a few defensive chalklings—blob creatures that threw themselves in front of Lines of Vigor.
Armies of creatures, lines, and waveforms flew across the board—a tempest of white against red, chalklings puffing away, lines hitting the circles and blasting out chunks of the protective line. Both men scribbled furiously.
Joel stood, then took an almost involuntary step down toward the front of the room, transfixed. Doing so, however, let him catch a glimpse of Professor Fitch’s face. Fitch looked frantic. Terrified.
Joel froze.
The professors kept drawing, but that worry in Fitch’s expression pulled Joel away from the conflict. Such desperate motions, such concern, his face streaked with sweat.
The weight of what was happening crashed down on Joel. This wasn’t a duel for fun or practice. This was a challenge to Fitch’s authority—a dispute over his right to hold his tenure. If he lost …
One of Nalizar’s red Lines of Vigor hit Fitch’s circle straight on, almost breaching it. Immediately, all of Nalizar’s chalklings moved that direction, a frenzied, chaotic mess of red motion toward the weakened line.
For just a moment, Fitch froze, looking overwhelmed. He shook himself back into motion, but it was too late. He couldn’t stop them all. One of the dragons got past his knight. It began to claw furiously at the weakened part of Fitch’s circle, distorting it further.
Fitch hurriedly began to draw another knight. But the dragon ripped through his border.
“No!” Joel cried, taking another step down.
Nalizar smiled, removing his chalk from the floor and standing. He dusted off his hands. Fitch was still drawing.
“Professor,” Nalizar said. “Professor!”
Fitch stopped, and only then did he notice the dragon, which continued to work on the hole, trying to dig it out enough that it could get into the center of the circle. In a real battle, it would have moved in to attack the Rithmatist himself. This, however, was just a duel—and a breach in the ring meant victory for Nalizar.
“Oh,” Fitch said, lowering his hand. “Oh, yes, well, I see.…” He turned, seeming dazed, regarding the room full of students. “Ah, yes. I … will just go, then.”
He began to gather up his books and notes. Joel sank down onto the stone steps. In his hand, he held the letter he had written to give to Fitch.
“Professor,” Nalizar said. “Your coat?”
Fitch looked down. “Ah, yes. Of course.” He undid the buttons on the long red coat, then pulled it off, leaving him in his white vest, shirt, and trousers. He looked diminished. Fitch held the coat for a moment, then laid it on the lecture desk. He gathered up his books and fled the chamber. The door to the ground-floor entrance clicked shut softly behind him.
Joel sat, stunned. A few of the members of the classroom clapped timidly, though most just watched, wide-eyed, obviously uncertain how to react.
“Now then,” Nalizar said, voice curt. “I will take over instruction of this class for the last few days of the term, and I will be teaching the summer elective course that Fitch had planned. I have heard reports of rather disgraceful performance among students at Armedius, your cohort in particular. I will allow no sloppiness in my class. You there, boy sitting on the steps.”
Joel looked up.
“What are you doing there?” Nalizar demanded. “Why aren’t you wearing your uniform?”
“I’m not a Rithmatist, sir,” Joel said, standing. “I’m from the general school.”
“What? Why in the name of the heavens are you sitting in my classroom?”
Your classroom? This was Fitch’s classroom. Or … it should be.
“Well?” Nalizar asked.
“I came with a note, sir,” Joel said. “For Professor Fitch.”
“Hand it over, then,” Nalizar said.
“It is for Professor Fitch personally,” Joel said, stuffing the letter into his pocket. “It wasn’t about the class.”
“Well, be off with you then,” Nalizar said, dismissing Joel with a wave of his hand. The red chalk dust scattered on the floor looked like blood. He began dispelling his creations one at a time.
Joel backed away, then rushed up the steps and opened the door. People crossed the lawn outside, many dressed in the white and grey of Rithmatists. One figure stood out. Joel dashed down the stairs across the springy lawn, catching up to Professor Fitch. The man trudged with slumped shoulders, the large bundle of books and notes collected in his arms.
“Professor?” Joel said. Joel was tall for his age, a few inches taller, even, than Fitch.
The older man turned with a start. “Uh? What?”
“Are you all right?”
“Oh, um, why it’s the chalkmaker’s son! How are you, lad? Shouldn’t you