Lazarus
He stopped going to class two days ago. Recently the slightest touch or noise or sensation sends him into overdrive and he’d rather not have a breakdown in front of everyone, thank you very much.
No one has checked-in regarding his whereabouts, but fresh meals have materialized every night at his doorstep since he started skipping out on the dining hall.
He knows who it is, obviously. No one would make that effort except for Zeno.
He’s had half a dozen panic episodes about that alone.
But being by the sea helps. The knowledge that he can walk right in and never come out is comforting.
Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself.
When the sun is almost down, Lazarus stands up and brushes himself off, in a placid kind of haze. Time has passed without him, but not the way it does when he’s anxious. More like he’s moving through molten amber; his limbs are disconnected from his brain which is working in slow motion.
He wanders with no destination in mind, reveling in how all the sounds are muffled and his eyes are blurring. Brain fog is a symptom of anxiety—he read that somewhere. Maybe he can exist in a foggy brain forever. Wouldn’t that be nice.
He walks and walks and walks and eventually finds a soft bed to lie on, under the sky. The lights from the city are too bright for stars to peek through, but he knows they must be up there somewhere.
When he snaps out of it, the first thing he hears are crickets.
The grass under him is wet, and the sky is black.
How late is it? He must have been here for hours.
When Lazarus sits up, his head aches sharply and he drops it into his hands until he regains his bearings.
Standing is a chore, but he needs to sleep in his bed. And he needs food. And water.
But what he needs more than anything is surety. He has to be sure of his success in the Trial five days from now. If he’s not, the stress will probably give him a heart attack in the arena.
His calm, fugue state made that very clear. If he’s overwhelmed, he’s unpredictable. If he fears failure, he’ll never have success. So what he needs is no fear. What he needs is a guarantee.
And then, like a Forms-sent miracle, he realizes what he’s been lying at the foot of for hours. A miniature marble temple with an agate signet ring on a pedestal, lit from underneath.
The Ring of Invisibility: the infamous relic from some other time, able to grant the wearer invisibility and all the power that comes with it.
With the ring, he could sneak into the Educator’s office and look at the plans for the Trial. He could listen in on other cohorts’ strategy meetings. He could move around the Trial itself completely undetected until he takes it off and is announced the victor.
Lazarus’ arm is reaching forward before he even tells it to. Part of him knows he should think this through. What if it’s alarmed? What if they notice it’s missing? What if they catch him?
But right here is a solution. Something to ease the constant panic clenching in his chest. To stop the episodes and keep him breathing. To make him okay.
It’s the last one that convinces him. He’s never been okay. Not since he can remember, at least. What will it feel like when he finally is?
The allure of it echoes in his ears, unbearably loud. He can only stand it for a few seconds before he snatches the ring from its pedestal.
A quiet bell sounds within the little temple, sweet and twinkling, like it’s being rung by a tiny forest nymph. He looks inside to find the source, but before he can fully peer into the structure, another bell rings in tandem from far off.
The Temple of the Scale, he realizes. Then another one rings, a little closer this time. Then another, then another, until an obnoxious noise clangs from the Main Building.
And, oh Forms.
He’s stolen the Ring of Invisibility—the ring that only exists as a test of worthiness, a trap for the desperate.
“No, no, no,” he whispers.
What has he done?
Lazarus takes off in a sprint. The night is dark enough to cloak his identity, and there’s no one behind him yet, but it’s only a matter of time until the Priestesses from the Temple of the Scale come to catch him.
He jumps down into the not-so-secret trapdoor by the Main Building, forgoing the ladder entirely, and his knees buckle when he lands, dropping him flat.
His head hits the ground hard and stars cloud his vision for seconds, maybe minutes. When he’s finally well enough to sit up, the trapdoor opens from above him.
And, this is it, isn’t it? They have him, the ring clutched in his hand. He’s done for. Exiled, if not executed. He’s kind of relieved that it’s all over.
“Lazarus?” he hears. When he looks up he finds, not an army of Priestesses, but Kallias standing alone. His head tilts, jostling his already ruffled hair. “What are you doing here?”
Lazarus tries to say something, anything, but the words get lost on his tongue.
But clearly Kallias is smart enough to crack it himself, because he looks up to where the bells are ringing, then back down to Lazarus’ clutched hand.
He doesn’t even look surprised, just tired. “Lazarus, you didn’t.”
“They’re gonna catch me.”
“Not if it works,” Kallias says, gesturing to the ring. He’s gotten easier to read recently, because Lazarus can see the genuine curiosity on his face.
Lazarus slips on the ring, expecting to feel some kind of energy or power or even literal invisibility.
Instead, the dullness of reality settles over him. The ring is just a ring. Of course it is. How could it be anything else?
Lazarus doesn’t move, and Kallias sighs. “You have to go to your room or something. Anywhere that doesn’t directly implicate you.”
Kallias offering support is surprising, but Lazarus is deaf to it. He can’t outrun his stupidity. And maybe this is the solution to his problems. He’s never considered lighting a match and melting his own wings.
Kallias covers his face with his hands and then runs them through his hair. He shakes his head at himself before turning and kicking Lazarus in the stomach.
“What the Forms, Kallias!”
“Get up. We’re going to give you an alibi.”
Kallias’ eyes are more imploring than angry, and it’s becoming clear that he doesn’t plan to leave the tunnels without Lazarus.
At this point, he can’t bring himself to care why. To wonder whether anything people think about Kallias was ever true in the first place. He pushes off of the floor and jumps to his feet, then he and Kallias run.
Kallias stops when they get to a door—Lazarus assumes it’s Alexander and Zeno’s—and knocks twice. It’s very calm for the urgent situation they’re in, but apparently it does the trick, because seconds later Alexander swings the door open. He’s already smiling like he knows who’s there.
Then the smile fades into confusion when he notices Lazarus next to him.
“Can we come in?” Kallias asks.
“We’ve got people over,” Alexander responds, less like a rejection and more like a warning.
His eyes dart to Lazarus, then back to Kallias. Kallias lifts a brow, tapping on the doorframe in what looks like a nervous tic. Alexander shakes his head almost imperceptibly.
Oh, they’ve learned to read each other’s thoughts. The way they’re joined at the hip, Lazarus is surprised it took them this long.
“We don’t mind,” Kallias says and, finally, Alexander pulls the door all the way open. Inside are Eudoxos, Zeno, and a girl in Priestess garb whom Lazarus hasn’t met before all sitting on the floor.
He opens his mouth to introduce himself, but nothing comes out.
He would laugh at himself if he had the energy for it.
It’s a true testament to his lack of charm that even now, in ultimate panic, Lazarus can still get flustered by a pretty girl.
Though she’s more than pretty, really. Golden eyes, brown skin, and a sweet freckle on her right cheek. She’s uncannily beautiful.
Zeno frowns, and the three of them stand. “What’s happening? You okay, Laz?” he asks, which pulls Lazarus’ attention away from the ethereal girl and back to the fact that he cannot breathe.
He leans against the door and clutches his chest and Zeno rushes over. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
He opens his hand and shows the ring.
“I did something stupid,” he exhales between hiccupy breaths.
Kallias jumps to sit on Alexander’s bed and explains. “He needs an alibi. So he’s been here since dinner, right?”
Alexander nods, and shoots Lazarus a pitying smile, then hops up to join Kallias.
But then Zeno shakes his head and Lazarus’ heart drops.
“That’s only going to work for so long,” Zeno says. “They’re not going to trust my word forever. And then they’ll think he took it for us.”
Lazarus’ eyes widen when he remembers, for the hundredth time, they’re leaving.
And he’s either going to die here or go with them. The instinct that keeps him from drowning, from jumping, from turning himself in—it’s too strong not to play every card in his hand.
“Let me come with you,” he says, and every head in the room turns to him.
“What?” Alexander says. Lazarus cuts him off before he can deny anything.
“I know you’re leaving the Academy. The city, maybe. I want to come with you.”
All eyes turn to Kallias and Eudoxos then, and Lazarus can sense it. They’re the power players in the room. He’s got to get one of them on his side; then the others will follow.
So he unleashes the most powerful piece of leverage he has left.
“I know, Kallias.”