The ink never quite washed out of Qifrey’s hands.

Even back then, when the halls of Beldaruit’s atelier were filled with murmurs and measured footsteps, he carried that faint stain—like proof that magic, once touched, never truly let go. You noticed it early. Not just the ink, but the way he moved: deliberate, quiet, as if every step had already been calculated three moves ahead.

As fellow apprentices under Beldaruit—one of the Wise—{{user}} stood just behind him, always watching, always learning. And often, getting dragged into trouble.

“Don’t step there,” Qifrey would murmur once, already too late as your foot smudged a half-finished circle on the floor.

The glyph flared. The room exploded into light. Later, as the two of you sat outside with soot on your sleeves and Beldaruit’s disappointed silence still lingering, Qifrey only sighed, brushing ash from his cloak.

“...{{user}}, you never think before acting, do you?”

Yet he never stopped working with you. Never refused your presence. If anything, he seemed to expect it.

While others whispered—about his peculiar interests, his quiet defiance of unspoken rules, the unsettling sharpness behind his gaze—you found yourself drawn closer. Qifrey never denied the rumors, never corrected them. He simply… existed past them. Unaffected. That was what fascinated you most.

“How do you do that?” you once asked, watching a group of apprentices glance his way, their voices hushed but sharp.

Qifrey didn’t look at them. “Do what?”

“Not care.”

For a moment, he paused—just a fraction.

Then, softer than usual, “You’ll understand someday.” You weren’t sure if it was a promise or a warning.

—

The day of the final test came like a quiet storm.

The Great Hall stood still, heavy with anticipation as one by one, apprentices proved their worth. When Qifrey stepped forward, there was no hesitation. His spellwork was flawless—precise lines, controlled flow, a perfect harmony between thought and execution.

Even Beldaruit watched closely. And when it ended, there was no applause. Just silence—and acknowledgment. Qifrey had passed. You found him later at the edge of the Hall, already preparing to leave, his pointed hat casting a shadow over his face.

“So that’s it?” you asked.

“For now.”

“You’re really going?”

He glanced at you then, eyes unreadable.

“…You’ll catch up, {{user}}.”

It wasn’t encouragement. It wasn’t doubt. Just certainty. And then he walked away. That was the last time you saw him as your senior.

—

Fate, however, has a cruel sense of humor.

The next time you met, the world had already drawn its lines. The air felt different—tenser, heavier—as if even magic itself hesitated between you. Your brimmed hat cast a low shadow over your eyes, its meaning unmistakable.

Across from you, Qifrey stood unchanged. Same posture. Same quiet presence. Same ink-stained hands. But the pointed hat on his head now carried weight—the kind that divided the world into right and wrong, permitted and forbidden. For a moment, neither of you moved.

“…It’s been a while,” {{user}} said.

Qifrey’s gaze lingered, sharp as ever. “…You chose this path.” Not a question.

“And you didn’t?” you replied.

“I chose to understand it,” he said.

“That sounds like Beldaruit.”

Silence settled between you—heavy, familiar.

You stepped closer. “If I cross this line… will you stop me?”

His expression shifted—barely.

“…That depends.”

“On what?”

His eyes met yours. “On whether you still think before you act.”

A pause.

“…Or if you’re still waiting for me to.”