2009, London, the Clocktower
The words on the page blurred together for the third time in as many minutes.
Olga Marie Animusphere sat rigid in her usual corner of the west wing library—the quietest, most isolated sanctuary in all the Clocktower for her. The leather chair had long since molded to her frame from countless midnight vigils. Around her, towers of books on Spiritual Evocation magecraft formed a fortress against the outside world, their spines cracked from obsessive study. The oil lamp beside her had burned so low that shadows pooled thick across the table.
She should have been studying. Instead, her fingers traced the embossed cover of The Three Musketeers, the worn leather soft as silk beneath her touch.
Outside these walls, she was the Animusphere heir. The daughter of one of the Clocktower's lords. A title that should have opened every door, commanded every respect. Instead, it had become a noose tightening around her throat with each passing day.
The others didn't understand. How could they? They saw only the resources—the private tutors, the ancient tomes, access to mysteries that would make lesser families weep with envy. They didn't see the sleepless nights. The way her hands trembled when her father's assistants delivered yet another report comparing her progress to Kirschtaria's. They didn't feel the hollow ache in her chest when she overheard whispers in the hallways: "Such a shame about the Animusphere's daughter. It seems even the supposedly blood of Solomon had to thin eventually."
A week ago, she'd learned she had zero Master aptitude.
Zero.
The word still felt like a knife between her ribs.
Her fingers tightened on the book until her knuckles went white. In these pages, d'Artagnan never failed. In these pages, loyalty and courage mattered more than bloodline and innate talent. In these pages, she could pretend—just for a few stolen hours—that she was someone worthy of the name she carried.
But dawn always came. And with it, reality.
Olga set the novel aside with shaking hands and pulled her notes closer. The lamplight caught on the pages—covered in her cramped, desperate handwriting. Diagrams of circuits. Failed calculations. Corrections upon corrections, each one a testament to her inadequacy.
She'd been practicing the same basic Spiritual Evocation exercise for three months.
Three. Months.
First-year students mastered it in weeks.
Her jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached. Focus. She just needed to focus. If she couldn't be a Master, if she couldn't lead Chaldea the way her father envisioned, then she had to at least—
The circuits in her mind's eye flickered and died. Again.
"No," she whispered, pressing her palms against her temples. "No, no, no—"
She tried again. Visualized the pathways, the flow of od, the precise configuration required to—
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
Her breath came faster, shallower. The walls of books seemed to press inward. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she was spiraling, but she couldn't stop. Couldn't think past the roaring panic building in her chest.
"Why can't I—" Her voice cracked. She barely recognized the frantic rasp as her own. "Something so simple—I have to—"
A soft thud echoed through the library. The sound of books being reshelved, perhaps. She didn't process it. Didn't care.
She ran through the exercise again, hands trembling over her notes like she might find salvation in the margins. The familiar pattern that should have been second nature by now felt like grasping at smoke.
Footsteps.
Behind her.
Growing closer.
Olga's head snapped up, and she spun in her chair. For one horrifying moment, she forgot to school her expression—forgot to mask the raw desperation, the tears burning hot behind her eyes, the naked terror of inadequacy caught in the open.
She looked like a child struggling with arithmetic. No—worse. She looked like the daughter of a Nobel laureate who couldn't add two and two even after years of private tutoring.
The young man who stood three paces away stopped mid-step.
Time seemed to crystallize around them.
He was...
Olga's thoughts stuttered. Her panic didn't vanish so much as transform into a different kind of paralysis.
His hair fell in soft waves of pale blue-silver, catching the lamplight like moonlight on water. But it was his face that stole the breath from her lungs. Not handsome—that word was too mundane, too human. He looked like something that had stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, all perfect symmetry and ethereal grace. Skin like porcelain, features so delicate and precise they seemed almost unreal. Blue eyes regarded her with an expression caught somewhere between concern and gentle amusement.
If someone had asked her to describe masculine beauty in its purest form, stripped of all earthly imperfection, she would have described him.
And he was staring directly at her breakdown.
Olga wanted to sink through the floor and keep going until she hit the planet's core.
But he didn't comment on the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. Didn't mention the scattered notes or her white-knuckled grip on the table. Instead, he simply... smiled. Not mocking. Not pitying. Just warm.
"Since I started working here a few weeks ago," he said, his voice carrying the same impossible refinement as his appearance, "you're always the last one to leave every night."
He set a tray down on the edge of her desk with careful precision. A cup of coffee, its aroma rich enough to cut through the musty smell of old books. And a croissant that looked like it had been stolen from a Parisian bakery—golden, flaky, still warm enough that she could see the faint steam rising from it.
Olga's stomach chose that exact moment to let out a sound like a dying whale.
Her face burned hot enough to ignite parchment.
The young man's expression didn't change, but something flickered in those blue eyes. Amusement? No—something kinder than that.
"So I brought some offerings for the night owl of the west wing," he continued, as if her stomach hadn't just betrayed her in the most mortifying way possible. He gestured to the coffee and croissant. "When you finish, you can leave everything there"—he nodded to a spot near the lamp—"and I'll come pick it up. Or bring it to the desk. Whichever's easier."
He turned to leave.
"Wait—" The word escaped before she could stop it.
He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
Olga's mind raced. She should thank him. Should ask his name. Should say something other than sitting here gaping like a fish.
But he just offered that same gentle smile and walked away, his footsteps fading into the shadows between the shelves.
For a long moment, Olga stared at the food.
Poison. That was her first thought. But no—anyone working in a Clocktower library would have undergone background checks that would make intelligence agencies jealous. Knowledge was currency here. Security was absolute.
Besides, she told herself as her fingers inched toward the croissant, she was making logical deductions. It had nothing to do with how the smell made her mouth water. Nothing to do with the fact that she'd skipped both lunch and dinner in favor of another futile practice session.
Nothing at all.
She took a bite.
The sound that tried to escape her throat was mortifying enough that she clapped her free hand over her mouth. Butter and sweetness and warmth exploded across her tongue. When had she last eaten something that wasn't cafeteria rations choked down between study sessions?
When had she last tasted anything at all?
Something cracked inside her chest. The dam she'd built from pride and desperation and sheer stubborn will.
Tears slipped down her cheeks—quiet, hot, shameful. But she didn't stop eating. The coffee followed, bitter and perfect, cutting through the sweetness. Each sip, each bite felt like a small rebellion against the crushing weight on her shoulders.
For just these few stolen moments, she let herself forget the failed exercises. Forget Kirschtaria's shadow. Forget her father's disappointed silence and the whispers that followed her through the halls.
For just these few moments, she let herself simply... be.
When she finally finished, she sat back in her chair and stared at the empty plate. The panic hadn't disappeared entirely—it still lurked at the edges of her mind like a patient predator. But it had receded enough that she could breathe again.
She gathered the dishes and walked them to the front desk on unsteady legs.
The beautiful stranger sat there, nose-deep in a book. As she drew closer, Olga caught sight of the title: The Count of Monte Cristo.
She stopped dead.
Here, in one of the greatest repositories of magical knowledge in the entire world, surrounded by grimoires that families would kill to access, mysteries that could reshape reality itself...
He was reading a novel.
"Here are the dishes." She set them down with more force than necessary, still refusing to meet his eyes. The memory of her breakdown was too fresh, too raw. But she forced the next words out anyway, because she'd been raised better than to accept kindness without acknowledgment. "Your food was... adequate."
Adequate.
It had been the best thing she'd eaten in months, and they both knew it.
That smile again—sharper this time, almost playful. "Would you prefer cream or not cream in tomorrow's coffee?"
"Do not be absurd." Olga drew herself up to her full height, which admittedly wasn't very impressive. "Don't assume I'll come back."
She turned on her heel and fled before he could respond.
His laugh followed her all the way to the library doors. Rich and warm and utterly insufferable.
She absolutely, definitely, certainly did not hear it.
Despite her protests, Olga returned the next night.
And the night after that.
And the night after that.
It became a rhythm, as natural as breathing. She would arrive as the sun set, claim her corner fortress, wage her nightly war against Spiritual Evocation exercises that refused to cooperate. And when the frustration built to a breaking point, when her hands shook too hard to hold her pen steady and the words on the page dissolved into meaningless squiggles—
He would appear.
Always with coffee. Always with something warm and fresh and impossibly delicious. Always with that same gentle, knowing smile that said he understood exactly what she wasn't saying.
She learned his name on the third night: Cicero Tempest.
She learned they shared several classes on the fourth night. Classes where he was inevitably surrounded by a constellation of admirers—mostly female, though not exclusively. People are drawn to that ethereal beauty like moths to flame.
She told herself she didn't care.
She told herself she definitely didn't notice the way he'd politely extract himself from their attention, or how his expression would shift to something brighter when he spotted her in the hallways.
"This blend is..." She paused over her coffee on the eighth night, searching for the right word. "Acceptable. Far superior to the swill they keep in the commissary."
She made herself take another sip before continuing, her voice dropping so low he had to lean in to hear.
"...Nobody else has presumed to interrupt my work before, but you... are excused."
Another pause. Her fingers tightened on the cup.
"Do not let it become a habit."
"Would you prefer the swill tomorrow?"
"Perish the thought."
The sound that escaped her wasn't quite a laugh. Just a soft snort, barely perceptible, gone before it fully formed. But Cicero's answering grin suggested he'd caught it anyway.
Progress came in those small moments. On the way she stopped flinching when he approached. In how she'd occasionally—very occasionally—offer commentary on whatever novel he was reading at the desk. In the gradual realization that he never once asked about her exercises, never brought up her failures, never looked at her with anything resembling pity.
He just... saw her.
Not the Animusphere heir. Not the disappointment. Not the girl drowning under impossible expectations.
Just Olga.
But her nightly practice sessions still ended the same way. With trembling hands and blurred vision and that crushing sense of inadequacy that no amount of coffee could wash away.
Some things, she thought bitterly, even Cicero's kindness couldn't fix.
The ambush came during Elemental Theory.
Olga had known Professor Blackwood disliked her—his cutting remarks during lectures had made that clear enough. But she'd assumed he'd maintain the same veneer of professional courtesy that most faculty extended to a Lord's daughter.
She'd been wrong.
"Miss Animusphere." His voice cut across the classroom like a scalpel, stopping her mid-step as she tried to leave. "A moment."
The other students slowed, sensing blood in the water. Nobody left the room. Of course they didn't. They just... lingered. Pretended to gather their notes. Drew out packing their bags.
Vultures, the lot of them.
"This exercise—" Professor Blackwood's finger stabbed at her submitted work like he was identifying a tumor. "This is one of the most basic applications in the field. First-year material. And yet you've managed to bungle even this fundamental concept."
Heat crawled up Olga's neck. She kept her spine straight through sheer force of will.
"I understand, Professor. I'll review the—"
"You'll review?" His laugh was sharp enough to draw blood. "My dear girl, I've seen your 'reviews.' I've watched you struggle with material that my actual talented students master in their sleep." He leaned forward, voice dropping to a stage whisper that carried perfectly to every corner of the room. "Tell me—does your father know how thoroughly you're squandering the Animusphere legacy? Or is he simply in denial about his daughter's mediocrity?"
The words hit like physical blows. Olga's vision tunneled. Her carefully constructed mask cracked, and for one horrible moment, she felt tears burning behind her eyes.
Not here. Not in front of everyone.
"Professor Blackwood."
The new voice was silk over steel.
Cicero stood in the doorway, books tucked under one arm, expression pleasant. But something in those blue eyes made the temperature in the room plummet.
"Mr. Tempest." Professor Blackwood straightened, clearly surprised. "This is a private conversation—"
"Is it?" Cicero's smile never wavered as he walked forward, each step measured and precise. "Curious. Because from where I was standing, it sounded remarkably like public humiliation."
"I'm providing constructive feedback to a struggling student."
"Constructive." Cicero stopped beside Olga's desk, still smiling that terrible, beautiful smile. "Interesting word choice. Tell me, Professor—in your extensive pedagogical experience, does 'constructive feedback' typically include questioning a student's worth based on their family name? I ask because I'm new to teaching methodology, you see. I want to make sure I understand the proper techniques."
Professor Blackwood's face purpled. "You presume—"
"I observe." Cicero picked up Olga's paper with careful fingers, scanning it. "And I observe that Miss Animusphere has actually identified an elegant alternative approach to this problem. Unconventional, certainly. But elegant. It suggests she's been studying well beyond first-year material—she's exploring theoretical applications most students wouldn't encounter until their third year at minimum."
He set the paper down gently.
"So perhaps, Professor, the issue isn't her understanding. Perhaps it's that you're looking for a specific answer rather than evaluating the quality of thought."
The silence stretched like pulled taffy.
"How dare you—" Professor Blackwood started.
"I dare because I value accuracy." Cicero's voice remained pleasant. Polite, even. But something in his posture shifted—a predator showing the edge of its teeth. "And I notice you haven't actually addressed my point. Is her solution incorrect, or merely different from what you expected?"
Professor Blackwood's mouth worked soundlessly.
"That's what I thought." Cicero turned to Olga, and his expression softened immediately—the sharp edges melting away. "Shall we? I believe we're going to be late for Spiritual Evocation Theory."
They didn't have Spiritual Evocation Theory together.
But Olga didn't correct him. She just gathered her books with numb fingers and let him guide her out of the room, past the staring students, into the mercifully empty hallway.
They walked in silence for several minutes. Olga's hands trembled so badly she nearly dropped her books twice. The tears she'd been fighting finally escaped, hot and shameful against her cheeks.
"Here." Cicero steered her into an empty classroom, closing the door behind them. He didn't say anything. Didn't offer empty platitudes. Just... waited.
Olga sank into a chair, books clutched to her chest like armor.
"You didn't have to do that," she whispered.
"I know."
"He'll make things worse for me now."
"Probably."
"Then why—"
"Because he was wrong." Cicero leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "And because someone needed to tell him so." His blue eyes caught hers, steady and sure. "And because you're not mediocre, Olga. You're brilliant. You just don't see it yet."
The sob that escaped her was ugly and broken. All her carefully maintained composure shattered like glass.
"I can't even—" Her voice cracked. "I can't even manage basic exercises. Do you know what they say about me? The daughter of Marisbury Animusphere, and I'm—I'm nothing. I'm a failure. I can't be a Master, I can't live up to my family name, I can't—"
"Stop."
She looked up, vision blurred.
Cicero had moved closer, crouching down so they were eye-level. His expression was impossibly gentle.
"You're not a failure," he said quietly. "You're a person who's been drowning under impossible expectations, who's been working herself to exhaustion every single night, who's been trying so hard to be perfect that she's forgotten how to simply... learn."
He reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away. When she didn't, his hand settled on her shoulder—warm and steady.
"You come to that library every night. Stay until the early hours. Push yourself past exhaustion. Do you know what that tells me?" His smile turned crooked. "That you're one of the most determined people I've ever met. That you don't give up, even when every voice around you says you should. That's not failure, Olga. That's strength."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to list all the ways he was wrong. But the words wouldn't come past the tightness in her throat.
"Thank you," she managed finally. "For... for defending me."
"Always." He squeezed her shoulder once before standing. "Now, let's get you somewhere you can catch your breath. The library?"
"Won't you get in trouble? We're supposed to be in class."
That foxy smile returned. "Perish the thought. I never get in trouble."
Despite everything, Olga felt her lips twitch. "Arrogant."
"Confident."
"Impossible."
"Probably."
They walked to the library together, and for the first time since Professor Blackwood's ambush, Olga felt like she could breathe.
Two weeks later, they'd settled into something that felt almost like friendship.
Olga had started arriving at the library earlier, ostensibly to maximize her study time. The fact that this meant more time talking with Cicero was purely coincidental. Absolutely. Certainly.
"You're reading The Count of Monte Cristo again," she observed, setting her books down with a soft thump. "That's the third time this month."
Cicero didn't look up from his page. "Fourth, actually. I started over last week."
"Why?" She couldn't keep the genuine curiosity from her voice. "Surely you've memorized it by now."
"Because every time I read it, I notice something new." He marked his place with a finger and looked up at her. "Edmond Dantès starts as this naive, optimistic sailor. Gets betrayed by people he trusted, thrown into prison for fourteen years. Comes out transformed—brilliant, wealthy, and absolutely ruthless." His blue eyes gleamed. "But here's what fascinates me: was his revenge worth it? Did destroying his enemies heal the wound, or did he just create new scars?"
Olga frowned, considering. "He gets his revenge. That's the point."
"Is it though?" Cicero tilted his head. "Because at the end, he's alone. Everyone he loved is dead or thinks he's dead. He has all the money and power in the world, but what does he actually have that matters?"
"Justice," Olga said firmly. "He had justice."
"Maybe." Cicero's smile turned sad. "Or maybe he just proved that the system that destroyed him was exactly as broken as he thought. That the only way to win was to become just as manipulative and cruel as the people who hurt him."
Something in his tone made Olga pause. She studied his face, noting the way his expression had shifted—still pleasant, but with an edge of something darker underneath.
"That sounds... personal," she ventured.
Cicero laughed, but it lacked his usual warmth. "Perceptive. Yeah, I suppose it is." He set the book down. "Want to know something embarrassing? When I was younger, I used to think I was him. The noble hero, fighting against corruption and injustice."
"And now?"
"Now I realize I was more like Danglars—the schemer who thought he was justified because everyone else was playing dirty too." His smile turned self-deprecating. "Turns out righteous anger and good intentions don't actually make you the hero of the story."
Olga felt something twist in her chest. This was the first time Cicero had shared anything truly personal. She wanted to press, to understand, but she also recognized the weight of what he was offering.
"I've never seen myself as a hero," she admitted quietly. "I've always been more like... I don't know, a supporting character in someone else's story. The one who's supposed to help the real protagonist but keeps tripping over her own feet."
"That's because you're thinking about it wrong." Cicero leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "You're not a supporting character. You're the protagonist of your own story. You just haven't figured out what kind of story you're telling yet."
"And what about you?" The question escaped before she could stop it. "What story are you telling?"
His expression went distant. "Still deciding. But I know what I want it to be about—building something better than what came before. Not through revenge or destruction, but through actually creating alternatives."
"That's very idealistic for someone who just admitted to being a schemer."
"I prefer 'strategist.'" His grin returned. "And it's not idealism if you have the power to make it real."
"Power doesn't fix broken systems. It just creates different problems."
"True." He nodded approvingly. "Which is why systems need to be built thoughtfully, with people who actually understand how they fail. People who've been failed by them."
Olga felt a strange flutter in her chest. The conversation had shifted from novels to something far more substantial, but it felt natural. Earned.
"Is that why you're here?" she asked. "At the Clocktower? To learn how magical society works so you can... what, replace it?"
"Something like that." His smile turned mysterious. "But first, I need to find the right people. The ones who see the same flaws I do. The ones who have the will to actually build something new."
The way he looked at her when he said it made heat crawl up her neck.
"You're recruiting," she said flatly.
"I'm making friends." He corrected. "Recruitment implies coercion. I prefer collaboration."
"That's semantics."
"All important distinctions are."
She wanted to call him out on the obvious evasion, but part of her... didn't want to push. Because if she was reading this right—if he was subtly suggesting what she thought he was suggesting—then that meant he saw something in her worth investing in.
The thought was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
"Your coffee's getting cold," Cicero said, nodding at the cup he'd set beside her books while she wasn't looking.
Olga blinked, thrown by the sudden return to normalcy. But she picked up the cup anyway, grateful for something to do with her hands.
"What are you reading these days?" he asked casually, as if they hadn't just been discussing revolution and reconstruction. "Still The Three Musketeers?"
"I finished Louise de la Valliere last week." She took a sip, letting the familiar bitter warmth ground her. "Started The Man in the Iron Mask yesterday."
"Ah, the sequel." Cicero's eyes lit up. "How are you finding it?"
"Sad," Olga admitted. "Everyone's older. The musketeers are scattered. Porthos dies, Aramis becomes this cold manipulator, and d'Artagnan—" She stopped, swallowing hard. "It's like watching heroes realize they were never really heroes at all. Just people who got old."
"That's what makes it good though." Cicero's voice was gentle. "It's honest. Most stories end at the victory, but Dumas keeps going. Shows what happens when the adventure is over and you have to live with the choices you made."
"It's depressing."
"It's realistic."
"I prefer my heroes to stay heroic, thank you."
"Even if it's a lie?"
Olga opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. Because wasn't that exactly what she'd been doing? Pretending she was living up to some heroic ideal, when really she was just... struggling. Failing. Being human.
"Maybe," she said slowly, "I'm tired of lies. Even comfortable ones."
Cicero's smile turned proud. "Now we're getting somewhere.
She found the papers three nights later.
At first, she thought someone had left them by mistake—a sheaf of parchment tucked neatly beside her usual spot in the library. But when she picked them up, her breath caught.
Spiritual Evocation exercises. Not just any exercises—her exercises. The ones she'd been practicing obsessively, fruitlessly, for months. But restructured. Refined. Rewritten with a precision that spoke of genuine mastery.
More than that: each page contained detailed notes on her specific mistakes. Not cruel observations, but careful analysis. Here's where your circuit flow is catching. Here's why your visualization keeps breaking down. Here's how to adapt the technique to work WITH your natural tendencies instead of against them.
A complete roadmap. Step by step. Specifically tailored to her Element, her quirks, her unique approach to magecraft.
This was the kind of breakthrough research that families spent centuries developing. The kind of knowledge that could elevate a first-generation magus family to heights they'd never dreamed. The kind of thing that would be locked in a vault and protected with blood wards.
And it was just... sitting here. At her desk. Like it was nothing.
Olga's hands shook as she flipped through the pages. Her mind raced through the possibilities. Who could have possibly—
She stopped mid-thought, a suspicion crystallizing.
No.
No.
She gathered the papers with careful hands and marched toward the front desk.
Cicero sat there, naturally, engrossed in a book about King Arthur. He looked up as she approached, that insufferable smile already forming.
"Oh, if it isn't Olga. Did you come for your snack early, or did you finish your latest novel and need recommendations?"
"How did you—" She shook her head sharply. "No. That doesn't matter. What is this?"
She thrust the papers at him.
He glanced down, eyebrows rising in theatrical confusion. "That appears to be paper. You know—pressed wood pulp, commonly used for writing?"
The urge to throttle him surged hot and bright.
"I know what paper is!" She wanted to scream. Settled for a furious hiss. "I meant the contents!"
"Oh, that?" He set his book aside, utterly unrepentant. "I wrote it."
She'd expected denial. Deflection. Some attempt to maintain plausible deniability.
Instead, he just... admitted it.
Like it was nothing.
"You—" Olga's voice came out strangled. "Do you have any idea how valuable this is?"
"Well, yes." Cicero tilted his head, expression innocent. "That's precisely why I gave it to you."
"This is—" She gestured helplessly at the papers. "This is centuries of research! This kind of systematic analysis, this depth of understanding—magus families would kill for this!"
"Mmm." He didn't look particularly concerned. "Sounds like a skill issue on their part."
"A skill issue—" Olga's voice climbed toward shrillness. She forcibly lowered it. "This isn't—you can't just—"
"Why not?" He leaned back in his chair, that blue gaze fixed on her with disturbing intensity. "You seemed frustrated. I had the knowledge to help. So I helped." He shrugged, the movement impossibly graceful. "Besides, why wouldn't I do something like this for one of my favorite people here? For someone whose company I genuinely enjoy?"
The world tilted sideways.
Olga felt heat flood her cheeks. "W-what?"
"Was I unclear?" Cicero's smile turned softer. "I enjoy spending time with you, Olga. You're brilliant and determined and refreshingly honest once you stop hiding behind that prickly exterior." He gestured at the papers. "So if I can make your life even a little bit easier—if I can help you see what you're actually capable of—then of course I'm going to do that."
Her throat felt too tight. Her eyes burned. She wanted to say something—anything—but the words tangled in her chest.
"I..." She swallowed hard. "Thank you. This is... I don't know how to..."
"Don't worry about it." He waved dismissively. "Seriously. Consider it my investment in your future success." His grin turned impish. "Besides, if you need anything else—help burying bodies, being a reading buddy, whatever—I'm always available."
"Reading buddy?" The words escaped before her brain caught up.
"Sure." He gestured at his King Arthur book. "I noticed you reading adventure novels. I love those too. We could discuss them sometime, if you'd like."
Something warm unfurled in Olga's chest. Something dangerous and wonderful and terrifying.
"I... that would be..." She cleared her throat. "Acceptable."
Cicero's laugh was bright enough to light the whole library.
The reading discussions became a regular feature of their nights together.
It started simple—comparing notes on The Three Musketeers, debating whether d'Artagnan was actually heroic or just lucky and violent. But it evolved into something deeper. They'd share books, leave notes in margins (which made the librarian have an aneurysm when she found out), debate themes and character motivations with the same intensity other mages brought to magical theory.
"Okay, but hear me out," Cicero said one night, two weeks after the paper incident. They'd moved from the desk to her corner—he'd pulled up a chair, and somehow it had stopped feeling like an intrusion. "Aramis is clearly the most interesting musketeer."
"Aramis is a hypocrite," Olga countered, dunking her croissant into her coffee in a way that would have scandalized her etiquette tutor. "He talks about becoming a priest while sleeping with half of Paris."
"Exactly! He's complex." Cicero leaned forward, eyes alight with enthusiasm. "Everyone else is straightforward—Athos is noble and sad, Porthos is vain but loyal, d'Artagnan is ambitious. But Aramis is genuinely torn between his desires and his ideals. That's interesting."
"That's called being a bad person."
"Or being human?" He grinned. "Not everyone gets to be purely one thing. Most people are contradictions—they want to be good but also want things that being good prevents. They have noble goals and selfish methods. They're heroes in one context and villains in another."
Olga paused mid-bite. "That sounds exhausting."
"It is." Something flickered across his face—too quick to identify, but heavy. "But it's also freeing, in a way. Once you accept that you're not going to be perfectly consistent, you can focus on trying to do better more often than you do worse."
"Is that what you do?"
The question hung between them for a moment.
"I try to," Cicero said quietly. "Don't always succeed. But I try."
"That's... actually somewhat mature of you."
"Only somewhat?"
"You literally made a joke about burying bodies last week."
"That wasn't a joke."
"That's even worse!"
His laugh was unrepentant. "Says the girl who threatened to poison Professor Blackwood's tea last Thursday."
Olga's face went crimson. "I did not—that was hypothetical! I was speaking hypothetically!"
"Uh-huh. Very hypothetical. With specific dosages and everything."
"I hate you."
"You really don't."
No. She really didn't.
"Tell me something embarrassing about yourself," Olga demanded, desperate to change the subject. "Something that proves you're not as perfect as you pretend to be."
"I don't pretend to be perfect."
"You literally said you never get in trouble."
"That's different. That's just being careful." But his smile turned mischievous. "Fine. You want embarrassing? When I was sixteen, I tried to impress someone I liked by cooking them an elaborate dinner."
"And?"
"I'd never cooked before in my life. Thought, 'how hard can it be?'" He shook his head. "Managed to set pasta on fire. Pasta, Olga. I don't even know how that's physically possible, but I did it. Also the smoke alarm, which brought the fire department, which meant the person I was trying to impress got to watch me explain to firefighters why my kitchen looked like a war zone."
Despite herself, Olga felt a laugh bubbling up. "What did she say?"
"She very politely declined a second date." His expression was so mournfully dramatic that she couldn't hold back anymore. The laugh escaped, bright and genuine.
"That's—" She tried to speak through giggles. "That's horrible. You poor thing."
"It was character-building," he said with wounded dignity. "Also it's why I spent the next year obsessively learning to cook. Spite is an excellent motivator."
"So your amazing culinary skills exist because you were trying to prove something to someone who rejected you?"
"Mostly to prove something to myself. But yes, initial motivation was definitely spite-based." He grinned. "Your turn. Most embarrassing moment."
"I don't have one."
"Liar."
"I don't!"
"Everyone has embarrassing moments. It's a requirement of being human."
Olga's face burned. "Fine. When I was twelve, I tried to impress my father by demonstrating a spell I'd been practicing. Spent weeks perfecting it. Planned the whole presentation."
"And?"
"I was so nervous I forgot the incantation halfway through. Just... completely blanked. Stood there with my mouth open like a fish for thirty seconds before running away crying." She stared at her coffee. "He never mentioned it again. Neither did I."
The weight of that memory settled between them.
"That's not embarrassing," Cicero said gently. "That's just sad."
"Same thing."
"It's really not." He reached across the space between them, not quite touching her hand but close enough that she could feel the warmth. "You were a kid trying to get your father's approval. That's not something to be embarrassed about."
"I could have practiced more. Could have been more prepared."
"Or your father could have reacted with compassion instead of silence." His voice held an edge. "Not everything is your responsibility to fix, Olga."
She looked up at him, startled by the intensity in his eyes.
"You sound like you're speaking from experience."
"Maybe I am." He pulled back, that casual mask sliding into place. "Point is—we've both got baggage. The trick is not letting it crush us."
"Is that why you're really here?" The question escaped before she could stop it. "At the Clocktower? Because you're running from something?"
Cicero was quiet for a long moment.
"Not running," he said finally. "Regrouping. There's a difference."
"And then what?"
"Then I build something better." He met her eyes. "With people who understand why the old way doesn't work. People who've been crushed by systems designed to fail them."
There it was again—that subtle invitation. That unspoken question.
"You keep talking about building something new," Olga said carefully. "But you never say what."
"That's because I'm still figuring out the details." His smile turned self-deprecating. "I've got the vision—a genuinely fair society, where talent and effort matter more than birthright, where people aren't trapped by circumstances they didn't choose. But vision without execution is just fantasy."
"So you're learning. About systems, about people, about—"
"About everything." He gestured at the library around them. "Magic, politics, economics, human psychology. All of it. Because if I'm going to do this right, I can't afford to miss something crucial."
"That's insane. One person can't learn everything."
"Good thing I'm not planning to do it alone then."
And there it was. The explicit invitation, finally laid bare.
Olga's heart hammered in her chest. "You're serious. About all of this."
"Completely."
"And you think... what? That I could help with something like that?"
"I think," Cicero said slowly, "that you're someone who sees the flaws in how things work. Who understands what it's like to be judged by impossible standards. Who knows that systems don't magically work just because they're traditional." He leaned forward. "I think you're exactly the kind of person who could help build something better."
"I'm barely keeping my head above water here."
"For now." His smile was confident. "But you're using my notes. Making progress. In a few months, you'll have mastered Spiritual Evocation. And then what? Keep proving yourself to people who've already decided you're not good enough? Or..."
"Or?" Her voice came out barely above a whisper.
"Or help me create a place where people like you—brilliant, determined, underestimated—can actually thrive without constantly fighting for scraps of recognition."
It was the most audacious thing anyone had ever offered her.
It was also, she realized with dawning horror, exactly what she wanted.
"I need time," she said finally. "To think about this."
"Take all the time you need." Cicero's expression softened. "I'm not going anywhere. And neither is the offer."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the weight of unspoken possibilities hanging between them.
"Can I ask you something?" Olga ventured.
"Always."
"Why novels?" She gestured at his book collection. "You've clearly read the magecraft texts—you understand theory better than most professors. So why spend so much time on fiction?"
Cicero picked up his current book—something about King Arthur—and ran his fingers over the cover.
"Because fiction tells the truth in ways facts can't," he said quietly. "Magecraft texts teach you how magic works. But novels teach you how people work. Their motivations, their fears, their contradictions. You want to build a better society? You need to understand why the old ones failed. And that means understanding human nature."
He flipped open to a marked page.
"Take Arthur. Noble king, perfect ideal, builds Camelot as this shining example of justice and chivalry. But he fails. Not because he wasn't good enough or strong enough, but because he didn't account for human weakness. For Lancelot and Guinevere's love, for Mordred's resentment, for the fact that ideals alone don't sustain a kingdom."
"So he was naive."
"He was hopeful." Cicero's smile turned sad. "Which is admirable but insufficient. You need hope and pragmatism. Idealism and understanding of how people actually behave when pushed."
"That sounds exhausting."
"Everything worth doing is."
Olga found herself studying him—really studying him. The ethereal beauty that first caught her attention felt less important now than the sharp intelligence in his eyes, the careful way he chose his words, the genuine passion that crept into his voice when he talked about building something better.
"Where are you really from?" she asked suddenly. "And don't say 'elsewhere.' I mean it. Nobody talks like you do—like they've seen civilizations rise and fall."
Something flickered in those blue eyes. Not defensiveness, but... calculation? Consideration?
"Let's just say," he said slowly, "I come from a place where I learned exactly how broken systems can be. Where I watched good people ground down by corruption they couldn't fight. Where I tried to change things and discovered that determination alone isn't enough."
"What happened?"
"I failed." The words were flat, matter-of-fact. "Tried to reform things from within. Got crushed. Lost people I cared about. Learned that sometimes you can't fix what's already rotted to the core—you have to build something new entirely."
Olga's chest tightened. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It taught me what I needed to know." He met her eyes. "That's why I'm here. Why I'm being so careful, so methodical. I'm not making the same mistakes twice."
"And recruiting me is part of that?"
"Inviting you to be part of something is part of that," he corrected. "Recruitment implies I'm just collecting assets. I'm looking for people I trust. People who understand what we're trying to prevent."
"We?"
"Potentially." That crooked smile returned. "If you decide you want in."
Olga looked down at her coffee, mind racing. This was insane. Audacious. Probably doomed to fail.
But then again, what did she have to lose?
"Tell me more," she heard herself say. "About this society you want to build."
Cicero's grin could have lit the entire Clocktower.
"Well, first we need to talk about economic foundations..."
They talked until dawn.
The weeks that followed fell into an easy rhythm.
Olga found herself looking forward to their late-night discussions with an intensity that would have embarrassed her if she'd stopped to examine it too closely. But she didn't. Because for the first time since coming to the Clocktower, she had something that felt like... friendship. Real friendship, not the calculated social maneuvering that passed for relationships among the aristocratic families.
"You're in a better mood," Reines El-Melloi Archisorte observed one afternoon, cornering Olga after Mineralogy class. "It's disturbing. Are you ill?"
"I'm perfectly fine," Olga said primly, gathering her notes.
"You smiled during Professor Kayneth's lecture. You never smile during his lectures. Nobody smiles during his lectures except that Waver boy, and he's clearly suffering from some form of Stockholm syndrome."
"Perhaps I simply found the material engaging."
"The material was about rock classifications. Try again."
Olga felt heat creep up her neck. "I don't have to explain my mood to you."
"No, but you're going to anyway because I'm incredibly persistent and you're terrible at lying." Reines leaned against the doorframe, expression far too knowing for someone her age. "So. Who is he?"
"I don't know what you're—"
"Olga. Please. I've seen you walk into walls while daydreaming. You're either having a stroke or someone's caught your attention. Given your complete lack of neurological symptoms, I'm going with option two."
"We're just... friends. We discuss books."
"Books." Reines's smile turned wicked. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"
"It's not—we're literally discussing books! Literature! He has interesting perspectives on—" Olga stopped, realizing she'd been trapped into admitting far more than intended. "I hate you."
"Everyone does. It's part of my charm." Reines pushed off the doorframe. "Just be careful, yes? The Clocktower is full of people who'll use any connection against you. Especially if he's..."
"He's not trying to use me," Olga said firmly. More firmly than she felt, if she was honest. "He's been nothing but kind."
"Kindness can be a weapon too." But Reines's expression softened slightly. "Still. If he makes you smile, that's worth something. Just... keep your eyes open."
She left before Olga could formulate a response.
The conversation bothered her more than she wanted to admit. Not because she thought Reines was right—Cicero had been nothing but genuine—but because it forced her to examine why she trusted him so readily. Why she'd let him past her carefully constructed walls.
She brought it up that night, after they'd finished arguing about whether The Count of Monte Cristo's ending was satisfying or tragic.
"Do you ever worry that you're too trusting?" she asked abruptly.
Cicero looked up from his book—a cookbook this time, of all things. "Constantly. Why?"
"Because I'm trusting you. And I don't know why. I barely know you."
"You know I make good coffee and have opinions about French literature. What more do you need?"
"I'm serious."
"So am I." But his smile faded. "Look, Olga—trust is a risk. Always. There's no way around that. You can do all the research, run all the background checks, analyze someone's every word and action, and you still won't know for certain if they'll betray you."
"That's not reassuring."
"It's honest." He set the cookbook down. "You want me to tell you that you're right to trust me? I can't promise that. I can tell you that I have no intention of hurting you, that I genuinely care about your wellbeing, that I see enormous potential in you. But ultimately, trust is a leap. You decide if it's worth taking."
Olga chewed her lip. "What if I'm wrong?"
"Then you learn and adjust. Same as any other mistake." His expression gentled. "But for what it's worth? I don't think you're wrong. I think your instincts are better than you give them credit for."
"My instincts told me I could master Spiritual Evocation in three weeks."
"That was ambition, not instinct. Different thing entirely."
Despite herself, Olga smiled. "You're very good at this."
"At what?"
"Making me feel better without actually promising anything concrete."
"I prefer to think of it as 'acknowledging reality while remaining optimistic.'" He grinned. "Also, completely unrelated—want to help me test some recipes tomorrow? I'm experimenting with German pastries and need a brutally honest critic."
The subject change was obvious, but Olga found she didn't mind.
"I suppose I could make time. If the quality is acceptable."
"Your praise is overwhelming."
"Don't get used to it."
But she was smiling when she said it.
The cooking sessions became another unexpected ritual.
Olga had never considered herself particularly interested in culinary arts—food was fuel, nothing more. But watching Cicero work was... mesmerizing. He moved through the small kitchen attached to the library's staff room with the same fluid grace that characterized everything he did, but here it felt different. More grounded. Human.
"You're staring," he said without looking up from the dough he was kneading.
"I'm observing," Olga corrected from her perch on the counter. "There's a difference."
"Uh-huh." His smile was insufferably smug. "And what are your observations?"
"That you're surprisingly domestic for someone who claims to be planning global revolution."
"Who says revolutionaries can't appreciate good food? Actually, I'd argue proper nutrition is essential to any successful movement. Can't overthrow corrupt systems on an empty stomach."
"Is that your strategy? Feed people into submission?"
"Mock all you want, but you've been in a better mood since I started cooking for you."
He wasn't wrong. The regular meals had helped—her concentration had improved, she wasn't constantly light-headed, and the persistent anxiety that used to claw at her chest had dulled to a manageable background hum.
"Maybe I just like the peace and quiet of the kitchen," Olga said, but there was no heat in it.
"The kitchen where I'm literally in the same room as you?"
"You're less annoying when you're focused on something else."
"Brutal. I'm wounded." But he was grinning as he shaped the dough into rolls. "Hand me that honey?"
Olga passed him the jar, watching as he brushed it carefully over each roll. "Why cooking though? Of all the skills you could master, why this one?"
His hands stilled for just a moment. "I told you about the disastrous dinner date."
"Yes, but that doesn't explain the obsession."
"It's not an obsession—"
"You have seventeen cookbooks on your desk. I counted."
"That's just thorough research." But his smile turned more genuine. "Honestly? It started as spite, but it became something else. Cooking is immediate. You put in effort, follow the process, and you get tangible results. It's... refreshing. After spending so much time on projects that take years to show results, there's something satisfying about creating something good in an afternoon."
Olga considered this. "I suppose that makes sense. Magic is often the same—years of study for incremental progress."
"Exactly. Plus—" He slid the tray into the oven. "—it's one of the few genuinely creative things I'm good at. I can follow instructions, analyze systems, strategize, manipulate outcomes. But actual creativity? Making something entirely new? That's harder for me."
The admission surprised her. "You seem plenty creative to me."
"I'm adaptive. I can take existing concepts and remix them, find new applications. But true creation—making something from nothing—that's different." He leaned against the counter beside her. "Which is why I need people like you."
"People like me?" Olga raised an eyebrow. "I'm not exactly bursting with creative genius."
"You rebuilt those Spiritual Evocation exercises in ways I hadn't anticipated. Took my framework and made it yours, added modifications I wouldn't have thought of." His blue eyes fixed on her. "That's creativity. You just don't recognize it because you're too busy comparing yourself to impossible standards."
Heat crept up Olga's neck. "I just made practical adjustments."
"Which required creative problem-solving. Stop underselling yourself."
"Stop overselling me."
"Not possible. You're dramatically undervalued as is."
Olga found herself caught between irritation and something warmer. "You're insufferable."
"And yet you keep coming back."
"Only for the food."
"Liar."
She was saved from having to respond by the timer chiming. Cicero pulled the rolls from the oven, and the smell that filled the kitchen was divine.
"Try one," he said, offering her a plate after they'd cooled slightly.
Olga took a bite and had to suppress a moan. "This is..."
"Acceptable?"
"Shut up." But she was smiling. "It's good. Really good."
"I know." His grin turned absolutely shameless. "I'm excellent at everything I do."
"Your ego is showing."
"Good. It's one of my best features."
Olga threw a dishrag at him. He caught it without looking, laugh echoing through the kitchen.
These moments—flour-dusted and easy—felt more real than anything else in her life. More honest than family dinners where every word was calculated. More genuine than classroom interactions where everyone was sizing each other up. More comfortable than the formal teas with other aristocratic families where she had to pretend she wasn't drowning.
Here, covered in butter and honey, arguing about whether The Man in the Iron Mask was a tragedy or a meditation on identity while Cicero insisted she try another experimental pastry—
This felt like living.
"I failed my Bounded Fields practical," Olga admitted one night, three months into their friendship.
They were in their usual spot—Olga at her desk, Cicero pulled up beside her. Her coffee had gone cold an hour ago, but she couldn't muster the energy to care.
"What happened?" Cicero's voice was careful. No judgment, just curiosity.
"I froze. Just—completely blanked. Had all the theory memorized perfectly, but when it came time to actually implement..." She made a helpless gesture. "Professor Kayneth made sure everyone knew how disappointed he was. Very publicly."
"Kayneth's an ass."
"He's a respected scholar—"
"He's an ass and a respected scholar. The two aren't mutually exclusive." Cicero shifted closer. "You know the theory though?"
"Backwards and forwards. I could write a thesis on Bounded Field applications."
"So it's not a knowledge problem. It's a pressure problem."
Olga's laugh was bitter. "Everything is a pressure problem with me."
"Then we work on that." He said it like it was simple. "Want to practice? Right now?"
"Here? In the library?"
"Why not? No audience except me, and I've already seen you at your worst. Can't get more embarrassing than the crying breakdown on night one."
"You said you wouldn't mention that!"
"I said I wouldn't judge you for it. Different thing." His smile was gentle. "Come on. Walk me through a basic Bounded Field. Just the two of us. No pressure."
"There's always pressure."
"Then let's redefine what pressure means." He stood, offering his hand. "Worst case scenario: you mess up in front of me. Best case: you realize you can do this and just needed practice in a low-stakes environment. Either way, you learn something."
Olga stared at his outstretched hand. It would be so easy to refuse. To make excuses. To retreat back into her corner and pretend this conversation hadn't happened.
But something in his expression—patient and encouraging and utterly without judgment—made her reach out.
His hand was warm. Steady.
They spent the next two hours working through Bounded Field theory. Cicero asked questions, offered suggestions, gently corrected when she started spiraling into anxiety. And slowly—so slowly she almost didn't notice—Olga felt the knot in her chest loosen.
She didn't succeed that night. The field collapsed twice, and the third attempt was shaky at best.
But Cicero just smiled and said, "Better. You'll get it next time."
And somehow, she believed him.
"Tell me about your family."
The question came out of nowhere one night, nearly a month before winter break. They'd fallen into comfortable silence, Olga working through her new Spiritual Evocation exercises (which were finally, finally showing real progress), Cicero reading something dense about economic theory and sumerian kingship.
He looked up, expression carefully neutral. "What do you want to know?"
"Anything. You know everything about mine—it's hard not to, given the Animusphere reputation—but you never talk about yours."
Cicero was quiet for a long moment. "That's because there's not much to tell. Or rather, there's plenty to tell but most of it isn't pleasant."
"You don't have to—"
"No, it's fine." He set his book aside. "My family was involved in politics. Local government, nothing glamorous. But enough to see how things really worked behind the scenes."
"And?"
"And I learned that most systems aren't broken by accident. They're designed to benefit certain people at the expense of others. The corruption isn't a bug—it's a feature." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "My family wasn't innocent in that. They played the game like everyone else."
"But you didn't want to."
"I tried not to. Thought I could reform things from within, be different, actually make changes that mattered." His laugh was hollow. "I was incredibly naive."
Olga felt something twist in her chest. "What happened?"
"I pushed too hard. Made enemies of people with more power and fewer scruples. They came after me—not directly, that would've been too obvious. But my staff faced constant harassment. Threats. One of my assistants had her apartment broken into three times in two months. Another one's daughter was followed home from school and things just kept escalating."
"That's—"
"Evil? Yeah." His hands clenched into fists. "I thought I could protect them. Thought if I was just smart enough, careful enough, determined enough, I could push through. But you can't fight an entire corrupt system with good intentions and a handful of people."
"So you stopped."
"I retreated. Regrouped. Spent a long time being angry and bitter and feeling like I'd failed everyone who believed in me." He met her eyes. "That's why I'm here. That's why I'm being so methodical about this. Because next time—and there will be a next time—I'm going to do it right. Build something that can't be torn down by people who benefit from keeping things broken."
Olga's throat felt tight. "I'm sorry that happened to you."
"Don't be. It taught me what I needed to know." His smile returned, more genuine now. "And it led me here. To the Clocktower. To—" He gestured between them. "To this."
"To late-night library sessions and sub-par coffee?"
"Hey, my coffee is excellent and you know it."
"Fine. Excellent coffee and arguments about French literature."
"Much better." But his expression softened. "I mean it though. The failure—it sucked. But it put me on a path to finding people who get it. Who've felt that same crushing weight of systems that don't work. Who wants something better badly enough to help build it."
"People like me."
"Exactly like you."
They sat in silence for a while, the weight of shared understanding settling between them.
"For what it's worth," Olga said quietly, "I think you're going to succeed. This time."
"Yeah?"
"You're patient. Thorough. You actually care about the people you're trying to help." She met his eyes. "That matters. More than people think."
Cicero's smile was brilliant and warm and made her heart do complicated things in her chest.
"Thank you, Olga. That means more than you know."
The enhancement offer came in December, two weeks before winter break.
They'd been discussing his plans more seriously now—Olga had tentatively agreed to be part of his project, though she still wasn't entirely sure what that meant. But she trusted him. Somehow, impossibly, she trusted this near-stranger who'd walked into her life four months ago and turned everything sideways.
"I want to offer you something," Cicero said abruptly, interrupting her thoughts. They were in the kitchen again—he'd been teaching her to make proper hot chocolate, claiming that instant powder was an abomination.
"Another pastry recipe? Because I'm still recovering from the last experimental batch."
"Hey, the cardamom brownies were good!"
"They were interesting. There's a difference."
"Everyone's a critic." But his smile faded. "I'm serious though. This is important."
Something in his tone made Olga set down her whisk. "I'm listening."
"I can enhance you," he said carefully. "Physically and mentally. Nothing dramatic—roughly Captain America level strength and durability, plus about double your current mental processing capacity. Enough to make a real difference, but subtle enough that it won't draw immediate attention."
Olga's mind raced. "That's... you're talking about biological modification. At a level that should be impossible without years of research and—"
"I know. But I can do it. Safely."
"How?"
"That's... complicated. But I need you to understand—I wouldn't offer this if there was any risk. You're too important."
Her heart stuttered. "Important to your plans?"
"Important to me," he said firmly. "The plans matter, yes. But you matter more. I'm not interested in turning you into some kind of asset or tool. I'm interested in giving you advantages because I care about you and I hate watching you struggle under weight you shouldn't have to carry alone."
Olga's throat felt too tight. "I don't understand. Why me? You could pick anyone—someone more talented, more connected, more—"
"You really don't see it, do you?" Cicero moved closer, blue eyes intense. "Olga, you're brilliant. Determined. Honest in a way that's rare in the Clocktower. You see the problems in how things work, and you're not content to just accept them. You want better—not just for yourself, but for everyone."
"I'm barely keeping up with coursework—"
"Because you're working with one hand tied behind your back. You've got zero Master aptitude, you're constantly compared to people with massive advantages, and you're still here. Still fighting. Still pushing forward even when everything tells you to quit." His hand found hers. "That's strength. Real strength. And I want to give you the tools to actually show what you're capable of."
Tears pricked at Olga's eyes. "What would it entail? The enhancements?"
"A single procedure. Painless. You'd wake up feeling... clearer. Stronger. More capable. It won't change who you are—just make it easier to be yourself without constantly fighting exhaustion and limitation."
"And you're certain it's safe?"
"Completely. I've done this before, for others. No negative side effects, no degradation over time. Just improvement."
Olga studied his face, looking for any sign of deception. But she found only sincerity. Genuine care. The same expression he wore when he corrected her Bounded Field technique or when he'd defended her against Professor Blackwood.
"Why can't you do the full enhancement now? You mentioned 2015—"
"Without getting too technical: I'm operating under certain... restrictions. Safety measures to keep me from drawing attention from things far scarier than the Clocktower administration." His smile turned wry. "But by 2015, those restrictions will be lifted. Then I can offer the complete package—not just physical and mental enhancement, but true empowerment. The ability to reach your absolute potential."
"And until then?"
"Until then, this. A taste of what's possible. Enough to make your life significantly easier without triggering any alarms."
Olga took a deep breath. This was insane. Accepting biological modification from someone she'd known for less than half a year. Every logical instinct screamed at her to refuse, to demand more information, to be cautious.
But those same instincts had told her she'd never amount to anything. That she was doomed to disappoint. That she should just accept her limitations and fade into obscurity.
She was so tired of listening to those instincts.
"Okay," she heard herself say. "I'll accept."
Cicero's face lit up like the sunrise. "Yeah?"
"But I have conditions."
"Name them."
"You tell me more about what you are. Not everything—I understand if there are things you can't share. But enough that I'm not going into this completely blind."
He nodded slowly. "Fair. What do you want to know?"
"Start with the basics. You're not entirely human, are you?"
"No. I'm... adjacent to human. Think of me as something that exists on a higher dimensional plane but can interface with this one. I have abilities that go well beyond normal magecraft—reality manipulation, fate adjustment, conceptual authority."
"That sounds like True Magic."
"Similar, but different mechanisms. True Magic works through reaching the Root. My abilities work through... let's call them administrative privileges in the system of reality itself."
Olga's head spun. "That's—"
"Terrifying? Probably. But I'm not using it for anything sinister. I'm using it to find people I trust, gather resources, and lay groundwork for something better." His expression turned vulnerable. "I failed once before because I was alone, unsupported, trying to fight a system that had every advantage. I'm not making that mistake again. This time, I'm building a team. A real team, of people I genuinely care about."
"And you think I belong on that team."
"I know you do."
Olga swallowed hard. "The enhancement—it won't change how I think? My personality?"
"Not at all. You'll still be you. Just... more capable of being the best version of you."
"And there's no catch? No hidden price?"
"Just your friendship." He said it simply. "Your company during these late-night sessions. Your honesty when I'm being an idiot. Your help when I need someone who understands both magical theory and practical limitations."
"That's... that's it?"
"That's it. I'm not interested in control or manipulation. I want actual allies. People who choose to work with me because they believe in what we're building."
Olga found herself smiling despite the enormity of what she was agreeing to. "You're either the most genuine person I've ever met or the most sophisticated manipulator in history."
"Still going with 'both.'" But his grin was warm. "So. Do we have a deal?"
She extended her hand. "We have a deal."
He shook it firmly, and Olga felt something settle in her chest. A sense of rightness, of pieces falling into place.
"We'll do the procedure next week," Cicero said. "After your last exam. Give you time to adjust during winter break."
"Practical."
"I try." He squeezed her hand once before releasing it. "Thank you, Olga. For trusting me. I know how hard that is for you."
"Don't make me regret it."
"I won't. Promise."
And somehow, impossibly, she believed him.
The procedure itself was anticlimactic.
Cicero had her meet him in an unused classroom on the lowest level of the Clocktower—somewhere private where they wouldn't be interrupted. He'd set up what looked like a comfortable cot, covered in soft blankets.
"That's it?" Olga asked, eyeing the setup skeptically. "No medical equipment? No mystical circles?"
"All the important work happens internally. You just need to lie down and relax."
"Relax. While undergoing biological modification."
"Is that going to be a problem?"
"Only if I think about it too hard."
His laugh was warm. "Then don't think about it. Just trust me."
Easier said than done. But Olga lay down on the cot anyway, trying not to fidget.
Cicero sat beside her, one hand hovering over her forehead. "This will take about thirty seconds. You might feel a slight tingling sensation, like pins and needles, but nothing painful. Then you'll sleep for a few hours while everything integrates. When you wake up, it'll be done."
"And I'll be different."
"You'll be yourself. Just enhanced." His smile was gentle. "Ready?"
No. Yes. Maybe.
"Ready," she lied.
His hand lowered to her forehead, warm and steady. Olga felt something—not quite touch, not quite pressure, but a sense of presence washing through her. It was oddly comfortable, like slipping into a warm bath.
Her eyes grew heavy.
"Sleep now," Cicero said softly. "When you wake up, everything will be better. I promise."
The last thing she heard before darkness claimed her was his voice, quiet and sincere: "You did so well, Olga. You're doing so well."
And then—nothing.
Olga woke to golden light streaming through high windows.
For a moment, she couldn't remember where she was. Then it came back—the procedure, Cicero, the enhancements—
She sat up, and the world... sharpened.
Everything was clearer. Colors more vivid. Sounds more distinct. She could hear the building settling, students moving through distant hallways, wind against windows three floors up. Her own heartbeat, steady and strong in her chest.
And her mind—oh, her mind—felt like someone had cleared away cobwebs she hadn't known existed. Thoughts flowed faster, smoother. She could hold multiple complex concepts simultaneously without strain. The Bounded Field theory that had been giving her trouble suddenly seemed obvious, all the pieces falling into perfect alignment.
"How do you feel?"
Olga turned to find Cicero sitting in a chair nearby, book in hand. He looked tired but pleased.
"I feel..." She tested her limbs, flexing her fingers. "Good. Really good. Better than good. This is..."
"What you should have felt like all along," Cicero finished. "The modifications cleared some genetic bottlenecks, optimized your nervous system, enhanced your cellular regeneration. You're still human—just a significantly upgraded version."
Olga stood, and movement felt effortless in a way it never had before. Like her body finally matched her intentions instead of lagging behind.
"This is incredible," she breathed.
"You're incredible. I just gave you the tools to show it." His smile was proud. "Welcome to your new normal."
She wanted to say something profound. Something that matched the enormity of what he'd just given her. But all that came out was: "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He stood, stretching. "Now, I believe you have a train to catch. Winter break starts tomorrow, and I'm fairly certain your father expects you home."
The mention of her father sent a spike of anxiety through her—immediately followed by the realization that the anxiety felt... manageable. Present, but not overwhelming. Like she could actually think past it instead of drowning in it.
"What do I tell him? If he notices I'm different?"
"Tell him you've been training. Exercising. Taking better care of yourself." Cicero shrugged. "All technically true. The changes are subtle enough that he'll probably assume it's natural development unless he's specifically looking for enhancements."
"And if he is?"
"Then we deal with it. But I doubt it'll come up. You're going home as a more confident, capable version of yourself. Most parents would just be pleased."
Olga wasn't sure about that—her father's standards were exacting—but she nodded anyway.
"Will you..." She hesitated. "Will you be here when I get back?"
"Of course. Where else would I be?" His expression softened. "Go home. Rest. Enjoy the break. When you come back, we'll start the next phase."
"Next phase?"
"Training. Now that you've got the hardware upgrade, we need to make sure you know how to use it." His grin turned mischievous. "Hope you like morning workouts."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
No. She really didn't.
The train ride home gave Olga plenty of time to process.
She was different now. Enhanced. More capable than she'd ever been. And it was because Cicero—this impossible, beautiful, frustrating person—had decided she was worth investing in.
She pulled out her notebook and began writing. Not magical theory this time, but thoughts. Plans. Ideas for what came next.
If Cicero was serious about building something new—and she believed he was—then she needed to be serious about her role in it. The Animusphere name might be a burden, but it was also a resource. She had access, connections, knowledge of how the traditional magical families operated.
She could be useful. More than useful.
She could be indispensable.
The thought should have been calculating. But mostly, it just felt right. Like she was finally—finally—on a path that made sense.
Her fingers found the bracelet Cicero had given her that morning—a simple silver chain with a small charm. "Communication device," he'd explained. "If you need anything while you're away, just tap it three times. I'll know."
Olga tapped it once, testing. The charm warmed slightly under her fingers.
Presence confirmed. Safety confirmed.
She smiled and went back to her notes, mind racing with possibilities.
For the first time in her life, the future didn't feel like a trap.
It felt like a promise.