Bohdi was, officially, grounded.
Extremely grounded.
Following the chaos of orientation week—his chaos, to be precise—his punishment was handed down with the kind of strict, no-nonsense formality usually reserved for dangerous spellcraft or interdimensional breaches. He was, from this point forward, restricted to three places:
His classes.
The mess hall. (Three times a day. No loitering.)
And his dorm room. (Indefinitely.)
No detours. No "accidental" wand tests in the courtyard. No "mood enhancement sigils" etched onto statues. No "totally safe" speed enchantments on breakfast trays.
He was, as the disciplinary notice had stated with comically cold finality, "to remain out of sight and out of mischief until further notice."
Naturally, Bohdi took this as a personal challenge.
He began small.
A sign outside the mess hall one morning was mysteriously altered to read:
"Welcome to the Ministry of Nutritional Sadness. Spoons must be registered at the door."
No one saw who did it. But students arrived to find a solemn-faced upperclassman standing at the entrance, dutifully collecting spoon declarations on a clipboard.
The next day, someone reported that their soup had spontaneously turned into a very polite jellyfish, who apologized for being eaten and asked if it could sing a farewell song first.
Again, no one saw Bohdi.
Except for the professor whose teacup had grown a tiny mustache and began loudly critiquing the temperature of the water.
The thing was: Bohdi never technically left the approved zones. He still showed up to class on time. He ate his meals—albeit with a suspicious grin and a perfectly legal spoon. And he always returned to his dorm room by curfew, whistling innocently.
But his presence was unmistakable.
The Library's enchanted directory—normally a calm, color-coded list of books one could summon upon request—had been hijacked to offer completely unrelated information:
"Need Advanced Hexcraft Vol. II? Focus clearly and don't mumble—last time someone did, they got a cookbook that hexes the chef. For Time Theory, just don't think about time. Seriously. It gets... weird."
Students jokingly dubbed it their "Weekly Wisdom."
And still, no one could prove it was Bohdi.
Except… well, it was obviously Bohdi.
By the third week of his punishment, the statue in the center of the western courtyard—a proud marble rendering of one of Aetherion's founding scholars—was seen donning a robe made entirely of cafeteria napkins, with an enchanted bubble above its head that read:
"I invented mana conversion and all I got was this lousy paper poncho."
The napkin robe flapped dramatically in the wind. The enchantment somehow replenished the robe hourly.
Hallie nearly choked on her tea when she saw it.
And still, Bohdi was technically following the rules.
He went to his classes. Ate his meals. Stayed in his dorm.
He was just very, very creative about the details.
To Bohdi, this wasn't just mischief. It was art. A protest. A living, breathing performance piece that said:
"You can put me in a box. But you can't keep me from putting googly eyes on the box."
Some professors rolled their eyes. A few tried (unsuccessfully) to trace the spells. Others began placing bets on what would happen next.
No one knew where he was keeping the enchanted chalk that had begun altering classroom announcements to include motivational limericks.
No one could figure out how he got the training hall floor to echo faintly with circus music during sparring drills.
And no one—not even the Headmaster—could explain why the bathroom mirrors on the third floor suddenly began offering fashion advice.
But Bohdi? He just grinned.
Because if he couldn't go anywhere…
He'd make the whole campus come to him.
One person, however, knew exactly who was behind the madness. And he knew exactly where to find him.
Kiran stepped out of his workshop, stretching his arms as he adjusted the strap of his bag over one shoulder. The daylight was starting to dim, casting long shadows across the cobblestones, and most students had already filtered off to dinner or dorms. He could still taste the faint dust of runes on his tongue from a miscast sand seal, and all he wanted now was a quiet walk back and maybe a slice of that honey bread they served on Fridays.
But fate, and a certain chaotic roommate, had other plans.
As he passed the western courtyard, the crowd gave it away first—clustered students snickering, whispering, a few even pulling out sketching tablets to immortalize the moment. Kiran didn't even need to look.
But he did anyway.
There it was: the statue of Lorion the Wise, founder of modern mana conversion theory, now proudly draped in a robe made entirely of cafeteria napkins. An animated enchantment looped a thought bubble above his head, mumbling about fashion injustices and the lack of appreciation for academic contributions.
Kiran closed his eyes, Inhaled, And sighed the sigh of a man used to this kind of headache.
"Honestly," he muttered, resuming his pace, "It never ends with him, does it?"
The closer he got to the dorms, the quieter things became—no more crowds, just a few students milling about, unaware that another masterpiece was likely already in the works.
And sure enough, as he rounded the last corner toward their hall, he spotted a very familiar figure crouched low near the outer wall of the building.
Bohdi.
He was shirtless for some reason, a bandana tied haphazardly around his head like a makeshift thief, and had what looked like a bowl of glittering ink balanced in one hand. With his other hand, he was carefully drawing intricate sigils on the outer dormitory bricks—each one pulsing faintly before fading into invisibility. A small, hovering book flipped pages beside him, projecting notes midair with the words "Sonic Pranks: Volume III" sketched in bright orange cursive across the cover.
Kiran stared at him for a moment.
Bohdi, sensing the presence of judgment, didn't look up as he spoke.
"If you're here to tell me this is a bad idea, I already know."
Kiran stepped closer. "And yet… you're doing it anyway."
"Of course," Bohdi said brightly. "It's called conviction, Kiran. I'm making a statement."
"You're making a mess."
"What's the difference?"
Kiran folded his arms, watching as Bohdi reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny wind chime, affixing it to the corner of the wall with a dab of mana glue.
"I'm almost afraid to ask," Kiran said, tilting his head. "But what does this one do?"
"Oh," Bohdi said, finally standing and wiping his hands on a rag that had somehow also been enchanted to sing soft jazz, "this baby's going to make the wall whisper affirmations to anyone who leans against it."
Kiran blinked. "Affirmations?"
"Yep. You know. Stuff like, 'Your aura smells incredible today,' or 'You are a divine spellcaster in a world full of mundane mobs.'"
There was a beat of silence.
"You enchanted the dorm wall to flirt with people."
"To empower them," Bohdi corrected. "With confidence. It's basically therapy."
Kiran pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I am genuinely amazed no one has caught you."
"Plenty of people have caught me," Bohdi said, grinning. "But they can't prove anything. And besides, I'm technically within all my restricted zones."
"You're literally defacing the dorm."
"It's removable. I've already scheduled its expiration. It vanishes by midnight." Bohdi glanced at him with faux offense. "Kiran, please. I'm not some amateur."
Kiran just stared at him, deadpan.
Behind them, someone leaned against the dorm wall to tie their shoe. A second later, a disembodied voice whispered:
"That cloak makes your shoulders look majestic."
The student blinked, Looked around, and Smiled faintly before walking away.
Kiran didn't even flinch. He simply turned, heading for the door.
"Just clean up when you're done," he called over his shoulder. "And if I hear the shower wall complimenting my hair again, I'm flooding your bed with sand."
Bohdi gave him a cheerful salute. "Noted! Also, you should really try the conditioner."