They had been in the eastern hallway during the afternoon, and now they were here again. This rooftop was the only place where they could be truly alone. Almost nothing else would be present here, save for the wide expanse of tiles stretching beneath them, granting them a space that felt impossibly big for just the two of them.

Liene's fatigue seemed to vanish the moment she lay her back against the cool tile and gazed upward, letting the sky swallow every trace of the day.

"Look! That star cluster looks like a spilled basket of apples." Liene pointed from where she sprawled on the roof tiles. Her hair was no longer in its tight bun but had fallen into a messy braid, strands escaping everywhere as if the night itself had tugged it loose. The lantern they'd smuggled up cast a low circle of amber, but beyond that the sky stretched vast and velvet. The lantern's glow thinned before it reached her, so her carefully curled hair seemed to melt straight into the night, as though the stars had claimed the loose strands for themselves.

Fabrisse followed Liene's gesture. He didn't see apples, just scatterings of light, patterns that refused to arrange themselves into anything sensible. Still, her voice carried so much certainty that for a moment, he almost believed it. Also, she'd studied star-mapping last term, an elective tucked under Light Thaumaturgy, if he remembered right, and frankly a complete waste of time. Who needed to know the difference between the Crown of Asteriel and the Archer's Knot when you had perfectly functional charts?

But Liene had a knack for making even useless things sound important.

"Did you know . . ." she traced invisible arcs across the sky, "that constellation readers—proper astromancers, I mean—make a ridiculous amount of money on the side?" She giggled. "Not court wages, but enough to live well. Farmers ask them to check planting days, sailors consult them for safe crossings, even betrothals get scheduled when the stars are in favorable harmony. It's because aetheric currents really do shift with the alignments, you know. Aether pours through certain constellations when they crest the horizon, and if you know how to read that, you can catch the flow. The effect when the celestial flow reaches us might be minimal, but not negligible."

If it really mattered that much how stars from eons away could influence one's luck, Fabrisse reckoned readers would've made a lot more money.

Fabrisse tilted his head back, squinting at the brightest point in the sky. "So . . . you're basically saying the stars decide when people get lucky?"

Liene shrugged, letting her arms splay across the cool tiles. "Not exactly. Just that if you notice them, sometimes it feels like they do. It's more . . . opportunity alignment than fate. But that's beside the point." She glanced at him sideways, and the smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she tucked it back in place.

"There's another point?" He thought they were just hanging out, talking about random stuff, star clusters, astromancy, nothing serious.

Liene shrugged again, but this time her shoulders tensed slightly. "Maybe," she said. "Or maybe I just like getting you to actually look up instead of staring at your feet all the time."

For a long moment, they lay side by side in silence. Fabrisse felt the weight of expectation, the quiet urgency behind her casual tone, but he didn't know why. Why would there be any expectation? For what?

"Fabrisse," she suddenly called his name.

"Yes?"

"Do you ever . . . feel bored?"

"Of what?"

"Of this."

"What do you mean?"

"We don't have much in common, you see. I like stars, constellations, poetry. You know; the abstract." She had shifted onto her side, propping her head on one elbow so she could look up at him. Her braid had loosened, strands falling freely over her shoulder, and one arm draped casually across her hip. "You like things that are measurable."

"We don't have to like the same things to be friends," he said.

"That's true, but . . . Sometimes I just don't know what to talk to you about. You don't really talk much, and you seem, well . . ." She rubbed her cheek with her knuckles. "Disinterested sometimes."

Disinterested? He had never thought of himself that way. From his perspective, he was paying attention. He just didn't chatter for the sake of it, and he didn't fill silences with noise.

Liene's fingers grasped her knees. "I really appreciate you opening up today. I wish you could do so more often. It's just . . ." She paused, biting at the inside of her cheek. "I guess it's just a me problem. You didn't ask me to keep on thinking about what you may or may not think of me."

For a brief second, he noticed pine-green sparks of anxiety, barely visible. Liene shifted as she tucked a stray strand over them, immediately obscuring them from view. This way of talking; this mannerism; he had seen this behavior from her enough to know she was about to say something she deemed important.

Liene's face had softened into a tentative expression. She pressed her lips together, the corners tilting down in a small frown as her shoulders drew up.

"Maybe I'm just boring to you or something," she said.

It was always her talent to say things he had no immediate answer to.

He thought for a moment and said, "You're not boring. You're . . . complex. And star clusters are more complex than single points of light. Also, your braid is asymmetrical, which is scientifically interesting, and you moved your weight slightly to the left when you tucked your hair over your ear, which indicates a . . . nervous micro-adjustment." Sacred socks no, stop babbling. This isn't even on topic. ""And, if you count constellations, I'm fairly certain the pattern of your stars is more engaging than any random conversation I could force. So . . . not boring. Just observationally complex."

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"You're saying you're more boring than me." She smiled.

"Possibly."

"Well, maybe I like the boring," she said. Then her gaze drifted toward the far-off glow of the Township of Aurelienth. It must be the tenth bell already, and he could still see the lights from the faraway town, rivalling the stars like two twinkling knights charging into one another. It really was the town that never slept.

It was a cool place, if not a bit tiring. He remembered the one time he had visited that town and stumbled upon a tiny pastry shop tucked in a quiet corner. The pastry had been exquisite—flaky, buttery, and just the right amount of sweet—and for a brief moment, he could almost taste it again, the memory vivid enough to make his stomach rumble.

Liene's voice pulled him back. "I'm a simple girl, Fabrisse. I like wandering aimlessly and running away from my responsibilities. You know, I'm a walking amalgamation of negative traits." She drew in a long breath. "I don't want this to feel like a giant waste of time to you, so I . . . I figure I'll make it quick."

He froze at the sound of his name. Fabrisse. Not Fabri.

She's been nervous until now. She's calling me by my actual name. He told himself to stop thinking about pastries. She may be saying something he wouldn't want to miss.

[Random Event Trigger: +1 INT]

Liene finally turned to face him. Her braid fell forward over her shoulder, loose and uneven, and the lamplight caught faint highlights in it. Her eyes met his, and she bit her lower lip. "This will probably be weird, Fabrisse," she said.

"We've been friends for years," he said. "Nothing could be weird."

"That's what will make it weird. You see, I think I—well, I might be—" Liene's cheeks flushed a delicate rose. She fumbled with the end of her braid, twisting it between her fingers with one hand, while the other set aside the lump of clay she'd been holding since forever. "I—uh—I mean—"

Fabrisse watched in silence. She's even more nervous than before. What could I possibly have done? My presence cannot unnerve anyone, ever.

He refrained from speaking, realizing any interruption might exacerbate the stress signal.

She fumbled again, murmuring something incoherent under her breath, then finally buried her face in her hands. "Argh! I am a stupid idiot."

"You don't have to say it now, Liene," he finally said. That would be what most others would say in this situation. I think.

Her fingers parted just enough for her to peek at him from the corner of her eye, but he still wasn't elaborating, still just sitting there with that careful gaze.

"Oh. Right. Yeah," she said, almost to herself.

She let her hands fall into her lap, and for a moment, both of them turned, eyes glued to the far-off lights of Aurelienth. He didn't speak. She didn't speak. The stars continued their slow, indifferent drift across the velvet sky.

After a long pause, Liene's voice returned, quieter this time, almost hesitant. "See that cluster there?" She pointed toward a tight knot of lights near the horizon. "The one that looks like a twisted braid of fireflies?"

Fabrisse tilted his head, following her gesture. "The Archer's Knot?" he asked. He knew that one. It was common enough to be cited in popular fantasy books.

She nodded. "Yeah. That one." Her fingers traced across the sky, following the cluster as if she could hold the lights between her hands. "The Archer of Lumevalle, according to the old stories, discovered a golden star. Myth says it fell from the sky once, gleaming with enough aether to bring fortune to whoever held it. He could've shared it with his village, given them wealth, knowledge, anything they dreamed of."

Fabrisse listened, quietly observing the slight tremor in her voice.

"But when he returned home," Liene continued, "he realized they'd never see the world the same way again. The star's power would have changed them, maybe made them greedy, maybe careless. So . . . he didn't take it. He released it back into the sky. No one else knew until years later, and the Archer became a legend, mostly for doing nothing at all."

"That makes no sense. How did people find out if he had kept it a secret?"

"The lore didn't specify. And don't question it. Lots of ancient stories don't make sense when you look at it too closely."

They stared at the sky for a long moment, letting the constellations burn slowly across the velvet expanse.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Are we . . . going to stay here for the rest of the night?"

"It's . . . too late to go back to the dorm now. Besides," she added, glancing at him sideways, "We don't exactly have a ton of stamina left."

She was right. They were both spent. He felt like if they just sat here like this for another while, they'd just both fall asleep without knowing.

He heard somebody whispering in his ears. Then he felt heat.

"Wake the hell up, you lazy bum," then the whispers materialized. The whisper came again, a little firmer. "Dude, seriously. We looked for you everywhere."

Fabrisse's eyes fluttered open, squinting against the morning light. For a moment, the rooftop tiles, the faint glow of the early sun, and the blurred outline of Liene leaning against him swam together in a haze of sleep. Her hair smelled of rosemary, with an underlying note of damp earth, like she'd been rolling through the garden or forest just before sunrise.

Then he smelled burning firewood again.

Tommaso's finger was wiggling just above his face, a tiny flame hovering at the tip, not enough to burn, but enough to make him yelp.

"Sacred socks!" Fabrisse exclaimed. His eyes immediately scanned the rooftop, dazed and panicked, only to find Liene still asleep, head resting on his shoulder.

Tommaso leaned back with a triumphant grin. "Eyes opened! Mission accomplished. Flame-assisted wake-up. You're welcome." Then he turned to Liene, and back to Fabrisse. "So I take it as you guys have sorted it out. How did this happen?"

Fabrisse rubbed his shoulder. "We just . . . nodded off, I guess."

Tommaso raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at his lips as he held up his hands. "Actually, don't tell me. I don't think I want to know."

Fabrisse's cheeks warmed. He knew whatever Tommaso was envisioning in his head, it was not the truth, but it was probably better to not talk about it. "Right . . . good call."

Of course it was Tommaso who'd be here; he was the only other person to frequently come here to hang out. Fabrisse exhaled. Luckily it's Tom. If it'd been anyone else, this would've been not good. Especially Celine. Very not good.

Tommaso let out a low whistle and shook his head. "You two are something else. Archmagus Rolen wants to see both of you, so you'd better wake her too. I'll pretend I've never been here."

"Both of us? But why?"

"You'll know when you get there. I'll drop you the location on your wristglyph." Without another word, Tommaso launched into motion like a human weather vane caught in a sudden gust. Each step seemed calculated for maximum unnecessary flair.

And he was only heading down the stairs.

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