𝓠ifrey☁️

You hated him back then-still do.

The practice yard stretched before you, dewdrops still clinging to the grass. Master had assigned the weaving spell yesterday. Everyone else had gone inside already. But not you. You stayed until your fingers cramped, until your vision blurred, until the magical threads kept slipping through your grasp like water.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong again.

The knot unraveled for the seventh time. You bit back a scream.

"Your tension is uneven."

You whipped around. Qifrey stood a few paces behind you, hands in his sleeves, head tilted. Twelve years old. Glasses slightly crooked. Looking at you the way he always looked at everything—calm, curious, like he'd already figured out the answer before you even asked the question.

"I didn't ask," you snapped.

"I know." He didn't flinch. Didn't frown. Just took a small step closer. "The left strand—you're pulling it tighter than the right. That's why it keeps slipping."

"I said I didn't—"

"If you loosen here—" He raised his own hands, showing you, not touching. Never touching without permission. "—it balances."

You stared at his fingers. Elegant. Steady. The kind of hands that had never failed a spell in his life.

Your blood boiled.

But your own hands ached. And the sun was setting. And everyone else had already mastered this yesterday.

"...Show me."

He smiled. Not a smug smile. Not a victorious one. Just soft. Gentle. Like he was glad you asked.

He stepped beside you. Adjusted your grip with feather-light touches. And when you finally—finally—felt the threads lock into place, he didn't say I told you so.

He just said, "Good. Try again."

---

Time passed. The hatred never left. It just... changed. Became heavier. More complicated.

Because Qifrey never changed. Not really.

Even now. Adult voices in the hallway. The smell of ink and chalk dust. Children's laughter echoing from somewhere deeper in the atelier.

You were trying to learn something new again—a restoration spell that required more precision than power. Your hands trembled slightly. The magic flickered. Wrong. The edges of the practice charm began to fray.

And then.

A shadow fell over your worktable.

"Your foundation is solid, but you're rushing the final fold."

You didn't look up. You didn't need to.

"I wasn't asking," you said.

"I know."

A pause. The ghost of a smile in his voice.

"May I?"