Chapter 14: Chapter 14

The alchemy laboratory smells of sulphur and burnt herbs, a thick combination that makes Ananke's nose wrinkle every time she enters the stone-walled chamber. Rows of workbenches stretch before them, each station equipped with bubbling cauldrons, glass vials, and ingredient racks that hold everything from dried mushrooms to crystallised mana. The instructor, a middle-aged dwarf with singed eyebrows and perpetually stained robes, drones on about proper distillation techniques while pacing between the student stations.

Ananke sits beside Petersilie at their assigned bench, where their supposedly brewing potion sits neglected and barely started. Instead of paying attention to the lecture, they've fashioned a small paper ball from discarded notes and have been flicking it back and forth whenever the instructor's back is turned. The game has become increasingly bold as the lesson progresses, each successful pass earning a suppressed giggle from both girls.

"The third phase of crystallisation requires precise temperature control,” the instructor explains, his voice carrying the monotonous quality of someone who has delivered the same speech a thousand times. He turns to write on the blackboard, and Ananke immediately flicks the paper ball across the bench.

Petersilie catches it with ease, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she prepares her return shot. But the dwarf spins around with unexpected speed, his sharp eyes immediately fixing on their station.

"Miss Ananke,” he says with dangerous calm, stalking toward their bench with deliberate steps. "Perhaps you'd like to share with the class exactly what has captured your attention so completely that you've neglected your assigned work?”

The other students turn to watch with the eager anticipation of those grateful the instructor's wrath has fallen on someone else. Ananke feels heat rise in her cheeks as she realises their barely started potion sits in plain view, a damning testament to their inattention.

"I think it would be educational for everyone,” the instructor continues with cruel satisfaction, "if you'd present your current progress to the class. Please, bring your cauldron to the front and explain the steps you've completed so far.”

Petersilie shoots her an apologetic look as Ananke stands slowly, her mind racing. The potion is nowhere near completion, missing at least three critical phases that should take hours to properly execute. She's about to be publicly humiliated in front of the entire class.

She reaches for her cauldron with one hand while the other makes a subtle gesture beneath the workbench. Time doesn't freeze entirely, but it slows to a crawl around her. The instructor's smug expression becomes a motionless mask, and the watching students turn into living statues. Only Ananke moves with normal speed through the thickened temporal field.

Her hands fly through the remaining steps with desperate precision. She adds ingredients in rapid succession, adjusts the flame temperature, performs the necessary stirring patterns, and completes the crystallisation phase that should require careful monitoring over extended periods. Her training with the Twelve Hands has taught her to work efficiently in stopped time, and she applies every lesson now to save herself from embarrassment.

Time resumes its normal flow just as she lifts the completed cauldron from its stand. She carries the vessel to the front of the classroom and sets it on the demonstration table. The potion inside is absolutely perfect, its surface shimmering with the exact iridescent quality that indicates successful completion.

The instructor's smug expression falters. He peers into the cauldron with obvious confusion, then glances back at their workstation as if trying to reconcile what he's seeing with his expectations. "I… this is…" He clears his throat awkwardly. "Acceptable work. Return to your seat.”

Ananke walks back to her bench with barely suppressed triumph, catching Petersilie's wide-eyed stare. The priestess mouths a silent question about how that miracle occurred, but Ananke simply shrugs with feigned innocence.

image [https://i.imgur.com/pUoDcs0.png]

The afternoon sun beats down on the academy's outdoor training grounds, turning the packed earth track into a dusty circuit that kicks up small clouds with each footfall. Students run laps in their physical education class, their breathing growing laboured as the instructor shouts encouragement and criticism in equal measure. Ananke and Petersilie run side by side, their pace comfortable and easy compared to some of the struggling students around them.

A boy with a cruel streak and a pack of equally unpleasant friends approaches from behind, his footsteps deliberate and purposeful. As he passes Petersilie, his foot shoots out in a motion designed to look accidental, hooking her ankle mid-stride.

The priestess goes down hard, her knee scraping against the rough ground with a sound that makes Ananke wince in sympathy. She immediately stops running and kneels beside her fallen friend.

"What a complete jerk,” Ananke says with genuine anger, watching the boy jog away laughing with his companions. "Are you okay?”

Petersilie sits up slowly, examining her scraped knee where blood wells up in small beads. "Now, now,” she says with forced calm, taking a deep breath as if reciting a lesson. "It is my duty to forgive such mundane transgressions against my person.”

"What? No, it isn't. Forget that,” Ananke replies sharply, her eyes narrowing as she tracks the bullying boy who continues laughing with his friends further down the track. Two copies of herself materialise in the grass beside the path, completely unseen by the running students. They crouch low, holding a thin wire stretched between them at ankle height.

The group of boys approaches the trap with oblivious arrogance. Suddenly, they all stumble over the invisible wire simultaneously, their feet tangling as they crash into each other in a spectacular heap of flailing limbs and wounded pride. The copies vanish back into time before anyone can notice their presence.

"See? The gods deliver just punishment, Ananke,” Petersilie observes with satisfaction as Ananke helps her back to her feet. The priestess leans on Ananke's shoulder, testing her injured leg carefully. As far as she knows, the boys simply fell victim to divine retribution for their cruelty. "Shall we continue?” she asks with a smile that suggests her injury isn't serious.

Ananke nods and the two of them resume their run, passing the struggling boys who seem to be having considerable trouble getting back up. Somehow, all of their shoelaces have mysteriously come untied as well, creating additional complications for their recovery. Neither girl is too virtuous to laugh at the sight.

__________________________

The dining hall buzzes with the comfortable chatter of students enjoying their evening meal. Long tables groan under the weight of roasted vegetables, fresh bread, and hearty stews that fill the air with mouthwatering aromas. Ananke and Petersilie sit together at their usual spot near the tall windows, their plates piled with food that tastes infinitely better than the meagre rations they survived on during their first night in the dungeon dormitory.

"And you would not believe the magnificence of it,” Petersilie says enthusiastically, prodding a piece of roasted pumpkin with her fork before eating it with obvious enjoyment. She points the utensil at Ananke for emphasis. "I was quite captivated by the sheer scale. I had not known such wonderful architecture was even possible before that visit.” She sighs dreamily, her eyes distant with pleasant memory. "The gardens were absolutely spectacular.”

Ananke nods, listening with genuine interest as her friend recounts a story about sleeping in the servants' quarters of a minor baron's estate while travelling with her mentor. The way Petersilie describes the experience, one would think she had been granted accommodations in the royal palace itself rather than the staff housing.

"I heard there's a charming little flower garden on the-" Petersilie stops talking abruptly mid-sentence, her entire body going rigid.

Ananke looks up to see the headmistress standing directly behind her friend, appearing as if she had materialised out of nowhere. The gaunt woman looms over them with her characteristic predatory stillness, her wispy frame casting a long shadow across their table.

"Good afternoon, Headmistress,” Petersilie says quickly, setting down her fork with careful precision and wiping her mouth with her napkin. Her voice carries the practised deference of someone well-versed in avoiding authority's wrath.

The headmistress studies them both with suspicious eyes, clearly searching for any rule violation or impropriety she can use to justify punishment. Her gaze sweeps across their table, examining their posture, their plates, and their expressions. But she finds nothing actionable, nothing that violates the academy's extensive and arbitrary regulations.

"Mind yourself, girl,” the frightening woman warns with cold authority before slowly moving away, her footsteps echoing on the stone floor with deliberate menace.

The other students throughout the dining hall carefully avoid making eye contact, everyone too terrified to draw her attention. She moves through the crowded space like some nightmarish phantom, her presence creating expanding bubbles of nervous silence wherever she walks.

Ananke and Petersilie watch her departure with bated breath. Once the headmistress has moved sufficiently far away, they turn back to look at each other. Suddenly, both girls begin laughing quietly behind their hands, their shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth.

Someone, somewhere in the dining hall, appears to have pinned a crudely drawn picture to the back of the headmistress's severe black dress. The childish artwork depicts her as a comically exaggerated monster with wild hair and enormous teeth, complete with labels pointing to various features that are far from flattering.

Ananke glances sideways at a copy of herself that crawls through the rafters high above the dining hall, moving with the practised stealth of an accomplished thief. The duplicate catches her eye and offers a quick wink before vanishing back into whatever timeline she originated from, leaving only the slowly spreading awareness among the students that their feared administrator is walking around with a humiliating decoration attached to her clothing.

image [https://i.imgur.com/pUoDcs0.png]

The underground room feels different at night, when the sparse light from the high barred windows fades completely and leaves them in near-total darkness. Only a small crystal lamp provides illumination, its soft glow barely reaching the corners of their prison-like accommodation. Ananke lies on her bunk with her hands tucked behind her head, staring up at the outline visible through the fabric of Petersilie's cot above her. The priestess's weight creates visible depressions in the material, and Ananke can trace her form through the shadows.

"I do wonder what will happen after all of this,” Petersilie muses from above, her voice thoughtful in the quiet space. "We don't get to choose, you know, where we are to be stationed after graduation. The diocese makes those decisions for us. I might find myself halfway across the world four years from now, ministering to people whose language I don't even speak.”

Ananke considers this uncertain future, her fingers lacing together behind her head. "Maybe you'll be appointed as the academy's newest clergy member?” she suggests hopefully. "You could spend the rest of your life right here, never having to leave.”

"Heaven forbid!” Petersilie exclaims with genuine horror, immediately leaning down over the side of her cot to stare at Ananke with wide eyes. Her black hair hangs downward in short curtains, framing her face as her blue eyes fix on Ananke with shock. "Don't say such horrible things at this hour! I'll have nightmares about being trapped here forever with that dreadful woman.”

Ananke laughs quietly to herself at the dramatic reaction. But Petersilie seems genuinely distressed by the possibility, which only makes Ananke laugh harder. "I mean it!” the priestess insists, though a smile begins tugging at her lips despite her protests.

Petersilie studies her friend for a long moment, then shakes her head with fond exasperation. "May I ask you something, Ananke?” Ananke wipes her eyes and nods permission. "Forgive me if this is too personal, but why the cabinet? I've developed many theories over the weeks, but I hadn't wanted to press the matter before now.”

Ananke freezes, her amusement evaporating instantly. She hasn't been particularly careful about concealing her temporal travels. On reflection, it was rather foolish of her. Of course Petersilie would find it strange. It's an extremely odd behaviour, climbing in and out of furniture like some kind of peculiar rodent seeking shelter.

"I…" Ananke begins, looking up at the priestess's concerned face. Petersilie is genuinely kind, possibly the first real friend her own age that Ananke has ever had. She feels happy and comfortable around the priestess in ways she's never experienced before. She doesn't want to lie to someone who matters to her. But obviously the truth about chronomancy can never be revealed. "I, uh…" She looks away, her hands fidgeting nervously where they rest on her stomach.

"Goodness, no. I apologise,” Petersilie says quickly, pulling back from the edge. "It's not my place to pry into your private matters.”

"No, it's alright,” Ananke replies, desperately trying to formulate a response that's truthful without revealing dangerous secrets. "It's just…" She closes her eyes, silently cursing herself for creating this complicated situation. She needs to be far more careful in the future. "I just have a place I'd rather be sometimes, when things feel overwhelming here. Sorry if that seems weird. I appreciate you not making fun of me for it,” she adds, attempting to lighten the awkward ending with humour.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

That much is true, at least. She hasn't technically lied.

Silence settles over the room from above. Ananke stares at the fabric cot, watching the subtle movements as Petersilie shifts position. The outline of her body creates patterns in the material.

"Do you have a family, Ananke?” Petersilie asks suddenly, her tone carrying genuine curiosity mixed with careful concern.

Ananke opens her mouth, then closes it again without producing any sound. She lies in contemplative quiet for nearly a full minute. "They're gone,” she finally replies, thinking about the disturbing possibility that at this very moment, in this earlier timeline, her family might actually be alive and well. This is before the war that destroyed everything, after all. It's entirely possible that her mother and siblings exist right now in Hafen, going about their daily lives with no knowledge of the terrible fate approaching. Some part of her wants to abandon everything immediately and travel to see them. But another part knows such action would be fundamentally wrong. Her master explicitly forbade it. "There were bombings,” she says quietly, not elaborating on the details. Those explosions were delivered by Arkonian forces in the future timeline, the very nation she currently visits, the same people to whom Petersilie belongs.

Silence falls again from above. Ananke lies there, assuming the conversation has ended on this uncomfortable note and slowly begins closing her eyes, trying to will sleep to claim her.

There's a rustling sound, followed by the soft thump of bare feet touching the stone floor. "Well, move aside then,” Petersilie's voice commands gently.

Ananke opens her eyes to find the priestess standing beside her bunk, dressed in her fluffy conservative undergarments and long nightgown. The first time Petersilie had witnessed Ananke changing clothes, it had been an absolute scandal. Modern undergarment fashion is considerably less modest than the styles common in this earlier era. "Scoot over,” the priestess instructs, gesturing impatiently.

Ananke pulls her legs to the side, making room as Petersilie settles onto the narrow cot beside her. "Pete?” she asks with confusion and something else she can't identify.

"You've broken my heart, I'm quite afraid,” Petersilie declares with theatrical solemnity, throwing her blanket over Ananke's to create doubled warmth. The extra layer is welcome in the frigid underground chamber, where night air seeps through the high, distant barred windows and settles over them like an icy shroud. "As my friend, I expect you to take full responsibility for the damage you've caused to my emotional wellbeing.” She lies down beside Ananke and gently pushes against her to create more space, forcing Ananke to scoot closer to the wall.

Friend.

Ananke turns the word over in her mind, hearing it spoken aloud and directed at her for the first time in her memory. Even though she had considered Petersilie a friend for weeks now, this is the first time anyone has explicitly acknowledged such a relationship to her face. It's the first time in her entire life someone has called her their friend.

"Sorry,” Ananke says, smiling despite the small sadness creeping into her chest. She feels like she's deceiving someone who deserves better, keeping such enormous secrets from someone who has shown her nothing but kindness. The priestess settles on her side, draping an arm over Ananke's waist in a gesture that feels both protective and intimate. The two of them lie snugly pressed together on the tiny cot, their body heat radiating quickly between them beneath the layered blankets. “Really, don’t think about it too much. I’m fine.”

"Hmm. Well, I shall manage to forgive you this once,” Petersilie says softly, her fingers stroking Ananke's hair with gentle touches. "But the next time you feel the need to be somewhere else, I would ask you to confide your worries in me first.” Her fingers wrap around Ananke's shoulder reassuringly. Her head rests on the pillow mere inches away. "Before you ultimately seek companionship in the furniture, Ananke,” she adds with dry, sarcastic humour. "Otherwise I shall feel quite insulted, both personally and professionally, that you prefer an old wardrobe to my counsel.”

Ananke turns her head on the pillow, finding herself looking directly at the young priestess. "Thanks, Pete,” she says, her gaze meeting those blue eyes that seem to hold depths she's only beginning to recognise. "Don't worry about me. I'm fine, really. I'm just happy that we ran into each other.” She swallows quietly, gathering all her courage for what feels like a terrifying vulnerability. "And I'm really glad that you're my friend. I like you a lot.” She squeezes her eyes shut tightly, flinching as if bracing for rejection or mockery.

But no harsh words come.

Ananke opens her eyes again, finding Petersilie still lying there beside her, still watching her with that same gentle expression. They stare at each other in silence, closer than they've ever been. For a long moment, Ananke genuinely wonders if time has stopped without her conscious intention, because neither of them moves at all. But the soft warmth of breath touching her skin and the quiet shift of a leg pressed against hers confirm this is happening in real, unmanipulated time.

They're simply looking at each other.

Ananke's heart begins racing in her chest, quickening with each passing second in stark contrast to the profound silence surrounding them. She doesn't understand why her pulse is accelerating, why her breathing feels shallow and unsteady.

Their eyes remain locked, both studying the other with curious intensity. Ananke finds her gaze drifting downward to Petersilie's lips, then to the pale curve of her neck where it disappears beneath her conservative nightgown. She isn't sure what's happening to her or why she feels so intensely interested in these details. Her body feels electric, charged with energy she's never experienced before. She wants to somehow be even closer to the girl who already holds her in a gentle embrace, though she can't articulate what that closeness would look like or mean.

When Ananke's eyes rise back to meet Petersilie's gaze, she finds only a peaceful, resting face. The priestess has fallen asleep, her soft breath continuing to touch Ananke's cheek with rhythmic warmth.

Ananke looks back up toward the empty cot above, her mind churning with confusion about what just transpired. Some part of her feels deeply unsatisfied with how this moment concluded, though she can't explain why or what she had been hoping would happen instead.

From now on, she realises with practical certainty, she'll need to pause time before using the cabinet portal. She absolutely cannot risk being observed entering or exiting it anymore by Petersilie, no matter how much trust has grown between them. The secret of her true nature must remain hidden, even from someone who has become so unexpectedly precious to her.

image [https://i.imgur.com/pUoDcs0.png]

The next day arrives far too quickly for Ananke's exhausted mind. She sits slumped over the study table in the academy library, her eyes burning from lack of sleep and the dim crystal lighting that barely illuminates the ancient texts spread before them. Petersilie sits across from her, looking considerably more refreshed and organised, her notes neatly arranged and her posture perfect despite their uncomfortable dungeon accommodations.

"Next is the theoretical lecture on homunculi, followed by the examination of our knowledge of Magical Healing Theory, volume one,” Petersilie sighs, consulting their class schedule with obvious resignation. "I have us well covered regarding holy magic applications. But I think we should brush up on our understanding of natural healing magics as well.”

Ananke didn't sleep a single moment the previous night. Her mind kept returning to the feeling of Petersilie pressed against her, the warmth of shared blankets, and the strange racing of her heart that she still doesn't understand. She forces herself to stand, rubbing her face roughly to try and wake herself. "I'll get the books we need,” she says, her voice slightly hoarse.

She makes her way into the maze of towering shelves, her hand running along the spines of dozens of volumes as she navigates toward the medical texts section. The titles blur together in her tired vision. "Energetic Mechanisms, Electrical Monsters and their Industrial Applications, Ethical Theoretics of Creating Life,” she reads aloud quietly, her finger tapping along each spine as she moves deeper into the library's far corners. The shelves here create narrow alleyways that twist and turn in ways that seem designed to confuse anyone seeking specific knowledge.

She reaches a bend where the oldest medical texts are shelved, their leather bindings cracked with age. "Ah, Elemental Healing,” she says with satisfaction. "Got you!” Her hand reaches out, grasping the thick volume.

At that exact second, a second voice emerges from the perpendicular aisle to her left, speaking the same words in perfect synchronisation. "Got you!” Another hand appears from the blind corner, grabbing the same book. Their fingers overlap on the worn leather.

Ananke turns her head, the blood draining from her face as she looks at the impossible sight before her. The two of them stare at each other, frozen in mutual shock. It's Frey, the elven librarian from Skrosocivo, who Ananke had believed died when she corrected that city's corrupted timeline. His pastel yellow scarf wraps loosely around her neck, the familiar accessory now carrying sinister implications.

He's with the Witching Hour, Ananke realises with sudden, terrible clarity. All the scattered pieces snap together in her mind at once. The forbidden chronomancy that kept him alive despite the Consumption. The yellow scarf matched one of the mysterious figures who had rescued their wounded ally from the ship. His presence here in the past, at an academy that existed years before their first meeting should have occurred.

Both jump backward simultaneously, time pausing around them in overlapping waves as their hands glow with competing magical energies. Sparks collide between them as their individual time manipulations distort and interfere with each other, creating unstable temporal eddies that make the air shimmer with dangerous potential.

"What are you doing here?!” Ananke demands, her eyes scanning the surrounding shelves for additional threats. Did they track her to the academy? Are more Witching Hour operatives hiding in the stacks, preparing an ambush? She needs to get to her master immediately and warn the others at the Crux about this infiltration.

"Easy, Ananke,” Frey says carefully, taking a measured step to the side. "Let's not do anything we'll both regret later.” The elf keeps his distance as they begin circling each other warily, but her hand rises in a defensive posture as if preparing to strike. "How about we just -"

Frey suddenly stops mid-sentence and doubles over, her face flushing crimson as if every blood vessel might burst simultaneously. He covers his mouth with trembling hands, coughing with violent intensity that shakes his entire fragile frame. The disturbance shatters her concentration, breaking his magical pause. The temporal field behind him collapses in an odd, cascading distortion as Ananke's chronomancy washes over the weakened area.

Ananke stares at her supposed enemy and rival, watching as Frey barely manages to keep himself upright. The symptoms of his illness have worsened considerably since their last encounter. The cough sounds deeper now, more wet and rattling. Ananke can see flecks of bright red blood on the elf's ghostly pale hands where they press against his mouth. Frey looks up with effort, barely able to catch his breath between spasms. "Well?” he asks hoarsely, waiting for Ananke to take advantage of her vulnerable state and finish this confrontation.

Ananke lowers her hands slowly, glancing back toward where Petersilie waits at their study table, then returning her attention to Frey, who can barely remain standing. After a moment of internal conflict, Ananke steps forward and grasps Frey's arm, draping it over her own shoulder for support.

"What are you doing?” the slightly taller elf asks, confusion clear in her weakened voice.

"Come on. There are some chairs over here,” Ananke says gently. "Let's get you sitting down before you collapse completely.”

Frey looks at her with obvious bewilderment, then forward at their destination. "Why would you help me?”

"I'm just glad you're alive,” Ananke replies honestly.

"We're enemies, Ananke,” Frey reminds her as he braces against Ananke's support, the two of them moving slowly between the towering bookshelves. "Had I known you were affiliated with the Twelve Hands back in Skrosocivo, I would have poisoned your tea with that insecticide.”

"Don't get me wrong,” Ananke says firmly. She glances at Frey's drawn features. "I owed you a debt. You helped me during a very bad time and were nice when you didn't have to be.” The memory of Frey's gentle care during her research warms something in her chest. "I don’t leave debts open. This is us settling.”

"Carrying me to an old chair?” Frey asks incredulously as Ananke helps him settle into a cushioned reading chair.

"No,” Ananke replies with cold precision, looking down at the gaunt, helpless elf before her. She recognises the yellow scarf now for what it truly represents. Frey is one of the two Witching Hour chronomancers who appeared on that ship to rescue their wounded ally. "Me choosing not to erase you from time, when I clearly could, that's us getting even.” Her expression softens slightly. "The chair is for the biscuits you gave me.”

Looking down at Frey with her enhanced temporal sight, Ananke finally understands what had seemed so peculiar about the elf during their first meeting. Back then, her ability to perceive threads was still developing, showing only vague impressions. Now she sees the truth with crystal clarity. The time threads surrounding Frey are tied off and knotted with extraordinary skill. They've been woven and pulled together into a series of connected ribbons, creating a tapestry of borrowed time. He’s surrounded by frayed threads that should have severed completely, marking his death from the Consumption, but he has somehow bound them back together through forbidden chronomancy.

Frey studies her carefully, then sighs with what might be resignation. "We must stop meeting like this,” he observes dryly. "So what will you do now? I'm not in any condition to resist capture. Will you arrest me? Drag me before your precious council for trial and judgement?”

Ananke sits down beside her in the adjacent chair, staring forward in contemplative silence. After a long moment, she turns her head to look directly at Frey. "You're here because of your lung thing, aren't you? That's why you were in the library back in Skrosocivo too. You're studying ways to help yourself.”

Frey stares at her with obvious surprise, then nods once in quiet admission.

Ananke sighs deeply, rubbing her tired face with both hands. She takes a slow breath, then exhales with deliberate control. Despite everything she's been taught about the Witching Hour being dangerous rogues, despite the clear factional conflict, a weak smile creeps onto her face. She looks back at Frey with sudden decision. "Truce?” she asks, extending her hand toward the elf.

"Excuse me?” Frey asks, clearly taken aback as he stares at the offered hand with suspicion.

"I don't think we're supposed to do this,” Ananke admits, absolutely certain the Twelve Hands would never approve of any peaceful interaction with their enemies. She doesn't know enough about the Witching Hour's internal politics, but both organisations clearly consider each other mortal adversaries. "I can't control what happens outside of this library. If the other chronomancers see you, I'll have to maintain the appearance that we're enemies. But right here, right now, we don't have to play those roles.” She lifts her hand an inch higher with emphasis. "I propose a truce between us.”

Frey tentatively raises his own hand, hesitating before committing to the gesture. After several seconds of internal debate, their hands finally slide together in cautious agreement. "Why are you doing this?” the elf asks, genuinely confused by the offer.

"Because you lied to me back then,” Ananke says, watching Frey's expression carefully. "You saved all of those butterflies in your memorial garden, didn't you? You reversed their time to before they touched the toxic powder and set them free outside.”

Frey nods slowly, a small smile touching his pale lips. "It appears we both have soft spots for creatures that don't deserve their fates, then. It'll be our secret.” He makes a solemn gesture, crossing his heart with one finger.

Ananke stands, taking the disputed healing book with her. "Wait, I was hoping to read that!” Frey calls after her with mild protest.

"You can have it when I’m done,” Ananke replies dryly, holding the book aloft as she walks away toward where Petersilie waits.

She unpauses time as she settles back at their study table. "Found it. Sorry that took so long,” she says casually. "Ran into an old acquaintance.”

"Took so long?” Petersilie asks, blinking in confusion. "Ananke, you were barely gone for half a minute.” She shakes her head with familiar fond exasperation. "Such a strange girl. Well, let's tackle this material, then. There is no rest for the wicked, after all.”

Ananke smiles as Petersilie flips the book open to the relevant chapter. But their earnest attempt at studying gradually dissolves into distraction as they find themselves quietly laughing at marginalia in the text, then making whispered jokes about their pompous instructors, until finally they're kicking each other playfully under the table while trying to suppress their giggles. Their disruption grows loud enough that an irritated librarian eventually throws them both out of the library entirely for excessive noise, leaving them standing in the corridor trying not to laugh at their shared banishment.