The Spellcrest Misadventure: Chaos at Arcanum

Ep. 2: The Gauntlet Thrown

The laughter of the student body felt like a physical weight against Alarion’s shoulders as he gathered the charred remains of his dignity. Even as the cleaning golems—squat, brass-bound constructs with enchanted brooms—clattered toward the debris, the whispers followed him like a bad smell.

"Nice one, 'Walking Disaster,'" someone called out as Alarion trudged toward the long tables. "Do a fireball next! I want to see if the ceiling can handle it!"

Alarion didn't look back. He just scanned the crowd for a friendly face, or at least a face that wasn't covered in soot and spite. He found it at the far end of the Gryphon-wing table.

"Alarion! Over here! Before you accidentally ignite the tablecloth!"

Alarion slid into the seat next to a boy with thick glasses and a tunic that was already stained with ink. Eldric Spellbrook didn't look like a hero, but right now, he looked like a saint to Alarion.

"Is it that bad, Eldric?" Alarion asked, grabbing a napkin and vigorously scrubbing at a stubborn patch of carbon on his cheek. "Tell me the truth. Do I look like a chimney sweep’s apprentice?"

"Worse," Eldric said, pushing a plate of steaming sausages toward him. "You look like you fought a thunderstorm and the thunderstorm won by a landslide. What were you thinking, man? A weight-reduction loop on a trunk that old?"

"I wasn't thinking! That’s the problem," Alarion groaned, dumping his head into his hands. "I just wanted it to be lighter. My dad said the trunk was 'sturdy,' he didn't say it acted like a mana-battery for any stray spark."

"Well, you certainly made a point. I think even the ghosts in the West Wing felt that one. My ears are still ringing."

"Great. Fantastic. I’ve been here for twenty minutes and I’m already a legend for all the wrong reasons."

"Cheer up," Eldric said, though his eyes were darting around the hall. "At least Lysandra Arcanelle knows your name now. That’s more than most of us can say. Even if she did look at you like you were something she’d found on the bottom of her boot."

"She’s terrifying, Eldric. She didn't even have dust on her. How is that possible? Physics shouldn't allow that much poise in a blast zone."

"It’s called a Grade-A Mana Veil," Eldric whispered, leaning in. "Her family probably spends more on silk charms than my family spends on food. Don’t compare yourself to her, Alarion. She’s... well, she’s an Arcanelle. And you’re... you."

"A Spellcrest who can't open a suitcase without a demolition permit," Alarion muttered.

He reached for a piece of toast, but before his fingers could touch the bread, the plate suddenly shimmered. The toast began to glow with a sickly, pulsating purple light.

"Uh, Alarion?" Eldric asked, pulling his own plate away. "Is your hand doing that?"

"No," Alarion said, his heart sinking. "I'm not even touching it."

The toast suddenly expanded, twisting and warping until it took the shape of a miniature, soot-covered Alarion. The little bread-man began to dance a frantic jig on the table, waving its tiny arms and letting out a high-pitched, squeaky sound that remarkably resembled a farty explosion.

𝘗𝘧𝘧𝘧-𝘵-𝘵-𝘵! 

A wave of raucous laughter erupted from the next table over. Alarion looked up, his face burning hotter than the mana-leak.

Standing there, flanked by two guys who looked like they’d been recruited specifically for their shoulder width, was a boy with perfectly coiffed blonde hair and a smirk that was practically an art form.

"Look at that," Merovin Runehart said, his voice carrying perfectly across the dining hall. "The Spellcrest specialty! Edible failures! Honestly, Alarion, I thought your family was known for high-tier evocations, not bakery-themed comedy."

"Drop it, Merovin," Eldric snapped, though his voice lacked conviction. "It was an accident. Everyone knows mana-loops are tricky."

"Tricky for a commoner, maybe," Merovin said, stepping closer. He flicked his fingers, and the bread-Alarion on the table did a backflip before 'exploding' into a shower of harmless, glittery crumbs. "But for someone with his name? It’s just embarrassing. My father told me the Spellcrests were legends. I’m starting to think 'legend' is just another word for 'extinct ability.'"

Alarion stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. "You think that’s funny? Making a joke out of it?"

"I don't have to make a joke out of you, Spellcrest," Merovin laughed, leaning his hands on the table. "You’re doing a fine job of that yourself. Look at your hair. You look like a startled hedgehog. Is that the new fashion in the Spellcrest manor? The 'I-don't-know-how-to-cast-a-shield' look?"

"It’s better than the 'I-spend-three-hours-with-a-mirror-and-a-jar-of-gel' look," Alarion retorted, his pulse beginning to thrum in his ears. He could feel his mana reacting to his temper, the air around his hands beginning to grow unnaturally warm.

"Careful," Merovin whispered, his eyes narrowing. "You’re starting to smoke again. You might want to step outside before you ruin everyone else’s breakfast. Some of us actually value our robes."

"Maybe I don't care about the robes," Alarion said, stepping out from behind the bench. "And maybe I’m tired of hearing a Runehart talk about family legacy when your biggest contribution to the arcane is making toast dance."

The hall went quiet. The rivalry between the Runeharts and the Spellcrests was old news, but seeing it flare up on the very first morning was better than any entertainment the school could provide.

"Is that right?" Merovin asked, his voice dropping an octave. A faint blue light began to swirl around his fingertips. "You think you’re in my league because of a name on a piece of parchment? You’re a sparkler, Alarion. A loud, messy sparkler. I’m a storm."

"A storm in a teacup, maybe," Alarion snapped back. "I’ve got more raw power in my pinky than you have in your whole vanity-obsessed body."

"Big words for a boy who just lost his socks to a chandelier," Merovin said, his smirk returning. "If you’re so confident in this 'raw power,' why don't you prove it? Or are you only good at blowing up inanimate objects?"

"I’ll prove it whenever you want," Alarion said, the words leaving his mouth before his brain could catch them. "Anytime. Anywhere."

Eldric tugged on Alarion’s sleeve. "Al, stop. Sit down. You’re baiting him."

"No, no," Merovin said, his eyes gleaming with predatory delight. "Let him speak. 'Anytime,' he says. How very brave. How very... stupid."

"I'm serious," Alarion said, his pride refusing to let him back down. "You think I’m a joke? Let’s see how funny you find it when we’re actually casting."

"Is that a challenge, Spellcrest?" Merovin asked, stepping into Alarion’s personal space. "A formal duel? First year, first week? You’d be the first student to get sent to the infirmary before the first lecture."

"I’m not afraid of you, Merovin."

"You should be. But fine. If you want to be humiliated in front of the entire academy instead of just the Grand Hall, I’m happy to oblige. Name the time."

"Next week," Alarion blurted out. "The training grounds. Friday."

"Friday it is," Merovin said, straightening his tunic. "I’ll make sure to bring a broom. To sweep up what’s left of you."

"That is quite enough!"

The voice was like a whip-crack, sharp and echoing. The students at the nearby tables immediately sat up straight, their eyes fixing on the doorway.

Professor Clarissa Enchantor marched toward them, her long, emerald-green robes billowing behind her. Her silver hair was pulled back into a bun so tight it looked like it might be responsible for her perpetual scowl.

"Professor!" Eldric squeaked, trying to hide behind his orange juice.

"Mr. Runehart. Mr. Spellcrest," she said, her gaze jumping between the two of them. "I see we are already attempting to rearrange the hierarchy of the school before the sun has even reached its zenith."

"He started it, Professor," Merovin said, his voice instantly shifting into a tone of polite, feigned innocence. "He was threatening the safety of the students with his... unstable energy. I was merely suggesting he exercise restraint."

"I heard exactly what you were 'suggesting,' Mr. Runehart," Enchantor said, her eyes boring into him. "And I heard your response, Mr. Spellcrest. An 'anytime, anywhere' challenge? Do you have any idea how much paperwork a student duel requires?"

"I... I didn't mean to make it a thing, Ma'am," Alarion stammered, the heat of his anger quickly being replaced by the cold chill of realization. "It was just... he was mocking my family."

"At Arcanum, we do not settle 'mockery' with unauthorized brawls in the dining hall," the Professor stated. She looked around at the hundreds of watching eyes. "However, since the challenge has been issued and accepted in front of so many witnesses, it would be a disservice to the tradition of the arcane to simply ignore it."

Alarion’s stomach did a slow, nauseating somersault. "It would?"

"Indeed," Enchantor said, a small, terrifyingly sharp smile touching her lips. "A formal duel provides an excellent learning opportunity for the rest of the year. It shows the consequences of arrogance—and the reality of incompetence."

She looked at Merovin, then at Alarion.

"Friday. High Noon. The Central Arena," she announced, her voice magically amplified so it reached every corner of the room. "The duel will be conducted under standard First-Year safety protocols. Minimal lethality, maximum observation. I will be the presiding official."

"But Professor—" Alarion started.

"You issued the challenge, Mr. Spellcrest," she interrupted, her gaze icy. "I suggest you spend the next seven days learning how to keep your mana from 'looping.' Otherwise, it’s going to be a very short match."

She turned on her heel and marched away, leaving a stunned silence in her wake.

Merovin leaned in one last time, his smirk now wider than ever. "You heard the lady, sparky. Friday at noon. Try not to blow yourself up before then. I’d hate for the match to be cancelled on a technicality."

He turned and walked away, his cronies laughing loudly as they followed.

Alarion sank back into his seat, his legs feeling like they were made of jelly. He looked down at his hands. They were still shaking.

"Well," Eldric said, his voice barely a whisper. "On the bright side, you don't have to worry about people making fun of your trunk anymore."

"Why not?" Alarion asked weakly.

"Because," Eldric said, pointing to the groups of students already placing bets and whispering. "Now they’re going to be too busy talking about how you’re going to survive a Runehart's combat spells with nothing but a soot-covered robe and a bad attitude."

Alarion groaned, burying his face in his hands. "I really am a walking disaster, aren't I?"

"The biggest one we’ve had in years," Eldric agreed, patting him on the shoulder. "But hey, look at it this way—at least the food is good. You should probably eat something. It might be your last meal before the infirmary."

Alarion looked at his toast. It was still crumbs. He sighed, leaning back and staring up at the floating candles, wondering if it was too late to go back to the iron-wrought gates and ask for a refund on his education.