Months later, Caelith is back: Prank War!

9th of Vaelion, 7254
 
I have been too focused on unraveling mysteries. Torva and I hardly speak anymore. Even Professor Wynthorne has complimented me on how seriously I’ve been taking my studies. I am in danger of becoming Eva.
 
Oddly enough, I have been spending more time with Elenna Caerthall. She, too, shares an interest in the Nytherians. Braeden has said nothing about it, but I can feel his eyes on us when we speak. There is tension there, unspoken but heavy.
 
The worst part is that I’ve grown complacent.
 
At lunch today, someone slipped a Fool’s Bladder onto my seat. The sound it made when I sat down brought laughter from every corner of the hall. I grinned and tried to ignore it, only to find there was no salt at our table. When I asked around, Dain graciously handed me his—the lid unscrewed. I dumped the entire shaker onto my food without realizing it.
 
The entire Tarnished Table erupted into laughter. Dain crowed, "Twice! Twice I got you in one day! Who is the prankmaster now?"
 
I leaned back and smiled. "Is that all you have? Two weak pranks? No creativity, no panache?"
 
Garric called out, "Oh, you can do better?"
 
"I can do better," I replied. "I can prank each one of you before the week is out."
 
The challenge was set. I have a few tricks ready. But if I am to reclaim my rightful title, I need to know exactly who I'm dealing with.
 
First is Dain Thornehall—the Silver Fox himself—sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, and far too used to winning at these games. Then there’s Maelia Quince, who could probably slice me apart with a glance and still claim it was polite conversation. Garric Longmere is a mountain who occasionally smiles, which is terrifying in its own right. Nessa Wyrnel moves and speaks like a queen at court, but I've seen the glint of mischief she thinks no one notices. And Lyle Greaves... poor Lyle. He watches everything and says nothing, scribbling down the world because it’s easier than speaking to it.
 
Five opponents. Five days.
 
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10th of Vaelion, 7260 -- Maelia Quince : Operation Stardust
 
The first day of the challenge, and I think it went well enough. The Fool's Bladder incident and the salt shaker prank by Dain set the tone at lunch—public, simple, childish. It was effective in a loud, messy sort of way, but there was no art to it. No craftsmanship.
 
After the afternoon meal and a few final adjustments, I set the spring mechanism in Maelia's scroll chest. Eva watched me like I was building a siege engine. During study, Maelia, ever the poised one, triggered it perfectly. The glitter arced through the air like a spell gone wild. The hall went silent before the first ripple of laughter. Even Garric smiled. Maelia, of course, maintained perfect composure as she withdrew.
 
Now, sitting here after dinner, I can still see the way the dust caught the lamplight. Her hair will glitter for a full week. I wonder if this will become a fashion statement.
 
Tomorrow is Garric's turn. Something bigger, something visible. He’s a stone—it will take more than glitter to make him shift.
 
Five pranks in five days. One down.
 
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11th of Vaelion, 7260 – Garric Longmere : Operation Golem Giggle
 
It’s like trying to prank a mountain. A very polite, extremely heavy mountain. I knew glitter wouldn't work—not for him. Garric needed something bigger. More public. Less subtle.
 
Eva and I spent the early morning sneaking into the bathhouse. Replacing his soap with a bar of Eva's formula took less time than suppressing our laughter afterward.
 
The moment Garric lathered up, the soap erupted into thick, unrelenting foam. No matter how much he scrubbed or rinsed, the bubbles only multiplied, coating him from head to toe in fragrant froth. He finally gave up, wiped himself down with a towel, and dressed — but the soap's curse lingered. Whenever he moved or sweated, bubbles began to form again — small at first, then gathering into visible clusters.
 
By the time he entered the main hall for lunch, every student had already heard about "the Bubble Knight," and the thick scent of roses and jasmine announced his arrival long before he crossed the threshold.
 
The moment of silence before the first laugh—that’s when you know a prank has landed.
 
Garric didn't frown. Didn't rage. He just looked at me—no anger, just that slow, implacable grin—and says "Tell your sister that was good work." Something about the way he said it made me wonder if he was interested in her. I'm still not sure if that's a good thing or a very, very bad thing.
 
Tomorrow is Nessa's turn. She's a harder mark. Graceful, composed, and a mind like a steel trap. It'll have to be layered—something that strikes not just at her appearance, but her precious composure.
 
Two days down. Three to go.
 
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12th of Vaelion, 7260 – Nessa Wyrnel : Operation Velevet Croak
 
Third day. Nessa Wyrnel. Everything about her says control: her words, her walk, the tilt of her chin. I knew subtlety alone wouldn't break through. She needed something that would tangle her own perfection against her.
 
I prepared the salt candies myself the night before, taking extra care to mask the bitterness and set the stage for the real trap with Maelia.
 
Over breakfast, I intentionally acted clumsy as I offered Nessa a salted plum as a "treat," hoping to distract her and make her believe she had spotted the prank early. She, ever suspicious, took a delicate nibble and gave me a cool look, telling me I'd have to do better than that. But when Maelia, all grace and innocence, offered her a cup of "soothing" tea to wash away the salt, Nessa took it without a second thought. That was the real trap, and it closed perfectly.
 
Her voice—it was something else entirely. High, sharp, and squeaky, more like a mouse than a songbird, and completely at odds with her measured, careful words. Watching her try to maintain her usual elegant diction while sounding like a character from a children's puppet show was a masterpiece of restrained hilarity.
 
Three pranks complete. Two more remain.
 
Tomorrow is Lyle Greaves’ turn. And for Lyle… I think it's time to be a little kinder with the chaos.
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13th of Vaelion, 7260 – Lyle Greaves : Operation Quilltongue
 
Lyle writes because he struggles to speak. Not out of fear, exactly, but out of a carefulness that most don't even notice. It seemed cruel to target that—but it also seemed crueler to pretend he didn't want to be heard.
 
I used my old rune project from last month, the "scribe's quill," which originally only wrote without ink. With the help of a bored upperclassman, I altered it so that it would not only write but also speak aloud everything it transcribed. To make the switch unnoticed, I enlisted Fanya and Ryska—Elowel's older sisters—to distract Lyle. Their flattery and attention nearly caused him to melt, giving me the perfect opportunity to slip the modified quill into his bag unnoticed.
 
When he started writing and the quill began to speak his thoughts aloud, the room first went silent, then leaned in—some amused, some curious, but no one laughing. Especially when Seris’s name floated in the air. Lyle had written, "Seris has the brightest smile I've ever seen. If I could, I'd ask her to walk by the lake with me." The look she gave him wasn't pity—it was genuine interest. I hadn't expected that. Maybe, just maybe, this prank would turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to him.
 
Tomorrow is Dain’s turn. The Silver Fox. No tricks of hands or enchantments this time.
 
For him, the mind alone must win.
Four down. One to go.
 
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14th of Vaelion, 7260 – Dain Thornehall : Operation Hawkeye
 
The final day. By now, Dain was a wreck—worn thin by rumors, fake traps, whispered warnings. Every prank he imagined was worse than anything I could have planned. It was like winding a spring tighter and tighter, waiting for it to snap.
 
Over the week, the other students helped more than they realized. Eva dropped hints "by accident." Matilda gave ominous warnings. Even Lyle, bless him, looked guilty whenever Dain entered a room.
 
When someone joked that "the boathouse is safe," I saw the idea spark behind Dain's exhausted eyes. I just made sure the boat ropes were untied before sunrise. That night, Dain fell asleep in one of the skiffs—and by dawn, the boat had drifted out into the middle of the lake. He woke up adrift, without an oar, and had to jump into the cold water and swim back to shore, dragging the skiff behind him the whole way.
 
No spells. No traps. Just fear, imagination, and a long, wet walk of shame across the lawn.
 
Seeing him walk in to the main hall dripping wet was a victory sweeter than any glitter explosion or enchanted quill.
 
Five days. Five pranks.
The Tarnish Table may rule the academy today, but one day, it’ll be my turn.