Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 145: Runic Magic

Apologizing is a lot easier said than done.

I’ve written—and deleted—a hundred drafts of an apology text, finally deciding in-person apologies are far superior.

But then there’s this whole thing where I don’t really want to call him at work, and calling him over to apologize just seems awkward, but I don’t want to assume he’s going to waltz over after a fight, either—leading me directly down a spiral of questioning myself so bad, I finally do send the text I’d just decided wasn’t good enough.

It’s two words.

I’m sorry.

That’s it.

Which is why I’m now sitting in class, forehead to my desk, as Professor Whateverhisfaceis drones on about glyphs and their mental manifestation versus physical, and how this is the difference between beginner’s spellcasting and advanced spellcraft, and how it was all discovered by some enterprising young wizard from ages and ages ago.

All very dry and boring.

"Before standardized glyphwork was adopted, magic was practiced through instinct and resonance—often by the Arcanists, whose raw magic was accessed by what we now call runes."

My head lifts just slightly from the desk. Something about that word—resonance—sends a little electric shock down my spine. Like when someone whispers your name in a crowded room.

Professor Hildegard adjusts his tiny round spectacles, which are constantly slipping down his nose. He’s approximately three hundred years old (estimated based on the amount of wrinkles on his face) and four-foot-nothing, with wispy white hair that defies gravity. He makes magical history into torture with the way his voice drones on.

"The Arcanists were credited with founding the first magical academies, codifying spellcraft so that it could be taught to non-lineage users..."

Non-lineage users. Basically, people without a strong genetic background in magic—children born to powerful witches and wizards.

That’s me in a nutshell, right? Then again, there’s whatever freak accident of nature made me a Catalyst. Which is probably bloodline. Never mind, then.

This resonance thing—it’s like an itch in my brain I can’t scratch.

Around me, at least three students are fully asleep. Two more are drawing elaborate doodles that have nothing to do with class. No one seems to give a single shit about what he’s saying, even though the price for every credit in this university is astronomical.

I’m the only one fascinated by the words dribbling out in monotone.

"...raw resonance shaped into stable keys..."

The phrase echoes in my head like it’s bouncing off the walls of my skull. I’ve heard these words before. Or felt them. Something.

This matters.

A folded piece of paper slides across my desk; for once, Penelope’s passing notes instead of talking. Probably because there’s almost no ambient noise to hide in during this lecture.

This class is making me homicidal. If I have to listen to one more minute about dead wizards, I’ll light myself on fire just for entertainment.

I should laugh. It’s funny. But I can’t stop hearing resonance and raw magic and stable keys. It’s like the professor accidentally switched to speaking a language only I understand.

I scribble back: Actually, this is interesting.

She frowns at the paper. Looks at me. Frowns harder.

Tilts her head. Looks at the professor.

Scrawls in giant, loopy letters: WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH NICOLE?

The rest of the class flows past like I’m underwater. I take actual notes, though they’re a little fragmented and more like jotting down key words. Something about the Arcanists. Something about magic that isn’t forced through rigid structures but flows naturally from intent. Something about runes being inherent to magic itself while glyphs were created as a way for humans to access magic.

When class ends, I barely notice until Penelope tugs on my sleeve.

"Earth to Nicole? Class is over. Did you seriously enjoy that?"

"No, I just..." I stuff my notebook into my bag. "Something about it felt important."

"You’re turning into such a nerd." Her smile takes any sting out of it. "Think Logan texted back yet?"

And just like that, my stomach drops again.

* * *

My apartment is too quiet. Princess Paws is curled up on the couch, looking as judgmental as a cat can look, which is exceedingly.

"Don’t start," I tell her, tossing my bag onto the coffee table. "He’ll text when he’s ready."

I pick up my phone, checking for the millionth time. Nothing. I reread my pathetic little two-word text.

I’m sorry.

What was I thinking? It’s so inadequate it’s practically insulting. But what was I supposed to say? I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you told me a ghost girl was actually a dangerous magical construct called a Specter that was trying to manipulate me? That’s a long text, and he was wrong, so...

Still. He deserves an apology.

But my stupid pride keeps getting in the way. That, and my strange level of insecurities. Why did I think a two-word text was good enough?

And following up feels impossible, like the weight of all my anxieties will crush me for even trying.

I throw my phone under a pillow and watch it disappear.

The apartment feels empty. Too empty. No Logan, no Penelope (once again out with her gaggle). Just me and my thoughts and a growing sense of frustration burning low in my chest.

It’s fine.

Everything’s just fucking fine.

If I can’t fix things with Logan right now—because of me, not him, and my strange inability to connect with basic emotional common sense—I can at least try to fix my magic problem. I grab the wardstones Dev gave me and set them on the coffee table. They aren’t a part of my experiment today, but just having them around seems to put my mind into a smoother gear of magic.

The apartment’s silence feels less oppressive with a task to focus on.

"Okay," I mutter to Princess Paws, who flicks her tail with great disinterest. "Let’s try this again."

I take a deep breath. This part I know. This part makes sense to me.

The energy comes when I call it—not from within me, but around me. It’s like opening a window and letting the breeze flow through. I don’t need to visualize complex glyphs or mutter incantations. I simply reach out and—

The stone pulses with a soft blue glow, ambient mana flowing through it like water finding a path of least resistance. I add a second stone, then a third, arranging them in a perfect triangle. The connections form immediately between them, faint threads of magic linking each point.

"That’s it," I whisper as the ward activates, creating a small dome of protection above the coffee table. It’s perfect, stable, practically effortless.

I sit back, momentarily satisfied, until I remember the rest of Professor Hildegard’s lecture. The part about resonance and intent. The part that should, theoretically, allow me to manifest a simple air current without any stupid stones or external tools.

"Just a breeze," I tell myself, holding my hand palm-up. "The simplest glyph. Even freshmen can do it."

I visualize the Flow glyph—a gentle wave-like symbol that should allow me to direct a current of air. I trace it mentally, try to pull that internal well of power everyone talks about. I picture wind, imagine the sensation of it against my skin.

Nothing. Not even a flutter.

"Goddammit!" I slam my hand against the coffee table, making Princess Paws leap up in alarm. "Sorry, kitty."

The wardstone triangle continues to glow, mocking me with its perfection while I can’t manage the most basic spell.

I rub my forehead, frustration boiling up behind my eyes. Professor Hildegard’s words circle in my head: "Magic isn’t just about power; it’s about resonance. When intent aligns with the natural flow of raw magic..."

I glance at the glowing wardstones again. I didn’t use any glyphs to activate them—not consciously, anyway. I just... knew how to make them work together. It was instinct.

Dev’s words float back to me: "Maybe you’re not a battery. Maybe you’re a conductor."

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Every textbook says the same thing—visualize the Flow glyph, channel your power through it, direct the energy. But it’s never worked for me. Not once.

I relax my shoulders and just... breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. The air fills my lungs, exits again. Air. Movement. Flow.

What is air, really? Not the chemical composition—oxygen, nitrogen, whatever. What is its essence? Its truth?

Movement. Freedom. The invisible touch against skin. The carrier of scents and sounds.

I stop thinking about glyphs entirely. Instead, I simply feel the concept of air—not as a word or symbol, but as a truth. A reality.

Something shifts inside me. Not a well of power opening up, but a recognition. Resonance.

My hand tingles—not with my own energy, but with something older. Deeper. As if the concept of "air" itself has always existed within me, like muscle memory for something I’ve never consciously done.

A cool sensation flutters across my palm.

My eyes snap open.

The pages of my open textbook ruffle gently, as if caught in a breeze.

"What the—" I cut myself off, afraid that speaking will break whatever just happened.

I didn’t visualize a Flow glyph. I didn’t channel power through a mental construct. I simply... connected with the essence of air itself. And somehow, the air responded.

I hold my breath and try again, focusing on that same sensation. That same resonance. Not a picture in my mind, but a truth I can feel in my bones.

The breeze picks up, stronger this time. Princess Paws flattens her ears as papers scatter across the coffee table.

"Holy shit," I whisper. The breeze falters, then strengthens again as I reconnect with that strange sense of recognition.

It doesn’t look like a glyph. It doesn’t feel like casting. It’s like... remembering. As if somewhere deep in my core, I’ve always known what air truly is. Not its name or its symbol, but its fundamental nature. Its identity.

This isn’t like anything they taught in class. This is something altogether different.

I look at the textbook that had fallen open, pages still fluttering in my magically generated breeze. The illustration shows the traditional Flow glyph—a series of connected wave patterns that supposedly channel and direct magical energy.

But what I’m feeling isn’t that at all. It’s not a constructed symbol. It’s something primal. Essential. Like the difference between learning a foreign word for something versus instinctively knowing what it is without language.

The breeze dies as my concentration breaks, my mind racing to understand what just happened.

I think back to Professor Hildegard’s lecture. She had mentioned something about raw magic—about intent aligning with natural flow. Everyone assumed she meant focusing your intent through proper glyph visualization.

But what if it’s deeper than that? What if glyphs are just... training wheels? Human constructs to help interface with something more fundamental?

My heart pounds as I try again, closing my eyes and seeking that sense of recognition. Not air as a concept or a glyph, but air as a fundamental truth.

There it is again—that resonance. Like suddenly remembering the face of someone I’ve known my entire life but somehow forgot. The knowledge was always there, buried beneath layers of formal education and structured magic.

The breeze returns, stronger than before. Pages flip rapidly. Princess Paws hisses and retreats to the bedroom.

This time, I pay attention to what’s happening inside me. There’s no glyph involved, no structured pattern of energy. Instead, it’s like my consciousness is touching something ancient and eternal—the essence of air itself, crystallized into a single point of pure understanding.

A rune. Not drawn or visualized, but experienced. Known.

This is what makes me different. I can’t use glyphs—human constructs designed to interface with magic—but I can touch the raw runes beneath them. The primal truths existing before humans ever tried to systematize magic.

The breeze whips into a small cyclone above the coffee table, strong enough to lift my hair from my shoulders. I’m not forcing it. I’m not controlling it. I’m simply... acknowledging its existence, and it’s responding to that recognition.

"A conductor," I whisper, remembering Dev’s words. But not of external energy through wardstones. A conductor of primal magical truths—of runes, not glyphs.