"Kid if you don't get out of bed now I'm getting the spray-bottle."

I groaned. The warmth of the bed was not worth facing the dreaded spray-bottle, but still…

"I'm awake, I'm awake."

"Hello awake, have you seen Grillby today?" he teased.

I decided to ignore him until my brain rebooted.

I wiggled out from under the blanket. Lying on my bedside table was the pouch of rune-mark stones I had requested last night. A torn sheet of paper with an untidy scrawl on it rested lightly on top. Thanks mum.

Slipping on my waterproof jacket I placed the velveted pouch into the large front pocket and picked up the piece of paper for my dad to decipher using his teacher powers.

My mum's handwriting was a legendary runic script of its own. Only decodable by highly trained professionals (teachers and pharmacists) at great risk to their sanity.

I walked into the kitchen and slipped the note to my dad before starting on breakfast, casually ignoring the cup next to my plate.

"She says to remember to drink your olive oil before leaving."

"Liar." I gesture towards mum's untouched cup. "Tell me what it really says."

"It was worth a try," he picks up her cup and gulps down the contents before nudging my own towards me. Not that I would know. As far as I am concerned that cup does not exist. "She says to feel free to invite your nameless friend and his family over" he pauses squinting at the paper "and enjoy your surprise?" Another pause. "At least I think that's what she meant because surmise really doesn't make sense in that sentence."

I nod. Mouth still full before grabbing my bag and making my way to the doorway.

"Grillby Kara Fornjotr you will not leave until you have drunk your olive oil." His tone is the same one he uses for the jokesters of his class, somewhere half between commanding and laughing. You know that one cool high-school teacher that is slightly kooky but real fun to have around. Well, that's my dad.

I grin, one side of my mouth slipping upwards before I gasp in mock horror.

"But Dad olive oil is a poison to my soul. How could you ask your favourite child to drink such a horrid thing?"

It really wasn't all that bad. Compared to the weird celery and carrot juice stuff my dad in the life before gave me I would give it four and a half Michelin stars.

You might be wondering why I bother raising a fuss. Why make things needlessly difficult when I can be a good kid and just drink the olive oil?

Well, if you are thinking that you are missing out.

Because these cat and mouse games are the definition of fun.

Each playthrough with different iterations and sequences for each fresh new action and response.

Little things like this made me believe life really was the best kind of game.

I forgot that all games must come to an end eventually.


"So that's the basics on all the runic stones. If you want to know more your free to come over to my house." I stretch backwards forgetting that I had straddled the back of the chair between my legs. The result is an unhappy upside-down Grillby and a softly giggling Wingdings. "So that's what it takes to make you laugh, huh." His face falls a little at that and makes as if to apologise. He looks absolutely adorable and I realise that was the first time I'd seen him smile in the classroom. "Welp, guess I'll have to tell you the rest from down here." I waggle an eyebrow teasingly "Unless your going to help me up princess?"

He pouts and looks away. Then I have a piece of paper thrust in front of my face saying: I'm not a princess.

"You've got the regal grace thing downpack, would look great in a dress, have killer manners and I'm constantly surprised you haven't got a flock of birds fawning over you. Denial doesn't suit you Wingdings."

Go back to teaching.

Oh that's nice of him to flip the writing the right way. Or was it the wrong way. Being upside-down makes things confusing. "So the major rune for translation is ansuz as the rune for wisdom and understanding. For a stable, long-lasting runic set we should aim for a combination of three or seven runic stones." I recited.

Why?

"Well basically rule of threes. Three is the smallest number for a pattern, a lot of important things come in threes: the three creation gods, three norns, three roots of Yggdrasil. There's more stuff that comes in threes but my mum's still teaching me it so I can't tell you right now. Its size means it would be simpler and easier to accomplish quickly but more easily broken. Seven is the number for completion. You know like seven days of the week in tales most journeys are completed in this time. It's a nice stable number meaning that the runic set will be a lot harder to break but will take considerably more time to make one that works best for you."

My research showed that nine was the best number for magic.

"True it is, but my mum said that since our key rune," I pause a bit to burn a small sketch of ansuz onto the floor "is the rune of Odin" I draw a stick figure with an eyepatch and beard "who hung for nine days and nine nights to understand the meaning of runes. Thus we would be likely to overpower the runic set such that you would broadcast everything you say directly into the minds of even those outside of hearing distance."

He winces.

"She said that if you asked to congratulate you on her behalf for doing your own research as that information would be a lot harder to find since your not from a Nordic background." I stare at him.

Stop looking at me like that.

"I'm forgetting something."

And what has that got to do with staring at me?

"You ooze smart vibes so I if I stare at you long enough I will become smart and remember."

He stares back at me. He must have learnt facial telepathy with his genius intellect because that was a clear message of (That better be a joke because I'm not dealing with your stupidity) before rolling his eyes and bending over his note paper to write another reply.

So, a runic set for three runes should be our short term project while working on the longer term seven rune set.

Wingdings would be one of those kids whom you would mistake as a parent because of their perfect punctuation and lack of abbreviations. I can imagine it already, Wingdings inviting the rest of us over to his house and everyone being slightly creeped out because why is there a parent in our Discord server. Wait I remember now. I guess staring at smart people really does make you smarter.

"I remember! My mum invited you and the rest of your family to lunch on the weekend. Our house is opposite the charcoal makers and has a red door. Is there anything you can't eat?"

Wingdings gaze was focused towards the front of the class and I turned my head to see the teacher and …

"Hi mum! Is it parent-teacher interview day?"

There is a solid thud from Wingdings general direction. I hope he hasn't cracked his pretty skull. That would be a tragedy.

Another person wearing the same uniform of mum walks in. And then another. We really are having a military parade today. My mind slowly made the connections between the parade and school until I realise today is the day the Princess Tutorial is visiting the school.

"Everyone please stand to welcome our royal guest, Princess Toriel."

How the hell am I meant to do that when I'm still hanging off the chair? Maybe I should set the chair on fire to approximate my head …


"Was that funny little flame yours, Guard Logi?" asked the purple garbed monster setting down the papers she had been examining concerning her school visit.

"I apologise for any offense they might have caused, Princess." Replied her armoured guard, head bowed in acknowledgement of the question.

"Your child and their friend will be put in the accelerated track. We will need them both in the days ahead." There is a tired look on the royals face. She does not like the thought of cutting short their childhoods, but it is necessary. The words are bitter on her tongue but she knows this is the best way to protect them. Tensions are rising between humans and monsters. Children might have no place on the battlefield but this is the only way to protect them from those who do not consider them so.

"I'm sorry my friend." The princess passes the papers over for her guard to burn. The information is too valuable to keep in a file. Instead, the little faces are stored in her mind, each name memorised and whispered in mourning.

The guard's face watches that of the princess she has seen grow from a toddler tugging at her cloak to the young woman today. The one that apologises for shortened childhoods when no one apologised for hers. "Its not your fault, Princess." The papers flare in the guard's hands, their child's face hidden among them. "The fault for this lies in the world we live in."

Ashes drift from the guard's fingers. Discarded black fragments lifeless upon the red velvet.