Meanwhile, Drake laid several items out on the table with unhurried precision. One of them was a tiny dagger with a black blade, glinting ominously in the lamplight.

  I eyed it warily. Then his face — calm, intent, faintly pleased — which seemed to say, This is where it gets fun.

  He caught my look and rolled his eyes.

  “Relax. I’m not sacrificing you to dark gods,” he muttered, holding out his hand. “A lock of hair and a drop of blood. That’s all.”

  I clutched my hair.

  “Seriously?” I protested. “First Weil curses me and snips off a lock, now you’re doing the same. Does everyone here collect pieces of students?” I tugged at a pink strand. “These have been chemically traumatised enough already.”

  “A lock,” he repeated calmly. “Or you can keep the legs.”

  I hesitated, then reluctantly cut a thin strand and handed it over.

  As he took my wrist, a faint shiver ran across my skin — not fear, exactly, just the unpleasant awareness that this was becoming personal. And realisation that he was standing too close — and had been the entire time.

  As he took my wrist, With a swift, precise motion, he pricked my finger. A tiny bead of blood welled up.

  I winced.

  “Oh, come on,” I muttered. “Why is it always blood or hair? Can’t magic ever work without dismembering the client?”

  Drake glanced up, clearly amused.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “That’s spells,” he said. “Not curses.”

  He caught the drop of blood on the blade, then, with exaggerated theatrical flair, transferred it onto the lock of hair and set it alight. The strand flared briefly and vanished, leaving behind a sharp, acrid smell.

  “Spells are easy,” he continued casually, as if we weren’t currently burning parts of me. “They’re just knots of magic. You tie them, feed them energy from your own reserve, and throw them into the world.”

  He made a vague tossing gesture.

  “Fireballs. Ice spears. Shields. Telekinesis. You build the knot, power it, and let it fly. Like throwing a stone.”

  “And curses?” I asked warily.

  Drake smiled. Not reassuringly.

  “Curses need an address, he said. “A matrix. Something that tells the magic exactly who it belongs to.”

  His gaze flicked to the ashes of my hair.

  “Blood. Hair. Skin. Anything soaked in a person’s aura. Without that, the curse just… floats. With it—” he made a small tightening motion with his fingers, “—it latches on.”

  “So,” I muttered, “spells get thrown, curses cling.”

  “Exactly,” he said approvingly.

  His voice dropped as he began whispering in a magical language — low, rhythmic, controlled. And the magic responded — not flashing, not exploding, but tightening, like threads being drawn together.

  He stepped closer. Placed his hand against my legs.

  Greenish light flowed over them, unravelling the curse. I felt something dark slide down my calves, like damp sand slipping away, and vanish with a faint hiss.

  “All done,” Drake announced modestly, straightening. “You can stand.”

  I carefully rose to my feet, hardly daring to believe it. My legs were normal again. Straight. Mine.

  “Oh, dark gods,” I breathed, lifting the hem of my uniform. “I missed you. Just like the good old days. Drake, you worked a miracle!””

  He raised an eyebrow sceptically and smirked.

  “Don’t thank me too much. I just need you able to run. With legs like those, escape would’ve been… optimistic.”

  My joy evaporated.

  “Run?” I said slowly. “Why exactly would I need to run?”

  His grin sharpened, that familiar spark of reckless delight lighting his eyes.

  “You didn’t think the dean’s security would be friendly, did you? They attack. Lethally.”

  “I’m not going,” I blurted, already turning as if to flee.

  “Oh, you are,” he replied lightly, leaning closer. “You already agreed.”

  Oh dark gods. What have I got myself into? And when did I start swearing like a local?