Rune Mage [Fantasy/Adventure | Book 1 +2 | Complete]

Chapter 33: Fernard's Secret

After three days at the Hartley mansion, Seiren was tempted to punch snobby Professor Fernard in the face and then set his house on fire.

She lay on the carpeted floor, ignoring the dust bunnies that danced to the sky, and groaned aloud. She rolled over, arms stretched out, and sneezed when the bunnies crept up her nose.

"Ugh!"

The fire crackled in the corner, throwing sparks out from time to time and bathing the room in a soft yellow glow. She sat up, glaring at the small roll of paper with her instructions for the day. Runes to make toy trains. After the fiasco with the stumpy horse in Bicknor, Seiren had thought of several new runes she could try to make animations without the embarrassing aesthetics. She'd never guess all the moody professor wanted was for her to carry on making it. Runes to make model soldiers. Runes to make metal humanoid machines. Runes to make varying types of castles and moats. Runes to make stuffed animals. Runes to make said stuffed animals dance. It was almost like he wanted to demean her on purpose. Even if she had just graduated, she didn't slave away at King's for six years just to make whimsical childish ornaments for a man with all the charm of a rotten fish.

And to make matters worse, although the requests were relatively simple, the demands were so detailed. The soldier must have a red uniform with three sets of stars on each lapel. He must have a sword on his left side and wear gloves. The train must have five carriages and in the design of the ones from Benover. The animation rune was easy to design; ensuring the products reflected the intricacies was no mean feat. And he always just wanted the runes, not the products. Always just the piece of paper with her magic infused. The designs took forever, but the products weren't inherently difficult to make. And Myrtin was always there at the strike of midday, lunch in his hand, in exchange for her designs.

Think of it as a down time. You can do more on your healing runes when you've satisfied today's quota, said Madeleine. She seemed equally baffled by the irrational requests, but she'd taken less of an insult. Seiren stuck her feet on top of the sofa's backrest and wrinkled her nose. Being stuck in this depressing, dead house sapped her motivation and appetite. The floorboards and furniture creaked and groaned every night. Wind crept through the cracks in the walls, whistling and crying into the night, sometimes sounding eerily human-like. She was sure she reeked of the rotten wood, old house smell by now. If Seiren didn't have recurring nightmares as it was, there was enough fodder to ensure that she would never have a peaceful night's sleep.

She peered at her adjoining bedroom. The bedsheets tumbled to the ground along with a pillow or two. Yesterday's dress lay on the floor in a dismal crumple. She'd refused Myrtin in a horrified voice when he offered to do her laundry. Every day, the old butler seemed to wither a little more, like a pile of ashes eroded by passing breeze.

Seiren hummed, off-tune, before it spiralled to a crescendo and she ran frustrated hands through her raggedy blonde hair, and rolled across the floor.

Here lieth Seiren Harred, who screeched herself to death.

Seiren paused, gritting her teeth, nose buried in the old carpet. Thanks, Madeleine. You know what? Screw the professor. I'm a graduate of King's. I'm a bloody state mage.

Probationary.

I can do magic beyond expectations for my age. She squared her shoulders. I'm not going to sit like some damsel and dither away my days.

You make it sound like you're not being paid for it.

My dignity is impoverished right now.

Seiren jumped to her feet. She patted her pockets – the reassuring rustle of paper and clink of chalks sounded. Flinging the door open, she stomped out, and glanced from side to side.