The words of the goddess burned behind his eyes. He read them again. And a third time. He knew what "eat out" meant.
"You sick fucking bitch!" he roared at the cracked ceiling, his voice raw. He sprang up from the bed, pacing the small room like a caged animal. "Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?"
He threw his hands up in the air, talking to the silent, invisible deity he knew was listening. "Did you not see what just happened? Did you not watch her walk away from me? She hates my guts! She thinks I'm a selfish, prying asshole! And you want me to do that?"
The scene played out in his mind:
'Hey, Anna... I know you hate my guts right now, but if you let me put my face between your legs, I might be able to save your sister.' She would probably stab me!
He would deserve it.
"How?" he yelled, kicking the leg of the flimsy chair.
"How the hell am I supposed to make that happen!?"
He stopped pacing, his chest heaving. The rage was still there, a hot fire in his gut. But beneath it, a cold, familiar pragmatism began to surface.
He was a businessman. And this, in its own twisted, disgusting way, was a business deal. A quest. A reward. A transaction.
And the goddess, for all her perversion, always kept her word.
This was the only path forward. The only clue, the only chance he had to get information on Mana Sickness.
He couldn't punch the sickness. He couldn't persuade it. But maybe, just maybe, he could do this. For Anna's sister.
His mind, the mind of a charlatan, began to work. He couldn't ask. He couldn't demand. He couldn't even hint at it. It had to be her choice.
He had to earn it.
He had to make up for being a blind, clumsy idiot.
A plan began to form, a desperate, brilliant long shot. He would fix what he broke. Tomorrow, after their scam, he wouldn't let her just run away.
He would take her out. He would be charming and funny. He would be the man Elmarie thought he was, a new side of him a could show Anna.
"I'll take her to the night market tonight"
He would buy her a hundred frosted milks if she wanted.
He would win her one of those stupid animals from the ring toss game.
He would be a shining beacon of manliness and charisma.
And then, when the moment was right, when he had earned back even a fraction of her trust, he would tell her how he felt.
All of it.
He clenched his fists, a new determination hardening his features. It wasn't just for Elmarie. It wasn't just for Anna.
It was for him, too.
He had to prove he wasn't the fool who had hurt the one person who mattered. He would do this. He had to.
He threw himself back onto the bed, the springs groaning in protest. He closed his eyes, willing his mind to go blank, to find the quiet dark of sleep. But it was no use. The plan was set, but his thoughts were frantic.
Every time he shut his eyes, he saw Elmarie's pale, calm face.
'I'm going to die soon, August. Please… look after her when I'm gone.'
The words were a brand on his brain. Then the image would shift to Anna. Her glassy, wounded eyes in the alley. Her forced, snorting laugh at his stupid jokes. Her body pressed against his in the garbage pile.
He groaned and rolled over, punching his lumpy pillow.
This was useless!
He couldn't lie here and stew in his own failure. He needed to do something.
He sat up, his eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering in from the street. His gaze fell on the simple wooden chair in the corner of the room. Magic. He needed to practice. His new plan depended on pulling off a perfect scam tomorrow. He couldn't afford any mistakes.
An odd thought struck him. He'd been using [Mimic] on and off for a week.
He'd heard tales from adventurers in the market, mages complaining about "mana drain" or "arcane fatigue" after even simple spells. Yet he hadn't felt a thing.
Not a headache, not a shiver. It was as if he had a bottomless well of energy for his illusions. He shrugged. Another strange thing about his gift from the goddess. He wouldn't question a good thing.
He focused on the chair. He pictured it not as cheap pine, but as solid, grey stone, like the castle walls. He pushed the magic out. The illusion settled over the wood, the grain vanishing, replaced by the visual texture of rough-hewn rock.
He got up and walked over, running his hand over it. It looked perfect, but the illusion felt thin, fragile. He knew if he pushed on it, the magic would shatter.
He let the spell drop.
He tried again.
This time, he pictured the table as the bark of the tree, still wood but with a rougher texture. The illusion flowed over it, slowly changing the table's texture.
It felt stronger, more stable. He even managed to make an ugly knot in the wood disappear completely.
He spent the next hour testing the limits. He turned the chair's legs from square to round. He changed the lumpy mattress on the bed to look like it was covered in fine silk sheets.
He tried to make the chair look like it had a fifth leg, but the illusion flickered and died instantly. He knew he couldn't change the basic shape too much, but he should still practice.
I can fine tune bigger illusions, but forming them takes longer than small things like the dagger.
As he tried to turn the cracked water pitcher into silver, that he finally felt it. A weight began to pull at his eyelids.
A wave of exhaustion washed over him, so sudden it made him stumble. His focus blurred. The silver illusion on the pitcher wavered, then vanished, leaving only the plain clay.
So that was it. Not a sharp pain or a sudden drain, but a slow, creeping drowsiness.
His bottomless well had a bottom after all.
He barely had the strength to stumble back to the bed. He didn't even bother to pull the thin blanket over himself. The moment his head hit the pillow, the storm in his mind went silent. He was asleep.
**************
BAM. BAM. BAM.
The sound echoed inside his skull. August jolted awake, his heart pounding. The room was bright, the morning sun already high in the sky.
BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM.
The knocking was frantic, violent. It didn't stop. He groaned, his body feeling heavy and slow, the memory of his late-night magic practice clinging to him.
He swung his legs out of bed and stumbled towards the door, each thunderous knock rattling his teeth.
He fumbled with the latch and pulled the door open.
A tiny, furious form stood on his doorstep. Anna's face was flushed a deep red, her hands were planted firmly on her hips, and her green eyes were blazing.
"Where have you been?" she shouted, her voice sharp and loud enough to make heads turn in the common room below.
"Do you have any idea what time it is? We were supposed to meet two hours ago! I've been waiting like an idiot!"
August stared at her, his foggy mind struggling to catch up. Two hours? He glanced past her towards the inn's big, grimy window. The sun was much higher than it should be.
He, a farm boy who woke with the roosters, had overslept. The magical exhaustion had completely knocked him out.
His first instinct was to tell her the truth, to apologize. But he saw the anger in her face, the frustration. After last night, telling her he'd been too tired would just make him look lazy, unreliable. It would make everything worse.
In a split second, a different instinct took over. The familiar mask of the charlatan slipped into place.
His sleepy confusion vanished, replaced by a look of manic excitement. "Anna! Perfect timing! You won't believe it. Come in, you have to see this."
He grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her into the room before she could protest, and slammed the door shut behind her.
He let go and gestured grandly at the room. "I was up all night practicing! I had a breakthrough!"
Anna's angry retort died in her throat. She looked where he was pointing. The cheap pine chair by the door now looked like a deformed tree.
The lumpy straw mattress on the bed was covered in what looked like the finest, smoothest silk.
"I figured it out," August said, his voice buzzing with false energy. "The key is to not change the object too much. You work with what's there. You enhance it. The illusions are stronger this way, more stable. I just… I got so focused, I completely lost track of the time."
He watched her face. The anger drained away, replaced by a look of stunned surprise. The fire in her eyes softened. He saw her glance from the illusion-covered furniture to him, and for a second, a flash of guilt crossed her features.
She'd been screaming at him for working, for getting better at the very thing their entire plan now depended on.
She cleared her throat, looking away from him. "Oh. Right." She straightened her worn tunic, all business again. "Well, that's good. But we've wasted enough time. Be more responsible next time"
She turned and marched to the door, pulling it open. "Follow me," she commanded, not looking back.
"We have a lot to get through if we want to hit the market before noon. And no, you don't have time for breakfast."
It's finally time. I won't screw this up.