Fitz

In a corner of the third floor of the Great Library stood a row of bookshelves that few people ever touched, filled with yellowing old books. I crouched by the bottom shelf, leafing through a book on the theory of chantless magic. Its pages were as brittle as fallen autumn leaves, liable to crumble if I used the slightest bit of force.

The air had the distinctive smell of old paper, dry and faintly musty. Sunlight slanted through the windows, drawing golden grids across the floor, and dust drifted slowly in the beams.

The book had been written by a magician two hundred years ago. It was full of conjectures about chantless magic, most of which never got beyond the theoretical stage. Some claims even contradicted one another, making me frown as I read. For instance, in chapter seven, he said the key to chantless magic was "a complete understanding of the principles behind how magic is formed." But how many people in this world could completely understand those principles? If a complete understanding was really necessary to cast without chanting, then chantless magic might as well have been an academic pursuit.

When I turned to chapter three, I found a sheet of paper tucked between the pages.

It was a handwritten note, the writing so excessively neat that every stroke looked almost engraved. The page was crammed with annotations on the book's third chapter, breaking down every theoretical statement. In places, there were even diagrams of mana circuits, drawn in clean, crisp lines.

I picked it up and examined it.

It was very well written, far more detailed than my own notes. It even covered angles I hadn't thought of. The author believed the key to chantless magic was "the precision of the mental image," but the note argued against that, saying the image was only the surface and what really mattered was "muscle memory for the flow of mana." At the end, it said, "Theory is only theory. True chantless magic is something the body remembers."

That sentence made me pause.

"That sounds so familiar..."

There was a small signature in the lower right corner of the note.

"Fitz."

Fitz.

The white-haired boy I'd fought during the entrance exam.

"Fitz used chantless magic when he fought me in the entrance exam too. Zanoba said he seemed to be watching me all the time."

Someone who could use chantless magic had made notes in an out-of-the-way corner like this, taking a two-hundred-year-old theory book so seriously.

I put the note back in the book, stood up, brushed the dust off my knees, and borrowed it.

The next afternoon, I went back to that corner.

Not to read. I wanted to know if Fitz would come again.

He did.

I had just reached the bookshelf when I saw a white figure standing on the other side, dressed as usual. He was holding a book and turning its pages very slowly.

I took a few steps closer. He raised his head and glanced at me, his red eyes behind his sunglasses.

Then he closed the book, turned, and walked away.

"Wait," I said.

He didn't stop. He walked quickly, almost as if he were fleeing, and turned into a gap between the bookshelves. By the time I went around, he was gone.

"He sure runs fast. Am I that scary? He only lost to me once..."

I stood between the empty bookshelves, smelling the old books.

There was something about the way he walked. I couldn't say what was off, but it felt familiar.

Over the next few days, I ran into him several more times.

In the cafeteria, as I carried my tray around looking for a seat, I saw Fitz sitting alone in the farthest corner. All he had in front of him was a plate of vegetable salad and a glass of water. He ate slowly, bringing tiny forkfuls to his mouth. I carried my tray over to say hello, but when he saw me, his fork paused. He stood up and left with his plate, more than half the salad still uneaten.

At the training ground, I was watching Eris and Linia spar. Eris knocked Linia's wooden sword flying with a single blow, and Linia's cat ears bristled like brushes. I turned with a smile and noticed Fitz standing in the shade of a distant tree, leaning against the trunk with his arms crossed, watching us. I couldn't make out his expression. I waved to him, and he turned and left.

In the hallway, I came out of the research room and bumped into him head-on. He was carrying a stack of books, and the one on top nearly slipped off; he almost failed to catch it.

"Sorry," I said, reaching out to help steady it.

He abruptly stepped back, hugged the books tightly, and hurried away with his head lowered. His soles made quick scuffing sounds against the stone floor.

"Ugh, it's always like this. He runs whenever he sees me, but he keeps watching me on the sly. What does he mean by it?"

The way he walked slowly overlapped with another figure.

Long ago in Buena Village, there was a little girl who had been bullied by the other children. Whenever they chased her, she ran just like that, shoulders hunched forward, taking small steps and running for all she was worth. I always chased after them and drove the bullies away. After a while, they stopped picking on her as much, because they knew I would come.

That girl had green hair.

Fitz's was white.

Impossible.

That night, I stayed in the research room until late.

The experiments on mana recovery potions hadn't made much progress. The forty-seventh result was much like the previous ones: the recovery rate had improved by less than thirty percent. Master Roxy said the project was meant to be pursued over a period of years and told me not to rush. I recorded the data in my notebook and rubbed my aching eyes.

By the time I came out, the moon had risen halfway across the sky. The streetlights on campus cast a warm yellow glow, making patches of blurred light on the ground. The night breeze was chilly, and I shivered.

I followed the path back. The stew Aisha made tonight had tasted good; I could probably still make it back in time for a late-night snack. As I passed the training ground, I heard something.

A faint hum, something resonating.

I stopped and looked toward the training ground.

Someone stood in the middle of the field beneath the moonlight.

White hair almost glowed in the moonlight.

It was Fitz.

His eyes were closed, and he held both hands before his chest, palms up. A ball of pale green light rested in his palms: healing magic. Without a chant, the light slowly expanded, enveloped his hands, and then dissipated into the air. He opened his eyes and looked at his hands, checking something, then closed his eyes and did it again.

Chantless healing magic.

I stood in the shade of the trees, holding my breath.

I knew of only two people in this world who could use chantless magic. Myself and Sylphie.

Now there was one more.

White hair, red eyes, chantless magic, and a familiar way of walking.

The four pieces went round and round in my head, but I couldn't fit them together.

A voice was shouting in my head, but I pushed it down.

Impossible. Sylphie's hair was green, much like Rujierd's, while Fitz's was white. Could the Teleportation Incident change someone's hair color? I'd never heard of such a thing. But on second thought, the Teleportation Incident itself was an anomaly no one could explain. Who could say what effects it might have on the human body?

But my heart was beating fast, abnormally fast.

I stood there watching Fitz repeat his healing magic practice in the moonlight. That gesture, fingertips curled slightly inward, palms facing himself. That stance, feet together, weight leaning slightly forward.

My breath caught for a moment.