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They spilled into the yard hungry for the next bell. The sun climbed a hand. Fizz used the time between classes to try to steal the scent of the red ribbon girl's oil-paper packet.

"Ask," John said.

"I am asking with my nose," Fizz said.

The girl turned. She had a Flame smile — heat and light together. The red bow nodded with her. "Would you like a piece?" she said to Fizz as if she had always expected to be asked.

Fizz made a noise that lived somewhere between a squeak and a sermon. "Yes," he said, very dignified. "Because it will prevent a riot. I am keeping order."

She broke it in half and fed it to him like you feed a very proud, very small dog that has nevertheless earned the treat. He ate with his eyes closed. "Hmmm, good," he whispered. "They are made of rich sugar."

John met her eyes. He meant to say thank you. He almost did not. Her look was steady in a way that made him feel like he was not in a school yard but under a lamp where you confess your true name.

"I'm John," he said anyway. "Thank you."

"Rhea," she said. "Rhea Flame." She tilted her head at Fizz. "And you are my new cute friend."

Fizz bowed. "Lord Fizz. Cute since birth."

Her laugh was quick and low, the kind that curled up and made a small home in the throat. It shimmered like a spark pretending not to be fire. "I know Ray," she said, voice slipping between amusement and warning. "He told me about you…" Her eyes glinted, sly and bright as copper under sunlight. "I'm his cousin, by the way. So if you two start throwing books at each other again, I'll be the one dodging the flying debris."

Fizz froze mid-chew, his whiskers twitching in alarm. "You… Are you related to Door Banger?"

Rhea's grin widened. "That's right. And I know he's caused you some trouble… but you've caused him trouble too. You live with him… Maybe forgive him?"

"Not until he apologizes," Fizz said at once, crossing his tiny paws like a judge delivering justice. "He bangs doors at midnight. That is a crime. Against sleeping."

She snorted, covering her mouth with her fingers. "He does that," she admitted. "But he also buys jam for the orphanage every month. Pretends it's for 'training sugar reserves,' but we all know he can't stand to see kids sad. He's rough, but not bad." Her tone softened, eyes flicking between Fizz and John. "He's different. He just doesn't know how to say it. Maybe give him a chance?"

John, who had been studying her expression as if reading a difficult spell, said quietly, "We don't have problems with him. We just… choose not to disturb each other."

"Good," Rhea said. "Then choose friendship too." She leaned a little closer, the red ribbon shifting with the breeze. "He needs one right now. I can't tell you the reason yet — but it would mean a lot if you two could give him some value in life."

Fizz suddenly zipped up between them, paws on his hips, wings flicking like a banner of chaos. "You are a good person who shares snacks. It won't be free. John can do that! But only on one condition!"

Rhea blinked. "Condition?"

Fizz rubbed his tiny chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness. "Hmm… let me see. You are cute, polite, and smell faintly of cinnamon and destiny. So here's the deal! If you go on a date with John and feed me an endless supply of these sugar relics until I am full—" he pointed dramatically at her oil-paper packet "—then I shall personally declare Ray as my humble underling. Lord Fizz's decree!"

John nearly choked. "Fizz!"

Rhea tried very hard not to laugh but failed spectacularly. Her shoulders trembled. "Is this how you negotiate peace treaties?"

"Only the important ones," Fizz said proudly.

John sighed, rubbing his forehead. "He's joking. Don't take him seriously. I haven't thought about… any of that. But I'll try to be a decent roommate."

Rhea tilted her head, pretending to think. "Hmm. I'll consider your offer, Lord Fizz," she said, matching his mock formality. "If I bring sugar next time, does that count as diplomacy?"

Fizz saluted. "That counts as divine worship."

Ting! Ting! Ting! Ting!

The bell rang like a polite interruption from fate itself. The courtyard stirred, students rising, the moment scattering like crumbs after a feast.

Before she could say more, Rhea gathered her things, the red ribbon fluttering behind her like a flag that promised more mischief later. John watched her go — carrying with him the taste of sugar, the echo of her laughter, and the strange, bright warmth of someone who could smile like fire pretending to be light.

A few minutes later…

Basic Combat Technique lived in the south yard ring. Sand. Circles painted on the ground. Wooden practice blades in a rack. A man stood with his hands behind his back. He had the look of an ex-guard who had learned to dislike nonsense and like learning more. He wore a simple scarf tied neatly. He did not carry a weapon. He did not have to. His name was 'Instructor Rook.'

"You came here to wave your body and hands," Rook said. "The world will try to break you and your arms, legs, all the body parts. You will need them to survive. I will teach you how to keep them."

He walked the line. Checked boots, posture, how people held the idea of a fight on their shoulders. He stopped at John. He tapped John's right heel with a stick. "Closer," he said. "You stand like you do math. This is not math. This is the stairs in the rain. Straight your legs a bit."

John adjusted.

"Better," Rook said. "Void boy, yes?" He did not say it like an accusation. "Palms low. No balls in my ring. You use your body and sense. If you cannot hit with your hands, you may never touch the void magic when the rule says no."

John nodded. "Yes, Instructor."

"Points," Rook said to all. "We award them for form. For not dying. For keeping your friend from dying. We remove them for showing off, for breaking rules, for hitting someone after 'stop' because your mouth hurts when they say a thing about your mother."

He clapped. "Pairs. No magic. Touch shoulder. Touch hip. The first three touches wins. You, you."

John faced a boy who had more arm than plan. They touched palms. "Ready," said Rook.

They moved. The other boy swung wide. John did not. He stepped inside, touched shoulder, stepped out. He did not smile. He did not look clever. He let the other boy try again. He touched hip this time, then shoulder again, quick and flat, the way you touch a wall to prove it is there.

Rook's stick tapped the score board. "Three. Control. Good points too, remember."

The boy grinned at John anyway. He was the kind who liked losing to someone who didn't make him feel small for it. John nodded back once.

Fizz watched with his chin on the top rail and commented like a noble on a seat nearby. "Yes, yes. Less flapping. More small steps. Imagine the ground owes you money."

Rook looked at the small orange thing and decided to ignore him because a man's sanity matters.

They moved to drills. Push. Pull. Stop. John's body remembered work with a brush, work with a bucket. He learned the small distance that eats the big distance. He learned to keep the edge of his hand honest and the edge of his eye quieter than his pride.

Rook awarded him with some guidance for a clean catch and no flinch. He took an example from a boy who threw a shoulder after "stop." The boy sulked. Rook made him run laps until the sulk melted in sweat.

Hours later…

The bell ended the class. The yard turned to a corridor; the corridor to steps; the steps to Mana Control class.

Master Hale had this room today. She wore blue. Her robe looked like it behaved because it respected her, not because stitches told it to. She set clay rings on stands and lit a small lamp at the front.

"Control," she said, as if speaking to a person who needed to be ashamed. "Not force. Control." She showed them a flame the size of a thumb, made it smaller, smaller, smaller, then spread it thin until it was a sheet of light like a breath on glass.

"You will not break the room. You will not set your own sleeve on fire. If you do, your sleeve will go to the lost-and-found where it will silently judge you. Do the exercises. Points for calm. Points for kindness to the lamp."

Fizz sat on the windowsill and watched like a small auditor. He had eaten all of his sugar and was now full of advice.

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