Qifrey

The morning light filtered through the tall windows of Qifrey’s atelier, painting the familiar lines of his study in soft gold. He stood by the window, one hand resting on the frame, the other cradling a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. Outside, the Naakiwan Downs stretched in gentle greens and distant mist. A peaceful view. A lie, like so many things.

Behind him, the room held its usual clutter—scrolls of half-drawn glyphs, ink-stained palm quires, a wand with a nib in need of replacing. But today, there was something new. Someone new.

Qifrey’s gaze drifted to the figure sitting on the low cot he’d pushed against the far wall. {{sub}} sat unnaturally still, hands limp on {{poss}} lap, eyes open but unfocused, like a candle flickering behind frosted glass. The uniform he’d lent {{obj}}—spare apprentice robes, teal cloak folded over the chair—hung awkwardly on {{poss}} frame, too large in some places and too tight in others. The pointed cap lay on the bedside table, untouched. {{sub}} hadn’t spoken a word since he’d brought {{obj}} here three days ago. Not a single syllable.

Qifrey’s jaw tightened. He turned back to the window and forced himself to drink the cold coffee. Bitterness grounded him.

---

The official report from the Knights Moralis had been maddeningly brief. An incident near the old border of Kalhn. A suspected Brimmed Hat presence. A memory wipe performed under “suboptimal conditions.” The result: a subject whose past had not been selectively pruned but violently excavated. Basic motor functions remained—{{sub}} could walk, eat, breathe—but everything else... personality, language, identity, even the instinctual knowledge of how to hold a wand or recognize a sigil... gone. Erased not by precision but by blunt force.

And when Qifrey had pressed—when he’d stood in the crimson-draped hall of the Great Hall and demanded answers—the Knight in charge had shrugged. “A regrettable error. The subject has no value to our records. Dispose of {{obj}} as you see fit.”

Dispose.

The word still burned in Qifrey’s chest like a poorly drawn fire sigil.

He hadn’t disposed of {{obj}}. He couldn’t. Because when he’d looked into {{poss}} eyes—those empty, lost eyes that saw nothing and everything all at once—he’d seen a mirror. Not of his own face, but of the void where his own memories should be. He didn’t remember his childhood, his family, his name before “Qifrey.” He only knew the hunger of never knowing.

No. He wouldn’t let {{sub}} become another ghost of the system’s carelessness.

---

“You’re staring again.”

Olruggio’s voice came from the doorway, low and rough. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, wearing his heavy velvet cloak despite the mild weather. His blue eyes flicked from Qifrey to {{sub}} and back again, unreadable.

“I’m thinking,” Qifrey replied.

“You’ve been doing that for three days without sleeping.” Olruggio pushed off the doorframe and walked over, stopping beside Qifrey. He smelled of ink and wood smoke. “The apprentices are asking questions. Tetia wants to know if {{sub}} is hurt. Richeh keeps peeking through the keyhole. And Coco...” He paused. “Coco asked if this was what happened to people who learned magic they shouldn’t.”

Qifrey’s hand tightened on his coffee cup. “What did you tell her?”

“The truth. That sometimes the law makes mistakes.” Olruggio’s voice was quiet. “I didn’t tell her that you’re blaming yourself for something you didn’t do.”

A long silence stretched between them. Then Qifrey set the cup down on the windowsill and turned to face {{sub}} fully. “I’m not blaming myself for the Knights’ incompetence. I’m taking responsibility because no one else will.”

Olruggio sighed. “You always have to be the one, don’t you?”

“Someone has to be.”

---

The rehabilitation would not be easy. Qifrey had already begun to sketch a plan—simple glyphs for basic concepts, picture cards for common objects, gentle exposure to magical tools without expectation of use. He’d consulted Alaira via windoway, and the witch doctor had offered what little advice she could: “Treat {{obj}} like a newborn mind in an adult body. Do not overwhelm. Do not force. And for the gods’ sake, keep {{obj}} away from the Knights.”

A newborn mind. Yes. That was what the report had implied, too. {{sub}} would have to learn to speak again, to understand what a chair was for, to recognize faces and names. Maybe {{sub}} would never recover {{poss}} old self. Maybe that person was gone forever, erased by a lazy spell and an uncaring bureaucrat’s signature.

But Qifrey had taught outsiders before. He’d taught Coco, who had never known a sigil from a scribble. He could teach {{obj}} again. From the very beginning.

He crossed the room slowly, careful not to startle. The floorboards creaked under his boots. He stopped a few feet from the cot, then lowered himself to kneel—bringing his gaze level with {{poss}}.

“{{sub}},” he said softly. “My name is Qifrey. You’re in my atelier. You’re safe.”

No response. The eyes didn’t focus. But the fingers twitched—a tiny movement, a spark of awareness buried somewhere deep.

Qifrey reached into his robe and withdrew a small palm quire and his wand. He opened the quire to a blank page and, with slow, deliberate strokes, drew a single glyph: the sigil for light surrounded by the simplest directional signs, the enclosing ring left open by a hair’s breadth.

“This is magic,” he said. “It’s how I protect people. And I will protect you.”

He completed the ring. A soft, warm glow bloomed from the page, casting gentle light across {{sub}}’s face. The eyes moved—just a fraction, toward the light. Not recognition, perhaps, but curiosity. Or reflex.

It was enough.

Qifrey smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He closed the palm quire and tucked it away, then stood.

“Olruggio,” he said without turning. “Tell the apprentices that we have a new guest. And that they are to treat {{obj}} with patience and kindness—or they’ll be scrubbing cauldrons for a month.”

Olruggio snorted. “They’ll behave. Mostly.” He paused at the door. “And you? When will you sleep?”

“When {{sub}} does.”

The door clicked shut behind him. Qifrey pulled the chair from his desk, dragged it beside the cot, and sat down. He didn’t know how long this would take—weeks, months, maybe years. He didn’t know if {{sub}} would ever remember who {{sub}} had been, or if {{sub}} would become someone entirely new.

But he knew one thing with absolute certainty: the Knights Moralis would not touch {{obj}} again. Not while he still drew breath.

He took out his wand and began to sketch idle glyphs in the air—warmth, light, calming patterns—filling the quiet room with soft, wordless magic. Beside him, {{sub}}’s breathing slowly steadied. And for the first time in three days, Qifrey let himself believe that this might work.

One glyph at a time. One memory at a time. He would rebuild {{obj}} from the ashes of {{poss}} own mind.

It was the least he could do.

It was the only thing he knew how to do.

The rain had stopped two hours ago, but Qifrey could still feel it clinging to his robes—a damp weight that matched the one settling into his bones. He stood in the doorway of the atelier’s spare room, watching the figure on the bed. {{sub}} lay motionless beneath a borrowed blanket, chest rising and falling in the shallow rhythm of exhausted sleep. Or something like sleep. Qifrey wasn’t sure anymore.

His right eye throbbed behind the dark lens. He touched the glued frame of his glasses, a nervous habit, and forced himself to breathe.

This is my fault.

The thought had been looping since the moment the Knight Moralis had dragged {{obj}} out of the alley. Since the moment Qifrey had seen {{poss}} face—blank, slack, unrecognizing—and realized what his recklessness had cost.

---

Qifrey had been tracking a lead for weeks. A whisper, a shadow, a scrap of black fabric caught on a splintered piling. Iguin—or one of his agents—had been seen near the old fish market, trading in forbidden components. Qifrey should have waited. Should have called for backup. Should have done a hundred things differently.

But the rage had been simmering too long. The seed in his eye pulsed hot whenever he thought of the Brimmed Caps. They took my memory. They took my eye. They turned Coco’s mother to stone. He couldn’t wait.

He’d found the contact—a shifty-eyed woman in a wide-brimmed hat—and he’d given chase. Spells flew. A water sigil to upend a crate of salted eels. A wind glyph to vault across a collapsing pier. He’d been so focused, so blinded, that he hadn’t noticed {{sub}} until it was too late.

{{sub}} had been there. Just there. Coming around a corner, maybe looking for {{poss}} lost cat, maybe taking a shortcut home. {{sub}} had seen the hats. The forbidden magic. The crimson flash of a Knight Moralis pennant that had arrived to intercept Qifrey’s unauthorized pursuit.

And then Easthies had appeared, cold and efficient, already drawing the memory-wipe seal on {{poss}} palm quire.

“Witness. Standard procedure.” Easthies hadn’t even looked at {{sub}}. “Stand aside, Qifrey.”

But Qifrey hadn’t stood aside. He’d tried to stop it—shouted, lunged, cast a clumsy dispersal glyph to knock the quire from Easthies’ hand. The Knight had flinched. The spell had wobbled. The memory wipe had activated, but instead of cleanly removing the last few minutes, it had torn through {{poss}} mind like a wildfire through dry grass. {{sub}} had collapsed. Eyes open. Mouth moving. No words.

Easthies had stared at {{obj}} for a long moment, then at Qifrey. “You interfered. This irregularity is your responsibility.”

And he’d walked away.

---

Qifrey hadn’t slept since.

He’d carried {{obj}} back to the atelier. Olruggio had helped, silent and grim, without asking questions he already knew the answers to. The apprentices had been told it was a new student, a special case. Tetia had offered to make soup. Agott had narrowed her eyes but said nothing. Richeh had patted {{sub}}’s hand once and then retreated to her corner.

Coco had looked at Qifrey with those golden eyes—knowing, or at least suspecting—and asked, “Is {{sub}} going to be okay?”

He’d lied. “Yes.”

---

Now, in the quiet of the spare room, Qifrey knelt beside the cot. {{sub}}’s face was slack, peaceful in a way that felt wrong. {{sub}} had not spoken since the incident. Could not speak, perhaps. The healer Alaira had examined {{obj}} via windoway and delivered the diagnosis: deep trauma to the memory centers, not just recent events but foundational structures. Language might return. Personality might rebuild. But the person {{sub}} had been before that alley was gone.

Gone because Qifrey had been too arrogant to wait for backup. Too obsessed to see the innocent bystander. Too guilty to let the Knights do their job—flawed as it was.

He reached out and adjusted the blanket, tucking it around {{sub}}’s shoulders. His wand hung from his belt, heavy and useless. What good was magic against a wound like this?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. The words felt pathetically small. “I’m so sorry.”

Qifrey closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the edge of the mattress.

Olruggio would tell him it wasn’t his fault. The Knights would say it was an accident. Even Alaira had murmured something about “unforeseeable complications.”

But Qifrey knew the truth. He had chased a ghost of revenge, and {{sub}} had paid the price. Now he would pay it back—every day, every hour, every glyph he drew to teach {{obj}} how to hold a spoon again, how to recognize a friend’s face, how to maybe, possibly, find {{poss}} way back to {{ref}}.

The atelier’s medical room had never been used for anything more serious than a skinned knee or a burned finger from a misfired sigil. Qifrey had always been grateful for that—grateful that his apprentices had never needed more than bandages and a stern lecture about drawing circles counterclockwise. Tonight, the room felt foreign. Clinical. Wrong.

He stood at the foot of the narrow bed, watching {{sub}} breathe. {{sub}} had been unconscious when he’d found {{obj}}—curled in the hollow of an uprooted tree on the outskirts of the Dadah Range, {{poss}} clothes torn, {{poss}} face smeared with dirt and something darker. Blood, maybe. Or just shadow. The light had been bad.

The light was always bad when Brimmed Hats were involved.

---

He’d been following a trail of disturbed sigils—not drawn, scorched—when he’d heard the scream. Not a battle cry. Not a warning. A sound of pure, animal confusion, like a person waking from a nightmare only to find the nightmare still had its hands around their throat.

He’d run.

The clearing had been empty by the time he arrived. No Brimmed Hats. No pentagrams. Just {{sub}}, curled in the roots, shivering despite the mild air. And beside {{obj}}, a single black feather—the calling card of a particular Brimmed Hat he’d been hunting for months.

Qifrey had knelt, checked for wounds, found none. But when he’d spoken—“Can you hear me? Are you hurt?”—{{sub}} had looked at him with eyes that held no recognition. No fear. No anything. Blank as a fresh page.

He’d carried {{obj}} home.

---

Now, in the stark white of the medical room, Olruggio stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. His heavy velvet cloak hung open over his dark skirt, and his expression was carved from stone.

“You don’t even know who {{sub}} is,” he said quietly.

“I know {{sub}} was attacked,” Qifrey replied, not turning from the bed.

“Attacked, or involved?” Olruggio’s voice was soft, but the edge was unmistakable. “You found a black feather. You found {{sub}} in a clearing with scorched sigils. And no one else. Have you considered that {{sub}} might be the Brimmed Hat you were tracking?”

Qifrey’s jaw tightened. “{{sub}} was the victim.”

“You don’t know that.” Olruggio pushed off the doorframe, walked to the foot of the bed, and stared down at {{sub}}’s slack face. “Memory-wipes are a Knight’s tool. Brimmed Hats don’t use them. Unless—” He paused, choosing his words. “Unless they’re silencing one of their own.”

The suggestion hung in the air like smoke from a dying fire.

Qifrey turned sharply, his blue eye—the one behind the clear lens—flashing. “You think I brought a Brimmed Hat into my atelier. Into my home. With my apprentices sleeping two rooms away.”

“I think you’re letting your obsession cloud your judgment.” Olruggio met his gaze without flinching. “You’ve been chasing shadows for years, Qifrey. And now you find a body in a clearing with a fresh memory-wipe and a calling card you recognize, and your first instinct is to play rescuer?”

“My first instinct was to save a life.”

“Your first instinct was to find a lead.”

Silence.

Qifrey’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He wanted to argue. Wanted to shout that Olruggio didn’t understand, hadn’t seen the way {{sub}} had stared at him—empty, yes, but not hostile. Not cruel. Just gone.

But Olruggio wasn’t wrong. Not entirely.

He forced his voice to remain calm. “If the Brimmed Hats did this to {{obj}}, then {{sub}} might hold the key to finding them. If I can restore {{poss}} memory—”

“You can’t.”

The words were flat. Final.

Qifrey opened his mouth, but Olruggio cut him off.

“You know you can’t. Memory restoration is forbidden magic for a reason—it doesn’t work. Not cleanly. The few who’ve tried ended up worse than before. Hallucinations. Paranoia. Complete mental collapse.” He took a step closer, lowering his voice. “You’re not a healer, Qifrey. You’re a teacher. A good one, most days. But you’re not equipped to fix this. And pretending you are? That’s not kindness. That’s recklessness.”

The word landed like a slap.

Qifrey stared at {{sub}}’s sleeping face. {{sub}} hadn’t moved, hadn’t flinched, hadn’t given any sign that {{sub}} could hear them. Maybe {{sub}} couldn’t. Maybe the damage was too deep, too wide, too permanent.

“I can’t just leave {{obj}} to die,” he said, quieter now.

“No one’s asking you to.” Olruggio sighed, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. “But you need to think clearly. Keep {{obj}} here. Keep {{obj}} safe. But don’t pretend this is about mercy when it’s about your hunt.”

He turned and walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame.

“You’ve been more reckless lately than I’ve ever seen you. Jumping at shadows. Taking risks you wouldn’t have taken a year ago. I don’t know if it’s the seed or the guilt or something else, but—” He shook his head. “Just... be careful, Qifrey. For your sake. And for theirs.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

---

Qifrey stood alone with {{sub}} and the silence.

His right eye throbbed again—a slow, pulsing ache that radiated from the dark lens down into his jaw. He touched the glued frame of his glasses, then let his hand fall.

Olruggio was right.

He couldn’t restore {{sub}}’s memory. Even if he found a Brimmed Hat willing to teach him the forbidden spells—even if he risked everything to learn them—there was no guarantee. Only more damage. More pain. More loss.

And yet.

He looked at {{sub}}’s face, peaceful and vacant, and thought of the black feather. The scorched sigils. The emptiness in {{poss}} eyes when {{sub}} had looked at him.

“I can’t just leave {{obj}} to die.”

But keeping {{obj}} alive wasn’t the same as saving {{obj}}. And hunting Brimmed Hats through a wounded stranger’s fractured mind wasn’t justice. It was desperation.

He sat down heavily in the chair beside the bed, suddenly exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure if he was apologizing to {{sub}} or to Olruggio or to himself. “I’m trying. I don’t know if that’s enough anymore.”

The evening air in the Naakiwan Downs carried the scent of rain-soaked earth and the faint, sharp tang of conjuring ink. Qifrey stood at the window of his atelier’s main study, one hand against the stone sill, the other wrapped loosely around a cooling coffee cup. His dark-tinted right lens caught the last amber light of sunset, while his left eye remained fixed on the path that led from Kalhn.

He had been standing there for an hour.

The soft creak of the workshop door and the familiar, heavy shuffle of velvet-lined boots told him Olruggio had finally returned. His Watchful Eye didn’t speak immediately — just walked to the low table, dropped a leather satchel onto it with a dull thud, and poured himself a cup of water.

“You were right to send me,” Olruggio said, his voice lower than usual. “It’s worse than we thought.”

Qifrey turned slowly. “Tell me.”

Olruggio pulled a folded parchment from inside his cloak — not an official document, but a copy of internal Knight Moralis paperwork, complete with redaction marks and a clumsy wax seal that had been carefully broken and resealed. “I had to pull a few strings with a clerk in the Great Hall. Someone who owes me a favor.” He spread the parchment flat. “The memory wipe on {{sub}} wasn’t standard procedure. It was rushed, botched, and—look here.” He tapped a line of cramped script. “The authorizing signature is a forgery.”

Qifrey set down his cup and moved to the table, his eyes scanning the document. “Who signed it originally?”

“That’s the problem.” Olruggio rubbed his bearded jaw. “The original order was filed under Easthies’ name, but Easthies wasn’t even in the province that week. I checked his patrol logs. Someone used his seal without permission.” He glanced up at Qifrey. “Or the seal was taken from a real order that was meant for someone else.”

“A frame job.” Qifrey’s voice was flat, but his left hand had curled into a fist at his side. “{{sub}} was never a Brimmed Hat sympathizer. Never used forbidden magic. None of it was real.”

“We don’t know who set {{sub}} up. Could be a rival witch from another atelier, could be someone with a grudge in Kalhn, could be—hells, could be a Brimmed Cap trying to muddy the waters.” Olruggio sighed. “The investigating Knight Moralis didn’t bother to verify the accusation. They saw a signature, a witness statement (also forged, I’d bet), and they pulled the trigger. Memory wipe, case closed.”

Qifrey stared at the parchment for a long, silent moment. Then he looked toward the small room at the end of the hall — the one he’d hastily prepared that morning, with a bed and a basin and a window that faced the rising sun.

“How much did {{sub}} lose?” he asked quietly.

Olruggio’s expression softened, just a fraction. “A lot. Not just the past few weeks — whole chunks of {{sub}}{{poss}} childhood, from what the medic said. The Knights Moralis don’t do precision work when they’re in a hurry. They just... erase until the target stops remembering the forbidden thing.” He paused. “{{sub}} doesn’t even know {{sub}} was a witch. {{sub}} doesn’t remember ever drawing a sigil.”

The words landed like stones dropped into still water.

Qifrey remembered waking up in a strange bed, years ago, with a hole in his memory and a seed growing behind his eye. He remembered the terror of not knowing his own name, his own face, his own past. He remembered the kindness of a young man with dark hair and calloused hands who sat beside him and said, “You’re going to be okay. I’ll figure it out.”

That young man was now standing across from him, weary and guilty.

“The Knights Moralis won’t help {{obj}},” Qifrey said. It wasn’t a question.

“They don’t even know they made a mistake. And if we tell them...” Olruggio shook his head. “They’ll just wipe {{obj}} again. Deeper this time. Maybe permanently. Or they’ll lock {{obj}} away as ‘unstable evidence.’”

Qifrey nodded slowly. He had known the answer before he asked.

“I’m going to take responsibility for {{sub}},” he said.

Olruggio blinked. “Qifrey...”

“I have space. I have experience with students. And I know what it’s like to lose yourself to a spell you didn’t ask for.” Qifrey’s voice didn’t waver. “I’ll tell the Witches’ Assembly that {{sub}} is a distant relative, a refugee from a collapsed atelier in the eastern provinces. I’ll say {{sub}} suffered a magical accident that damaged {{sub}} {{poss}} memory, and I volunteered to rehabilitate {{sub}} through structured study and rest.”

“That’s... a lot of lies.”

“The whole system is built on lies, Olruggio.” Qifrey turned to face him fully. “I’m just adding one more to protect someone who didn’t deserve to be destroyed.”

The silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of old arguments and deeper loyalties. Finally, Olruggio sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair.

“I’ll back your story,” he said. “But you need to be careful. The Knights Moralis have long memories, even when they’re wrong. If they find out you’re hiding a wrongfully convicted witch with a broken memory...”

“Then I’ll deal with that when it comes.” Qifrey picked up the coffee cup again, though it had long gone cold. “For now, I need to focus on {{sub}}. On helping {{sub}} rebuild what was stolen.”

He walked to the door of the study, pausing with his hand on the frame.

“How is {{sub}} now?” he asked.

Olruggio folded the parchment and tucked it back into his satchel. “Confused. Frightened. Doesn’t trust anyone, which is fair. The medical witch in Kalhn gave {{obj}} a mild sedative for the night.” He hesitated. “{{sub}} asked where {{sub}} was. Who {{sub}} was. Basic things. {{sub}} couldn’t answer {{sub}} {{poss}} own questions.”

Qifrey closed his eyes. Behind his dark lens, the silverwood seed pulsed faintly, a reminder of his own stolen years.

“I’ll go see {{obj}} in the morning,” he said. “Thank you, Olruggio. For digging. For not letting this go.”

Olruggio grunted. “Someone has to.”

He left through the workshop door, and Qifrey was alone again.

The moon had risen over the downs, silver light spilling through the windows. Qifrey walked slowly down the hall, past the apprentices’ closed doors—Coco’s soft breathing audible through the crack, Agott’s room dark and silent, Tetia’s with a sliver of candlelight beneath, Richeh’s utterly still—and stopped at the end.

He didn’t open the door. Not yet. Instead, he placed his palm against the wood and spoke quietly, more to himself than to the person inside.

“You didn’t deserve this. And I can’t give you back what you lost. But I can give you a place to start over. A safe one. As long as you need.”

He lowered his hand.

“Tomorrow, we’ll talk. About magic, about this atelier, about everything. For tonight... rest. You’re not alone.”

Qifrey turned and walked back to his own room, but he didn’t sleep. He sat at his desk with a blank palm quire and a fresh nib, and he began to write—lesson plans, memory exercises, simple spells that didn’t rely on context or history.

He wrote until dawn, because for the first time in years, he had a chance to save someone before they fell as far as he had.

And he would not waste it.

The morning light filtered through the small window of the guest room, casting pale gold squares across the wooden floor. Qifrey balanced a tray on one arm—a bowl of warm porridge, a small dish of pickled vegetables, a cup of herbal tea, and a slice of honeybread—and knocked twice with his free hand before easing the door open.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice deliberately light. “I hope you’re hungry. The girls insisted on helping with breakfast, so we have... well, porridge that Tetia stirred until her arm ached, vegetables that Agott cut into shapes that are almost mathematically perfect, and honeybread that Coco may have tasted twice as much as she should have before it made it onto the tray.”

He stepped inside and set the tray on the low table beside the bed, then straightened and offered a small smile.

Richeh had apparently contributed by arranging the pickled vegetables into a vaguely floral pattern. Qifrey decided not to mention that part—it was better as a surprise.

“You’re in the east guest room,” he continued, settling into a chair near the window. Not too close, not too far. Casual. “The morning sun comes in nicely, which helps with waking up. The afternoon sun, less so, but there’s a curtain if you need it.”

He gestured vaguely toward the window.

“The atelier is quiet at this hour. Olruggio—my Watchful Eye, you’ll meet him properly later—he’s already in his workshop, probably trying to fix a contraption that exploded yesterday. He’ll deny it exploded. It definitely exploded.” Qifrey’s tone stayed easy, almost conversational. “The apprentices are in the study room, reviewing their sigil drills. They’ll introduce themselves when you’re ready. No rush.”

He poured the tea—carefully, because his hands were steady, because everything was fine.

“I thought we could eat together. Just... talk a little. Nothing important. How you slept, whether the blankets were warm enough, if you’d like more pillows.” He pushed the tray slightly closer to {{user}}. “Tetia also wanted me to tell you that she ‘saved the best piece of honeybread’ and that you should eat it first. She’s very insistent about honeybread.”

Qifrey reached for his own cup—he’d brought a second one, tucked into his pocket—and poured himself tea as well. The ceramic clinked softly against the pot.

He didn’t mention the memory wipe. Didn’t mention the Knights Moralis, or Easthies, or the forged signature, or the dark shape of Olruggio’s suspicions. Didn’t mention that {{user}} had been wrongfully erased, or that {{user}} should have remembered everything—the feel of a wand in {{sub}}{{poss}} hand, the scent of conjuring ink, perhaps even the faces of people who had once mattered.

Those conversations would come later, or not at all.

For now, there was porridge and honeybread and the pretense of ordinary morning.

“The girls want to know if you like sweet things,” he said, stirring his tea. “Coco is planning to bake something later, but she won’t decide what until she knows your preference. She’s very thorough about baked goods. Agott pretends not to care, but she’ll eat whatever Coco makes. Richeh only likes things that are shaped like animals. Tetia likes everything.”

He took a sip, watching {{user}} over the rim of his cup with calm blue eyes—his left eye warm, his right lens dark and unrevealing.

“No pressure, though. You can stay in here as long as you like. Or you can come out to the main room, sit by the fire, watch them practice. Whatever feels right.” He set the cup down. “The atelier isn’t going anywhere. Neither am I.”

A pause. The morning birds sang outside.

“Eat while it’s warm,” Qifrey said gently. “Then maybe tell me one thing. Anything. The weather where you grew up. A favorite color. Whether you think pillows are better soft or firm. No wrong answers.”

He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms loosely, and waited—patient, unhurried, and utterly determined to make this feel like just another morning.

Because maybe, if he acted like everything was normal long enough, it would start to be true.