The Prince of Peculiar Plights

Lessons in Levitation

The morning sun bled through the high, arched windows of the Morcant estate’s private conservatory, but Valerian didn’t feel the warmth. He felt the buzz. It was a low-frequency hum vibrating in his molars, a sign that the "glitter incident" from the night before hadn't fully drained his reserves. If anything, the magic felt agitated, like a caged animal that had tasted the air and didn't want to go back in.

“You’re sweating, Valerian,” Master Leontius Grimward remarked, his voice like dry parchment scraping against a desk. He didn't look up from his ledger. “A Morcant doesn’t sweat over a simple manifestation exercise. Or have we moved past the era of dignity and into the era of... what did the Queen call it? ‘Luminous debris’?”

Valerian wiped his brow, his fingers trembling. “It was an accident, Master Grimward. I was provoked.”

“The elements don't care about your hurt feelings,” Leontius snapped, finally looking up. His eyes were milky with age but sharp enough to pin Valerian to his seat. “Precision, boy. That is the difference between a mage and a firework. Now, the glass. Move the water from the carafe to the vial. One drop at a time. No colors. No explosions. No theatrical nonsense.”

Valerian stared at the water. He reached out, trying to catch the thread of his power, but all he felt was the roar.

“I can’t,” Valerian whispered. “Not today. The static is too loud.”

“Then make it quiet,” Leontius commanded. “Or I shall inform your father that we are wasting our time and his coin.”

“He’s already convinced of that,” Valerian muttered.

The door to the conservatory creaked open. Valerian didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The air in the room suddenly smoothed out, the jagged edges of his magic softening as if someone had draped a heavy velvet cloth over a ringing bell.

“Am I late?” Isolde Veyrana asked, her voice cool and perfectly level. “The archives were a bit more disorganized than your maps suggested, Lord Morcant.”

Leontius frowned, peering over his spectacles. “And who, may I ask, is this? This is a private session, young lady.”

“Isolde Veyrana,” she said, stepping into the room. She was carrying a stack of leather-bound journals that looked older than the house itself. “I’m Valerian’s new... tutor.”

Valerian let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since the night before. “She’s a specialist in stabilization theory, Master Grimward. I thought a fresh perspective might help with the... containment issues.”

Leontius scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “A Veyrana? From the North? I suppose your family does have a reputation for being remarkably boring with their magic. Very well. Let’s see if ‘boring’ is what Valerian needs. But I expect results, not a chat.”

Isolde walked toward the table, the scent of old paper and winter air following her. She pulled up a chair right next to Valerian—closer than was strictly necessary for a tutor.

“You look like you’re about to vomit,” she whispered, leaning in so only he could hear.

“The bribe worked, then?” Valerian hissed back. “I wasn't sure you’d actually show up for the journals.”

“The Veyrana Codex has been missing from my family’s library for three generations, Valerian,” she said, her eyes flashing with a hint of a smile. “I’d have agreed to tutor a mountain troll for that book. Luckily, I only got you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Focus,” she said, her tone shifting back to professional as Leontius watched them like a hawk. “Master Grimward wants precision. Show me what you’re doing.”

Valerian pointed a shaky finger at the water carafe. “I’m trying to pull a single thread of liquid. But every time I touch it, the weight of the magic just... it wants to crush the glass.”

Isolde watched him for a moment. Then, she reached out and placed her hand on the table, her pinky finger just barely brushing against Valerian’s hand.

The silence hit him like a physical weight. The roaring in his ears vanished. The buzzing in his teeth stopped.

“Better?” she asked softly.

“Significantly,” Valerian breathed.

“Good. Now, don't just grab at it. Imagine the water is a part of you. You aren't forcing it; you’re asking it to move.”

Valerian closed his eyes. With the static gone, he could actually feel the structure of the water. He flicked his wrist. A perfect, crystal-clear bead of water rose from the carafe, hovering in the air like a diamond. It didn't glow. It didn't turn pink. It was just water.

“Look at that,” Leontius grunted, sounding almost disappointed. “Actual control. Continue.”

Valerian moved the drop slowly, guiding it into the thin neck of the vial. It landed with a satisfying plink.

“See?” Isolde teased, her voice a low hum near his ear. “You’re not a monster, Valerian. You’re just a very loud instrument that needs a mute.”

“Is that what you are? My mute?”

“For the right price,” she replied. She shifted in her seat, her shoulder pressing against his. “Though, I have to say, your magic is strange. Even with me touching you, I can feel it humming. It’s like sitting next to a lightning storm that’s trying to pretend it’s a candle.”

Valerian felt his face heat up. It wasn't the magic this time; it was the way her eyes lingered on his. “Does it bother you?”

“It’s interesting,” she said, tilting her head. “Most mages are so predictable. Fire mages smell like smoke. Water mages are damp. You? You smell like ozone and... is that cinnamon?”

“My cook made rolls this morning,” Valerian stammered.

“A walking disaster with a sweet tooth,” Isolde mused. “How very noble of you.”

“Can we focus on the water?” Valerian asked, his heart beginning to thump against his ribs. “Master Grimward is staring.”

“Let him stare,” Isolde said, her eyes dropping to his lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up. “Are you nervous, Valerian? Your pulse is jumping.”

“Having a beautiful girl tell me I smell like a lightning bolt isn't exactly calming for the nerves, Isolde.”

She smirked, a real, genuine spark of mischief in her gaze. “Oh? So you think I’m beautiful? I thought I was just a ‘miracle’ and a ‘human leash.’”

“I was desperate last night.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m just... trying not to blow up the room.”

Valerian reached for the water again, but his focus was fractured. He could feel the warmth of her body next to his, the way her hand was still resting against his. The magic was quiet, but his mind was a mess.

“You’re losing the thread,” she warned, her voice dropping an octave. “Concentrate, Lord Morcant. Or are you too distracted by your ‘leash’?”

“I’m not distracted,” he lied.

“Your hand is shaking.”

“It’s the magic.”

“No,” Isolde whispered, leaning even closer until her hair brushed his cheek. “The magic is silent. That shaking is all you.”

Valerian’s heart hammered harder. The physical contact—the very thing keeping him stable—was now the thing making his blood boil in a completely different way. He felt a familiar prickle at the base of his spine.

“Isolde,” he warned. “Move back a bit.”

“Why? Am I making it hard to breathe?”

“You’re making it hard to think.”

“Good. Thinking is your problem. You overthink every spark. Just feel it.”

She moved her hand away from his to point at the vial, intending to show him the angle.

The moment the contact broke, the silence shattered.

It wasn't a roar this time; it was a physical surge. The magic, suppressed by her presence and then suddenly released by his spiked adrenaline, didn't go for the water. It went for the nearest heavy object.

The heavy mahogany desk groaned.

“Valerian?” Isolde asked, her eyes widening.

“I told you!” Valerian gasped, grabbing the edge of the table.

The desk didn't just vibrate; it lurched upward. The legs left the floor with a violent crack. Ink pots slid across the surface, splashing black liquid everywhere. Master Leontius jumped back, his chair clattering to the floor.

“Lord Morcant! Control yourself!” the tutor shouted.

“I’m trying!” Valerian yelled, his eyes beginning to glow with that frantic, flickering light.

The desk rose a foot, then two. It began to tilt, the carafe of water sliding toward the edge. Isolde reached out to grab his arm, but the sheer force of the kinetic energy radiating from him pushed her back.

“Don't touch me!” Valerian cried out. “It’s too much—it’ll shock you!”

“Valerian, look at me!” Isolde shouted over the howling wind that had suddenly picked up inside the closed room. “Stop fighting it! You’re pushing against yourself!”

The desk hit the ceiling with a deafening thud, plaster raining down like snow. Valerian was shaking, his feet barely touching the ground as the raw power poured out of him.

“Master Grimward, get back!” Isolde commanded.

She didn't run. Instead, she stepped into the eye of the storm. She didn't grab his hand this time; she threw her arms around him, pinning his elbows to his sides and burying her face against his chest.

The impact was instantaneous.

The desk slammed back to the floor with a bone-jarring crash. The wind died. The ink pots stopped rattling. The only sound in the room was the heavy, jagged breathing of two people clinging to each other in the wreckage.

Valerian’s head spun. He rested his chin on top of Isolde’s head, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air before he finally let them rest on her back. The static was gone, replaced by a hollow, ringing silence.

“Is everyone... alive?” Valerian rasped.

Isolde pulled back slowly, her hair a mess, a streak of black ink across her cheek. She looked up at him, her expression a mix of shock and something that looked dangerously like respect.

“You’re a complete nightmare,” she whispered, though she didn't move out of his arms.

“I did warn you,” he replied, a weak smile tugging at his lips.

“Silence!”

Master Leontius was standing by the window, his face pale, his eyes fixed not on the ruined desk, but on the two of them. He walked forward, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood. He stopped a few feet away, studying Isolde with a piercing intensity that made Valerian’s skin crawl.

“That wasn't a dampening,” Leontius said, his voice low and dangerous.

“I stopped the surge, Master Grimward,” Isolde said, straightening her dress and regaining her composure with terrifying speed. “As I was hired to do.”

“No,” Leontius said, shaking his head. “I’ve seen Veyrana stabilizers work before. They fade the magic. They don't... ground it like that. The desk didn't just fall; the magic was sucked back into him. Like a vacuum.”

Leontius looked at Valerian, then back to Isolde.

“You aren't his cure, girl,” the old man whispered, his eyes narrowing. “You’re his catalyst. He didn't lose control because you were gone. He gained power because you were there.”

Valerian felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with the draft in the room. “What are you talking about? She keeps me calm.”

“Does she?” Leontius asked, gesturing to the shattered remains of the lesson. “Or does she just give the storm a center? Valerian, your magic didn't just react. It expanded. It sought her out.”

The tutor turned toward the door, his expression grim. “I must speak with your father. This is no longer a matter of simple instability. If the Veyrana girl is the key to the Morcant seal... then the Council needs to know. Immediately.”

Leontius vanished into the hallway, leaving the door swinging in his wake.

Valerian looked at Isolde. She was staring at her hands, her brow furrowed in thought.

“Isolde?” he asked softly. “What did he mean?”

She didn't look up. “I don't know,” she whispered. “But I think my bribe just got a lot more expensive.”