For all her protests, she’s into the tat-covered transmutation arcanist. I mean, I understand it. Lambert’s sculpted like the athlete he is, almost as heavily muscled as Dakari.
“Did people not… back when you… I thought they waited for marriage in your time.” It’s kinda funny, and completely out of character, for Galileo to struggle for words.
Kyrith sighs, looking back at the confused faces of the others. “Yes, moral standards were stricter when I was alive, but I was an orphan. My marriage prospects were null, and there weren’t many people alive who cared that I didn’t die a virgin.”
That sounds…really lonely.
“I miss it,” she admits, so softly that I don’t think the others, who are farther from her than I am, actually hear.
“You’re lucky you can’t be touched,” Galileo finally says. “Otherwise, Lambert would be on you like a rash.”
Kyrith doesn’t respond, but I swear the corner of her lip twitches. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Lambert is a flirt. Kyrith…deserves someone who won’t drop her the second someone new comes along. It’s disturbingly easy to imagine myself as that someone, despite the obvious barriers.
“Look, North has found his seat,” she says instead.
He has, and thankfully he’s managed to find himself a good spot overlooking the diamond shaped pitch, almost exactly above the tall net dividing the court into two equal triangles.
“Ackland,”someone greets him, and I realise that there’s a reason for his good spot—he’s in the VIP box.
Hard to roll my eyes when I can actually see one of my cousins a few seats away from him. Magic, she’s gotten old. Is that…a toddler on her lap? How much did I miss?
My melancholy thoughts are cut off as the announcer’s voice booms through the Arcanaeum like we’re right beside the speaker. Dakari curses, flying from his seat to fiddle with the projector as the rest of us clamp our hands over our ears.
When the volume drops, and I lower my hands, it’s just in time to hear the announcer say,“And finally, Lambert Winthrop, star reaper of the University of Arcane Arts.”
And there he is, jogging out onto the court behind his teammates with an easy smile that has Kyrith sitting forward in her seat. His golden hair is secured in a man-bun, and his arms are bare to expose the runeforms all over his skin.
The sleeveless jersey is different from his five teammates, who clearly have different specialisms. One of them is strung with bandoleers full of potions and bombs, another has their grimoire already open and floating beside them.
The team faces up against their opponents with brisk nods as the referee strides to the middle of the pitch, setting out the three balls in a line beneath the net with practised precision. A clang echoes through the stadium, the board above lighting up to display two perfect scores of one hundred.
“How many of the rules do you know?” I ask, trying to casually lean in towards Kyrith without her noticing.
She levels me with a disbelieving look that makes me cringe. What am I saying? Kyrith has been around a long time. Shemight not have seen a game before, but I bet she’s read a book or two about the subject.
Something she proves when she humours me by replying, “The first to zero points—or whoever drops the gamma—loses the match,” she says, shrugging. “Five points are deducted from a team every time the beta hits the ground on their side of the net. If the alpha falls, all three balls speed up.”
She doesn’t mention anything about fouls or substitutions, and I wonder if that means her interest in the sport itself is fairly limited, like mine, or that she simply doesn’t want to go into the technical details. Dakari used to play casually before I was taken, but only because his grandfather forced his attendance. I’m not sure whether Galileo has ever stepped foot on a court before, but it seems like the sort of thing he’d know purely from his friendship with the Winthrop heir.
I’ve played with my cousins before, but honestly, team sports have never been my thing. Not that it matters. We’re here to support Lambert, after all.
Yet, when the buzzer sounds and the balls fly into the air, I can’t pay attention to the game at all. Instead, I find myself leaning back to watch as Kyrith flinches, bites at her lip, and gasps into her hand.
She’s infinitely more interesting to watch than players getting sprayed with acid or hit with shrapnel. As much as she’d deny it, her whole body tenses whenever Lambert is in danger of getting hit.
And when he scores the game’s winning shot, the cocky fucker looks right up at the box where North’s sitting and makes a dumb wee heart with his hands over his sternum.
A cacophony of screams erupts from the women of the crowd, and the Librarian rolls her eyes, clearly missing the fact that she was the one the gesture was aimed at.
“Can he not help himself?” she asks quietly. “Or was he born an impossible flirt?”
Leo shakes his head, the three of us exchanging a knowing look as she floats to a standing position, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in the ghostly fabric of her skirts.
“This was…interesting,” she finally settles on, and I smirk.
Would it kill her to admit she enjoyed herself?
“You were three steps away from ripping into the ref over a foul not ten minutes ago,” Leo remarks. “Don’t pretend otherwise when Lambert comes back. You’ll crush him. He’s an idiot about most things, but he’s sensitive about magiball. At least tell him he played well.”
