Saffra was too frazzled to practice.

And that was saying something. Practicing magic had become her solution to dealing with bad feelings. It was like saying she was too hungry to eat. But after returning from the Institute’s restricted archives—and getting to look through those shelves should have been the highlight of her year—she felt too confused and anxious to do anything but excuse herself to her room upstairs, drop into bed, and stare at the ceiling.

She didn’t understand. In every scenario in which she confronted Isabella Caldimore, Saffra had only imagined marching up and delivering scathing condemnations to that prissy blonde girl. She’d conjured all sorts of self-righteous tirades in her head. Some were mortifying in retrospect, clearly formed from long nights stewing in hurt anger.

It was only upon seeing Isabella Caldimore—aloof, regal Isabella Caldimore—in such an obviously concerning state that a horrible, black dread had sunk into Saffra. An anxiety far worse than what she dealt with on a daily basis. Because a simple question popped into her head. One she knew she should’ve asked herself far sooner.

What if her friend hadn’t betrayed her?

Or what if there had been good reason? Saffra had seen some of the worst humanity had to offer. She knew that people loved to divide actions by ‘good’ and ‘bad’, but surprisingly little could be organized in those boxes—as much as Saffra herself wanted, and tried, to do so. Everyone had reasons for what they did, even if she didn’t agree with them.

So that was why she felt sick to the stomach. She knew things could be complicated, and yet, because of how hurt and confused she’d been, she hadn’t once considered that maybe Isabella’s sudden betrayal could be explained by something other than that her friend wasn’t who she thought she was. That their sometimes-strange friendship had been fake, and the girl had just…decided to turn on her.

And if that was true—well, Saffra didn’t want to imagine it. Because in her eyes, it would make her the villain. A good friend would have realized the truth of the situation. A good friend wouldn’t have assumed the girl she had otherwise respected would stab her in the back on a whim. A good friend would have trusted. And Saffra hadn’t…or at least not as persistently as she should’ve.

She felt like she was going to be sick. She wanted to reject the idea, but once it had taken root, she couldn’t tear it out. It sounded so plausible. At least combined with what she’d seen at the library. That gaunt, sickly image of Isabella, when all Saffra remembered was a stiff-backed, chin-always-lifted, ever-prideful scion to a major house.

How could she have been so stupid?

Or was she repeating her mistakes like the biggest of idiots? Trusting again when she shouldn’t, without any real evidence?

Saffra rolled over in bed, clutched her pillow into her face, and groaned. She felt like she was going insane. Rolling back over, she studied the patterns swirling in the wooden beams overhead.

She had to know.

She had

to know. But how? What was she supposed to do? March up to the Institute, track Isabella down, and demand an explanation? As if Isabella would give one, when she hadn’t back then? Although this poisonous idea had infected her, that clearly wasn’t a solution. But she needed some sort of proof. Something to dispel this horrible feeling.

An idea struck her.

If Isabella was a friend still, and since they had bumped into each other at the library, would she go to that meeting spot of theirs, hoping Saffra would have the same idea?

The Institute’s garden. Both of them, it turned out, had a tendency to roll out of bed late at night and sneak out when they couldn’t sleep. Saffra intruding on Isabella’s preferred scenic garden alcove on the ninth-floor annex had been how the two of them first met. Or seriously met; they’d had a few classes together, though they’d never spoken.

And remembering that—how Isabella sometimes had difficulty sleeping too—Saffra’s dread grew. How couldn’t she have made that connection earlier? Why was Isabella Caldimore the one girl she had related to? In the swarms of spoiled students without a clue how the world worked, it had been her that Saffra felt comfortable around. A natural kinship, of sorts. Why would that be the case?

Possibly because their experiences were more similar than she’d thought. Saffra might have assumed the girl spoiled and clueless like the vast majority of other students, but that was just an assumption. And considering Saffra’s history, if they shared many similarities at all, that boded nothing good.

Saffra sat up.

She had to know. She wouldn’t go and hunt Isabella down if she had stayed in her dorm room, but that spot in the gardens. If she showed up there…if she had the same idea as Saffra, and was waiting for her…that meant something, right?

The question was how. The Institute had a curfew. The elevators to the campus were monitored after nightfall. She was neither a student any longer nor important enough to be allowed in by passive merit of rank, like Lady Vivi.

So, sneaking in. Not an easy ask for a random high-silver mage. Security might not be the tightest, but unauthorized guests couldn’t waltz in as they pleased. In fact, racking her brain, she couldn’t come up with any way to do so. Not on such short notice.

She grimaced. There was an obvious solution. She couldn’t sneak into the Institute using her own magic, but borrowing another’s would make the task trivial. The thought just didn’t sit right with her for obvious reasons.

Pulling out a [Scroll of Invisibility], she frowned at the complex runes inscribed in looping black ink. One of many duplicates in her inventory, and one of a small library of scrolls that Lady Vivi had dumped into her arms for no other reason than ‘to be safe.’

Even if Saffra had many, that didn’t diminish the scroll’s worth. Especially scrolls holding seventh-tier magic like [Invisibility]. Never mind the sixteenth-tier and higher ones. Saffra’s brain still seized up when she remembered that, the same as all the gear and the Titled-rank summoning artifact.

That she’d been given priceless items didn’t change how the more reasonable ones were still worth more coin than she could scrounge together in a year. Using a [Scroll of Invisibility]—burning through that much gold—just to go and check if Isabella was sitting in that garden spot of theirs? It was such a monumental waste, with no promise of a payout. She wasn’t even comfortable taking Lady Vivi’s gifts in the first place; using them frivolously made her ten times as uneasy.

She couldn’t conjure up an alternative, though. And she felt like she might go insane if she didn’t do something to relieve this anxiety inside her. At least if she went to the gardens and didn’t find Isabella, she would—what? Be relieved? Not really. The most likely scenario was that the bench under that gazebo would be empty, and that wouldn’t even guarantee that Isabella hadn’t

had her reasons.

Before she could think better of it, she activated the magic inside the scroll, and the paper burnt to ash. She blinked out of existence as [Invisibility] settled over her.

***

Sneaking onto an elevator with the next passenger and catching a ride up posed little challenge. The Institute’s security wasn’t particularly rigorous. The campus had a constant stream of visitors, and while the important locations were guarded against basic spells like [Invisibility]—though maybe not one of Lady Vivi’s quality, honestly—simply getting onto the island wasn’t hard.

Neither did she struggle ascending to the ninth floor and entering the garden annex that was her destination. Her stomach tied itself into more elaborate knots with every step. She almost turned around twice. The only reason she didn’t was because she’d wasted an extremely valuable scroll. One that didn’t belong to her, not really. She also felt increasingly terrible about that, but compared to the current mess her thoughts were in, it was a distant concern. She would feel much worse later, she was sure. Especially if this turned out to be pointless.

Soon—too soon—she stood at the corner of a hedge. One more step, and she would find Isabella sitting underneath the gazebo, or she wouldn’t. She had no idea which she hoped for. For Isabella to potentially be innocent—meaning Saffra had failed her rather than the other way around—or for that hope and terror to be squashed, and to face reality for a second time that she’d been turned on and tossed aside so easily. Not that Isabella’s absence would guarantee anything at all. That was why this whole trip was idiotic.

Taking a breath, she forced her feet to move. She stepped around the corner and braced herself.

There, head in one hand and slumped over the table, sat an exhausted-looking Isabella Caldimore.

Saffra’s heart sank into her shoes. Proof? Not really…but it felt like it. After so many months stewing in misery and building Isabella up as a monster, recognizing the possibility that she might not be to blame had Saffra genuinely nauseous. Her palms felt clammy, and, for a moment, she worried she wouldn’t keep her dinner down.

Closing her eyes and forcing her breathing into its regular pattern, she wrangled control of herself. She didn’t know anything, not yet. Even this might not be proof. Isabella showing up to their old meeting spot after that encounter in the library might just be…curiosity. Nothing more.

That didn’t feel right. But still, maybe?

She needed confirmation. From Isabella herself.

It took her nearly a full minute to work up the nerve, but finally, she dropped the [Invisibility] and announced herself with, “Isabella?”

Her voice was loud in the otherwise silent garden annex. The sudden noise took her so by surprise that the blonde-haired noble almost jumped out of her seat. She spun and faced Saffra.

Unlike last time, Saffra wasn’t wearing an illusion. Besides how she’d trimmed her hair shorter and wore her adventurer’s gear rather than an Institute uniform, she looked roughly the same as when she’d left. So Isabella recognized her instantly, and without that moment of hesitation like back at the library.

She took a step backward in pure shock, bumping into the bench behind her.

“Saffra?” she whispered.

“That’s…me.” It felt like her heart was trying its best to escape her rib cage. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you?” Isabella asked, horrified.

She had already been slightly pale, but now she’d gone ashen—just like back at the library. She looked over her shoulder, eyes flitting around, as if looking for an escape.

Panicked. If Isabella’s betrayal had been anything like what Saffra had assumed these past many months, Isabella wouldn’t be reacting to her appearance with panic.

Saffra had already had a suspicion, but now she knew she’d been a terrible friend. How had she just assumed Isabella had turned on her for no reason besides that she had misjudged her? Obviously something more had been going on. Even if she’d failed to get an explanation out of Isabella back then, she should have had more faith.

“I’m sorry,” Saffra blurted out, feeling like dirt. She took a step forward, wringing her hands. “I— I shouldn’t have—”

Shouldn’t have what? She had tried to talk to Isabella. To sort things out. But she’d been stonewalled. And Isabella hadn’t looked like…this, back then. Whatever mask she’d been wearing had been fully intact. Convincingly so. She hadn’t flinched no matter how much Saffra begged for explanations.

But still. She blamed herself.

“I should have helped, somehow,” she finished.

Isabella stared at her. Some mix of emotions crossed her face that was too complicated for Saffra to pin down. Her features twisted one way and another before settling on something that scared Saffra: fragility.

“You…are apologizing…to me?” Isabella whispered.

Then she did something that confirmed Saffra’s worst fears, and banished whatever shreds of doubt remained. The girl’s lip quivered, and she started crying.

Saffra had never seen Isabella cry. She hadn’t known it was possible. That was why Isabella looking so feeble had thrown Saffra’s thoughts into such catastrophic disarray in the first place. Isabella had always seemed so steady. Maybe not perfectly composed, all of the time—she was surprisingly easy to get a rise out of, which was why Saffra liked poking her and arguing—but even so, something about ‘Isabella Caldimore’ and ‘crying’ didn’t fit in her head.

But here it was. She didn’t sob, collapse, and begin wailing. Even in this, she kept a regal bearing. She stood there, shoulders hunching forward as if she was folding in on herself, tears quietly streaming down her cheeks.

“Why are you apologizing to me?” she choked out.

Saffra was hurrying over before she was consciously aware of it. Isabella didn’t shove her away, or even flinch at the contact as Saffra pulled her onto the bench. She rubbed the girl’s back, trying to assure her with panicked, pointless words that only seemed to make the muffled sobbing worse. Original content can be found at novel·fire·net

It took a while for Isabella to pull herself back together. And even then, she looked nothing less than crushed.

“Tell me what happened,” Saffra said quietly, but firmly. “Why do you look so…” She didn’t finish the question. “I’m not leaving without an answer this time,” she said adamantly. “Tell me. I’m not giving you a choice.”

And, maybe because the past eight months had been even harder on Isabella than Saffra herself, the girl didn’t protest being ordered around.

She answered.