The Versatile Thief

Chapter 2: Eyes on the Target

The silence of the archives was thick, smelling of dust, decaying parchment, and the lingering, metallic tang of the mana Santiago had just forcibly repurposed. He felt the phantom vibration in his hand, a dull throb that served as a reminder of how close he’d come to a total sensory overload.

He didn't move for a long minute. When he finally forced himself to breathe, the sound of his own ragged inhale felt deafening. He knew he had to get to class. If he showed up late, the teachers would note it. If he showed up disheveled, someone would ask questions.

He straightened his uniform, smoothing the fabric over his chest. His heart was still doing a frantic, arrhythmic dance against his ribs.

"You really should stop holding your breath, Pratama. It makes you look like you’re trying to turn blue."

Santiago jumped, his heels scraping sharply against the stone floor. He spun around, and there she was. Nadia Volkov hadn't left; she had merely drifted further into the stacks, her silhouette framed by the towering shelves of ancient grimoires.

"Jesus, Nadia! Do you have to lurk in the shadows like a house ghost?" Santiago snapped, his nerves fraying.

Nadia stepped into the dim light of a flickering overhead lamp. She was taller than him, or at least she held herself with a posture that made her seem it. Her uniform was crisp, her silver pin—marking her as an honor student—catching the light.

"It’s not lurking if I’m just standing here," she said, her voice dry. "And you’re the one who ducked into a restricted archive during a passing period. What’s the matter? Did the 'lucky parry' take more out of you than you wanted to admit?"

Santiago forced a lopsided, self-deprecating grin. He leaned against a bookshelf, trying to mimic the posture of a relaxed, uninterested student. "I just wanted to make sure I wasn't bleeding. Marcus hits like a mule, even when he’s failing at basic kinetics. I’m fine."

"Fine," Nadia repeated, testing the word. She walked closer, her eyes scanning his face with a clinical intensity that made Santiago want to shrink into the floorboards. "You know, the thing about 'lucky' is that it’s usually singular. Once is a fluke. Twice? That’s a pattern."

"It’s a coincidence," Santiago countered, waving a hand dismissively. "Maybe I just got lucky twice. Does the universe have a grudge against me, or are you just trying to stir up trouble, Volkov?"

Nadia tilted her head. "I’m trying to solve a puzzle. I’ve watched you for months, Pratama. You’re the 'dud.' The one who can’t hold a basic spark for more than five seconds. And yet, I just watched you pull an Impact bolt out of the air and turn it into a static shield. That’s not a dud’s move. That’s advanced-level energy manipulation."

Santiago let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "Look, if I could actually do that, do you really think I’d be letting Jax and his merry band of idiots push me around in the hallways? Think about it. If I was a secret genius, I’d be at the top of the leaderboard, not hiding in the back of the room during Runes."

Nadia stood close enough now that he could smell the faint scent of ozone and peppermint that followed her everywhere. "That’s the part I can’t figure out. Why play the fool? Is it a game? Or are you just afraid of what happens when people realize you’re stealing their mana?"

"Stealing? You make it sound so sinister," Santiago said, his voice dropping to a low, guarded mutter. "I don't steal anything. I just... I’m good at avoiding accidents. Maybe you should spend less time staring at me and more time practicing your own focus, Nadia. You’re getting paranoid."

Nadia’s eyes narrowed. She didn't buy the deflection; he could see it in the way her jaw tightened. "I’m not paranoid. I’m observant. There’s a difference."

"Well, be observant somewhere else," Santiago muttered, pushing himself off the shelf. He tried to brush past her, his heart hammering again. "I have a class to get to, and honestly? I’m exhausted. The 'luck' I’ve been having today is giving me a hell of a headache."

Nadia shifted, blocking his path for a split second before stepping aside, though her gaze remained fixed on his shoulder. "You’re going to run out of excuses, Pratama. Eventually, someone with less patience than me is going to demand a demonstration. What will you do then?"

Santiago paused, turning back to face her. He kept his expression blank, his eyes dull—the mask of the mediocre student. "Then I guess I’ll have to get lucky again, won't I?"

"You’re a terrible liar," she said, her tone almost amused.

"Maybe. But it’s kept me out of the infirmary so far," he said, turning on his heel. "See you around, Volkov. Try not to hurt yourself overthinking this."

He walked away, his pace steady but his mind screaming. He didn't look back, even though he could feel her gaze burning a hole between his shoulder blades. He reached the heavy oak doors of the academy’s main hallway, his breath hitching as he finally stepped out into the bustling stream of students.

The rest of the day was a blur of tedious lectures and narrow escapes. He avoided eye contact, kept his head down, and made sure to drop his pen during the middle of the lecture, forcing him to crawl under his desk just so he wouldn't have to participate in the 'mana-shaping' exercise that would have revealed his complete lack of a reservoir.

By the time the final bell rang, the sky outside the high windows of Aethelgard Academy had turned a bruised, twilight purple. Santiago dragged his feet back to his small, cramped study cubicle. He just wanted to sleep. He wanted to reach into his mind, find the empty, hollow space where his power should be, and just drift off.

He shoved open the door to his desk area, his bag heavy on his shoulder. He stopped dead.

Sitting right in the center of his desk, tucked neatly under his brass inkpot, was a slip of thick, cream-colored parchment. It looked expensive. It looked intentional.

Santiago approached it slowly, his hand trembling as he reached out. He lifted the inkpot. The note was written in a precise, elegant cursive that he recognized immediately.

The 'lucky' parry didn't match the kinetic residue in the hallway, Santiago. If you're going to hide, you should be more careful about the frequency. If you want to know how to stop the drain when you capture a spell, meet me in the east tower at midnight. Don't be a dud.

— N.

Santiago let the note fall back onto the desk. He felt a cold sweat break out along his hairline. She hadn't just suspected him; she had analyzed the leftovers of his work.

He stared at the note for a long time, the silence of the dormitory block pressing in on him. If he went, he was walking into a trap. If he stayed, he was admitting he was hiding.

He crumpled the paper in his fist, his knuckles turning white.

"Midnight," he whispered to the empty room. "Why does it always have to be midnight?"

He walked over to his small, narrow bed and sat down, the springs groaning under his weight. He looked at his palm, the skin still faintly red where the Impact bolt had kissed it. He was a vacuum. He was a thief. And for the first time since arriving at Aethelgard, he realized he was terrified of exactly how much he might be able to hold if he just stopped trying to be so damn careful.