It had been a week since the story of Merlin and Doomsday. A full week of sunrises, spellbooks, and Ellie silently wondering if magical aptitude was directly proportional to how badly someone could get on your nerves.
Lucian, in all his radiant smugness, had taken her magical lessons with the energy of a gifted student who knew he was gifted — which, by itself, was bad enough — but he also had the irritating habit of tweaking every single spell and exercise to "better suit his style," which meant nothing to anyone but him and whatever inner voice he listened to that whispered "yes, tweak the core exercise, ruin centuries of form, do it differently just because you can."
Ellie, unfortunately, was STILL stuck being his tutor.
He was officially ranked a top Apprentice Mage — Tier 1...after a six year pause. To catch up from that was nothing short of talent. And it wasn't just that he was talented. It was that he was fast. Unnervingly fast. Memorizing theory that should have taken weeks in days. Internalizing the runic lattice of multiple schools of magic in the time it took most students to stop blowing up their own shoes. He had already learned, to her horror, tier one spells from nearly every legal school — barring Necromancy, of course — and had begun crafting variants.
That smug little smile never left his face. For instance, four days ago...
Ellie stood in the garden one morning, chalkboard in hand, instructing the lesson like a well-armed general. "Today, we're practicing mana weaving. The goal is to manifest your mana into thin, threadlike lines — to train your control, precision, and flexibility. Runes twist mana at sharp angles, so—"
Lucian raised a hand.
Actually, no. He half-raised it with the kind of lazy poise you'd expect from a boy who knew exactly how charming his cheekbones were.
"I'll have you know," he said, "that my mana is semi-liquid in nature. Which means I've already got innate flexibility. So, mana weaving—or, as I like to call it, magical finger painting—might not be necessary."
He smiled. A full, blinding smile. Ellie blinked once. Then twice. Then turned to the training dummy and whispered something that was probably a curse.
Then two days earlier...
Mana stretching was a foundational warm-up. It involved a set of stances, poses, and breathwork designed to open internal mana pathways and reduce magical fatigue. Ellie demonstrated the first three in flowing silence. Lucian… observed.
And then he spoke.
"Hm. You know, if you angle your left foot a little wider and shift the center of balance this way—" he promptly invented a new stance, somehow ending up in a low crouch with one hand behind his back and the other in the air like he was posing for a noble's portrait— "you can feel the mana channel more efficiently through the inner thigh."
Ellie stared. "What am I even looking at."
"It's more effective this way," Lucian replied earnestly, as if she wasn't seconds from grabbing a frying pan.
Then just yesterday...
He'd casually demonstrated his Tier 1 reinforced Mana Bolt again.
This time, it left scorch marks.
Ellie didn't say anything right away. She simply walked into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of strong wine, stared at the wall for five full minutes, then marched into her study, summoned her crow quill, and wrote the following:
To Malrik, you treacherous lying bastard,
I have met your "humble" apprentice.
This boy walked into my lesson with a Tier 1 mana bolt already engraved and the smugness of a seasoned archmage. Within the hour, he managed to:
• "Fix" my posture mid-demonstration.
• Describe mana weaving as "finger painting."
• And cast a bolt that turned my dummy into sawdust and shame.
He has the arrogance of an emperor and the face of a choirboy. It's repulsive. And I'm impressed by how good he gets on my nerves.
Also — he thinks he's helping when he corrects me. ME.
I asked for a seedling.
You sent me a storm in a teacup with a pretty face and opinions.
He'll either become the greatest mage of our generation…
Or I'll kill him with my bare hands.
Unaffectionately,
— Ellie
From that day on, Lucian would occasionally get pelted with sarcasm.
Any time he opened his mouth to offer an improvement, Ellie would raise a brow and mutter, "Oh look, here comes our Lord and Savior of Arcane Efficiency," or, "Please, enlighten me again, O Master of Flexible Thighs."
And then there was drunk Ellie.
Oh, drunk Ellie.
There were nights she would stagger in, robe half off, cheeks flushed, bottle in hand, declaring things like, "Lucian! Spar me at once, I'm going to beat that smug expression off your stupid angel face!" — only to end up throwing pillows at a painting instead and dramatically accusing it of being a "mana leech."
Then t.
Ellie, half-drunk and slurring, had ordered, "Send me to my bath, you walking cheekbone."
Lucian had helped her get there, only for her to mumble compliments into his shoulder and ask if he had "always smelled this unfairly nice."
She promptly fell asleep in the tub.
Then—
This morning's incident .
Lucian woke up in his room, shirtless as usual, blinking into sunlight… and found Ellie asleep on the edge of his bed, robe slipping from one shoulder, lips parted in soft snores, arm slung dramatically across the covers.
"...This is going in the memory vault."
When she awoke, saw him, and realized what had happened (which was, to be clear — nothing inappropriate at all) she couldn't even look him in the eye.
She ran straight into the owl on the hallway beam. Fell backward. Then punched the air and locked herself in her study.
Lucian, sipping tea on the porch later, casually mused to Black the cat:
"I think she likes me."
Black meowed like he was already tired of the drama.
In summary, at least according to Ellie.
Lucian Valemire was brilliant, maddening, charming, and consistently just a little bit too much.
And she?
Ellie of Drea was losing her mind.
The worst part?
She was starting to enjoy it.
Just a little.
Maybe.
But don't tell him that.