Chalk & Chain I (Patreon)

Chalk & Chain I

(Previously titled Streets of Sorcery, Chalk & Chain is the novel I'm working on, currently 10 chapters deep. I've redone it and I'm going to be uploading it for you guys again.)

Knok-knok!

A single blue eye flicked open, groggy but already annoyed. 

His second eye followed in reluctant protest as another series of knocks echoed through his tiny office. The sound was sharp and insistent, like whoever was on the other side had somewhere better to be. Lucky them.

He threw his head back against the creaking backrest of his chair, which gave a pitiful groan as he leaned into it. His mouth opened in an exaggerated sigh, all tired lungs and mental defeat. 

Maybe if he stayed still long enough, whoever it was would get bored and leave. Gods knew he deserved a minute of peace.

The third set of knuckles against wood killed any chance of that hope.

Knok-knok!

Markus peeled himself out of the chair with a sluggish groan, his shoulders stiff from a nap that hadn’t lasted long enough to make up for his mining shift the night before. As he stood, he glanced around the office—a loose term, really. 

The place still carried its past life like a bad scar. 

Old mop stink clung to the air no matter how many candles he lit, and the single overhead light buzzed like it resented him as much as his coworkers did.

It was barely big enough to fit his secondhand desk and the teetering piles of books and scrolls he’d gathered over the years.

But it was his. 

Cramped, dusty, and—paradoxically—drafty as it was, it beat every gutter and back alley he’d called home before.

He carefully skirted around a precarious stack of texts, nudging a loose scroll back into place as he passed. No way he’d trust the school to replace anything that hit the floor; Karsen Tuck —the fat bastard—was more likely to sell him a receipt than fix the shelving he’d been promised months ago. Can’t expect a toad to care about the pond as long as it’s feeding time. The thought pulled a half-smirk onto his face, bitter and short-lived.

As he reached the door, he pushed his glasses up with one hand, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the other. His fingers stilled mid-motion as he yanked the door open just before the next knock.

His gaze snapped down to the knocker’s raised fist, then up to her face. the twitch of a grin threatened his mouth before he could stop it. “Hey there, blondie,” he said, voice still rough from sleep. 

"Markus!" Ariel finally exclaimed after a moment to gather herself, an impish smile playing on her lips. "I thought I might have to cast a wakefulness spell on you.”

His smile faded slightly at that, the idea of such a thing not pleasant despite her clearly humorous tone. The uncomfortable experience of having to use those were something he’d rather leave in the past. “Thankfully, you didn’t. So, what…” 

The words caught in his throat as she leaned forward against his door frame, unbuttoned shirt exposing the nape of her neck. “I mean, what can I help you with?”

Ariel lowered her hand slowly, like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or apologize. Her pale face framed by golden hair made her look out of place in this dump, like a doll someone had left in the wrong toy chest. Her Alven features— distant as they were in her bloodline—glowed faintly under the buzzing light, and her wide blue-and-gold eyes caught his in a way that always felt a little too deliberate.

“You look awful, Markus,” she said with a teasing tilt to her lips. “Was that an actual nap, or did you just lose consciousness at your desk again?”

Markus rolled his eyes, leaning one arm lazily against the doorframe. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, I'm not,” she said lightly, brushing past him like she belonged in his space. The smell of lavender and something sharper—a druid’s charm, maybe—followed her in.

Markus turned to watch her, noting the unbuttoned collar of her shirt and the sway in her step that somehow felt planned. “You here to criticize my sleep schedule or…?” he trailed off.

“Actually, I'm here to remind you,” she said, spinning to face him with that too-wide grin still in place, The blonde’s eyebrows rose, her head tilting slightly as she stared back at him. “The graduation duels are about to start. You wouldn't wanna miss that, would you?"

Oh God, those. Markus sighed, the man tilting his head and casting a tired glance at the short blonde blocking his doorway. He had almost forgotten about the duels but even then, a reminder wasn’t exactly something he needed. "Ari, unlike you, I only have one student graduating this period,” he said, voice flat. “I've got time.”

Ariel rolled her eyes, playful smile never faltering. "C’mon, Marky." She looked up at him, said eyes seemingly growing larger and more luminous as they met his own. "My kids love you too. They'd appreciate it if you were there."

Markus gave a slow shrug, the fabric of his yellow sweater vest pulling across his broad shoulders. “I don’t kn—”

Before he could get another refusal out, Ariel's hand caught his wrist. 

Her fingers rested against the cool gem inset on the bracelet poking out from underneath his white shirt, pale skin stark against his own. “I'd love it too,” she said, soft but pointed, her voice hanging there like an open dare.

Markus glanced down at her hand, then back up. Gods damn it.

His fingers twitched—adjusting his glasses, the young man pushing them up like a reflex. “Well,” he said, tone smooth enough to pass for agreement even as he held back a cough, “I can’t let down the kids, can I?”

Ariel's lips curled, sharp enough to suggest she’d won. She stepped in without waiting for an invite, slipping past him with the same grace she always carried, like she belonged wherever she stood. Her entrance squeezed the air out of the tiny room, the walls closing in that much more.

She wandered through his mess like a tourist taking in ruins, trailing her fingers along the edge of his desk without actually touching anything fragile. “This,” she said after a long moment, her tone caught somewhere between amusement and dismay, “is chaos.”

Markus shut the door with more force than necessary, leaning back against it like he had nowhere better to be. He scoffed good-naturedly as he adjusted the rings on his fingers, pale blue gems on each one glinting in the dim light. "I'll have you know that this chaos is a carefully cultivated system of organization. I know where everything is."

Ariel turned to face him, one delicate brow arched in disbelief. “You’re serious.” It wasn’t a question. “What’s controlled about this?”

“I always know where I keep my things, little miss.” His eyes followed her movements, careful and guarded. She liked to rearrange things for fun, and the last time she’d helped,  he’d spent days digging through his notes to undo the damage.

“Oh really?” her smile sharpened, her hands coming to rest on her hips. “Then where’s the treatise on novice elemental manipulation that I lent you last moon?”

Markus didn’t even hesitate. Give me an actual challenge. His eyes darted right to left—of course—before he crossed the room. His hand slid behind a stack of books until his fingers brushed the familiar leather binding. The brochure-thick tome came free with a flick of his wrist, and the taller Deltan tossed it to her without ceremony. “Right here,” he said, letting a smirk edge into his tone.

Ariel caught it, barely. her blue-and-gold eyes widened, a flicker of surprise breaking her usual composure. “Well,” she said, hugging the book to her chest, “color me impressed.”

He smirked down at her. “Don’t get used to it. I don’t make it a habit to raise expectations, you know me.”

She laughed, a light, lilting sound that somehow softened the room for half a breath. “You’re impossible, Markus.”

“You’d know.”

The slow, yet sharp creak of the office door opening again killed whatever easy rhythm they’d settled into. The hallway outside spilled noise and energy into the room, voices and footsteps colliding like a tide.

Ariel turned toward the sound, her eyes flicking to the students swarming past, as she gestured out with a nod. “C’mon, you don’t want to miss the action. I hear this cycle’s a good batch.”

Markus gestured toward the door. “After you.”

The academy’s hallways were packed, the chaos of movement amplified by the cheaply manufactured overhead rune-lights. The air buzzed with anticipation, the kind that felt heavier than it should’ve been for an event this predictable. Markus walked a half-step behind Ariel, his eyes scanning the crowd out of habit more than interest. Parents and families… here to celebrate mundanity. Joy.

"You know, you're always cooped up in that tiny office of yours. It can't be healthy." Ariel glanced back at him, her expression thoughtful. “You should do this more,” she said, voice pitched low enough to be private. 

“What,” he clicked his tongue silently, “walk through a crowd?”

“Show up for things,” she clarified, not missing a beat. “People like you more than you think.”

Markus huffed out a laugh, the sound sharp and humorless. “I'm not here to be liked.”

As they walked side by side through the harshly lit corridors, Markus couldn't help but reflect on the strange friendship he had developed with Ariel. She was one of the scant few tutors at Tuck’s Remedial Mage School who didn’t seem to hate the idea of his existence for some ungodly reason. Even on the worst days, her presence was refreshing amid the sea of judgmental faces.

“No,” she agreed, “you’re here to hide in a closet and pretend you don’t care.”

Pretend. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing as the doors opened in front of them.

Inside the arena, the noise hit like a wave. 

Markus took his seat beside Ariel on the sidelines of the building’s small sports auditorium-turned-arena, the excitement in the air almost a tangible thing. The stands were filled with a mix of students, faculty, and family members, each and everyone on the edge of their seat watching the absolutely lackluster duel on display. 

The two contestants in the current match, both at the very least a decade older than Markus, appeared ill-suited for the task at hand, as expected. With each weak and amateurish novice spell they cast, Markus felt his patience wearing thin.

He leaned back, his fingers drumming against the edge of his seat, as his mind dissected each flaw in the casting. The first contestant raised his arms, palms forward, and began a chant. His voice wavered with each syllable, barely holding the spell together.

“By Woden’s Will,I call upon mana,Magic Shot!”

The spell sputtered from his fingers like a dying ember, a weak flicker of blue light that drifted toward his opponent without purpose or precision. 

Markus bit back a groan at the sight of it, jaw flexing. How do you ruin literally the most basic assault spell like that? His mind raced through the steps the caster should’ve taken—focus, intent, clarity—all absent here. 

A Half-Star spell, literally something along the lines for children barely within the realm of adolescence.  They’re novice spells for a reason. That thing’s not going to last longer than a second or two.

His prediction landed with brutal accuracy. The spell flickered out mid-flight, unraveling into harmless motes before it even reached the halfway mark.

The second contestant, an older woman with trembling hands, stepped to the side—more shuffle than dodge. The limp remnants of the failed magic fizzled against the floor. Her lips parted, and she sucked in a shallow breath, her voice shaky as she launched her own spell.

“B-By Woden's Will,Wind, h-heed my plea,Gust Strike!”

Her arm swept out, summoning a pitiful gust of air. The breeze ruffled her opponent’s clothes more than it moved him, its force dissipating almost immediately.

Markus exhaled sharply through his nose. Sad. Just… sad. Novice spells are all about ease of use and generation of force. They do two things, and they do them… well enough. You can’t get simpler than that. 

It was clear that these two had long since passed the point to ever reach the heights of a trained One-Star Mage, let alone the elite status of a Third-Star that the common magic-user could only ever dream of. It was sad to see magical talent calcify, drying up due to age, but that was life.

But… the absolute floor of magic… seeing that be ruined like this.

It was just… Ugh.

Watching these two fumble through them like half-asleep apprentices? It was painful. 

No star. No hope. He could already see their ceilings: struggling to scrape half-star in another decade, if they didn’t give up first.

“They’re trying their best, you know.”

A nudge at his ribs snapped his focus to the left. Ariel leaned toward him, her elbow still pressed lightly against his side. Her gaze was sharp but teasing, flecked with gold that caught in the low arena light.

“What?” he asked, brow furrowing.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you judge people from across the room like you’re not still figuring out how to be human.” Her lips curved, and the softness in her tone undercut the bite. “We can't all be Third-star prodigies.”

That again… His mouth opened, words fumbling on the edge of his tongue. “I—I wasn’t—”

Ariel's look cut him short: eyebrows raised, unwavering, just shy of exasperated.

Markus sank back into his seat. “Sorry. Fine. I'm fine.”

Her answering hum didn’t feel convinced, but she let it go, settling into the chair beside him.

The duels continued, and Markus forced himself into silence. Contestants stepped forward in pairs, each one cycling through the same clumsy ritual of incantation and execution. Magic lit the air in bursts of light and sound, raw and unrefined. He couldn’t deny the beauty of it—chaotic as it was, there was something primal about watching magic take shape in inexperienced hands.

“By Woden’s Will,Shards of ice,Frost Shatter!”

A boy’s shout echoed through the arena, his hands trembling as jagged shards of frost erupted toward his opponent. They sparkled mid-air, catching the dim light like tiny stars. A shield rose to meet them, and the frost shattered harmlessly, leaving nothing but a chill in the air.

“By Woden's Will,Earthen force,Stone Crush!”

The next contestant, a broad man whose face suggested he hadn’t set foot in a classroom until recently, summoned chunks of rock from the arena floor. His aim wavered as he hurled them forward, and they collided with each other in a shower of dust before falling short.

Markus pressed his fingers to his temple, trying not to groan.

“By Woden's Will,Feel my force,mana strike!”

A teenager—maybe seventeen, with a determined glare that spoke of too many hours practicing in secret—punched forward, raw mana crackling around his fist. The energy fizzled on impact, barely grazing his opponent before vanishing in a spray of dull sparks.

“By Woden's Will,Harden, guard,Protect!”

A small girl’s voice trembled as she summoned a barrier around herself. It shimmered faintly, almost invisible. When the next spell hit it, the barrier cracked like brittle glass, scattering her onto the ground in its collapse.

“By Woden's Will,Air, repel,Wind shield!”

An older man—middle-aged, by markus’s estimate—invoked his spell with a voice full of grit. a swirling gust surrounded him, forming an uneven barrier. It held for one second, then two, and seemed like it might make a third, only for his opponent’s spell to rip through it. The man hit the ground with a wince and a loud oof.

“By Woden's Will,Swift evade,Quick Dash!”

A young woman with a thin, wiry frame launched herself across the arena, her movements jerky and uncontrolled. She barely dodged the first attack. the second sent her stumbling straight into the nearest wall with a sharp crack.

Markus flinched, his shoulders tensing at the sound. 

He rubbed at his temples again, exhaling through his nose. They were trying, he’d give them that. Dogged, unflinching, even in failure. 

It would have been more impressive but watching spell after spell limp across the finish line made his patience thin. Children. All of them.

Yes, even the adults.

Awkward stances, trembling hands, every motion a hesitant question begging for an answer—it was a chaotic, imperfect ballet of ambition clashing with inexperience. Every flicker of success felt like a minor rebellion against the grind of time, the weight of lives that had started far too late.

Bbut somehow, through sheer force of stubbornness or luck, a few of them managed something that vaguely resembled success. Each spell flickered with fragile life, like a candle trying to stay lit against the wind.

Markus shifted in his seat, the scrape of the chair legs lost under the noise of the arena. His eyes wandered to ariel. her focus hadn’t faltered once. The subtle but still-there play of emotions across her face—small smiles, barely-there frowns—tracked every spell like she was in the fight herself.

Her lips twitched upward as one contestant landed a hit that barely counted as significant.

Markus blinked. How does she do that? It wasn’t even the first time he’d noticed it—her unrelenting optimism. 

The druid almost never noticed the mediocrity in her students; all she saw was effort.

He glanced back at the arena, forcing himself to follow her lead, trying his best to see through her eyes. Okay, they’re trying. they’ve got nothing to work with, and they’re still here. the thought came grudgingly, but it came. Greatness wasn’t always earned through skill—it could come from sheer refusal to quit. They’re not destined for greatness—fine. but look at what they’re working with. no time, no resources. everything’s stacked against them. He felt a reluctant flicker of respect settle in his chest, and for once, he allowed it to stay.

The last duel ended with a cheer, the winner hoisting a trophy that looked like it had been made by the lowest bidder.  The thing couldn’t have been worth more than a few Flicks —maybe a whole Kole, but the boy’s beaming face made it seem priceless. Applause spread through the crowd, light but polite. Markus found himself clapping too, the action born more out of a desire to not go against the grain than enthusiasm.

“See?” Ariel's elbow nudged his ribs, the motion drawing his attention as he looked down to stare at a grin tilting up. “Not so bad, was it?”

Markus let out a low chuckle, short and dry. “Sure, Ari,” he replied back, leaning back against his chair. “Thanks for the reminder.”

But then the crowd’s hum shifted—low, anticipatory. Heads turned toward the arena. a ripple of recognition passed through the room as a boy stepped into the light.

Platinum-blond hair caught every harsh glare of the overhead lamps, shimmering as he moved forward into the combat stage. His pale gray eyes swept the audience with a quiet confidence that didn’t belong to someone his age. Even his clothes, stitched with expensive precision, seemed out of place in the patchwork crowd, most of whom probably hadn’t seen a total silver Emblem in their ledgers in the last fortnight.

Ariel's voice dropped into a near whisper, her excitement threading through each word. “Look, it’s your kid!” she said, nudging him again, her grin now stretched wide.

Markus’s gaze fixed on the boy—his boy. His only student for the last half-cycle. The kid waved, his hand lifting like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Markus felt his expression soften before he could stop himself, and before he could stop himself, his lips curved into a faint smile.

“Yeah,” he said, the word settling heavily in his chest. “Mine.”