Liam Russo and the
Pestilence Codex

Prologue

Adopted Arcana

Banff – July 7, 2012

“Elias, my dearest friend. Do you grasp ze significance of what you ‘ave discovered ‘ere tonight?” Henry Montverne’s words hung in the air, his deep voice rolled the vowels in that unmistakable French cadence. Forge light shimmered off his gem-studded rings as he twisted his hand through his long peppered beard. His gaze locked on the auburn-haired little boy beside his father, tapping his new thumb ring like a plaything.

The garage-turned-blacksmith’s workshop was alive with heat—air shimmering, sparks snapping like fireworks against the anvil. Sweat beaded on every brow, but no one seemed to notice.

Elias Varnholt knelt, wiry hair tied up in a loose bun. He wiped soot from his cheeks with the back of his hairy hand, his gaze fixed on the steel ring that gleamed on Matthew’s small finger—the world’s first Infantilis, forged with bloodbound attunement just for him.

“Ready, Matthew?” Elias said, as he clutched his leather apron with both hands. “Go ahead, son. Jus’ like we practiced.”

The boy nodded, trusting, thrilled to be part of whatever this grown-up magic was. He raised his hand toward the tennis ball on the workbench.

“Pelle!”

FWOOOOOM!

The ball launched like a cannon shot, streaking across the twenty-foot room and smacking the far wall with a crack that rattled tools off their hooks. The Infantilis flared brilliant purple for a heartbeat, bathing the forge in sudden starlight—then dimmed back to quiet steel.

Elias laughed—a raw, joyful sound that broke into tears. He clapped Matthew gently on the back.

“Yeh did it, son. Plain-born boy—no fancy blood—an’ yeh just cast like any mageborn heir. By the Forge! That’s a proper Pelle spell if I ever saw one.”

Tashios Kamotano stood frozen across the room, forty, Japanese, hair slicked back, jaw still slack. He ran his fingers through his hair once.

“Interesting,” Tashios said, voice measured and complete. “More than that—the bloodbinding has seated itself perfectly. This ring will respond only to Matthew; no other hand can draw its power. Now that we can forge one for any worthy individual… we open the board to those born without the spark.”

He stepped forward.

“The academy must follow. We screen them with the rigor of a grandmaster analyzing positions—every candidate evaluated before a single ring is committed. Once attuned, the Infantilis grows with its bearer: it rewards practice, discipline, and consistent effort. But if we admit the wrong player to the game…”

He let the sentence hang, quiet, observing the others’ reactions.

Henry’s smile flickered, just for a second. His fingers twisted deeper into his beard as he stared into the forge’s glow. “ ‘Istory ‘as no lack of men who ‘ave abused newfound power. One must consider ze opportunity carefully, n’est-ce-pas? Ze mageborn will not welcome sharing their birthright so easily.”

Matthew bounced on his toes, grinning ear-to-ear. “Pelle! Pelle, Pelle, Pelle!”

Four rapid bursts—

A hammer flew off the bench, spinning wildly toward the ceiling beams.

A pair of tongs whipped sideways, clanging against the far wall inches from Henry’s shoulder—drawing a thin line of blood where they grazed his arm.

A loose iron bar shot upward, embedding itself point-first in a wooden rafter with a splintering thud, shards of wood raining down.

The tennis ball itself rocketed back across the room like a boomerang, forcing Elias to lunge and snatch Matthew out of its path. The boy yelped, startled, eyes wide at the sudden chaos—and the sight of Henry pressing a hand to his bleeding arm.

Elias scooped him up, chest heaving against the boy’s back. “Easy now, son. Power like this is a forge. It gives heat, but it demands care. Stoke it too wild and ye’ll burn the whole smithy down... an’ people get hurt.”

Matthew’s grin faltered, his small voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to…”

Tashios nodded once, though his eyes lingered on the blood. “Precisely. We expand the pool of players—but we guard the process with everything we have. People fear what they cannot control, and covet what lies beyond their reach. Word of this will spread, whether we wish it or not.”

Henry wiped the blood on his sleeve, expression darkening. “A new dawn—for ze plainfolk especially. An opportunity to lift zose wizout lineage…” His voice trailed, gaze flicking to the shadows near the door. “But some will see it as a threat. Or a prize to seize.”

Elias met Henry’s eyes, tightening his hold on his son. “Aye.”

Tashios smiled faintly. “A new dawn, you say? Aurora Ascendit. You have just coined our academy motto, Henry.”

He reached into his coat, produced a small keyring, and slid his thumb across the fobs until he found the one marked Telekey: A.X. Home. The metal gleamed in the warm glow of the forge fire like captured sunlight.

“I’ll take the news to Aristos tonight. Tomorrow, construction of the academy begins. Keep this quiet—for now. And watch your backs.”

He strode to the door at the back of the room; it clicked shut behind him.

In the dying glow of the coals, Matthew pressed his face into his father’s shoulder.

“Daddy… can I magic forever?”

Elias kissed the top of his head, lips curving gently even as his gaze drifted to the shadowed corners of the forge—and the faint, unnatural rustle he thought he heard beyond the walls.

“Only if you’re good, my lad. Only if you’re good. Forge don’t lie—takes work to keep the fire jus’ right. An’ some fires… attract the wrong kind of attention.”

The forge hissed as the last embers settled, casting long shadows across the anvil. Outside, crickets chirped under a starless sky. Inside, the air hummed with unspoken promise—and the first whispers of peril.

<Scene Break>

Banff Bazaar – August 20, 2014

The courtroom smelled of polished oak, old paper, and the heavy, salty sweat of too many anxious bodies pressed together. Heavy velvet drapes muted the light to a bruised gold, while the low hum of enchanted ceiling fixtures cast steady, unforgiving illumination over the proceedings.

George Talbot sat on the defendant’s pew, dark-featured, battle-worn but straight-backed, his bloodshot eyes the only outward sign of the grief that had hollowed him these past seven days.

Across the aisle, the panel of IMBI (International Magical Bureau of Investigation) ministers watched him with varying degrees of disapproval. Behind him stood two IMBI SWAT officers—Roy and Polina Lane—in crisp black uniforms. In the front row sat the architects of the new order: Tashios Kamotano, Elias Varnholt, Henry Montverne, and Aristos Xenakis.

Further along the same bench, seven-year-old dark-haired twins Jayce and Jana Talbot sat on either side of Mave Winters, their small faces pale and rigid. Mave, her vibrant blue hair tied back in a simple knot, had one arm wrapped protectively around each child. Behind them sat her wife, Sheila Winters—red-haired and steady—resting a supportive hand on Mave’s back.

“George Talbot,” the presiding minister intoned, “you have been found guilty of forming and leading a violent uprising. Thirty-seven lives lost. Widespread destruction across the Bazaar.”

Murmurs rippled through the divided audience—half relief, half fury.

“Outrageous! He was defending our way of life!”

“They turned a peaceful protest into a slaughter!”

The second minister raised a hand. The room’s ambient magic dimmed with the gesture, lights and sound both softening. “While the court acknowledges your motivation was not without basis, your actions exceeded all lawful bounds. Once violence erupted, it should have been quelled. Instead, it was weaponized.”

Tashios Kamotano rose smoothly. He adjusted the creases of his tailored suit and ran his fingers through his slicked-back hair once before approaching the stand. “Esteemed ministers. Members of our dear community. The Infantilis has challenged what many considered the natural order for millennia. This disruption is not taken lightly. Dawnspire Academy exists precisely because such change must be guided with rigor. We will screen every candidate. Only those of sound character and judgment will receive an Infantilis.”

He paused, letting the weight settle. “However, the very nature of this innovation suggests magic is meant to be shared. Therefore, the founders propose an alternative to the recommended thirty-year Stasis Sentence. A shortened exile for Mr. Talbot—structured so that he may remain with his children. This exile will conclude exactly when Jayce and Jana complete their secondary education… at which point they will be automatically enrolled at Dawnspire Academy. In this way, Mr. Talbot may one day return to society, and his children will help integrate old and new bloodlines through education rather than conflict.”

Shouts erupted again.

“You want to brainwash his children!”

“Why punish the twins for their father’s actions?”

George Talbot rose. The room fell into uneasy silence. He stood tall, composed, every movement economical. When he spoke, his voice was low, calm, and carrying the quiet certainty of a man who had already reconciled himself to the board in front of him.

“I accept the alternative proposed by Mr. Kamotano.”

The presiding minister leaned forward. “George… you understand this means leaving Talbot Tower? Raising the twins in exile for eleven years?”

George offered a single, deliberate nod. His gaze drifted briefly to his children. For a moment, something almost gentle softened the edges of his expression. “My children have already been deprived of their mother. If this arrangement allows them to keep their father, then it is an act of mercy. I am grateful for it.”

He did not look at Tashios, Elias, or Henry as he sat back down. But in the brief silence that followed, his eyes lingered on the Infantilis ring glinting on a clerk’s finger across the room, and the faintest tightening appeared at the corner of his jaw.

Eleven years.

Plenty of time to prepare. To sharpen his children into the instruments this broken new world would require. When he returned—and he would return—the natural order would be restored. Not with riots this time. With precision.

Chapter 1

Worthy of the Call

Montreal – June 11, 2025.

Nonno Peter’s chapped lips widened into a soft smile as the attending physician removed the last tube from his ventilator. Liam stood at the end of the bed, fastening his grandfather’s shoes. Bright LED panels shone overhead and steady beeps came from the vital signs monitor. The too-familiar smell of hand sanitizer wafted through the room as the doctor drew back the hospital-green curtains.

“Grazie, dottoressa,” Nonno said.

“My pleasure, Mr. Russo.” She smiled at him, then rested a hand on his shoulder. “You gave us quite the scare this time. The antibiotics did the trick, but these exacerbations are getting worse… You need to take good care of yourself, okay?”

“Ey, no problemma, dottore!” Nonno said, beaming at the tall, lean boy tying his shoelaces. “Liam here wants to studia medicina—starts pre-med at McGill in the fall, se tutto va bene.”

She turned to face Liam and noticed the swollen cracks between his fingers. “Try some moisturizer on those knuckles every night before bed; if that doesn’t work you’ll need a topical corticosteroid ointment for a week or two.”

“Thanks, doc. The eczema’s been an uphill battle lately,” Liam said.

Liam’s father—broad-shouldered with salt-and-pepper hair—walked into the room.

“The discharge paperwork is all done, thank you again, doctor.”

She nodded. “Might we have a word before you leave about your father’s condition?”

“Of course,” he turned to Liam. “Son, can you wait with your grandfather? Please check to see that we’ve collected all of his things.”

Liam flashed a thumbs up as the doctor and his father walked outside the room. He pretended to fetch something over by the doorway, moving like someone used to taking up too much space, but trying not to.

“I’m afraid the scar tissue in his lungs is only getting worse. The inflammation is responding less to the inhalers, and each time we put him on a course of prednisone to manage it, the resulting immunosuppression increases his risk of catching infections.”

Silence stretched. Then a soft pat—palm on shoulder—echoed faintly through the doorway.

“How long?” his father said, voice hoarser than usual.

“At this stage of hypersensitivity pneumonitis… a year... maybe? It depends on how often he catches colds. Make sure he’s up to date with his immunizations—”

Hrrrmph.

Dad cleared his throat.

“... and encourage him to stay indoors on cold winter days.”

Liam looked back at his grandfather and watched him button up his vest. Nonno’s fingers—once steady enough to juggle soccer balls with Liam in the kitchen—trembled now, missing the second button twice before he gave up and left it undone. The vest hung crooked, one side lower than the other, like it was tired too. When Nonno reached for his walker, a short, wet cough rattled up from deep in his chest—sharp, like furniture being dragged across a hardwood floor.

Liam’s own chest tightened in echo. “Ready to go home, Nonno?”

His father came back into the room and forced a grin. “Tutto è pronto, andiamo.”

“Ottimo! Rosa sta preparando i ravioli?” Nonno said, rubbing his belly.

Liam laughed. “Yes Nonno, Mom’s making you the welcome home ravioli again.”

His father managed a small chuckle. “I’m glad you have your appetite back, Pa.”

<Scene Break>

Liam woke the following morning to Nonno knocking on his bedroom window. He was a retired military man whose day started at four, and by six, he wondered what Liam was still doing in bed—which often resulted in early wake-up calls for the Russos.

Liam reached for his eyeglasses on his bedside table, swept his messy black hair out of his face, and stumbled to the window. He opened the blind and waved.

Nonno leaned on his walker, breath coming in short, whistling pulls even after those few steps from the upstairs apartment. He flashed a thumbs-up, his rosy cheeks bunched into the same wide grin that used to chase Liam around the living room on Sunday mornings. The gesture dissolved into a cough he tried to muffle behind his fist.

Liam’s own smile flickered, just for a second. He waved back harder, as if vigor could fix the hitch in Nonno’s chest.

He hurried to open the door.

“Buongiorno, Nonno. Feeling better today?”

“Ciao, ragazzo. Sì, sì, molto meglio, grazie!” Nonno shuffled in, he carried that sharp menthol aftershave that always stung Liam’s nose like medicine trying to pretend it was cologne. They headed to the kitchen together.

The Russo home was modest, but comfortable. The kitchen had beige ceramic tiles that lined the backsplash behind the sink; every fourth tile showed a different fruit. Red hot chili peppers tied to white string hung from the cabinet doors, drying for weeks before being ground into flakes for seasoning—their spicy tang lingering in the air like a faint, fiery whisper. The tablecloth echoed the fruit pattern on the backsplash, and there was always a glass bowl holding little chocolates on the counter.

As they entered the room, Cino—short for Cappuccino—the beige toy poodle, ran to Liam and jumped excitedly at his knees to say hello. Liam’s eyes widened, then softened into half-moons of joy at the sounds of Cino’s tiny nails clicking against the tile like frantic raindrops.

“Morning, Pa. Hey lil’ guy!”

“Good morning, son. Pa,” Dad said. He nodded at Liam, and then at Nonno Peter. “Hai dormito bene, Pa?”

“Sì, sì. Molto bene, grazie figlio mio,” Nonno said.

Dad’s shoulders dropped a full inch.

He turned to Liam. “Last exam—chemistry from nine to noon?”

“Yup, after this all I can do is wait. I really hope I get into pre-med… or even pre-pharm.”

Nonno slapped the table.

“No worry, Liam! You studia more than any kid I ever met—like a young striker kickin’ penalties till his legs give out, eh? You gonna score big, ragazzo.” He cleared his throat with a small hrrrmph, smile lingering like he had all the time left in the world. “And you have a way of makin’ people comfable when you talk, ey? If they no take a you, who they gonna take?”

“Pre-pharm could lead right into an entrepreneurial venture someday,” Dad said, eyes bright with the dream of a family shop. “Build something solid, son. Jobs are like tenants—they come and go—but a business that solves problems is like a building with a good foundation. It lasts.”

“Thanks... We’ll see what happens,” Liam said. He brought his thumb to his mouth, bit the nail for half a second, then dropped it before his dad noticed. “I mean, I ground the beans, tamped them just right, pulled a solid double-shot, frothed the milk, even nailed the rosetta this time… no worries, right? It really is up to the admission departments now.”

He leaned over to refill their cups, pouring Nonno’s cup first, the way he always did now—slowly so he could steady it without trembling. Nonno’s hand shook just enough that a drop spilled onto the fruit-patterned tablecloth. He chuckled, and the laugh dissolved into a quick, muffled cough he waved away.

Liam pretended not to notice the way Nonno’s shoulders rose higher with each breath, as if borrowing air from the room itself.

Dad realized there wasn’t enough coffee left in the pot. “Fill your own cup first, son, and let others benefit from the overflow.”

Nonno chuckled. “He’s a giver this one, ey Angelo? Hai fatto bene, figlio mio.”

He ruffled Liam’s hair with a warm, calloused hand.

“Sì, Pa,” Dad said. He poured some of his own coffee back into Liam’s cup. “You need to be sharp for your exam; I’ll make another pot when your mother wakes.”

Liam nodded, pulled out his notes, and reviewed while he caffeinated. Cino circled the spot beneath his chair and cozied up into a ball for a light nap.

The three men settled into easy quiet—newspaper pages turning with a soft rustle, phone scrolling, highlighter moving across paper squeaking faintly—until Liam kissed them goodbye.

<Scene Break>

A couple hours later, Liam emerged from the exam room with time to spare. Despite the steady June rain, he stepped away from his high school auditorium with dimples curling in both cheeks.

Summer.

By 11:00 a.m. he walked down the street toward his favourite local coffee shop, ready for the traditional post-exam latte.

The street was almost empty; the morning rush had passed and the lunch crowd hadn’t arrived. A brisk wind whipped rain sideways, howling through the alleys and plastering Liam’s damp t-shirt to his skin. Twenty feet ahead, a businesswoman fought with her umbrella and her phone call at the same time. A sudden gust knocked her sideways; she caught herself, kept walking, and never noticed the wallet that fell from her half-open purse or the bills fluttering out like startled pigeons.

“Ma’am! Your purse!” Liam said, but the wind swallowed his voice.

No one else was near.

He jogged forward, his wet socks sloshing in his sneakers with each step, scooping bills and wallet alike.

He tapped her on the shoulder, the fabric slick and cold under his fingers. She spun, wary—then saw the soaked young man holding out her belongings with a smile.

“This flew out during that gust. A few bills got away, but I saved what I could.”

She ended her call. “Oh my goodness—thank you! Here, keep the wet ones. Really, I insist.”

He tried to refuse; she pressed the damp twenties into his hand anyway. They parted with smiles.

Liam entered the rustic café and was greeted by the hiss of the espresso machine, the smell of roasted beans, and the familiar squeak of century-old floorboards beneath his wet shoes. As he took his place in line, the familiar bitter aroma wrapped him like a warm shawl.

When he reached the front, the middle-aged, red-haired barista looked at him with her forest-green eyes. “Hey Liam, how’d that last exam go?”

“Hey Steph, it went well, thanks. How’s Tuk-Tuk? Still fighting with the Elizabethan collar?”

“Oh my gosh, you wouldn’t believe it. We think he’s gotten used to it and then all of a sudden it comes flying onto the kitchen table!”

“It’s a good thing they’re cute, y’know?”

“You said it!”

“Is the wound healing well, at least?”

“Yup, no concerns there. So, one latte, to stay?”

Liam grinned. “You know it.”

Minutes later, Liam had his latte in hand when someone bumped him hard from behind.

TSSSK! 

Scalding coffee splashed across his knuckles, seeping into the cracks of his winter-long eczema. Pain flared white-hot.

Steph glanced over from behind the counter, lips pressed tight. “Are you okay?”

“Apologies,” the stranger said, pulling out a wad of napkins. “Let me replace that. Two more lattes, please,” he told Steph. He turned back to Liam, his voice calm and musical. “Please forgive me. I’m a doctor—would you sit with me while I inspect your hand?”

Something in that voice made Liam nod.

“All good, thanks Steph.”

They took the corner table.

The man extended a hand. “Blake MacGorne.”

Liam hesitated, then offered his red, swollen one. “Liam Russo.”

They shook—and the pain vanished. So did every cracked, swollen patch of eczema.

Liam stared, turning his hand over in disbelief.

“Please, have a seat,” MacGorne said, fiddling briefly with the button on his vest. “We have a great deal to discuss—and I promise, no more flare-ups on my watch. A clean bill of health, wouldn’t you say?”

Liam’s jaw clenched. He took a seat.

MacGorne looked barely forty—tall and lean, polished in a charcoal three-piece suit, long black hair swept back like an old-world noble, beard trimmed with surgical precision.

“What did you do to my hand, doc? I’m grateful, but…” A faint tremor ran through his fingers.

MacGorne leaned back, his old wooden chair creaked as he took up space and looked perfectly at home. “I’ve been watching you for some time, Liam. This was no chance encounter. The wallet on the street was no accident either.”

“Okay… am I in danger here, doc?”

MacGorne shook his head. “Quite the opposite.” He leaned in. “To the world I am Dr. MacGorne, surgeon. To the hidden world I am Professor MacGorne, Biomancer and Head of House Naturae at Dawnspire Academy.”

Liam’s breath caught; the cracks that had mapped his knuckles for years were gone—smooth, unmarred. He flexed his fingers; no pull, no sting.

“Dawnspire Academy is a university for teaching worthy students the ways of the magical arts. The school was inspired by a unique discovery allowing magic to be shared with plainfolk, which was previously impossible.”

Liam took a moment to let the professor’s words land. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “To be clear, doc… you’re saying magic is real? I mean, full-on real? And you’re recruiting people like me—no spark, no nothing—for your own house at the school?”

MacGorne’s posture opened as he nodded—chest forward, arms loose at both sides. “I practice biomancy, the branch of magic that specializes in life-based spells—manipulating organic matter to heal raw wounds.”

Liam examined his hand again. Meanwhile, he felt eyes on him—two tables over. A couple, vaguely familiar. At first their glances were curious, flicking to his hand, then to MacGorne’s polished suit. By the time Liam looked up, curiosity had hardened into something colder, sharper.

“Why me? I’m a strong student, but I don’t know what else I have to offer… I come from a catholic family, and until today I wouldn’t have believed in magic if I hadn’t just experienced it first-hand—literally!” He pressed his knuckles together under the table, mind reeling. Nonno on the ventilator. Dad’s cracked ‘How long?’ Years of fights over evolution books and Sunday Mass crashing against this impossible new truth.

Now magic?

MacGorne read the turmoil in Liam’s gaze and waited—still as weathered stone.

Liam broke from his trance as Steph delivered the two lattes they’d ordered, MacGorne refused the change and offered it to her as a generous tip.

“Thank you, Miss,” MacGorne said.

She blushed and turned to Liam, who gave a small nod.

“Thanks for replacing the latte, doc—or do you prefer, professor?”

“Either is fine, Liam. Mmm, quite good,” MacGorne said, taking his first sip, the thick foam creamy on his tongue. “I can see why you like this place.”

When the barista had gone, the professor continued.

“I’ve been watching you, because I believe you are worthy of joining us. You are determined in your studies to become a healthcare provider, which shows discipline and selflessness, you are kind in your demeanor, and you have shown restraint when tempted by both power and greed today.”

“The wallet?” Liam asked between sips. He’d stopped brandishing his knuckles; the latte’s warmth already loosening the knot in his shoulders.

“Precisely. The wallet was stuffed with bills, no witnesses in sight. Most patients—er, people—would have pocketed it and walked away. You resisted the temptation. A very healthy immune response to greed, I’d call it.” He gave a small, knowing smile.

“Right, but… It wasn’t my money to keep, y’know?”

“Exactly. And when I spilled coffee on you—when I was clearly in the wrong—you stayed calm instead of lashing out.”

“I mean… These things aren’t usually done on purpose; what good would yelling and causing a scene be for anyone?”

MacGorne’s gaze lingered on the way Liam’s posture softened with each sip, the tension bleeding out of him like a spell unwinding. “Magic is a powerful tool—arguably the most powerful tool of all. But wielding it without morality is a recipe for disaster, as our community has witnessed many times throughout the ages…”

“So you’re testing people first… to make sure they won’t abuse it?”

MacGorne produced a tiny, almost imperceptible chin lift-and-drop. “By confirming the non-teachable attributes first, we filter students that we believe will use magic to help solve problems—instead of creating them.”

“Solving problems sounds great, but… what would this mean for my studies? Would I have to give up pre-med completely?” Liam leaned back, thumb drifting toward his mouth again before he caught himself. “All the late nights, all the extra credit, the grinding… all down the drain? ”

“Yes, but imagine healing on a scale that medicine could never attain. You may return home whenever you please, but you must keep the magical side of your life secret—forever.”

“That’s a big ask, doc. How would I explain where I am? And how could I learn to help people… but never use it on my loved ones?”

“You will understand the need for secrecy once you experience the greed of man. Many of our kind were enslaved, or executed when they refused to be controlled. You’ve heard of the witch trials?”

Liam nodded, glancing again toward the couple two tables down. They looked away—but not before he caught the shift: curiosity gone sour.

A low mutter drifted over, barely audible: “Brown-noser.”

MacGorne followed Liam’s gaze for a moment, then leaned in slightly, voice dropping to that same calm, measured tone. “The most dangerous creature on earth, Liam, is a frightened human being. Secrecy is the best preventive medicine against misuse—without it, even the kindest gift becomes a weapon in fearful hands.”

…

“I see.”

“Great! Now, once you join us you may still use your abilities for morally acceptable purposes—like healing a sick friend or family member—provided you are discreet.”

Nodding, Liam lingered on the word ‘discreet’. He was never great at keeping secrets. He’d spoiled his father’s 50th birthday surprise only a few months prior because he didn’t want him to show up to dinner underdressed, and Mr. Russo kept refusing to change out of his comfortable jeans and the Level 50 Unlocked sweater that he’d given him earlier that morning.

Thinking of Dad made him think of Nonno. He recalled the hospital room yesterday—the chapped lips, the unshaven cheeks taped down by respirator tubes. He pictured Nonno’s smile flickering out like a dying ember.

“Tell me doc… the type of healing magic you teach… can it fix things modern medicine can’t?” Liam asked, with one eyebrow raised.

MacGorne smirked. “I wouldn’t have given up my practice if it didn’t. But magic, like any good treatment, has side effects if mishandled. Treat only the symptom without addressing the underlying pathology, and the condition returns—stronger, more resistant.”

“OK, but since you’re asking me to walk away from everything I’ve worked towards for my entire life... I… May I have some time to think about it?”

MacGorne reached into his vest pocket. “I’d expect nothing less. This is without a doubt, the biggest decision you will ever make. How about I give you a month to ponder, and we can meet again to discuss your answer?”

“Sure, thanks again—for the coffee, and for the faith you have in me.”

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you at last.”

MacGorne scribbled an address on the back of his business card and slid it across the smooth epoxy table. “Noon, July 12th. I trust you’ll have your answer then.”

Liam took the card and nestled it into his pocket for safekeeping.

“Oh—one last thing. If anyone notices your eczema is gone, tell them you finally started applying petrolatum ointment right after bathing. Scientifically proven, traps moisture, repairs the skin barrier, et cetera. They’ll believe that.” He rose with a warm smile. “Goodbye for now, Liam.”

The professor left. Liam sat alone a moment longer, absently rubbing the place where the eczema used to be. The card felt heavier in his pocket than its thin cardboard warranted.

“Bootlicking your way into another scholarship, Russo?” The voice carried, waiting for MacGorne’s exit.

“Yeah, save some for the rest of us, keener—valedictorian wasn’t enough for you?”

Liam paused. A month ago he might have defended himself—extra credit work, hours spent tutoring, midnight oil burned. The words felt trivial now.

He stood and met their eyes with a calm gaze. “Have a great summer, guys.”

Their mouths worked soundlessly. He gathered the cups, returned them to Steph with a quiet thanks, and walked out. They didn’t matter anymore.

Magic is real… and it wants me.

He stepped back into the rain, its steady patter drumming warm on his shoulders, but for once the damp didn’t sting his hands.

For the first time in his life, his skin stayed smooth beneath the drops.