Cane's head throbbed with information—names, timelines, arcane theories etched into the history of spellwork. His first History of Magic class had ended hours ago, but the assignment left his mind tangled in runic formulas and early etching traditions.
He'd stayed late in the library, thumbing through yellowed pages and half-deciphered diagrams. Now, seated at the small desk in his dormitory, he dipped a quill into a shallow inkwell and began outlining his research topic:
"The Influence of Elemental Intent on Pre-Era Etching Stability..."
He frowned. Too long. Too dry. He scratched it out and tried again.
Shifting in his seat, Cane bumped the chair against the stone wall beside him. The sound echoed—a low thump.
A moment later, a second thump answered. From the other side.
Cane sat up.
He eyed the wall, then grabbed the broom leaning near the door and gave the stone a solid tap.
Two quick knocks answered.
He grinned slightly. Tap. Tap tap.
The reply came back: tap-tap... tap.
He leaned back in his chair, the rhythm pulling him out of his overloaded mind. For a minute, he forgot about the assignment, enjoying the odd little conversation of knocks and taps.
Then, footsteps. A door creaked open.
Cane stood and stepped into the dim torchlight of the hall—just as the door across from his opened.
Out stepped a familiar figure. Tall, red-haired, dressed in a deep green study robe that hung unevenly on his lanky frame. His spectacles glinted in the torchlight, slightly askew on his freckled nose.
Fergis.
The other boy stopped short when he saw Cane.
They stared at each other for a breath, the tapping broom still in Cane's hand.
"You," Fergis said, squinting. "You're the one next door?"
Cane raised the broom slightly in greeting. "Apparently."
Fergis's brow furrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched—something close to a smile, or maybe a smirk.
"I thought it was Nos messing with me again," Fergis muttered.
"Didn't mean to interrupt. I was just…" Cane gestured vaguely with the broom handle. "Trying to think."
"History of Magic?" Fergis asked. "You've got that professor who drones like a sick lute, don't you?"
Cane nodded. "And enough reading to break a table."
Fergis snorted. "Same."
A pause stretched between them—faint torchlight flickering across the stone walls.
"I've seen your light," Cane said casually. "Late nights. Thought I was the only one."
Fergis adjusted his glasses. "Same. I figured you were memorizing alchemy ingredients or drawing cursed circles."
"Just reading," Cane said.
"Same," Fergis echoed, then added dryly, "Well, reading and avoiding Nos."
Cane tilted his head. "Nos?"
Fergis rolled his eyes. "You'll find out. Just don't step on anything glowing outside your door."
Cane offered a quiet chuckle. "Noted."
And just like that, the tension faded. Not friends. Not yet. But something easier than before.
Neighbors.
They stood in the hallway a moment longer, the tension thinning like mist.
"What's your track?" Fergis asked, squinting like he was trying to fit Cane into a proper academic box.
"Water Element, Metallurgy, and History of Magic," Cane said, leaning casually on the broom handle.
Fergis raised an eyebrow. "Huh. Practical."
"You?"
"Fire Element, Rune Casting, and unfortunately... also History of Magic," Fergis replied with a sigh. "Our professor thinks pacing in a circle makes him more engaging."
Cane smirked. "It doesn't."
"No," Fergis said, deadpan. "It really doesn't."
Their shared grimace turned into something like camaraderie.
Fergis glanced past Cane toward the torch flickering near his door, and his entire expression soured.
"That," he growled, "has been lit four nights in a row. I put it out—Nos lights it again. No reason. Just to mess with me."
"Does it... matter if it's lit?"
"Yes. It's too bright. Throws shadows into my reading space. And it's smug."
"Smug?"
Fergis nodded firmly. "It knows what it's doing."
Before Cane could ask how a torch could be smug, Fergis stormed past him and grabbed the iron bracket.
"I'm putting an end to this."
He gave the torch a tug.
It didn't come free.
Instead, it sank downward—clicking like a lever.
"Wait—" Cane started.
A rune flared to life beneath Fergis's boots, etched into the hallway stone and glowing a warm orange.
"Shit," Fergis muttered, too exhausted to give it proper fury.
A fwwsshhh of magic answered him.
From above, a narrow vent hissed and blasted him with a warm, syrupy liquid that coated his robe and hair in a sticky sheen. It smelled faintly of honey and toasted almond.
He stood frozen for a moment, arms lifted like a bird caught in molasses.
Then a second rune lit up—this one on the ceiling.
Pop!Pop! Pop!
A barrage of tiny white feathers rained down like snow in a blizzard, clinging to every syrupy inch of him.
Cane backed against the wall, stunned, then burst out laughing. His stomach cramped as he staggered to his door, barely managing to twist the handle while doubled over.
Behind him, Fergis let out a ragged yell.
"NOOOOOOSSSSS!"
Cane ducked into his room, closed the door behind him, and slid down against it, laughing until his ribs hurt.
From the hallway came the squish-squish of syrupy boots and the flutter of feathers.
And still—Cane laughed.
Then—stomping. Fast, angry, and sticky.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Someone was pounding on the ceiling hatch just above the hallway—the tiny square door that led to the upper floor where Nos supposedly lived.
"NOS! You old bastard, I'm gonna cook you like a chicken! Open this door! I know you're in there!"
Bang!
"NOS!"
Cane rolled onto his side, face buried in his pillow, muffling another fit of laughter as the sound of Fergis's fury echoed through the tower like a storm of sugar and vengeance.
Later that night, Cane sat at his desk, fingers idly tapping against his notebook. His quill lay forgotten, ink drying at the tip.
Every so often, a quiet chuckle escaped him—uninvited but impossible to resist. The image of Fergis, soaked in syrup and flailing in a storm of feathers, kept slipping back into his thoughts like a persistent echo.
The tower was quiet now. Still.
The kind of stillness that came after the chaos had spent itself—but before the next round began. Cane imagined Fergis was somewhere deep in his room, brooding and plotting magical revenge. And Nos? Nos was probably—well… doing whatever it was Nos did. Folding sideways through walls. Speaking in riddles. Carving invisible runes into the floorboards just to amuse himself.
Cane leaned back and glanced at the ceiling.
"Regardless," he murmured to no one, "there was definite genius in that setup."
He turned back to his notes and began sketching out the rune sequence in the margins, breaking down what he'd seen.
One rune activated when the torch lever was pulled down. Another when it reset. Timing-based dual-trigger. And modifying the torch itself? That would've required knowledge of material transmutation… maybe spatial displacement and chaos layering too.
The simplicity of the prank masked its complexity. Dual-rune layering with sensory triggers, magically bonded to a physical object… whoever Nos really was, the man knew his craft.
Cane scratched another note into the margins.
Controlled randomness. Brilliant.
He smiled to himself. The absurdity of the night had somehow become the most educational part of his day.
And as the last of the tower torches dimmed into flickering embers, Cane leaned back in his chair, smirking in the silence, already wondering what Nos would do next.