There weren't many chances in life to catch Liene acting shy. Normally, Fabrisse would've jumped at the opportunity to tease her for it—if he weren't also the one being teased today.

The Synod's Refectory of the Seventh Fire Dragon had the architecture of the headquarters of a minor cult. Marble pillars inlaid with gold-veined marble ringed the cavernous space, each one crowned with open-jawed dragon busts belching slow spirals of magical steam—meant, allegedly, to keep the soup warm. The vaulted ceiling was so high it echoed, crisscrossed with hanging brass pendulums that swayed dramatically every time someone so much as shifted a chair.

In the middle of it all, under the suspicious glow of one particularly judgmental chandelier, Fabrisse sat very still, a bowl of root-stock soup going lukewarm in front of him. Liene, sitting beside him, kept fussing with the cuff of her robe. A probable reason was that her clothing today didn't have any random quills stuck on them, and she was uncomfortable with plain cloth.

Celine had leaned in across the table, arms folded like she was interrogating a fugitive rather than a friend. The scribbling duty had been transferred to Ploosh, who was nodding along even though nobody was talking.

"So," Celine began with far too much casual innocence, "how long have you two been hanging out?"

Fabrisse stared at his soup with intense focus. "Who's 'you two.'"

Celine directed the next jab at Liene, "You've been way closer since you came back from your field excursion. I'm just saying. Something happened, right? Something interesting?"

Well, yeah. The Eidralith happened. Maybe a professional gossipmancer like her should be more interested in that.

Liene made a soft throat-clearing noise, the kind she usually reserved for interrupting unnecessarily long presentations. "Well, I mean, Fabrisse's still adjusting," she said, not looking at anyone. "You know. With . . . everything recently." Her voice dropped half an octave on 'recently'.

"Oh!" Celine latched onto the thread like a starbeetle to jam. "I was meaning to ask about his recent binding—oh, no, no, no. Don't try and reroute this, Miss Strategic Deflection," Celine interrupted, holding up a hand. "Because you nearly got me asking about the Eidralith—which would've been clever, by the way—but I remembered. The Foundational Rites of Clarity!"

Fabrisse winced.

"Yes, that ceremony," Celine went on, eyes gleaming. "The one where the Headmaster literally said you two were 'too entangled in one another for objective discernment of clarity' and had to pause the rites."

Fabrisse muttered into his soup, "That's not exactly what he said though . . ."

Celine grinned, sensing blood. "Sure, sure, not exactly. But you guys did get physically entangled, which I'm told is very bad form during a clarity rite. Honestly, if you wanted everyone at the Synod to start talking, that was one efficient way to do it."

Liene said, "We were attempting Harmonization. It was to try to win the event, that's all."

Anabeth, who had been silently ladylike beside them, spooning soup with unhurried elegance. "That is not allowed during the ritual, you know. Liene wouldn't happen to disregard the rules, would she?"

"Oh, she very much would!" Celine's eyes gleamed. "But the more important question is, why would our girl Liene care enough to try winning the Petal ritual in the first place."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Anabeth said with the carefully enunciated rhythm of a person whose voice never broke into any register lower than condescending, "I was present. And what I observed was two people so obviously caught up in one another that the resonance between them produced a harmonic feedback loop."

Ploosh scribbled in silence.

Celine leaned back with a devilish grin. "Look, I'm just trying to get a sense of the emotional climate before we tackle the dangerous soul-bound artifacts, alright? Maybe Kestovar and Liene here have to perform harmonization because a higher entity obliged them to."

"Oh, don't worry," Anabeth added, calmly reaching for her glass of mintwater. "We'll circle back to the Eidralith. I've been brushing up on binding artifact theory, and I have . . . questions."

Thank you, Fabrisse thought. Anything would be better than the petal ritual topic.

Liene gave a short, amused exhale—barely a laugh—and finally looked up from her sleeve. "Alright, that's enough. You're going to make Fabrisse blush."

Celine gasped, delighted. "Are you saying he has blushed before? I knew it!"

"Fabri needs a more delicate environment so you don't trigger an emotional backlash," Liene said. "Which, as we've all been told several times, is not recommended during soup."

I appreciate you covering for me, Liene, Fabrisse thought. But saying, 'Fabri this, Fabri that' will just make them tease us more.

Anabeth set down her spoon. "The soup's getting cold," she said, and with a flick of her fingers, ivory aether-light danced across the surface of her bowl, steaming it gently back to warmth.

That, finally, was enough to redirect attention. The table came to a still.

Ploosh resumed scribbling at a more languid pace. Celine relented with a dramatic sigh and reached for her bread wedge. Liene pretended to be fascinated by the leafy garnish floating in her soup. And Fabrisse, with immense gratitude and a single slow breath, allowed himself the minor miracle of simply taking a bite. Warm, salty, vaguely rooty. Bliss.

After a few minutes of blessed, slurping silence, the table began to disband in the slow way of half-finished conversations and second helpings. Anabeth excused herself with her usual gravity, citing a 'time-sensitive divination appointment,' but not before she gave Fabrisse a knowing look. Ploosh trailed after her, still scribbling. Liene remained seated, idly rotating her spoon in her empty bowl, though she had sat straighter, more guarded, like someone very consciously not eavesdropping.

When Celine leaned a little too casually toward Fabrisse and asked, "Hey, do you have five minutes?" Liene didn't say anything. She stood, adjusted the strap of her satchel, and gave Fabrisse the briefest glance.

He communicated with his eyes, 'wait, don't go! I can't take a private interview!'

Then Liene turned to Celine with a polite smile and said, "I'll catch you both later," before slipping away into the late-lunch crowd.

Fabrisse watched her go.

Then he looked at Celine.

". . . Five minutes?" he said.

"I swear it's not about Liene," Celine said, hands raised like he was a startled deer. "I just want to ask a few questions about the Eidralith. Official gossipmancer business; no prying! Just the arcane stuff. Promise. Then I'll be out of your hair."

He considered her offer carefully. He would much rather be unlocking a new skill with his Mastery Points now, but it wasn't like he could use that as an excuse.

They were still in the refectory, near one of the absurdly sculpted dragon-head columns. Students were milling about, carrying trays, arguing over seating charms, loudly failing at quiet spells. It was, by all accounts, a public space.

Safe enough.

Fabrisse gave a small nod. "Alright. Five minutes. No commentary on my personal life."

"Scout's honor," she said, already steering him toward a less echo-prone alcove near the corner windows. "I'm only interested in cursed relics and potentially unstable magical resonance fields."

Right, Fabrisse thought. What could possibly go wrong?

He followed her lead.

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