Page 39 of The Entanglement of Rival Wizards (Magic and Romance #1)

Would it be so terrible if it were more?

Yes, part of me immediately screams. Yes, it would be so terrible. I don’t do more—more means letting him in. More means he’d be someone I’d tell about my mom’s text. Hey, my dad’s going to take over the place that fucked me up.

It’s not fine.

It’s not fine at all.

We reach the stadium. After giving our names to security, we’re let out onto the rawball field.

The field has been divided in half by a huge concrete wall painted in purple and gold stripes.

On either side are identical setups: various obstacles, boulders and block walls and stairs that lead to nowhere, all of it done in the same purple and gold hues.

Everything on each side is centered around a platform embellished with the Manticore logo.

“They’re being too subtle on the school spirit theme,” I mutter at Thio. “They really should try harder.”

He glances at me but doesn’t pick up the banter. Our gazes linger, his softening.

I don’t want to hurt him.

The realization that I probably am hurting him by insisting on these boundaries digs a pit in my chest, and that more than anything has my breath coming out in a forceful push.

I need to talk to him. Figure out if this arrangement is still working for him. That’s appropriate, right? That’s a mature reaction to what’s been a very reasonable, structured arrangement. We’re both adults. And we’ve already established that the rules can change.

But what if I ask him if this is still working, and he says no, he wants more?

“Mr. Walsh!” Professor Thompson emerges from the same door we came through. “Mr. Tourael! We’re ready to start, if you’ll join us on the field? Ah, but leave your component harnesses and all spell ingredients aside. We’re not to take anything in with us.”

I trip. Internally, externally; my thoughts catch and topple all over, and I whip toward him so fast I lose my footing and my knee buckles. Thio catches me, his hand gripping tight around my upper arm, and I’m grateful for the sting of his fingers.

“What? We’re going in unprepared?” A dozen other questions gather, but I choke them down. “I mean, I thought we’d be casting spells for this challenge?”

“We are,” Thompson says. “We’ll have everything we need. Components will be provided for us; that’s part of the challenge. Now come, come—we’ll hear all the rules in a moment.”

He walks off to where Thio’s faculty advisor, Dr. Narbeth, is standing at the end of the divider wall, facing the crowd that’s gathered in this side of the stands.

The hum of conversation echoes through the stadium, dozens of people watching us, most in Lesiara U clothing, a sea of purple and gold that ripples and heaves.

A shudder walks through me.

In the front row, decidedly not wearing Lesiara U clothes but instead another boring-ass beige suit, is Myrdin, looking like he sucked a lemon.

My eyes flick from him to Thio, who shakes his head in fatigued acknowledgment that yeah, Arasne sent her spy to watch.

“I’m surprised Arasne cares how you do at this challenge,” I say, lips numb.

“It’s a public event; I’m representing the family .” His brow furrows. “You okay?”

He’s still holding my arm.

I don’t want him to let go.

I shrug out of his grip and take off my component belt, my fingers ungainly. “Yeah. Fine. Just hate the unknown.”

Thio huffs a laugh. “What, you? A control freak? Never would’ve guessed.”

The way I roll my eyes and mock-laugh is strained.

I set my component belt on one of the player benches that runs along the short wall blocking off the stands from the field.

My hands are trembling as I let it go. Anger wafts up in a sweeping cloud, filling in the spot where fear tries to go.

One of the therapists called it PTSD.

But it isn’t. I’m fine and this is a dumb school event; my mom’s text means nothing.

I head out to stand next to Thompson and Narbeth. They’re dressed down as much as I’ve ever seen them, and it’s always odd seeing suit-wearing professors in sweatshirts and jeans.

Thio removes his component harness and takes a place next to me. We face the crowd as Narbeth throws up a volume spell and begins speaking, his voice projecting:

“Thank you for coming to our first ever Evocation versus Conjuration departmental challenge! For those who don’t know me, I am Dr. Rydel Narbeth, and I oversee the Conjuration Department here at Lesiara University.”

The crowd cheers.

“Instead of pitting Evocation against Conjuration,” Narbeth continues, “we will each be competing in teams of two, comprised of both an evocation wizard and a conjuration wizard. In order to cast any spells, teams will have to fight for their components—”

Everything fades out. Narbeth’s voice. The crowd’s responses.

My eyes go to where my belt sits on the bench, fingers clenching at my sides, wanting to reach for components I don’t have on me now.

I’m defenseless.

Your father has officially been named the next director of Camp Merethyl.

My mom wants me to congratulate him. It’d mean so much to him.

Congratulations, Dad. Congratulations on overseeing the thing you chose over your son. The thing that you let break your son.

It takes everything in me, every flicker of resolve I pretend I’ve built over the past six years, not to sprint over and grab my component belt.

Thio elbows me gently.

“Sebastian?” His voice is low. Narbeth’s still talking, going over rules I should probably pay attention to, but I can’t; air is a burr in my throat and it won’t go down.

I’m seeing things through a funnel. All other details are muffled and muted.

I need my component belt. I need it. I—

Thio’s fingers clamp around my wrist. “Sebastian? What’s wrong?”

His fingers on my skin. Focus on that. I look down and see his knuckles turn white. I want him to squeeze tighter, squeeze and squeeze until he rings my wrist in a bruise and the only thing I feel is him.

This isn’t Camp Merethyl.

This is a stupid school competition.

A breath goes in on a choking gasp.

Thompson gives me a concerned look, but he quickly refocuses when Narbeth claps and shouts, “Let the challenge begin!”

Narbeth and Thompson jog off to the right side of the field and vanish behind the divider wall.

Thio and I stay where we are, his hand on my wrist.

“We can leave,” he tells me. “We can go. I’ll make up an excuse.”

He doesn’t know what’s wrong but he’d fuck all this off for me, no questions asked, even with Myrdin watching.

My entire body sways toward him.

“No.” I extricate myself from Thio’s hold, barely aware I’m doing it, and walk toward the left side of the field on autopilot. “What, uh, is this competition? I missed what Narbeth said.”

Thio keeps pace with me. “Screw this competition. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

Thio’s lips part, a soft huff. “Sebas—”

Fury races through me, chewing me to pieces. “Not now. I said I’m fine, Elethior.”

I want to suck it back. Peel off the extra letters that immediately erect a barrier between us. He gave me his name and I went and shoved it back in his face, and the way he looks at me, with a recoil he can’t hide quickly enough, jabs into me.

My mouth hangs open.

This isn’t what we are.

This isn’t what we are.

This isn’t—

You had such promise, Mr. Walsh. This was wasted on you.

Only it’s my dad saying it now. My dad standing over me and Orok. My dad walking away as I begged, begged for it to stop.

I can’t breathe, and for once in my life, I’m not angry.

Well, not just angry.

I’m devastated.

Thio waves at our side of the field, resignation hollowing his features. “The competition—components are hidden all around our side of the arena. We have to get what we can to cast whatever spells we think we’ll need. First team to defeat the spitting ooze cube wins.”

My head twitches. “A— what ?”

A smile touches the corner of his lips. “You really weren’t paying attention. A spitting ooze cube. There’ll be one on both sides, in the center platform, and the first team to successfully restrain or defeat it wins.”

I never thought I’d be so grateful for a weird monster. It derails my brewing storm and I rip a hand through my hair. “A spitting ooze cube. What the fuck.”

Thio continues into our side of the arena and takes a position behind a short purple brick wall. I follow him and crouch down, the crowd able to fully see us, but we’re blocked from the center platform.

“Wait.” My head twitches again. “Aren’t ooze cubes usually acidic?”

A buzzer sounds.

Thio and I both arch up to look over the wall as a ripple of arcane blue energy falls across the Manticore platform.

A hefty ten-by-ten square of hazy purple Jello-O-like material appears.

“Competitors!” a voice echoes over the arena. “Begin!”

“We’re graduate students,” I say, voice flat. “Graduate. Students.”

Thio chuckles. “Then this should be easy.”

The cube makes a truly repulsive squelching noise as it shifts one of its sides parallel to the wall we’re behind. It must have some noise-sensing abilities; barely a beat passes after we finish talking before a wad of purple goo launches out of the cube and smacks into our wall.

We duck as chunks of goo spray into the air, a few wads dripping down onto my bare arms. They don’t burn, thank gods; it isn’t an acidic cube, then. Just a spitting one.

“I see a component box.” Thio points up at a staircase to nowhere beside the cube. Sure enough, a small wooden box sits precariously on the edge of the top step.

Now that he’s pointed one out, I clock others around our arena, at least half a dozen. The sides of the boxes have symbols painted on them, denoting what they contain: phosphorus, iron, glass, silver, gems, herbs, and more.

“What are you thinking?” I ask, ducking another gelatinous loogie.

Thio’s quiet for a beat, studying me, and I think he might keep pushing, until he says, “I can teleport it away.” A common conjuration spell. “We’d need chalk, a diamond, copper wire, and iron. I can see two of those component boxes from here.”