in the mirror. It was still secure, though a few stray indigo strands had escaped. I tightened the tie, ensuring my hair wouldn’t lash against my face while I ran.

       When I descended the stairs again, I looked entirely different. The “Regal Scholar” had been replaced by a young man who looked like any other seventeen-year-old heading out for a jog.

     ​I pushed open the heavy front door, and a gust of cool, damp air immediately swirled into the vestibule. The sky was a heavy slate gray, and a steady, rhythmic drizzle was still coming down, darkening the stone's steps.

     ​Spike, who was watching from the hallway with his duster in hand, suddenly paused. “Wait a second, Dusk. Hold on—isn’t it raining right now? Like, actually raining?” He gestured toward the open door where the mist was drifting in. “You’re going to get soaked. Why not just wait an hour for it to clear up?”

     ​I paused at the threshold, turning back to him with a faint, knowing smile. My grayish joggers were already catching a few stray droplets. “Spike, have you forgotten that I’ve spent the better part of my youth running in conditions far worse than this?”

     ​Spike tilted his head, looking unconvinced. “I remember you liked your books more than the mud, usually.”

     ​“True,” I conceded, “but do you forget who my brother is? Whenever Shining Armor was home from the academy, he made it his personal mission to ensure I was in ‘peak physical condition.’ He used to say that a scholar with a weak constitution was like a tower built on sand.”

     ​I looked out at the rain, the memory of those grueling sessions flashing through my mind. “He didn’t care if it was a thunderstorm or a blizzard. He’d have me out at dawn, pacing him through the forest trails. He taught me how to regulate my breathing against the cold and how to maintain my footing on slick mud. It wasn’t just about the exercise; it was mental fortitude. Running in the rain became a sort of meditative ritual for me.”

     ​Spike sighed, though I could see a hint of respect in his eyes. “Right. The ‘Captain’s Training.’ I guess compared to one of Shining’s drills, a little morning drizzle is basically a spa day.”

     ​“Precisely,” I replied, tightening the tape on my high ponytail. “The rain actually helps. It keeps my temperature down and forces me to focus on every step.

     The steady rhythm of my shoes hitting the damp earth acted like a metronome, ticking away the seconds until my surroundings blurred, and my mind drifted backward. My thoughts traveled across the span of a decade, settling on a time eleven years ago—before I was the Princess’s protégé, and long before the weight of dimensional rifts occupied my every waking hour.

      ​Back then, I was unremarkable. I wasn’t born with an innate, surging fountain of power; in fact, I was a perfectly average child. My magical aptitude was strictly beginner-level, bordering on the mundane. If you were to ask how I reached my current standing, the answer isn’t “talent”—it is practice. Methodical, relentless practice. But the drive for that labor didn’t come from a desire for status. It came from the Summer Sun Celebrations. I was barely four and a half years old when the world shifted on its axis. It was my first true experience of the festival in the city’s grand courtyards. I remember the crowds lining the cobblestone streets; a sea of expectant faces all turned toward the horizon.

      ​The sky remained draped in a deep, velvet indigo, but the sparkling of the stars was so dense it looked as if angelic souls had camouflaged the heavens. When I looked up at that celestial display, a smile—one pure, unadulterated wonder—spread across my face.

     ​Then, the music began. It wasn’t a mere performance; it was an enchantment of motifs. The air grew thick with the resonance of an entire orchestral assembly. I could distinguish the individual voices of the woodwinds: the airy trill of the flutes, the mellow warmth of the clarinets, and the soulful, reedy depths of the oboes and bassoons. They were punctuated by the triumphant swell of horns and trumpets, all anchored by the thunderous, rhythmic pulse of the timpani.

     ​On the stage, the strings moved in unison, their bows dancing across the wood in a display of technical perfection that felt like magic itself. The musicians didn’t need spells; they enchanted the populace through the sheer sensation of the melody. The nation shouted with delight—a symphony of singing, the rhythmic stomping of feet, and the thunderous clapping of hands. I looked at the dancers and saw radiant happiness in their eyes, a reflection of the joy I saw in my own parents.

     Remembering tugging on the sleeve of my brother’s tunic, my small voice was barely audible over the crescendo of the horns.

     ​“Shining?” I asked, tilting my head back to look at him. “Why do we do this every new year?”

     ​Shining Armor looked down at me, pausing in his own celebration. He seemed to ponder the weight of the question, his brow furrowing slightly. “Huh? What makes you ask that, Dusk?”

     ​He caught me giving him the ‘puppy-eye treatment’—that look of wide-eyed, innocent curiosity I knew he couldn’t resist. He broke into a warm, protective smile and knelt, so he was at my eye level.

     ​“Well, you see, this is our way of showing gratitude,” he explained, his voice steady and kind. “The Princess has provided us with centuries of stable rule. She saved our people from a darkness that nearly consumed everything generations ago. I know it might seem like a lot of noise and dancing now, but our ancestors faced the disastrous aftermath of losing the most important figures in our history. We celebrate because we are no longer afraid of the dark.”

     ​It was at that moment, as the music reached its peak, that I saw her. Princess Celestia stood at the dais, her presence radiating calm, solar power. As she began the ritual to race against the Sun against the retreating night, my young mind was seized by a singular, staggering notion.

     ​Could someone else do that? I wondered. Would it be possible for me to do something similar?

     ​It was a childish thought, grand and perhaps impossible for a boy who could barely light a candle with a spark of magic. But that day, the seeds of my future were sown. I didn’t want to be a sorcerer for the sake of power; I wanted to be part of the light that kept the darkness at bay. I wanted to understand the mechanics of the universe so that I could protect the happiness I saw in the courtyard that day.

​     When I eventually entered the Academy, I didn’t just obtain an education. I obtained a purpose. The memory began to fade as the cool rain of the present splashed against my face, bringing me back to the muddy trail of the forest. My breath was heavy, my heart was pounding

     The cool, rhythmic drizzle had ceased to be a nuisance and had become a part of the environment. After two hours of traversing the forest perimeter, I returned to the vestibule of the manor. My grayish joggers were darkened with dampness, and a light sheen of perspiration mixed with the rain on my forehead.

     ​Spike was in the foyer, now organizing a stack of newly arrived scrolls. He looked up, smirking, playing on his snout. "How was the 'Captain's Training' session, Dusk? You look like you went a few rounds with a water sprite."

     ​I let out a long, revitalized breath; my heart rate slowly descended to a resting pace. "It was fine, Spike. More than fine. The clarity I feel now is worth every drop of rain." I paused, glancing down at my damp shoes and then back at him with a tired, playful grin. "However, I believe I might need to indulge in another bath. I've officially reached the limit of 'acceptable hygiene' for a scholar."

     ​Spike barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, you definitely should. I'll get the kettle going for a fresh infusion; try not to take three hours this time."

                                                                                   .

     ​I retired to the washroom, the heat of the water instantly melting the residual chill from my muscles. As I submerged myself in the steaming basin, the world around me began to dissolve once more. My mind, now sharp and open, drifted back through the layers of time to the most pivotal moment of my existence.

     ​It started with a question I had asked my brother during one of those ancient Summer Sun Celebrations. I had seen an image in a tapestry—a figure that seemed to belong to a lost era, the Epoch of the Star Age.

     ​“Who is that?” I had asked him, pointing at the celestial being who allegedly created the light that gave life to the night skies.

     ​Shining Armor looked puzzled. As a youngster, I knew nothing of that age, and my curiosity was a relentless tide. “If you truly wish to uncover the significance of that era,” Shining had said, a stretched, thoughtful look on his face, “you’d better ask the Princess herself.”

     ​I didn’t realize what he meant. I didn’t know that my life was on a trajectory toward a lengthy goal in the outlook of history. But there was someone else—someone Shining had neglected to mention. “Who was it? I can’t recall,” I murmured to myself in the bath. I simply couldn’t remember.

     Two years have passed. I turned six—

     The required threshold for the Academy. My brother, Shining, was already fifteen and had enrolled in the Royal Guard Academy. He was destined for the Magic Knights, fueled by vast composure and fierce determination. “One day, I’ll return as a Knight,” he had promised with a steady, confident air. “I’ll make the difference.”

     ​I was immensely proud of him, but my path led toward a different kind of power. I studied the fundamentals of sorcery every day, learning the essential basics required for any aspiring scholar. I didn’t want the sword; I wanted the scroll. When I finally received my testing date, I was overwhelmed. I remember standing before the entrance, lifting my fist toward the sky and shouting, “Finally! I made it!”

​     My outburst was so sudden that several other applicants gave me eccentric, dubious looks. I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me and quickly tried to manage my excitement, taking deep breaths to settle my racing heart. My family stood by me; my mother pulled me into a hug, her eyes shimmering with tears of joy, while my father murmured, “Son, I’m so impressed with you.”

  ​   Then, the atmosphere shifted. A man—tall and impressively built, possessing a physique that suggested a lifetime of rigorous conditioning—approached our group. His presence was commanding, and his voice carried a sharp, grandiloquent tone.

       ​“Are you young, Mr. Shine?” he asked, his eyes locking onto mine.

       ​“Y-yes,” I stammered, my nerves returning in a flood.

       ​“Good. Follow me, please. I am here by the direct command of the Princess to escort Dusk Shine to the examination hall.”

       The walk to the entrance to the academy’s gates was a total blur. The walk to the entrance of the academy gates was a total blur as my eyes were covered in a thick, salt-rimmed mist of unshed tears. The towering architecture of the school seemed to dissolve into the gray sky, appearing less like a prestigious institution and more like a looming monolith of judgment. I stumbled forward, my legs feeling like heavy, leaden weights, following the dark shapes of the guards.

     ​I wasn’t wearing anything royal or overly ornate. My parents had saved months to afford a proper student ensemble: a sturdy navy-blue vest over a crisp, white high-collared shirt, and tailored charcoal trousers tucked into sensible brown leather boots. It was common attire for a hopeful scholar—functional and respectable, but a far cry from the silk robes of the nobility.

     ​Bong… bong… bong. The great iron bells of the clock tower signaled the start of the hour, the sound vibrating deep in my chest. The massive gates swung open with a slow, agonizing groan, the iron screeching against the stone—skreeeeee—as if protesting my entry.

     Once we crossed the threshold, replaced by a cold, suffocating silence. The air here was different; it was thick, stale, and smelled of ancient parchment and the sharp ozone of spent spells. The school felt like a labyrinth of convoluted, interconnected tunnels as we walked. The stone walls are polished to a mirror shine. My head remained lowered; my chin tucked firmly against the collar of my shirt to hide the panic etched into my features.  

     The other students, the “truly” gifted ones who belonged here. “Psst… whisper… psst.” Their sibilant murmurs drifted from the dark alcoves. I was terrified. My heart was throbbing—thump-thump, thump-thump—against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every step echoed—clack, clack—on the marble, announcing my presence at a school that seemed to want to reject me.

     ​“How long will it take to get there?” I whispered to the guards, my voice cracking. I kept my eyes fixed on the rhythmic clink-clink of their polished greaves.

      ​The smaller guard, about 5’7”, offered a slight, sympathetic sigh—huff. “There is no need to worry, little one,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. His 6’1” partner remained stoic, his boots hitting the floor with a terrifyingly precise cadence: clack… clack… clack.

     ​“We are here.” 

     Creeeeeak. The heavy oak doors opened into the massive, vaulted study hall. I took a deep, shaky breath—hiss—clenching my fists until my knuckles turned white. I stepped inside.

     The silence was absolute. Facing me was the High Bench, where five of the Academy’s senior instructors sat like a panel of grim executioners.

     I took a deep, shaky breath—hiss—clenching my fists until my knuckles turned white; the skin stretched tight over my small frame. I stepped inside the vaulted study hall, making a timid tap-tap on the vast expanse of polished marble.

     ​The silence was absolute, a heavy, airless vacuum that made my ears ring.

     On the far left sat Master Ironwood, a mountain of a man with thick, iron-gray eyebrows that nearly obscured his eyes. Stritch-scratch. He was already marking a tally on a piece of parchment. Next to him was Professor Vellum, her nose long and hooked; her thin spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose. Click-clack. She adjusted them with a gloved finger, her eyes scanning me as if she were dissecting a bug. 

      In the center, Princess Celestia sat. The bringer of daylight. Her presence was a display of elegant, silent power that seemed to hum in the very air. I was stunned. Why was I, an average boy of six, being tested personally by her?

   ​To her right sat Lord Sterling, dressed in silk robes, buffing a sapphire ring on his sleeve. Huuuuff. He let out a long, supercilious sigh of pure boredom. Beside him was Dame Glimmer- stone, her white hair cut in a severe bob. Thud. She slammed a heavy brass stamp onto the table. Finally, on the far right of the High Bench sat the Elder. He was the most unnerving of them all, appearing less like a living man and more like an ancient relic of the school itself. His skin was the texture of yellowed, brittle parchment, stretched so thin over his cheekbones that it looked as if it might tear at a touch. He didn’t move, he didn’t lean forward, and he didn’t sigh. He simply stared forward with watery, milky-white eyes—eyes that seemed to possess no pupils, as if he were looking through me and into a history I couldn’t yet understand.

   ​The weight of those sightless eyes was the final straw. My breath hitched in my throat, and I felt the small, fragile foundation of my confidence begin to crumble.

   ​I squeezed my eyes shut for a heartbeat; my lashes were damp with the mist of the hall and my own rising fear. I offered a silent, desperate prayer for a moment of strength—just enough to face them without trembling. Please, I thought, let me be more than average.

   ​And then, I snapped them open.

   ​I expected to see the vaulted ceiling of the Academy and the judgmental faces of the instructors. Instead, my vision was met with the soft, swirling vapor of white steam.

  ​I blinked rapidly; the sharp, cold marble of the hall was replaced by the smooth, warm porcelain of the tub. I looked at my surroundings, disoriented for a fraction of a second, before realizing I was back in the washroom. The heat of the bathwater is still soaking into my skin. The “Star Age” and the “Bench of Judgment” were nothing more than echoes of a life I had already lived.

   ​Clack-clack!

   ​The sudden, sharp sound of the door handle rattling jumped back to reality. I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs—thump-thump, thump-thump—as if I were still that terrified six-year-old.

   ​“Dusk! Seriously, are you okay in there?” Spike’s voice is much closer now, accompanied by another insistent, ‘knock, knock, knock’. “I’ve been calling you for five minutes. If you’ve fallen asleep and drowned, I’m going to be very annoyed at having to do all the filing by myself!”

  ​I let out a long, shaky breath. The tension slowly drained from my shoulders as the familiar scent of lavender soap replaced the smell of ancient dust.

  ​“I’m awake, Spike!” I called out, and my voice was finally steady. “I’ll be out in a minute. Just… finishing up.”

   ​I sat there for a moment longer, watching the water ripple from my sudden movement. The memory had been so vivid that I could still feel the phantom “fizzle” of magic in my fingertips. I reached for the towel, ready to leave the past behind and face the work waiting for me in the study.

  “Huff.”

  “Alright, alright, I'm getting out,” I called out, reaching the edge of the tub.

  ​“Good! Because I’m not letting you walk back to the study in that old bathrobe,” Spike replied, his voice brimming with a bit of his usual cheekiness. I heard the rustle of fabric against the door. “Listen, while you were busy turning into a prune, I decided to lay out some fresh gear for you. I figured that after that run; you’d want something clean.

  I dressed at a methodical pace, focusing on the simple utility of the clothes Spike had set out. The collars and the restrictive seams of my previous outfit were gone, and I was glad to be rid of them. In their place was the practical comfort of my regular clothes—pieces that didn’t feel like a costume and didn’t require any effort to wear.

   ​I pulled on a deep purple cable-knit sweater, the heavy wool feeling solid and familiar against the morning chill. Underneath, I kept a plain white shirt; the collar was narrow and precisely aligned. I finished with a pair of dark charcoal trousers, which were sturdy and easy to move in.

   ​As I tied my hair back into its usual ponytail, I felt a slight shift in my headspace. I no longer looked like the formal version of myself the Princess expected; I just looked like me. I adjusted my sleeves, took a quiet breath of the cedar-scented air, and made my way toward the kitchen at a natural pace.

   ​I entered the room; my footsteps were quiet on the floor. The air was filled with thick, herbal steam drifting up from the table.

   ​“Finally! Here, the tea,” Spike announced, setting a steaming ceramic mug down on a coaster. He gave me an expectant look, clearly waiting for me to try it.

   ​I pulled out a chair and sat, the weight of the purple sweater settling over my shoulders. I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the heat soak into my palms. I leaned in, closing my eyes for a moment as I inhaled the vapor.

  ​Wait, I thought; my focus sharpened as the scent registered. This fragrance… It was a very specific aroma, one that sat right at the edge of my memory.

   ​I took a small, cautious sip. The liquid was at the right temperature, and as the flavor developed, I recognized it immediately.

  ​Passionflower. It was unmistakable—a floral sweetness balanced by a thin, earthy bitterness. It was a specific choice for calming a restless mind and grounding a person’s magic. Spike hadn’t just made a drink; he had provided a remedy.

  “You look more like yourself,” Spike noted, leaning his elbows on the wooden table and watching me over the rim of his own cup. “Less like a statue, anyway.”

  ​I didn’t answer immediately. I just let the warmth of the passionflower tea do its work. The subtle bitterness on my tongue seemed to pull the scattered edges of my thoughts back toward the center.

  ​“It’s a good blend,” I said finally, my voice sounded clearer than it had all morning. “Where did you find the passionflower? I didn’t think we had any dried stores left in the pantry.”

  ​“Oh, right. Well, I went to the market,” Spike explained, waving a hand toward the pantry door. “I noticed that we were missing some food and other materials, so I went shopping while you were… occupied.”

    ​He leaned back, looking satisfied with himself. “Luckily, I found somebody who was selling the tea, and they were giving it for half price, apparently.”

   ​I looked at him, my internal calculator automatically shifting toward the budget. Even when I was exhausted, the logic of numbers was hard to switch off. “How much was it?”

   ​“It was about two and a half bits,” Spike answered easily.

   ​I paused with the mug halfway to my lips, mentally comparing that to the standard market rates. It was a fair price—almost too fair for a specialty herb like passionflower tea bags. I took another slow sip, the warmth settling deep into my chest.

   ​“Two and a half bits,” I repeated softly, giving a genuine nod of approval. “That is an excellent find, Spike. It’s exactly what I needed.”

     ​Spike grinned, clearly satisfied that his trip to the market had paid off. “See? I told you I had it under control. Now, drink it before it loses its heat. You’ve got that look in your eye again, and I’m certain this tea is the only thing keeping you from over-analyzing the pattern on the wallpaper.”

    ​I looked down into the dark amber liquid. He wasn’t wrong; the static in my mind was still lingering, but for the first time today, it wasn’t the only thing I could feel.

   ​I brought the mug to my lips and took a slow, deep sip. The warmth traveled down my throat; the floral notes of the passionflower blooming against my palate. ‘Gulp.’ As the heat settled in my chest, the tension I’d been carrying in my shoulders finally began to dissolve.

    ​“Haahhh…” I let out a long, heavy sigh of relief. The sound was weary but steady—the first breath I’d taken all morning that didn’t feel constricted.

  ​I set the mug back down on the coaster with a soft, muted ‘clack.’ The weight of the purple sweater and the grounding effect of the tea were finally working in tandem.

  ​“Better?” Spike asked; his tone softened.

  ​“Much,” I admitted, my voice losing its sharp, analytical edge. “Well, I was planning to go regardless, but… when exactly did you find the time to go?”

  ​I looked at him with genuine curiosity. Given how much he handles around the manor, I hadn’t realized he’d found a window to slip away, let alone scout for a bargain.

                                                            ¤¤¤¤¤¤

   ​I watched Spike for a moment as he brushed a few stray crumbs off the wooden table. A brief, analytical curiosity flickered in the back of my mind—Should I ask him specifically which vendor was selling passionflower at such a steep discount? I mentally scanned my map of the district, searching for a logical source.

   ​The only place that I can think of that would sell tea of this quality would be… Ah! Right! Tealove’s Tea Room. I remembered her clearly. Ms. Tealove was as distinctive as the rare blends she curated. I could almost picture her behind the shop’s mahogany counter, her vibrant hair flowing in two-tone cerulean waves that spiraled into perfect, bouncy curls at the ends. She always struck a sharp, professional figure in her emerald-green velvet suit; the fabric shimmered slightly as she moved with quiet elegance. Even her accessories were themed—a small, silver teacup-and-hearted brooch pinned to her lapel. She wasn’t the type to hand out discounts without a very specific reason.

  ​I hesitated, wondering why someone as meticulous as Tealove would offer a fifty-percent markdown, but then I felt the steady warmth of the mug and the comfortable weight of my purple sweater. I decided to let the thought go. No, I concluded; it is better to simply leave it. He is back, the tea is effective, and for once, there is no need to cross-reference the details.

   ​I took another small sip to center myself before speaking.

   ​“Aside from the tea,” I began. My tone calm and balanced, “what other materials did you manage to acquire? You mentioned the supplies were running low.”

   ​“Materials? You mean the stuff that keeps this place from turning into a giant paperweight?” Spike let out a short, playful huff as he reached for a sturdy canvas bag resting against the counter. He brought it to the table and began arranging the items with a series of rhythmic, orderly sounds.

  ​Thump. 

   First, he produced a thick bundle of parchments tied with a hemp string. “They had a fresh shipment of heavy-bond paper. I know you prefer the vellum-finish for your ‘very important, please don’t touch’ records,” he noted, giving me a pointed, snarky look.

​     “Clink.”

    ​Next, he set down two square glass bottles filled with deep black ink. “Archival grade,” he added, sliding them toward me. “I actually checked for sediment this time, so you can’t complain about your quills clogging every five minutes. The consistency is perfect.”

    ​Finally, he unrolled in a small leather wrap to reveal a set of new quills, each one perfectly tapered and pre-cut. “Shhh-t.” The sound of the leather sliding against the wood was sharp and clean.

   ​“I figured if you were going to be brooding in the study as you have for these last three months, you might as well have tools that actually work,” Spike said, leaning back and crossing his arms with a smug, lovable grin. “And I kind of know you’re going to be done about possibly—I’m going to guess—three days tops.” 

    Reached out, my fingers tracing the smooth barrels of the quills. The sight of fresh, orderly supplies provided a sense of clarity that the tea alone couldn’t offer.

   ​“You’ve been remarkably thorough, Spike,” I said, a faint, genuine smile finally appeared. “This will be more than sufficient for the next stage of my research.”

   ​“Yeah, yeah,” he chirped, already turning back toward the stove. “Just make sure some of that ‘research’ involves remembering to eat lunch. I’m not bringing it to you on a silver platter… unless you ask nicely.”

   ​I let out a short, dry chuckle and set my mug down. “Three days, Spike? Your confidence in my productivity is touching, though your math is as questionable as your ‘half-price’ stories.”

     ​I leaned back, mirroring his crossed-arms stance, giving him a look of feigned academic scrutiny. “And for the record, I don’t brood. I contemplate it. There’s a significant difference in the atmospheric pressure of the room depending on which one I’m doing.”

     ​Spike rolled his eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. “Oh, my bad. I forgot that ‘contemplating’ involves staring at a blank wall for forty minutes while your tea gets a film over it. Totally different.”

    ​“Careful,” I replied, my voice light but carrying that familiar, brotherly edge. “If I finish in two days just to prove you wrong, I might have enough free time to reorganize the spice cabinet. I know how much you ‘love’ it when I touch your filing system in the kitchen.”

     ​Spike’s smug grin faltered for a fraction of a second—he knew I was a menace when it came to ‘optimizing’ his workspace. “You stay away from the cumin, Dusk. I’m serious. That’s a declaration of war.”

    ​“Then I suggest you keep the passionflower coming,” I said, standing up and gathering the heavy bundle of parchment and the leather quill wrap. I reached over and gave the top of his head a quick, affectionate mess-up, purposefully ruffling his hair into a mess.

     ​“Hey! Watch the scales!” he complained, batting my hand away as he smoothed his hair back down. “I might be in my human form right now, but I still have some of my tail scales showing! You’re going to scuff the finish!”

  ​I couldn’t help it; a real, light-hearted laugh escaped me—the first one in a long time. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said, though I didn’t look sorry at all as I gave his hair one last playful tug.

  ​“Three days, Spike,” I repeated, heading toward the hallway with my new supplies tucked securely under my arm. “I’ll hold you to that. But if I’m not done, you’re the one explaining to the Princess why the ‘contemplation’ is taking longer than scheduled.” I paused at the edge of the exit of the kitchen, looking back at him one last time.

   “By the way, Spike...the tea grade is always top-notch when you’re the one brewing it.” I let him know with a grin on my face.