All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,

From the lowest slaves

To the highest kings.

- Canticle of Transfigurations 1:3

Vyrantium, Tevinter Imperium, 9:28 Dragon

The main structure of the Circle of Vyrantium had originally been a temple to the Old God Andoral, and it still looked the part. It was a towering structure of dark stone and gold filigree trailing up to a domed roof. While the majority of the old draconic icons had been removed and replaced with more appropriate statues of Andraste and Hessarian, a handful of smaller images remained in less obtrusive reminder, looking down on apprentices and enchanters from molded ceiling tiles and out of dusty corners. The Dragon of Slaves, watching over the studies of a hundred mage children, many the children of magisters and not a one of them a slave.

Idhren thought it was a bit ironic.

He had been at the Circle for a year already, and the time had been simultaneously the best and worst year of his life.

The Circle's library put Canidius' personal collection to shame. Wide rooms and long halls lined floor to vaulted ceiling with bookshelves easily three times as tall as Idhren himself, each shelf packed full of books and scrolls dating back to the dawn of the Imperium. And an apprentice of the Circle had full access to the entire collection; a privilege Idhren was quick to take advantage of.

There was so much more free time than Idhren was used to. The schedules here were structured around the leisurely lives of the Altus class, who made up the majority of the students although a minority of the instructors. The first time that Idhren did not have to wake at the crack of dawn to perform his morning ablutions and see to his household chores before breakfast he had not known what to do with himself. His body woke automatically at the first hint of light through the window in his simple dormitory room and he was out of bed before realizing that he did not need to be.

Idhren was so used to waking early and going to bed late that he did not know how to sleep in. So in the morning, when most of his well-bred peers were still abed, he dressed and spent a few hours in the library. It was his preferred time to visit the library, actually. At such an hour the Circle was quiet and still, the library was peaceful. And with all of the Altus students asleep, it was the only time that Idhren could wander about unhindered and unquestioned.

After breakfast, mornings were spent in lecture halls, listening to the Circle's enchanters drone on about their latest theories and research. At times the subject matter was interesting, though most often it was simply rehashing a theory proposed and published a hundred years ago. Perhaps they hoped that no one would be aware of the old theory. Then lunch, and then private study either alone or with a mentor. For Idhren, this was mostly alone. His mentor, assigned by the First Enchanter, was not unkind to him, but the middle aged woman clearly had little interest in his instruction. Perhaps the assignment had been a punishment for her. Everyone seemed to think his presence was some sort of punishment.

So Idhren spent most of his free time in the library reading anything that interested him. Anything he could get his hands on.

Idhren loved to read. He loved to learn. At Canidius' estate he had read nearly every book in the library. Even Alvinius had not read all of the volumes their master owned. Idhren wanted to learn everything the world had to offer. However many theories he committed to memory, though, there were still talents that he could not put to use.

He still had no talent for healing.

"Idhren, I simply don't understand what the problem is," Galene, his mentor, complained one day after two hours of failing to mend the broken leg she had given a rabbit. The poor animal had even stopped whimpering in pain, although Idhren himself felt on the verge of tears. He wanted to help the creature, but he simply could not make the threads of magic tie together and stitch up the bone. "You can recite the theory verbatim, you understand what to do, but you simply won't do it." She was frowning at him, arms crossed beneath her breasts.

"I can't do it," Idhren mumbled, voice tight. He would if he could, but he simply could not make the magic cooperate.

"Who ever heard of an elf that can't heal," Galene scoffed. "Very well, enough of that for today," she brushed him aside and healed the rabbit's limb in a matter of seconds. The animal relaxed immediately as the pain subsided.

"I'm sorry," Idhren said quietly. He was trying, honestly.

"Never mind," she muttered with an exasperated sigh. "Let's work on something else now. What was that theory you were so enthralled with the other day?"

Idhren lit up at the offer to work on something he was actually interested in. He knew immediately which theory the woman was referring, even if his personal reading had since moved off the topic. Immediately he launched into an explanation, eager and excited.

Later that same afternoon found Idhren with his nose buried in a heavy tome about alchemy from a section of the library so little used that opening each book let out a cloud of dust and made him sneeze.

If he could not heal, Idhren reasoned to his mentor, then he should make up for that shortcoming with a knowledge of mundane remedies. Not nearly as effective as magic, but better than nothing. And there were certain reasons that a knowledge of alchemy could be beneficial to him in the future. He would be able to mix his own lyrium potions, or any number of useful concoctions. The people of Tevinter liked to pretend that magic could do quite literally anything, but that was simply not the case.

That he had a rather more personal reason for this particular course of study no one except he needed to know. Just like no one needed to know what he hid under too-big robes. His pedigree, and then his Liberati paperwork, said male and that was all that mattered. Not that his chest was a bit too soft for a man, or his hips a bit too wide, or that between his legs—

Idhren didn't think about what was between his legs.

Part of him wondered whether his body was at fault for his lack of talent for healing. If he couldn't mold himself into the proper shape, then how could he be expected to do the same for anything else?

He had a journal half-full of notes on herbs and alchemical theories. Plants that alone had little effect on anything but if combined correctly could prove useful. The problem was getting his hands on these plants and the tools necessary to experiment with the potions. To requisition them from the Circle's stores he needed to have a good reason. A damn good reason. Fixing the mess the Maker had made of his body was probably not a good reason. Besides, that would require admitting to the problem in the first place.

Everything had been fine until that year. He had been able to ignore that thing between his legs because otherwise his body was fine.

Elves naturally matured slower than humans, and no matter what Idhren would never be quite as tall or quite as broad as any of the human apprentices. But where he had expected in time to grow a few more inches, for his voice to drop, Idhren's voice remained the same, he grew barely a couple of inches, and his body began to fill out in all the wrong places. Like a girl.

It was wrong. It was all wrong, and he was desperate to prevent it from getting any worse.

But how did he get his hands on the materials that would require?

For Dorian Pavus the Circle of Vyrantium was only the latest in a long list of schools he had been forced to attend since his talents surpassed those of his private tutors. Fourth, he thought, but he wasn't actually counting.

School was boring. His lessons were boring, his instructors were boring, his peers were boring. It was all just terribly boring. So dull it had even robbed him of his vocabulary.

The place had a decent library at least, and his mentor let him direct his own course of study, probably in an effort to win favor with the young Altus and through him the Pavus family at large. It wouldn't work, but Dorian would happily take advantage of the man's delusions for as long as they continued to benefit him.

The most interesting thing about this place was the elf.

The first time Dorian had seen him the elf had been carrying a stack of books so high he could barely see over them and Dorian had assumed him a slave, or at least a servant.

The second time, Dorian spotted him across the crowded lecture hall during a truly mind-numbing debate about the true nature of lyrium (a topic that had been hashed and rehashed a thousand times already, every possible opinion and piece of evidence given a hundred times over). But despite the painfully repetitious and threadbare arguments, the elf was watching with rapt attention, sitting to the side of the hall, but otherwise with the rest of the Circle's apprentices and lower-level enchanters. What was an elf doing in a Circle lecture hall? He couldn't possibly be an apprentice, could he? Dorian nudged the apprentice seated next to him and asked just that.

"Oh, that's the Liberati," the other young man had sneered through his perfect teeth. Dorian sneered as well.

No one knew his name. No one cared to ask, and the elf never offered. He was quiet, kept to himself and rarely spoke to the other apprentices. None of them knew how a Liberati had wound up studying magic at one of the most prestigious Circles of Magi in Tevinter, but there were rumors, none of them flattering.

Outside of lectures and debates Dorian only ever saw him in the corner of the library, hunched over a pile of books and taking furious notes. To be perfectly honest Dorian rarely paid attention to the small, nondescript elf that sat in lonely corners of the library with his nose buried in ancient tomes. It was impossible to judge ages with elves, they all looked younger than they were, but Dorian expected the Liberati was a few years younger than himself. They had never had a lesson together, so the elf certainly was not on the same level as Dorian. To be honest, though, very few people were on the same level as Dorian.

Well, if they were letting in elves obviously this Circle's standards had fallen.

It almost made him want to go back to Qarinus.

Almost.

Dorian did only as much studying as was required of him. Or required to keep him ahead of all his peers. One must have standards, after all. But as he mastered spells quickly enough to impress even the First Enchanter and memorized theory after theory, Dorian was still left with entirely too much free time.

It wasn't that Dorian did not enjoy studying; he quite enjoyed it, actually. He relished pushing his abilities to their limits when he found a challenge worthy of his attentions. The problem was that Vyrantium did not offer any such challenges. Just like everyone always had, the Senior Enchanters fell over themselves to praise him.

Apprentices were not permitted outside the dormitories after sundown. A completely ridiculous regulation, as far as Dorian was concerned. Rules intended to instill good habits and a sense of decorum. Dorian had never been a fan of rules, and he was not known for his decorum. And if the only entertainment to be found in this Circle was in breaking such rules, then he would happily entertain himself.

Slipping out of the Circle was not terribly difficult. Enforcement of curfew was laughable, to say the very least. Settled as the Circle was in the heart of the city, it was not difficult once out to find a more engaging sort of diversion. There was very little in the Imperium that was beyond the reach of the son of a magister, even if he was technically underage. A flash of his birthright and a passing comment about his family were usually enough to get Dorian what he wanted. Namely, alcohol.

Usually all the other apprentices were asleep by the time Dorian stumbled up the stairs and into his own bed. But on this night, only a handful of weeks after his arrival, Dorian slipped through the doors as quietly as his inebriated state allowed, rounded a corner and then promptly tripped over someone sitting against the wall. He stumbled, nearly fell on his face, but managed to catch himself against the wall before sustaining an injury to anything other than his pride.

"Venhedis," he swore in a loud whisper, "What do you think you're-," the young man cut himself off as he turned around and laid eyes on the person who had been in his way. It was the Liberati. The elf was seated against the wall, legs now pulled up to his chest, though Dorian imagined that was what he'd tripped over. But the elf himself wasn't what had stopped Dorian's train of thought, it was the blood. The entire bottom half of the elf's face and the collars of his robes were covered in blood; still running from what was obviously a broken nose. "Fasta vass, what happened to you?"

The elf was staring up at him with wide, frightened eyes. "I'm sorry," he said in a hushed but urgent voice, "I didn't mean to… I though everyone was in bed."

Dorian frowned. That wasn't what he asked. Well, it just went to show that even Circle educated you couldn't expect much intelligence from an elf. "I asked you a question."

"I…" the elf stammered, his eyes flicked down to the floor, then back up at Dorian's face, then back down to the floor again. The young man realized that he was holding a bloodied rag that he'd apparently been using to try and staunch the flow of blood from his nose. "I tripped," he said quietly.

"What, face first into a wall?" Dorian asked. It was such a terrible lie; the elf couldn't possibly expect him to believe it. Then he remembered that this wasn't the first time he'd seen the elf with some sort of injury. A little over a week ago he had seen the elf in the library with a black eye. At the time he'd thought nothing of it; an accident in spellcasting or simply a book fallen from too high a shelf. Now he wasn't certain that injury had been so innocuous. "The black eye a while ago, you trip that time too?"

"Y-yes," the elf stuttered, eyes still fixed firmly on the floor.

Dorian rolled his eyes, this was becoming annoying. Did the elf think his lies were believable? "No one is that clumsy," he said. "Why are you lying?"

The elf's gaze flicked up towards Dorian's face again, filled with fear and pain, then he looked past Dorian to the line of doors on either side of the hall. "It… it doesn't matter. You shouldn't concern yourself with me. I—I won't tell anyone you were out after curfew, I swear."

It was that promise along with the frightened glance toward the bedrooms of their fellow apprentices that finally clued Dorian in on what was happening here. Someone had done this to him, and the elf thought that Dorian would do the same if given half a reason. "One of them did this to you?" he asked, cocking a thumb back down the hallway and its line of doors. "How gauche." Dorian might also be of the opinion that the Circle was no place for an elf, but he would never sink to the level of physical violence. That was for commoners, and the students here were supposed to be better than that. "And why haven't you healed yourself yet?" he asked.

"I… I tried," the elf said quietly, and looked down at the bloodied cloth in his hands. "I'm not good at healing."

Dorian sighed and crouched down on the floor. He grabbed the elf's chin and turned his face toward him to get a better look at the injury. "Honestly, what are they teaching in this place? I thought Vyrantium was supposed to be a quality institution," he muttered to himself in annoyance. The break was bad, but still fresh, probably less than an hour old. Easy. He raised his free hand to the elf's nose, ignored the way elf flinched back in fear before the soft glow of healing magic formed around Dorian's hand. Within moments the elf's nose was as good as new, once more smooth and straight. It was a good nose, and behind all that blood Dorian realized the elf had a rather attractive face with large violet eyes and impossibly kissable lips. As soon as the thought crossed his mind Dorian pulled away as though he'd been burned. He shouldn't be thinking those things, even about someone who was barely above a slave. "There, all better," he said curtly, and turned away.

The elf raised his hands hesitantly up to his face as though he didn't believe Dorian had actually healed him. "Thank you," he said, quiet but earnest.

"Well, we can't have you bleeding everywhere, can we?" Dorian said flippantly, "It's so hard to get out of the carpets." The elf was quiet, and when Dorian dared turn back he found the tiniest of smiles pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Is it true you're Liberati?" the young man blurted out suddenly, appalled by his own lack of tact. He would blame it on the alcohol.

"Yes," the elf answered, ashamed.

Dorian couldn't blame him for being ashamed; he certainly wouldn't want to be a Liberati. He shuddered at the thought of being Laetan. "So how does a Liberati end up studying in the Circle of Magi?"

The elf looked shocked by the question. It was probably the first time anyone had bothered to ask, Dorian assumed. Come to think of it, he'd never seen anyone else talk to the elf. "It's sort of a long story," he murmured, "I'm certain you'll find it boring."

"Then it'll be no different from talking to anyone else here," Dorian shrugged, and made himself comfortable – or as comfortable as possible sitting on the floor in a hallway. "I'm Dorian, by the way," he replied, though suspected that the elf already knew exactly who he was. "What's your name?"

The elf was staring at him curiously, but eventually answered, "Idhren."

It was a painfully elven name. That certainly wouldn't help him get along in Tevinter, but Dorian decided that it suited him all the same. "Alright, Idhren, tell me how a Liberati ends up in a place like this."

Idhren knew that he was extremely lucky, and that he should be grateful. He was grateful. Most of the time. But it was difficult to be thankful when nursing a broken nose. Was this the price of his freedom and his education? A new bruise every other day? Tripped in the hall, pushed down stairs, his books stolen, his notes destroyed? Sitting up in his tiny room in the middle of the night furiously washing bloodstains from the collar of his robes?

His nose wasn't broken anymore. That Altus had healed him, and for the life of him Idhren could not figure out why.

Dorian Pavus. The young man hadn't introduced himself as such, but Idhren knew who he was all the same. You don't survive as a Liberati among Altus without knowing exactly who everyone is, if only so you know exactly who to avoid. Dorian Pavus had been very high up on his list of people to avoid. He was the sort of person Idhren had thought more likely to hit him again than heal him.

So why was he sitting here in his room, healed? What was the Altus playing at, asking about Idhren as though he actually cared what a former slave had done to get himself into this place usually reserved for only the best in Tevinter society? And why had Idhren told him?

Because Idhren had not had a conversation about anything other than his studies since he had arrived at the Circle. Because he had no friends, and no contact with his illiterate family back at Canidius' estate, and even his mentor didn't actually like him. Because Idhren was desperate for some form of personal interaction that did not involve insults being hurled at him.

It took an hour, but he managed to get all of the blood off of his robes, which was a relief because he did not have very many spares. He hung them to dry by the thin arrow-slit window, tossed the bloodied water out the same window onto the flagstones outside, and then collapsed into bed.

Two days later he passed Dorian in the library and the young man barely spared him a glance, there was not a single indication that the Altus recognized him at all. Until that moment Idhren had considered thanking the young man again for his help that evening. But Dorian looked at him like a stranger not even worthy of committing to memory. Idhren shouldn't have been surprised. He wasn't, really, but he was disappointed and hurt. And a little angry at his own naïveté. Obviously he had been nothing but a momentary distraction, a curiosity. An Altus mage didn't care about him and never would.

But then, little more than a week after his first late night encounter with Dorian Pavus, it happened again.

This time one of the Altus students had managed to break the wards that were supposed to keep Idhren's small dormitory room safe from their meddling. Idhren did not know who was responsible, but he had returned from dinner to find his possessions lining the hallway. Pages of his notes were strewn about the floor, some crumpled and stepped on. Someone had even dressed one of the statues along the hall in his robes. Immediately he had set to retrieving his things. The notes first, of course. Clothes could be replaced (though he would certainly get a telling off from Canidius if he asked for replacements or spending money) but weeks' worth of work could not be.

The sun had been down for an hour when he finally managed to round up the last of his papers and get them safely back into his room. Although perhaps that was not so safe anymore. He even managed to get his robes off the statue without ripping them too much. Dorian stumbled into the hall to find it abandoned by all save the lone elf with an armful of clothes and a few of his other possessions still strewn on the floor about the base of the statue.

"What's this?" the Altus asked curiously when he set eyes on the strange scene. "Laundry day?"

Idhren flushed in embarrassment. As though it hadn't been bad enough to collect his things while all the other students who lived in this hall were returning to their rooms for the night, to suffer the jokes and the malicious interference. Surely Dorian would do the same thing, and yet Idhren could not manage to keep his mouth shut. "Someone broke into my room."

The Altus' eyebrows crept up toward his hairline. "Didn't you have it warded?"

"Of course I had it warded," Idhren said irritably, bending to pick up his things off the ground. Keys were scoffed at by the upper echelons of Tevinter society. Anything of worth should be hidden behind not only a locked door, but several protective wards. Some of the more gregarious apprentices had taken to setting glyphs as well, ice was popular, a further punishment for would-be trespassers.

"Not very well, apparently," Dorian commented. He leaned casually against the wall and watched Idhren collect the last of his possessions.

"Evidently," Idhren grumbled. He was not in the mood to deal with any more spoiled Altus brats today. If Dorian had only come to gloat then Idhren wished he would get it over with and leave.

"What sort did you use?" Dorian asked curiously. "Aversion? Horror? Perception? It's best to use multiple, you know. Even to layer multiple of the same. Most people don't expect that and only bother to dismantle one."

"I know how to ward my own room," Idhren snapped, surprising even himself. It stunned Dorian into speechlessness, which was a further surprise. Idhren had not thought him capable of shutting up. "I'm sorry," he said immediately, that familiar fear welling up inside him. Don't talk back, you'll be punished.

Dorian pushed himself off the wall and shifted to his weight to one foot uncomfortably, fidgeted a moment with the end of his sleeve. "Well…" he said, more to fill the silence than for any real purpose. "I suppose… Do you need any help… cleaning up?" That shocked Idhren enough that he stopped dead, stood up straight, and stared at Dorian in wide eyed confusion. The young man noticed his shocked stare and became even more uncomfortable. "What?" he asked, "Why are you looking at me like that? Is there something on my face?"

"You…" Idhren began slowly, "Want to help me?"

Dorian stared at him for a moment, and then shrugged. "Is it that ridiculous a notion?" he asked. "I mean… It's rather pathetic watching you get yourself into these situations. Any sane person would do the same, right? If only so we don't have to keep watching you flounder."

It was completely ridiculous, from Idhren's perspective. "Everyone else just ignores me," he said plainly.

"Do they?" Dorian asked.

"Even you ignored me," Idhren reminded him. "The other day in the library… You looked at me like you didn't even recognize me."

The Altus scoffed, "Well, you can't expect me to go acting all chummy with the lower classes, can you? What would people think? I have a reputation to uphold, after all."

Idhren looked down at the floor and clutched his things tighter to his chest. "A reputation. Of course," he mumbled. Maker forbid he earn a reputation for sympathy.

"What? Are you upset?" Dorian asked, and he sounded genuinely confused. "Because I didn't say 'hello' to you in the library? Would you rather I knock all of your books off the table? Call you 'knife-ear'? Break past your wards and steal all of your things? Not that anyone could possibly want your things…" he added as an afterthought, eyeing the simple, unembellished robes that Idhren wore.

That wasn't what Idhren wanted at all. He did not want this fake friendship, either. The Circle was so lonely and miserable, not at all what he had expected. Not that he had expected it to be a walk in the park, or to be overwhelmed with friends. Idhren knew what he was to these people. However, he had not expected the constant bullying, the indifference of the Enchanters, the disinterest of his own mentor.

"Listen," Dorian sighed, drawing Idhren's attention back to him again. The young man was standing with one hand on his hip, the other mussed in his hair. "I think it's absolutely abhorrent the way some of the other apprentices treat you," he said carefully, as though it was difficult to admit. "It's childish and plebian. And watching you muck around like this? Useless at healing magic, useless at wards, it's practically painful. So don't get the wrong idea. If you learned to look after yourself I wouldn't feel the need to go out of my way to help you. It's only that I'm not so heartless that I can watch you struggling pathetically and ignore it."

The way that Dorian spoke made it sound as though offering help to Idhren was a chore. Maybe that was exactly how the Altus viewed it. It would be just like a magister to consider having a conscience an annoyance. "I'll take my leave then," Idhren said, swallowing down his disappointment. "So you won't be burdened by my presence any longer." With one last look up and down the corridor to ensure he had collected all his things, Idhren turned quickly and rushed down to his own door and quickly shut himself up in his room. He threw three wards up over the doorway out of habit and threw his abused belongings to the floor before collapsing into bed.

Sometimes Idhren wished he wasn't a mage.

Dorian and Idhren never spoke in public. An Altus couldn't be seen fraternizing with a lowly Liberati; he had a reputation to maintain. Not that Dorian didn't revel in antagonizing his fellows, but there were certain societal lines that couldn't be crossed. Dorian was still the son of a magister. He had to play the game, and Dorian was very good at this particular game. His weekly jaunts into the slums were secretive, no one of consequence knew about them and he dropped enough coin to ensure that less important mouths stayed shut.

It turned out that Dorian had a habit of sneaking back into the dormitories in the middle of the night. And Idhren had a habit of sitting on the steps or in the hall nursing his most recent physical or emotional wounds.

Somehow they had managed to build a rapport. Dorian generally complained about Idhren's poor skill at healing – a branch of magic he proclaimed as mundane and simplistic – but still he patched up whatever bruises had appeared that day.

"Why do you keep doing this?" Idhren asked one day after Dorian had tended to yet another black eye. It was the third one this month. The elf really needed to learn how to heal a bruise. Or learn how to keep himself out of trouble.

"Why?" Dorian repeated as though he didn't understand the question. "Because it's absolutely shameful that a student of this circle can't even heal a bruise. It's embarrassing, really. And if they can't teach the elf to heal, the simplest of magics, then it becomes nauseatingly obvious that you're only here as some sort of political statement."

"Just because it's easy for you doesn't mean it's easy for everyone else," Idhren snapped, interrupting Dorian's monologue and startling the man. The elf was usually so soft-spoken and polite, just like every other elf Dorian had ever spoken to, but every so often Idhren opened his mouth and fire came out.

No elf had ever spoken back to him before, ever contradicted him. Dorian opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. He could not possibly admit out loud that Idhren was right. "What is easy for you then?" he asked instead.

"Storm magic," Idhren replied without hesitation.

"Storm magic?" Dorian repeated, and arched an eyebrow in disbelief. "What use is that? There is no practical application for storm magic, not to mention it's completely unpredictable and impossible to use with any precision. Lightning strikes where it wants, you cannot direct it effectively."

"You're wrong," Idhren insisted. "It is no more difficult to direct than a fire or ice spell if you know what you're doing."

"I'm wrong?" Dorian asked in shock. No elf had ever dared to correct him before. It was mildly insulting. Dorian was a genius, a prodigy - or so he'd been told for his entire life – and this former slave had the nerve to tell him he was wrong? "Then please enlighten me," he challenged.

The elf hesitated for a moment, a lifetime of subservience telling him that it was dangerous and wrong to talk back to someone like Dorian, to contradict someone like Dorian. But he knew he was just as talented as any of the Altus mages here, more talented than some of them, and he had a burning desire to prove himself instead of sitting quietly and doing as he was told. "If wielded carelessly then you're correct, storm magic is unpredictable. The nature of lightning makes it more difficult to control and aim than the other forms of primal magic. Ice is formed on the spot you want it; a fireball will always fly in a straight line. Lightning seeks its own target, arching toward the nearest object of opposite charge. If you are to use it in an offensive or defensive way you must ensure that you're intended target is also the lightning's choice target. So you make a path for it. If you warp the veil just right it can effectively charge the water vapor in the air so that the electrical charge jumps through it and along exactly the path you want. It's easier in higher humidity, obviously, and would probably be next-to-impossible in an arid climate. I haven't figured out how to compensate for that, yet."

There were very few things in the world that could render Altus Dorian Pavus, prodigy of his age, speechless. This was one of them. Contradicted and lectured by a Liberati elf who, actually, had a fairly good argument. In theory, at least. Theory and practice were two different things. Dorian had seen Idhren with his nose buried in books, but he had never seen the elf cast an actual spell. He would be shocked if the elf could put his theory into practice. "Are you telling me that you can affect the charge of individual particles in the air to direct a static charge?" Dorian asked, challenging, disbelieving.

"Yes?" Idhren replied hesitantly, worried he may have overstepped the bounds of his station. "I haven't perfected the technique yet, but I can usually get the lightning to go where I want."

"You can do that but you cannot knit together a broken bone?" Dorian scoffed. Perhaps it was a bit cruel to laugh at him, but honestly. What self-respecting mage couldn't perform even the most basic of healing spells? The vocation was generally looked down on among the Altus class. Generally that was the only thing elven mages were any good for.

"They aren't even remotely similar," Idhren protested defensively.

"Creation and primal magics are considered opposites, but they are not entirely dissimilar," Dorian argued. "But that is beside the point. The amount of precision it would take to… Does your Magister Canidius know you can do this?"

"I expect so," Idhren replied. "He oversaw all of my training."

"Well, that explains why he was willing to pull strings for you to study here," Dorian mused to himself. So Idhren wasn't a charity case but an investment. An investment disguised as a charity case. Well played, Canidius. "To even conceive of such a technique without formal instruction… Most untrained mages can barely manipulate the veil enough to form a barrier."

That almost sounded like a compliment, but Idhren could hardly believe it. No human had ever complimented him before. He was speechless.

"Can you show me?" Dorian asked suddenly, interrupting his own train of thought again.

"I can try," Idhren offered. "It's difficult."

"I imagine so," Dorian replied. "Humor me, though. Show me you're not all talk."

"I'm not," the elf frowned stubbornly, "I can do it. What… What should I aim for?"

Dorian looked around thoughtfully for an acceptable target. Nothing metal, that would be too easy. "Ah, that statue there, down the hall," he said, pointing toward a rather terrible marble depiction of some former First Enchanter of the circle.

"What if I break it?" Idhren asked in concern. They would throw him out in a heartbeat.

"Then you would be doing the world a favor, that thing is hideous," Dorian said flippantly. Besides, he didn't think it would actually work anyway. There were half a dozen metal sconces lining the walls between them and the bust. "Don't worry, no one will ever know you did it. There's no one here to see."

The elf hesitated, but then nodded. He wanted to prove to someone that just because he was an elf and a former slave, that didn't mean he was stupid or weak. He had talent and he deserved to be here just as much as a magister's son. Idhren concentrated and held his hands out before him. He could feel the veil around them like a fog and pulled at it, twisting it into shape in order to get the effect he wanted. Beside him Dorian sat silent, watching in barely concealed fascination as this Liberati elf worked magic with more precision than some of the instructors Dorian had had in his youth. When finally a spark of electricity burst from Idhren's fingers it shot down the hall, avoiding every bit of metal along its path and slamming into the bust with enough force to send it rocking on its pedestal for a moment before it settled again, unharmed. Idhren breathed a sigh of relief.

"That's fantastic," Dorian exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "You can still feel the charge in the air, I bet you could do it again a second time without having to warp the veil again along the same path. And it completely ignored all of the easier targets," he bent to examine a metal doorknob, but it didn't hold even a hint of magic, then straightened and continued down the hall to examine the statue. "Oh, you definitely hit him," he chuckled, "Poor old First Enchanter… Marcus?" he read from the plaque, "He's got a crack on his nose. I don't think anyone will notice." Then he turned back to Idhren with a smile on his face. "I don't say this often, but I'm impressed."

"You… really?" Idhren asked in disbelief. Disbelief that Dorian would admit to being impressed by anything he could do.

"Don't get me wrong, it still needs quiet a bit of work," the young man hurried to correct himself. "It took you much too long to chart the path for this to be of use in anywhere but an academic setting. The veil warp itself, though," that was the impressive part, in Dorian's opinion, "If you could develop that precision it could be used for anything. Think of the possibilities!"

Idhren hadn't quite allowed himself that luxury yet. He needed to be able to do this with more reliability before he could consider applying the technique to anything else. But Dorian's enthusiasm was heartening. It was the most encouragement the elf had ever received in regards to developing his personal talents instead of forcing himself to repeat textbook spells to make his instructors happy.

"Do you want to see something else?" the Liberati asked, eager for the exceedingly rare opportunity to show off.

"That depends entirely on what it is," Dorian replied as he made his way back to where Idhren was still sitting on the stairs leading up to their dormitory.

"Hold out your hands," Idhren instructed, reaching his own out toward Dorian.

"If you electrocute me I'm going to be very cross," the young man informed him, but held out his hands all the same.

"I won't," Idhren assured him. He held his hands up only a scant few inches away from Dorian's and allowed the charge of electricity to form at his fingertips. Thin branches of lightning danced over his fingers and palm, sparking blue-white as they moved. Cautiously he let one and then another jump over to Dorian's hands, never taking his eyes off the young man's face, until the energy moved between them fluidly.

"It tickles," Dorian breathed in wonder, watching in fascination as the tiny bolts of electricity jumped across his skin. What should have been painful was instead rather pleasant. Idhren had such effortless control over this element. Then he looked up, a comment on the tip of his tongue that died the moment his eyes met Idhren's violet ones. The elf was far more talented than Dorian had initially given him credit for, and he was really very attractive.

Dorian pulled his hands away so quickly Idhren was momentarily worried that he had hurt him. But the young man didn't look like he was in pain, in fact he was blushing. "I… should get to bed. And so should you. There are exams tomorrow."

Confused and a little hurt, Idhren dropped his hands back down to his sides, all thoughts of party tricks gone completely. "Of course," he mumbled, instinctively falling back on politeness and subservience to hide his feelings, "I apologize for distracting you."

Dorian gave no response, only a curt nod before he brushed past Idhren and disappeared down the hall.