Lucien found Theo in the lower library the next afternoon, the one tucked behind the main stacks where the light barely reached and the chairs creaked like old ships.
The second-year had spread notes across an entire table, ink smudges on his fingers and a half-eaten apple turning brown beside his elbow.
Lucien hesitated in the doorway for a second, then walked over before he could talk himself out of it.
“Need another pair of hands for those resonance chains?” he asked, dropping his satchel on the chair across from Theo.
“I keep messing up the spacing on the longer ones.
Figured two sets of eyes might catch what one misses.”
Theo looked up, glasses sliding down his nose.
He pushed them back with the back of his wrist, leaving another faint ink streak.
“You sure?
I thought Nightshades didn’t need study groups.
Or… that’s what the third-years say anyway.”
Lucien pulled out the chair and sat.
“Third-years say a lot of things.
Most of it’s noise.”
Theo snorted.
“Fair enough.” He slid half the notes over without further argument.
“I keep losing the connection on the seventh link.
It holds for a second then just… fizzles.
Like the mana forgets where it’s supposed to go.”
They worked side by side for a while.
The library’s quiet hum wrapped around them—pages turning, someone coughing two rows over, the occasional scratch of quill on parchment.
Lucien’s shadows cooperated better when he wasn’t forcing them.
He demonstrated the adjustment he’d figured out during the greenhouse session, guiding the links into place with smaller pulses.
Theo tried it, muttered a curse when it slipped, then tried again.
“Better,” Lucien said.
“You were pushing too hard at the end.”
Theo leaned back, stretching his arms until his shoulders popped.
“My father always says push harder when it doesn’t work.
Guess that works better for swords than magic.” He paused, glancing toward the entrance where a group of first-years had just walked in, laughing about something that had happened in combat class.
“You ever get tired of it?
The expectations, I mean.
Everyone watching to see if you’ll live up to the name.”
Lucien considered the question.
The answer felt complicated.
“Every day,” he said eventually.
“But you keep showing up anyway.”
Theo nodded like that made sense.
The work felt easier with someone else there, trading small observations and half-finished suggestions.
No pressure to perform.
No audience waiting for mistakes.
Just two students trying to make something hold together.
A librarian passed by once, peering over their table with narrowed eyes.
“No practical casting in the stacks.
Take it to the practice rooms if you must.”
Theo waved a hand without looking up.
“We’re just theory today.
Promise.”
The librarian lingered another second, then moved on with a skeptical huff.
Lucien hid a smile behind his notes.
Small rebellions.
The kind that didn’t matter in the grand scheme but still felt good.
They lost track of time after that.
Theo rambled about his family’s expectations between attempts, the words coming faster when he got frustrated with a particularly stubborn link.
Lucien shared a shortened version of the graft work from the greenhouse, describing how the shadows changed the feel of the plant tissue.
Theo listened, asked questions, offered his own theories in return.
The conversation meandered.
Jumped tracks.
Left some thoughts unfinished when new ideas interrupted.
At one point Theo knocked over his ink bottle reaching for another sheet.
Black liquid spread across the table before either of them reacted.
Lucien grabbed the notes while Theo cursed and tried to contain the spill with his sleeve.
They both ended up with ink on their hands and half the page ruined.
Theo stared at the mess for a second, then started laughing.
“Every single time.
I swear this table is cursed.”
Lucien couldn’t help joining in.
The sound felt strange in his chest at first—genuine, unguarded.
He wiped his hands on a spare cloth, still chuckling.
“Next time we do this in the practice rooms.
Less chance of permanent stains.”
“Though my father would probably say I need the discipline.
‘Builds character,’ he calls it.
Mostly it builds laundry bills.”
They kept working until the light through the high windows shifted to a softer gold.
Theo eventually packed up with a groan, stretching again until his back cracked.
“I think that’s as good as these are getting today.
Thanks for the help.
Seriously.
Most people don’t bother with the second-years who aren’t… well.
You know.”
Lucien shrugged.
“Helps me too.”
Theo paused at the end of the table, notes tucked under his arm.
“Hey.
If you ever want to grab food after practice or something, the group usually meets at the east courtyard on rest days.
Nothing formal.
Just… not eating alone while complaining about professors.”
The invitation came out a little hesitant, like Theo expected it to be turned down.
Lucien nodded before he could overthink it.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Theo grinned, pushed his glasses up one last time, and headed out.
Lucien stayed at the table a few minutes longer, gathering his own things.
The ruined page with the ink spill still sat there, the ink now dry and cracked.
He left it for the librarians.
Some messes were better left for someone else to handle.
Outside, the courtyard buzzed with evening activity.
Students hurried between buildings, compared notes, argued over the best spots to study.
Lucien walked through it without drawing much attention.
A group near the fountain celebrated someone’s successful exam with loud cheers and someone attempting—badly—to juggle three practice orbs.
One orb escaped and rolled toward Lucien.
He stopped it with his foot and kicked it gently back to the group.
The boy who caught it waved thanks before returning to his celebration.
Lucien kept walking.
The sky had deepened to a rich blue by the time he reached the dorms.
No grand conclusions followed him inside.
Just the quiet satisfaction of a day spent doing something useful on his own terms.