Leander's oldest brother made it, and his second brother didn't, and his third brother extra didn't, and his sister is at least theoretically still in the Scholomance but Leander isn't particularly optimistic.

He's fluent in English and Mandarin and Spanish and Tagalog and French and he's conversational in Hindi and Arabic and Japanese and Hebrew and literate in Latin and he can figure out German and Gaelic and Catalan (it was a side project, a word which here means an indulgence carefully indulged in, because Lot Marsh does not suffer his children to half-learn a language if they won't be able to learn it correctly, nevermind that Leander has three other Romance languages and adores words above all else and the Catalan was never not going to be fine.) He can fight at three in the morning when he's just woken up and midway through a test he was focusing on and after running two miles; he can run two miles without stopping in a thin shirt in the snow.

His father pronounces him weak and going to die. Leander can't even find it in him to argue, because his father isn't wrong. Leander's known he was probably going to die since before he knew what that meant.

The hour before pickup Lot spends berating Leander's every flaw (too sentimental too honest too hopeful too helpful too weak, you can't get a good alliance if you try to help everyone you see, it's a vulnerability and it's going to kill Leander and Lot can't say he'll be disappointed because he isn't expecting any better but he also won't be sorry) and then as soon as they're anywhere that anyone else might hear he's all clannish familial pride; Leander tunes him out with the kind of skill that comes from years of practice and wonders, vaguely, how long he'll stay the youngest of his siblings.

He has the standard array of things-- clothes (lightweight, enchanted), shoes (same), spell supplies. Enough hair to cut it if he needs to sell it but not enough to weigh him down. Friendship bracelets that give extra dexterity, not that he especially needs it but they're trade goods and weigh barely a gram each; embroidery floss to make more of them.

Leander tilts his head upward to look up at the stars, the cold distant stars that don't care if he's weak and never have and never will, they're too far away, and he doesn't think about his parents or his brothers or his sister who might or might not be dead. He sets his eyes on the horizon and thinks about anything except for here and now and this.

And then there's a lurch, like a hook in his stomach, and the stars and the horizon and the chill of night are gone.

Leander's oldest brother made it, and his second brother didn't, and his third brother extra didn't, and his sister is at least theoretically still in the Scholomance but Leander isn't particularly optimistic.

He's fluent in English and Mandarin and Spanish and Tagalog and French and he's conversational in Hindi and Arabic and Japanese and Hebrew and literate in Latin and he can figure out German and Gaelic and Catalan (it was a side project, a word which here means an indulgence carefully indulged in, because Lot Marsh does not suffer his children to half-learn a language if they won't be able to learn it correctly, nevermind that Leander has three other Romance languages and adores words above all else and the Catalan was never not going to be fine.) He can fight at three in the morning when he's just woken up and midway through a test he was focusing on and after running two miles; he can run two miles without stopping in a thin shirt in the snow.

His father pronounces him weak and going to die. Leander can't even find it in him to argue, because his father isn't wrong. Leander's known he was probably going to die since before he knew what that meant.

The hour before pickup Lot spends berating Leander's every flaw (too sentimental too honest too hopeful too helpful too weak, you can't get a good alliance if you try to help everyone you see, it's a vulnerability and it's going to kill Leander and Lot can't say he'll be disappointed because he isn't expecting any better but he also won't be sorry) and then as soon as they're anywhere that anyone else might hear he's all clannish familial pride; Leander tunes him out with the kind of skill that comes from years of practice and wonders, vaguely, how long he'll stay the youngest of his siblings.

He has the standard array of things-- clothes (lightweight, enchanted), shoes (same), spell supplies. Enough hair to cut it if he really needs to sell it but not enough to weigh him down. Friendship bracelets with assorted helpful charms, not that he especially needs it but they're trade goods and weigh barely a gram each; embroidery floss to make more of them.

Leander tilts his head upward to look up at the stars, the cold distant stars that don't care if he's weak and never have and never will, they're too far away, and he doesn't think about his parents or his brothers or his sister who might or might not be dead. He sets his eyes on the horizon and thinks about anything except for here and now and this.

And then there's a lurch, like a hook in his stomach, and the stars and the horizon and the chill of night are gone.

Leander's oldest brother made it, and his second brother didn't, and his sister extra didn't, and his third brother is at least theoretically still in the Scholomance but Leander isn't particularly optimistic.

He's fluent in English and Mandarin and Spanish and Tagalog and French and he's conversational in Hindi and Arabic and Japanese and Hebrew and literate in Latin and he can figure out German and Gaelic and Catalan (it was a side project, a word which here means an indulgence carefully indulged in, because Lot Marsh does not suffer his children to half-learn a language if they won't be able to learn it correctly, nevermind that Leander has three other Romance languages and adores words above all else and the Catalan was never not going to be fine.) He can fight at three in the morning when he's just woken up and midway through a test he was focusing on and after running two miles; he can run two miles without stopping in a thin shirt in the snow.

His father pronounces him weak and going to die. Leander can't even find it in him to argue, because his father isn't wrong. Leander's known he was probably going to die since before he knew what that meant.

The hour before pickup Lot spends berating Leander's every flaw (too sentimental too honest too hopeful too helpful too weak, you can't get a good alliance if you try to help everyone you see, it's a vulnerability and it's going to kill Leander and Lot can't say he'll be disappointed because he isn't expecting any better but he also won't be sorry) and then as soon as they're anywhere that anyone else might hear he's all clannish familial pride; Leander tunes him out with the kind of skill that comes from years of practice and wonders, vaguely, how long he'll stay the youngest of his siblings.

He has the standard array of things-- clothes (lightweight, enchanted), shoes (same), spell supplies. Enough hair to cut it if he really needs to sell it but not enough to weigh him down. Friendship bracelets with assorted helpful charms, not that he especially needs it but they're trade goods and weigh barely a gram each; embroidery floss to make more of them.

Leander tilts his head upward to look up at the stars, the cold distant stars that don't care if he's weak and never have and never will, they're too far away, and he doesn't think about his parents or his brothers or his sister who might or might not be dead. He sets his eyes on the horizon and thinks about anything except for here and now and this.

And then there's a lurch, like a hook in his stomach, and the stars and the horizon and the chill of night are gone.

Leander's oldest brother made it, and his second brother didn't, and his sister extra didn't, and his third brother is at least theoretically still in the Scholomance but Leander isn't particularly optimistic.

He's fluent in English and Mandarin and Spanish and Tagalog and French and he's conversational in Hindi and Arabic and Japanese and Hebrew and literate in Latin and he can figure out German and Gaelic and Catalan and Esperanto (the last two were a side project, a word which here means an indulgence carefully indulged in, because Lot Marsh does not suffer his children to half-learn a language if they won't be able to learn it correctly, nevermind that Leander has three other Romance languages and adores words above all else and the Catalan was never not going to be fine and the Esperanto practically came free with all the other European languages.) He can fight at three in the morning when he's just woken up and midway through a test he was focusing on and after running two miles; he can run two miles without stopping in a thin shirt in the snow.

His father pronounces him weak and going to die. Leander can't even find it in him to argue, because his father isn't wrong. Leander's known he was probably going to die since before he knew what that meant.

The hour before pickup Lot spends berating Leander's every flaw (too sentimental too honest too hopeful too helpful too weak, you can't get a good alliance if you try to help everyone you see, it's a vulnerability and it's going to kill Leander and Lot can't say he'll be disappointed because he isn't expecting any better but he also won't be sorry) and then as soon as they're anywhere that anyone else might hear he's all clannish familial pride; Leander tunes him out with the kind of skill that comes from years of practice and wonders, vaguely, how long he'll stay the youngest of his siblings.

He has the standard array of things-- clothes (lightweight, enchanted), shoes (same), spell supplies. Enough hair to cut it if he really needs to sell it but not enough to weigh him down. Friendship bracelets with assorted helpful charms, not that he especially needs it but they're trade goods and weigh barely a gram each; embroidery floss to make more of them.

Leander tilts his head upward to look up at the stars, the cold distant stars that don't care if he's weak and never have and never will, they're too far away, and he doesn't think about his parents or his brothers or his sister who might or might not be dead. He sets his eyes on the horizon and thinks about anything except for here and now and this.

And then there's a lurch, like a hook in his stomach, and the stars and the horizon and the chill of night are gone.

Leander's oldest brother made it, and his second brother didn't, and his sister extra didn't, and his third brother is at least theoretically still in the Scholomance but Leander isn't particularly optimistic.

He's fluent in English and Mandarin and Spanish and Tagalog and French and he's conversational in Hindi and Arabic and Japanese and Hebrew and literate in Latin and he can figure out German and Gaelic and Catalan and Esperanto (the last two were a side project, a word which here means an indulgence carefully indulged in, because Lot Marsh does not suffer his children to half-learn a language if they won't be able to learn it correctly, nevermind that Leander has three other Romance languages and adores words above all else and the Catalan was never not going to be fine and the Esperanto practically came free with all the other European languages.) He can fight at three in the morning when he's just woken up and midway through a test he was focusing on and after running two miles; he can run two miles without stopping in a thin shirt in the snow.

His father pronounces him weak and going to die. Leander can't even find it in him to argue, because his father isn't wrong. Leander's known he was probably going to die since before he knew what that meant.

The hour before pickup Lot spends berating Leander's every flaw (too sentimental too honest too hopeful too helpful too weak, you can't get a good alliance if you try to help everyone you see, it's a vulnerability and it's going to kill Leander and Lot can't say he'll be disappointed because he isn't expecting any better but he also won't be sorry) and then as soon as they're anywhere that anyone else might hear he's all clannish familial pride; Leander tunes him out with the kind of skill that comes from years of practice and wonders, vaguely, how long he'll stay the youngest of his siblings.

He has the standard array of things-- clothes (lightweight, enchanted), shoes (same), spell supplies. Enough hair to cut it if he really needs to sell it but not enough to weigh him down. Friendship bracelets with assorted helpful charms, not that he especially needs it but they're trade goods and weigh barely a gram each; embroidery floss to make more of them.

Leander tilts his head upward to look up at the stars, the cold distant stars that don't care if he's weak and never have and never will, they're too far away, and he doesn't think about his parents or his brother who might or might not be dead or his siblings who definitely are. He sets his eyes on the horizon and thinks about anything at all except for here, and now, and this.

And then there's a lurch, like a hook in his stomach, and the stars and the horizon and the chill of night are gone.

Leander's oldest brother made it, and his second brother didn't, and his sister extra didn't, and his third brother is at least theoretically still in the Scholomance but Leander isn't particularly optimistic.

He's fluent in English and Mandarin and Spanish and French and he's conversational in Hindi and Arabic and Japanese and Hebrew and literate in Latin and Greek and he can figure out German and Gaelic and Catalan and Esperanto (the last two were a side project, a word which here means an indulgence carefully indulged in, because Lot Marsh does not suffer his children to half-learn a language if they won't be able to learn it correctly, nevermind that Leander has three other Romance languages and adores words above all else and the Catalan was never not going to be fine and the Esperanto practically came free with all the other European languages.) He can fight at three in the morning when he's just woken up and midway through a test he was focusing on and after running two miles; he can run two miles without stopping in a thin shirt in the snow.

His father pronounces him weak and going to die. Leander can't even find it in him to argue, because his father isn't wrong. Leander's known he was probably going to die since before he knew what that meant.

The hour before pickup Lot spends berating Leander's every flaw (too sentimental too honest too hopeful too helpful too weak, you can't get a good alliance if you try to help everyone you see, it's a vulnerability and it's going to kill Leander and Lot can't say he'll be disappointed because he isn't expecting any better but he also won't be sorry) and then as soon as they're anywhere that anyone else might hear he's all clannish familial pride; Leander tunes him out with the kind of skill that comes from years of practice and wonders, vaguely, how long he'll stay the youngest of his siblings.

He has the standard array of things-- clothes (lightweight, enchanted), shoes (same), spell supplies. Enough hair to cut it if he really needs to sell it but not enough to weigh him down. Friendship bracelets with assorted helpful charms, not that he especially needs it but they're trade goods and weigh barely a gram each; embroidery floss to make more of them.

Leander tilts his head upward to look up at the stars, the cold distant stars that don't care if he's weak and never have and never will, they're too far away, and he doesn't think about his parents or his brother who might or might not be dead or his siblings who definitely are. He sets his eyes on the horizon and thinks about anything at all except for here, and now, and this.

And then there's a lurch, like a hook in his stomach, and the stars and the horizon and the chill of night are gone.

Leander's oldest brother made it, and his second brother didn't, and his sister extra didn't, and his third brother is at least theoretically still in the Scholomance but Leander isn't particularly optimistic.

He's fluent in English and Mandarin and Spanish and French and he's conversational in Hindi and Arabic and Japanese and Italian and literate in Latin and Classical Chinese and he can figure out Gaelic and Portuguese and Catalan and Esperanto (the last three were a side project, a word which here means an indulgence carefully indulged in, because Lot Marsh does not suffer his children to half-learn a language if they won't be able to learn it correctly, nevermind that Leander has three other Romance languages and adores words above all else and the Catalan was never not going to be fine and the Esperanto practically came free with all the other European languages.) He can fight at three in the morning when he's just woken up and midway through a test he was focusing on and after running two miles; he can run two miles without stopping in a thin shirt in the snow.

His father pronounces him weak and going to die. Leander can't even find it in him to argue, because his father isn't wrong. Leander's known he was probably going to die since before he knew what that meant.

The hour before pickup Lot spends berating Leander's every flaw (too sentimental too honest too hopeful too helpful too weak, you can't get a good alliance if you try to help everyone you see, it's a vulnerability and it's going to kill Leander and Lot can't say he'll be disappointed because he isn't expecting any better but he also won't be sorry) and then as soon as they're anywhere that anyone else might hear he's all clannish familial pride; Leander tunes him out with the kind of skill that comes from years of practice and wonders, vaguely, how long he'll stay the youngest of his siblings.

He has the standard array of things-- clothes (lightweight, enchanted), shoes (same), spell supplies. Enough hair to cut it if he really needs to sell it but not enough to weigh him down. Friendship bracelets with assorted helpful charms, not that he especially needs it but they're trade goods and weigh barely a gram each; embroidery floss to make more of them.

Leander tilts his head upward to look up at the stars, the cold distant stars that don't care if he's weak and never have and never will, they're too far away, and he doesn't think about his parents or his brother who might or might not be dead or his siblings who definitely are. He sets his eyes on the horizon and thinks about anything at all except for here, and now, and this.

And then there's a lurch, like a hook in his stomach, and the stars and the horizon and the chill of night are gone.

Leander's oldest brother made it, and his second brother didn't, and his sister extra didn't, and his third brother is at least theoretically still in the Scholomance but Leander isn't particularly optimistic.

He's fluent in English and Mandarin and Spanish and French and he's conversational in Hindi and Arabic and Japanese and Italian and literate in Latin and Classical Chinese and he can figure out Gaelic and Portuguese and Catalan and Esperanto (the last three were a side project, a word which here means an indulgence carefully indulged in, because Lot Marsh does not suffer his children to half-learn a language if they won't be able to learn it correctly, nevermind that Leander has three other Romance languages and adores words above all else and the Catalan was never not going to be fine and the Esperanto practically came free with all the other European languages.) He can fight at three in the morning when he's just woken up and midway through a test he was focusing on and after running two miles; he can run two miles without stopping in a thin shirt in the snow.

His father pronounces him weak and going to die. Leander can't even find it in him to argue, because his father isn't wrong. Leander's known he was probably going to die since before he knew what that meant.

The hour before pickup Lot spends berating Leander's every flaw (too sentimental too honest too hopeful too helpful too weak, you can't get a good alliance if you try to help everyone you see, it's a vulnerability and it's going to kill Leander and Lot can't say he'll be disappointed because he isn't expecting any better but he also won't be sorry) and then as soon as they're anywhere that anyone else might hear he's all clannish familial pride; Leander tunes him out with the kind of skill that comes from years of practice and wonders, vaguely, how long he'll stay the youngest of his siblings.

It's cold, even in July. Leander tilts his head upward to look up at the stars, which don't care if he's weak and never have and never will, they're too far away, and he doesn't think about his parents or his brother who might or might not be dead or his siblings who definitely are; he sets his eyes above the horizon and thinks about anything at all except for here, and now, and this.

And then there's a lurch, like a hook in his stomach, and the stars and the horizon and the chill of night are gone.

Leander's oldest brother made it, and his second brother didn't, and his sister extra didn't, and his third brother is at least theoretically still in the Scholomance but Leander isn't particularly optimistic.

He's has a ludicrous number of languages - fluent in English and spell-competent in Mandarin, Hindi, Japanese, and pretty much everything descended from Latin (Esperanto and Catalan were a side project, a word which here means an indulgence carefully indulged in, because Lot Marsh does not suffer his children to half-learn a language if they won't be able to learn it correctly, nevermind that Leander has most of the romance languages and adores words above all else and the Catalan was never not going to be fine and the Esperanto practically came free with all the other European languages.)

His father pronounces him weak and going to die. Leander can't even find it in him to argue, because his father isn't wrong. Leander's known he was probably going to die since before he knew what that meant.

The hour before pickup Lot spends berating Leander's every flaw (too sentimental too honest too hopeful too helpful too weak, you can't get a good alliance if you try to help everyone you see, it's a vulnerability and it's going to kill Leander and Lot can't say he'll be disappointed because he isn't expecting any better but he also won't be sorry) and then as soon as they're anywhere that anyone else might hear he's all clannish familial pride; Leander tunes him out with the kind of skill that comes from years of practice and wonders, vaguely, how long he'll stay the youngest of his siblings.

It's cold, even in July. Leander tilts his head upward to look up at the stars, which don't care if he's weak and never have and never will, they're too far away, and he doesn't think about his parents or his brother who might or might not be dead or his siblings who definitely are; he sets his eyes above the horizon and thinks about anything at all except for here, and now, and this.

And then there's a lurch, like a hook in his stomach, and the stars and the horizon and the chill of night are gone.