Ideworld Chronicles: The Art Mage

Day in the story: 2nd October (Thursday)

The echo of our sneakers clapped off the high stone walls like war drums. Each step sounded like a challenge, a reminder that we'd all shown up to this dusty, overgrown battlefield to take something from each other. The old fraternity sports hall, clearly designed for half-court basketball and not six-on-six volleyball, reeked faintly of aged wood, sweat and testosterone that had soaked into the beams decades ago. It smelled like battles fought by too many boys who thought sweat and pride were the same thing.

Dust swirled in shafts of weak light coming through the tall, narrow windows near the ceiling. The lamps above buzzed softly, half of them flickering, throwing faint shadows that danced with every movement. The net was a little too tight, the floor a little too slick. But it didn't matter. We weren't here for comfort. We were here to settle something.

There was no referee. No scoreboard. No cheering crowd. Just twelve of us, locked into a silent pact of mutual aggression. Jason had sent out the invitations like it was a casual meetup, but no one bought that. We'd done this before and every time, it escalated. This wasn't a pickup game, it was war in spandex.

I cracked my knuckles. A sharp, deliberate sound. Across the net, Peter answered with a roll of his neck, vertebrae snapping into place like warning shots. His jaw was tight, clenched like he was holding back a storm, but his eyes… his eyes weren't angry anymore. Not really. There was heat, sure, but not the kind that made my chest lock up in fury. That small shift, barely perceptible to anyone else, eased something in me. Just a little.

Still, I hadn't come here for peace. I came to make sure Peter remembered who he was dealing with. To remind him I wouldn't be belittled or brushed aside, not in front of friends, not in front of anyone. Not ever again.

Tyler, naturally, chose that moment to begin his usual pregame ritual: exaggerated wrist stretches so theatrical it looked like he was warming up for a circus act, not a volleyball match. His arms looped and fluttered in the air, hands flexing like interpretive dance. I half expected silk ribbons to fall from the ceiling.

Zoe, positioned just behind me, rolled her eyes so violently I thought they might detach and bounce across the hardwood. I caught the gesture and couldn't help but smirk. We weren't even two volleys in and already this match had enough drama to script a season finale.

Jason's usual crew stood on the opposite side: Peter, Evan and Tyler. But this time he'd brought in two new guys, Mark and Ricky. I didn't know them, though I noticed Sophie giving Ricky a once-over more than once. He was definitely easy on the eyes, tall, tanned, built like a swimmer.

Elena, as always, was living in a Shakespearean fever dream. "Let's make 'em bleed," she muttered to me as she twisted her hair into a high ponytail, her eyes practically glowing with drama. I loved her for it.

"Peaches, you good?" Sophie called from the backline as she adjusted her knee pads. Sophie's eyes flicked briefly toward the boys, then back to us. She had a steeliness in her I admired.

Peaches gave a casual thumbs-up. Her face was hidden behind her orange-tinted sports goggles, totally unreadable. She didn't look like much, short, a little pudgy, not someone you'd expect to dominate a court. But I had a gut feeling she'd surprise everyone.

The match began not with a whistle, but with the sharp smack of a palm on leather as Evan tossed the ball to Ricky for the first serve.

Ricky wound up and snapped his arm forward like a trebuchet. The ball shot across the net, skimming it with barely an inch of clearance. A jump serve with authority and zero forgiveness.

I threw myself left, arms low, catching the ball just before it kissed the floor. Pain bloomed across my forearms, real impact. The ball popped clean into the air. My enchantment held, a subtle pulse of energy absorbing the sting. No one but me knew there was literal magic on this court. Just the soft hum of power stitched beneath my skin.

"Elena, go!" I shouted, scrambling back to my feet.

Elena was already airborne, eyes wide with ambition. The intent was there, but her execution lagged behind it. The spike was aggressive but misaligned. Tyler, long and lanky, sprang like a coil and blocked it effortlessly. The ball dropped dead into our court.

0–1.

"Friendly" or not, they had drawn first blood. But this wasn't how it was going to end. Not on my watch.

The next serve came for Sophie. She wasn't our most technical player, but she had grit and sometimes that mattered more. She lunged, awkward but determined and got it up with a shaky bump. Zoe moved in like clockwork, hands rising, fingers working the ball like a programmer handling her favorite keyboard.

She popped it gently.

I was already on the move. "Mine!"

The braces on my ankles whispered their permission, authority flowing through them as I launched myself skyward. I felt like I hung in the air, just a fraction longer than humanly possible. My right arm came down like a guillotine.

The ball cracked off my wrist and whistled through the air. It slammed into Jason's chest with a satisfying thump. He managed to keep it alive, popping it back to Peter with a grunt.

"Damn it, Lex, you trying to kill me?" he yelled, but there was laughter in it, hidden behind the breathlessness.

Volleys snapped back and forth. The pace quickened, our sneakers screeching across wood, breath coming in gasps. Zoe tricked them next, a featherlight tip over the net. The boys lunged, but too late.

It hit the ground like a secret no one saw coming.

1–1.

I smacked Zoe's palm in a high five that stung.

"More where that came from," she said, eyes flashing.

Peaches took up serving. Her expression didn't change, even as her first ball arced into the perfect dead zone. Evan didn't even move.

Ace.

Then another. And another. She looked like she was made of stone, yet her serves were surgical.

4–2.

But then came Mark.

He was their dark horse, quiet, sharp, deadly. His diagonal spike was a thing of brutal beauty, slicing through our defense like a scalpel.

Two perfect kills.

4–4.

We were sweating, breathing hard, hair starting to stick to foreheads and necks. The game had become a rhythm of impact and resilience. Zoe set another ball high.

"Lex!"

I didn't think. I launched.

The world slowed again. I could feel the air parting around me, my limbs alive with strength, the painted braces glowing faintly under my socks. My hand met the ball with a sharp, final whump.

It tore through Ricky's block, hit the court and skidded all the way to the wooden wall with a boom.

5–4.

Elena roared. "That's what I'm TALKING about!"

We collided in a high five that left our palms throbbing.

The match tilted into chaos. Jason attempted a sneaky dump over the net. Sophie flung herself across the floor, burning her elbow on the hardwood to save it. Elena cursed in three languages when Tyler stuffed her spike so hard it rebounded past the middle line. Peaches, somehow, returned a nasty serve with a no-look, behind-the-back dig that even Peter stopped to blink at.

Then came the rally.

Score: 9–9.

Tension hung thick as the dust in the light beams.

We hadn't spoken about it aloud, but everyone on the court knew this was no longer just a friendly match. This was a score waiting to be settled. And the next point might be the one that broke the damn open.

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They served. Hannah took it clean, arms firm, form sharp. A textbook receive. Zoe flowed into motion, setting high, fast, perfect.

I rose.

Spiked.

Blocked.

Zoe dove, sliding across the floor, saving it inches above the ground. Sophie scrambled, bumping it high. Elena, fierce and determined, launched for the kill.

Blocked again.

Back and forth. Attack, defense, reset, strike. The net wasn't a boundary anymore, it was a war zone.

My thighs screamed. My arms burned. My breath came shallow and fast.

Peter sent a deep shot, sharp and spinning. We almost let it go, too long, maybe out, but at the last second, Peaches dove like a predator, her arm snapping out and catching it clean.

She moved like a damn panther. All instinct, no hesitation. Her size said one thing, but her play said another entirely.

There was no time to think. Just act. Set. Spike. Dig. Shout. Grunt. Survive.

Jason, soaked in sweat and wearing the look of a man on a mission, leapt for the kill.

I saw it coming.

Read it.

Moved.

Threw myself forward, arms like a cradle.

Pop. A clean dig.

"TAKE IT!" Zoe's voice sliced through the noise.

Sophie bumped. Elena jumped. Her spike curved wide, left-handed and angled hard,

Smack.

Off Tyler's arm. Then, crack, straight into Peter's face.

Thud.

Silence.

Then,

10–9.

Laughter burst from us like a broken dam. Even Peter was grinning, rubbing his forehead and shaking his head.

"You okay?" I called over the net.

He gave a thumbs-up, smirking. "I'll get you for that."

And just like that, the tension cracked. The bitterness between us, dormant but heavy, melted a little in the heat of the match.

We found our rhythm. That click when everything syncs. We weren't thinking anymore. We were just playing.

Peaches served, another ace. Dropped it perfectly in no-man's land. 11–9.

Then Ricky responded. A spike like a bullet. It clipped Zoe's head, sending her stumbling. 11–10. Peter glanced at her with something like regret, like concern. She didn't even look back at him. She was still pissed. At what he did.

It was a storm now. Of points. Of emotions. The gym echoed with our calls. The floor slick with sweat and intent. The ball a blur.

Then Sophie did the unthinkable.

She jumped to serve.

She'd never done it before. Not once.

But it worked.

12–10.

Even Ricky applauded, eyebrows raised. "You've got secrets, Soph."

She winked. "Plenty." And judging by the looks exchanged between them, I was pretty sure she'd share a few after the match.

They clawed back, 13–12. Only one point separating us. My chest was tight, lungs raw. Zoe looked like she'd run a marathon. Elena's hair clung to her face like she'd just climbed out of a lake. Hannah had taped her ankle two points ago and refused to sit. Every muscle was rebelling, but no one was backing down.

Peter stepped up to serve.

He had this soft, floaty style that looked like a mistake, until the ball dropped like a trap.

Right between Zoe and me.

We both went.

Then both stopped.

Thud. On the floor.

13–13.

"DAMN IT!" I shouted, spinning on my heel. He'd baited us, perfectly. It was intentional. A little game of his. Still something between us that needed settling, this match wouldn't erase it.

"Focus!" Zoe snapped, fire in her eyes.

Next serve. Same trick. Not this time.

I dove. Got it. Barely.

Zoe bumped it over, soft, controlled, meant to stall and regroup.

But Evan? Evan was done stalling.

He slammed it.

13–14.

Match point. Their serve.

My hands shook. Not from fear, exhaustion, adrenaline, fury. Elena's jaw was clenched tight.

"Do not let them end this," she growled.

We huddled, breathing like wild animals, hearts hammering.

Then Peaches, deadpan as always, spoke.

"I say," she said calmly, "we murder them with joy."

We blinked.

"…What?"

"You know," she added. "Play like we love this."

It was absurd.

It was perfect.

Tyler served, faking a jump.

Peaches read him like a book. Smooth receive.

Zoe, eyes like lasers, sent it to me.

I jumped.

Swung.

Blocked.

Sophie, reliable, relentless, kept it up.

Hannah passed. Zoe again.

Second set.

I rose higher this time, my painted braces flaring with hidden strength beneath the sweatband.

I hammered it.

Through the block. Between their fingers. Right on the line.

14–14.

No huddle. Just eye contact. Nods. Trust.

I stepped up to serve.

Float. Short. Awkward.

Mark misjudged it. The ball skidded. Chaos.

Peter scrambled. Jason set. Evan spiked.

Zoe dived, one hand outstretched, catching it just enough.

Sophie flicked it up.

Elena soared.

Boom.

Off Tyler's wrist. Deflected out.

15–14. Match point. Us.

They were shaken.

Ricky took the ball, tension carved into his brow. He served low and hard.

Elena took it like a pro. Peaches stepped up to set.

To me.

For a moment, we locked eyes.

In hers, I wasn't the strongest. Not the tallest. But I was the hungriest.

I jumped, higher than physics liked.

Spiked.

Blocked.

Back at us.

Peaches didn't flinch. Smooth bump. Zoe again.

But this time,

"Elena!"

She flew.

She struck.

16–14.

Game. Over.

No cheers.

Just us, collapsing onto the court like exhausted soldiers after battle.

Laughter mixed with groans. Elation with ache.

The gym smelled of sweat and wood and something holy.

Peter sat down beside me, panting. Offered a hand.

"I'm sorry, Lex. Can we talk?"

I took it.

"Of course, you moron." He helped pull me to my feet. Zoe's ice-blue eyes tracked us like a sniper. Every twitch. Every breath. Peaches stood nearby, arms folded, watching too. They weren't pretending not to notice, they were invested and it hit me then how much they actually cared.

"What do you want to talk about?" I asked, even though I already knew. I needed him to say it first.

"I won't apologize for not liking the guy," he said immediately and there it was. No hesitation. "But I will for how I handled it. I shouldn't have brought it up in front of everyone. I got carried away."

I tilted my head. "That's it?"

His brows furrowed slightly. "Should there be more?"

God. He was so oblivious sometimes. We drifted toward the edge of the gym where the echoes of our voices wouldn't bounce quite so far. Still, I felt Zoe's gaze burning into the side of my neck. Peaches hadn't moved either. I appreciated the backup, but this part, I had to handle alone.

"Look," I said, keeping my voice even. "You don't have to apologize for not liking Thomas. You're allowed to like or dislike whoever the hell you want. You know I would never force someone on you. I thought I made that clear, years ago."

"You did," he muttered through his teeth.

"Then what the hell was the point of all that? You don't trust my decisions?"

"Should I?" he snapped back. His tone wasn't cruel, just exhausted, like he'd carried this for too long.

"You know damn well your line of work has you making decisions that are messy," he said. "I don't always trust that you'll make the right ones, no. But I've always been there for you. Haven't I?"

He had. Damn it, he had. I stayed quiet, not ready to give him that win out loud.

"And I think," he continued, "that I've earned the right to call you out when I think you're heading down the wrong path. I don't know magic, or thieving, or all your other cloak-and-dagger nonsense. But I do know people. Especially guys. That's something I can help with, if you'd ever let me."

My chest felt tight. I could already feel the adrenaline from the game whispering to escalate this. To bite back. To turn this into the fight it had been building toward all morning. But — I'd learned over the years to shut that voice off. Working in high-stress situations taught me when to push and when to just listen.

"You're right," I said, finally. "It was me. I got defensive when I should've heard you for what you were actually trying to say."

"You should've," he agreed, though not unkindly.

"And I understand why you wouldn't trust all my choices. You've been there for me, even when I was spiraling. I never thanked you enough for that. So — thank you."

Peter blinked. He hadn't expected that. Neither had I, really.

"In this case, though," I added, "you were right."

He tilted his head. "About what, exactly?"

"I shouldn't have slept with Thomas."

His eyes widened, jaw unhinging slightly. "Wait, what?"

"I didn't," I clarified. "Not really. Yesterday, I used my room as an anchor point for a teleportation. Thomas came with me. It got misread. Sophie assumed things — and I let it slide. Easier than explaining magic to someone who doesn't deal with it."

I sighed. "Turns out it wasn't that easy after all."

"Why didn't you just tell me?" he asked, more surprised than angry now.

"I don't know. I guess I was mad that you didn't trust me to make the right call. But the truth is — you're not wrong. I don't always make the right decisions. I think they're right, in the moment, but that doesn't mean they are. And I shouldn't expect everyone, especially not you, to just go along with my delusions of infallibility."

The words came slower now. He was listening. I could see him actually hearing me.

"I unfairly assumed you should see the world the way I do," I added, voice dropping to a near whisper as Jason approached from across the court. Zoe and Peaches were right behind him, like silent shadows.

"You two good?" Jason asked, giving us a side-glance. "Looked like you were having some intense post-match sibling drama."

Peter gave a half-shrug, glancing at me. "We had a disagreement earlier. Sorted it now — right?"

Everyone's eyes were on me. Waiting. Measuring.

"Yes," I said, the smile on my lips this time was real. "We did. I was wrong in my assumptions."

Jason gasped like a cartoon character.

"Did I hear that right?" he asked, hand to his chest like I'd stabbed him with honesty. "You two argued — and you, Alexa, you publicly admitted you were wrong?"

"Yes, I did." I said it again, with zero shame.

"I was wrong as well," Peter added, quietly. It earned him a flicker of something softer on Zoe's face. Not a smile exactly, but not the icy glare she'd been carrying all day either.

"Shut up, Peter," Jason cut in, deadpan. "You don't matter here."

Then he dropped dramatically to one knee in front of me.

"Alexandra May," he intoned, loud and proud, "will you marry me?"

I groaned and facepalmed. Somewhere behind me, Zoe sighed audibly.

"What is his deal?" Peaches asked, deadpan. Honestly? I had no idea.

"Why do you want me to marry you, Jason sweetheart?" I asked, putting on a sarcastic lilt just to match his theatrics.

"I have never met a woman willing to publicly admit she was wrong," he said, voice trembling with fake emotion. "You're the one, Lex. I need you."

There was a dull thud as a volleyball nailed him in the back of the head.

He flopped forward onto the court like a sack of laundry.

Sophie pumped a fist. "Knew I'd hit him."

"That was unnecessary," Jason grumbled into the floor, voice muffled.

"Sorry, darling," I said, helping him up, "but I'm not exactly in the market for a husband right now."

He rubbed his head and flashed that crooked grin. "I figured. But it was worth a shot."

"My thoughts exactly!" Sophie shouted.

Everyone broke into laughter. It wasn't forced or hollow, it came from somewhere deeper. From relief. From adrenaline still buzzing through our systems. From the weird joy of friendship forged through sweat, bruises and emotionally reckless proposals.

Jason was ridiculous. Obnoxious, sure. But he was also the glue sometimes. The fool that lightened the dark. And right now, after everything that had gone down, I didn't mind having him around.