The Spellcrest Misadventure: Chaos at Arcanum

Ep. 4: The Duel of Drips

The walk from the Archive of Eternal Echoes to the dormitories had felt like a funeral procession, but the walk to the Central Arena on Friday morning was worse. It was a carnival where Alarion was the main attraction—specifically, the one people threw darts at.

"Please tell me the rumors have died down," Alarion muttered, pulling his cloak tighter to hide the slight tremor in his hands.

"If by 'died down' you mean 'evolved into a multi-part epic poem with illustrations,' then sure," Pip said, skipping slightly to keep pace with his long, nervous strides. "Arabella has been very busy. Current consensus? You’re either a secret genius who charmed the Ice Queen, or you’re a dead man walking who’s about to get turned into a decorative rug by Merovin."

"I’m voting for the rug," Eldric added, clutching a bag of enchanted popcorn. "The odds shifted three points after someone saw you practicing 'smooth arcs' in the courtyard and thought you were doing a very bad interpretive dance."

"It’s not a dance, Eldric! It’s stabilization!" Alarion hissed, glancing around at the growing crowd of students filing into the stone bleachers. "Lysandra said my mana is too dense. I have to let it flow, not shove it."

"Right, 'flow.' Like a river," Pip teased. "Just try not to let it 'flow' into another explosion. I’d like to keep my eyebrows this week."

"I'll do my best," Alarion groaned. "Where is she, anyway? Is she here?"

"Lysandra? She’s in the high-tier box with the other House scions," Eldric said, pointing toward a shaded balcony overlooking the arena. "She looks like she’s attending a particularly boring lecture on soil pH. I don't think she's even looking at you."

Alarion risked a glance upward. He saw the shimmering blue robes and the pale, moonlight hair. She wasn't looking at him—she was looking at a notebook.

"Great. I’m not even worth her observation," he sighed.

"Focus, Alarion!" Pip shoved him toward the sand-covered arena floor. "The 'Walking Disaster' needs to at least look like he knows which end of a wand to hold. Go. Don't die. If you do, can I have your boots? They’re really nice leather."

"Go away, Pip," Alarion said, though he couldn't help a small smile.

He stepped onto the arena floor. The sand was white and fine, enchanted to absorb the impact of stray spells. Across the circle, Merovin Runehart was already waiting. He looked like a poster boy for the Academy—perfectly tailored robes, a silver-mounted wand held with casual grace, and a smirk that suggested he’d already won and was just waiting for the trophy.

"You actually showed up," Merovin called out, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "I had a bet going with my roommates that you’d be halfway to the border by now."

"And miss the chance to see you get sand in those expensive robes?" Alarion replied, trying to channel some of the confidence he definitely didn't feel. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Big words for a boy who can't even manage a suitcase," Merovin said, stepping forward. He flicked his wand, and a series of blue sparks hissed into the air. "I hope you’ve written your apologies to your ancestors, Spellcrest. Their name is going to be a punchline by the time I’m done with you."

"Enough talk!"

Professor Enchantor stepped into the center of the arena, her emerald robes trailing in the sand. She looked between the two boys with the clinical detachment of a scientist looking at two particularly interesting mold samples.

"The rules are simple," she announced. "This is a sanctioned First-Year duel. No lethal evocations. No permanent transfigurations. No outside interference. The match ends when one participant is incapacitated, disarmed, or yields. Do you both understand?"

"Understood, Professor," Merovin said, bowing with practiced elegance.

"Yeah. Understood," Alarion muttered, shifting his feet.

"Then take your marks," Enchantor commanded, stepping back toward the edge of the circle. "Begin!"

Merovin didn't hesitate. " 𝘊𝘳𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘢 𝘚𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘢! "

With a sharp snap of his wrist, dozens of jagged, translucent shards of ice materialized in the air. They weren't just ice; they were humming with kinetic energy. With a roar of wind, they launched toward Alarion like a cloud of arrows.

"Whoa!" Alarion yelped. He didn't think; he just reacted. He reached for that heat in his chest, remembering Lysandra’s words. 𝘚𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘴. 𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘷𝘦. 

He swept his hand in a wide, curving motion, imagining a Great Wall of water redirecting a flood. A shimmering, golden barrier erupted in front of him. It wasn't a flat shield; it was a curved dome that glowed with a terrifying intensity.

The ice shards hit the dome and didn't shatter—they slid. The mana-density was so high that the kinetic force was redirected around the curve, sending the shards flying into the arena walls with the sound of breaking glass.

"What the...?" Merovin blinked, his smirk faltering for a split second. "Lucky guess! Let's see you handle a focused strike! Igni-Vortex! "

A swirl of orange flame spiraled from Merovin's wand, condensing into a tight, spinning drill of fire. It roared across the sand, the heat so intense it turned the surface layer to glass.

Alarion felt the sweat prickle on his forehead. "Okay, okay. Curve it. Curve it!"

He tried to replicate the previous move, but his pulse was racing. His mana reacted to his fear, surging like a broken dam. Instead of a smooth arc, the energy bottlenecked at his palm. He could feel it vibrating—the same dangerous 'loop' that had claimed his trunk.

"No, no, no! Not the boom! Anything but the boom!" Alarion shouted.

He desperately tried to vent the excess energy. He didn't point it at the fire; he pointed it at the ground beneath the fire-drill, trying to create a 'slip' in the kinetic field.

" 𝘓𝘶𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘴 𝘔𝘢𝘹𝘪𝘮𝘶𝘴! " Alarion yelled, the first spell name that popped into his panicked brain.

Instead of a simple grease spell, the raw, unrefined Spellcrest power hit the sand and underwent a catastrophic elemental shift. The white sand didn't just become slippery; it instantly liquefied into a bright, neon-green, gelatinous slime that pulsated with a life of its own.

𝘚𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘩. 

The fire-vortex hit the slime and was instantly extinguished with a pathetic hiss, releasing a massive cloud of stinking, sulfurous steam.

"What is this?" Merovin shouted, trying to step back. "What did you do to the floor?"

"I... I think I over-saturated the friction coefficient!" Alarion yelled, waving his arms as he tried to maintain his balance.

"It’s snot!" someone from the bleachers screamed. "He turned the arena into a giant bowl of snot!"

"It’s not snot! It’s highly energized organic—" Alarion didn't finish his sentence. His feet suddenly lost all contact with reality.

The green slime was vibrating at a frequency that nullified friction entirely. Alarion’s left foot went north, his right foot went east, and his dignity went south.

"Whoa! Help!" Alarion flailed, his arms windmillng as he began to slide across the arena at an alarming speed.

"Stay away from me, you freak!" Merovin yelled, trying to cast a stabilizing spell. But as soon as his wand movements became too vigorous, he too lost his footing. "Wait! No! 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘱—! "

Because the arena floor was slightly bowl-shaped, both boys began to accelerate toward the center, sliding on their backs like two very well-dressed sleds.

"Get out of the way, Runehart!" Alarion screamed, unable to stop his momentum.

"I can't! It’s like ice but worse!"

They collided in the center with a wet thwack, their limbs tangling. But the momentum didn't stop. The slime acted like a particle accelerator. They spun off each other and were shot toward opposite ends of the arena like billiard balls.

"I’m going to throw up!" Merovin’s voice trailed off as he zoomed toward the East wall.

"I’m going to die!" Alarion yelled, heading straight for the West wall.

𝘊𝘙𝘈𝘊𝘒-𝘛𝘏𝘜𝘋. 

𝘛𝘏𝘜𝘋-𝘚𝘘𝘜𝘐𝘚𝘏. 

Alarion hit the stone wall feet-first, his momentum carrying his upper body forward until his head bounced off the padded barrier. Stars—actual, magical stars—began to dance in front of his eyes.

Across the arena, Merovin had met a similar fate, though he had ended up face-down in a particularly deep puddle of the neon slime.

The arena went silent. Even the birds seemed to stop chirping.

Alarion groaned, his body feeling like it had been through a laundry cycle. He tried to lift his head, but it felt like it weighed fifty pounds. He looked toward the center. Merovin wasn't moving, save for a twitching finger that was still clutching his wand.

"Is... is it over?" Alarion croaked.

Professor Enchantor walked onto the slime, her boots glowing with a purple light that allowed her to walk normally. She looked at Alarion, then at Merovin, then back at the massive puddle of glowing goo.

"Well," she said, her voice echoing in the silence. "That was... certainly an education."

"Did I win?" Alarion asked, his voice hopeful.

"You are currently embedded in a wall, Mr. Spellcrest," Enchantor replied. "Mr. Runehart is currently inhaling what I believe to be a sentient form of mucus. In the history of Arcanum, I have never seen a more pathetic display of magical combat."

"Hey," Merovin’s muffled voice came from the slime. "He cheated. He used... he used snot."

"It was a kinetic glitch!" Alarion defended, sliding slowly down the wall until he sat on the floor. "I was trying to follow the arcs!"

"The result," Enchantor said, raising her voice to address the crowd, "is a Double Incapacitation. Neither student is capable of continuing. The duel is a stalemate."

A roar of laughter and groans erupted from the bleachers. Money changed hands as bets were settled in the most confusing way possible.

"A stalemate?" Merovin pushed himself up, his face covered in green goo. "You can't be serious! Look at him! He looks like he’s been through a thresher!"

"And you look like a swamp-beast’s lunch, Mr. Runehart," Enchantor snapped. "Both of you showed an utter lack of control. Mr. Runehart, you relied on brute force and failed to adapt. Mr. Spellcrest, you... well, you are lucky the arena didn't gain consciousness and try to eat the audience."

Alarion wiped a glob of slime off his nose. "So, we’re done? I can go to the infirmary now?"

"Not quite," Enchantor said, a small, predatory smile appearing on her face. "A stalemate in a formal duel suggests that both parties are equally in need of instruction. Since neither of you can claim superiority, you will both be requiring additional supervision."

A cold dread settled in Alarion’s stomach. "Supervision?"

"Indeed," the Professor said. "Beginning Monday, both of you are assigned to the Remedial Arcane Stability study group. You will work together—and I emphasize the word together—to master the basics of mana-management. If either of you fails to cooperate, you will be expelled before the mid-term."

"With him?" Merovin and Alarion shouted in unison.

"I’d rather duel a dragon!" Merovin added, scraping slime off his sleeve. "He’s a walking disaster! He’ll blow up the study room!"

"And he’s a narcissist with a gel addiction!" Alarion retorted.

"Excellent," Enchantor said, turning to walk away. "You’re already communicating. I expect a five-page report on the molecular structure of that slime by tomorrow morning. Together."

Alarion slumped back against the wall, watching the cleaning golems begin to scrape the green goo off the floor. He looked up at the balcony.

Lysandra Arcanelle was finally looking at him. She didn't look impressed. She didn't look angry. She just looked at him, shook her head slowly, and closed her notebook.

"I think I preferred the explosion," Alarion whispered to himself.

"At least with the explosion, I didn't have to do homework with a Runehart."