A high-pitched shriek of pure energy ripped through the training rotunda, tracing an arc of emerald light directly towards Roshanak. She snored softly, a wisp of dark hair tickling her nose as her head lolled against the smooth, worn stone of the dueling plinth. Her hands, however, moved with an almost supernatural precision, a blur of motion over the loom that appeared from thin air beside her. Threads of moon-silver and sky-blue spun into existence, intertwining to form a shimmering, almost invisible barrier. The emerald arc, a ‘Veridian Serpent’ spell, slammed into the ethereal shield and dissipated with a puff of harmless green dust, leaving Roshanak undisturbed. “Roshanak! Are you *joking*?!” The voice belonged to Iskandar, his face a mask of furious disbelief, his normally immaculate tunic rumpled from the exertion of casting a mid-tier combat-spell. He gripped the hilt of his portable loom, knuckles white. “That was a Rank Five defensive ward! You wove a *Rank Five* ward, while *asleep*!” Roshanak mumbled something indistinct, her lips barely parting. Her fingers, still moving, began to weave a simple, repetitive pattern, the kind used for mending torn socks. The sheer audacity of her unconscious skill seemed to drain the color from Iskandar’s face. He was the most diligent student in the Silk Bastion’s Azure Weavers sect, a prodigy of focus and relentless practice. Roshanak was… this. A sentient, highly skilled slug. Before Iskandar could unleash another volley of indignant protests, a new sound punctuated the hall's tense silence: a loud, echoing *SMACK* followed by a yelp. A shower of fine, sugary powder exploded over Roshanak’s face, dusting her eyelashes and settling into the soft folds of her slumbering cheek. Her eyes, the color of a desert twilight, fluttered open. A long, slow blink. She brought a hand up, brushing at the white powder. It tasted faintly of honey and ground pistachios. “Farhad,” she drawled, her voice thick with sleep, “did you just drop a *shirini* on my face?” Farhad, her apprentice, scrambled to his feet a few paces away, his round face stained with shame and powdered sugar. A half-eaten, crescent-shaped pastry lay in pieces around his worn boots. “Mistress Roshanak! I – I merely tripped! The—the pavlova was… it was calling to me.” He gestured vaguely at the scattered crumbs. Iskandar threw his hands up in exasperation. “This is ridiculous! We’re supposed to be practicing for the Grandloom Challenge, not having a pastry-based wake-up call!” Roshanak ignored him, pushing herself upright on the dueling plinth. Her limbs felt heavy, each movement a conscious effort. “My turn, Iskandar. Ready yourself. I’ll make this quick, I need to reclaim my naptime.” Iskandar scoffed, but a flicker of apprehension crossed his features. Even half-asleep, Roshanak was a formidable opponent. Her aura, usually a gentle hum, now pulsed with a low thrum of annoyance. He knew what that meant. Roshanak stretched, a slow, languid motion that seemed to melt her bones. Her gaze drifted towards the small, sun-drenched courtyard just beyond the arched entrance, where a low stone bench usually held her most prized possession: a plump, indigo neck cushion, woven with intricate patterns that hummed faintly with her accumulated aura. It was more than just woven wool; it was a repository of her dreams, her comfort, her very essence of restful peace. But the bench was empty. The soft hum of her aura, usually a comforting presence, felt… hollow. The silence from the spot where the bolster should rest set her teeth on edge. Her eyes, which had been half-lidded with lingering sleep, snapped open fully, revealing an intensity that made Iskandar take an involuntary step back. Her lips, which moments ago had been curved in a sleepy pout, flattened into a thin, dangerous line. The air around the stone plinth suddenly cooled. “My pillow,” she said, her voice deceptively calm, “it’s gone.” Farhad, who had been stealthily trying to salvage a piece of his dropped pastry, froze, a crumb clinging to his cheek. “Gone, Mistress? Perhaps you just… left it somewhere else?” Roshanak slowly turned her head, her gaze sweeping over the courtyard, then settling on the narrow alleyway that led to the apprentices’ dormitories, and, crucially, to the cramped, cluttered workspace of her neighbor, Zerrin. Zerrin, with her perpetually sour expression and her thinly veiled envy of Roshanak’s talent, her comfortable life, her *everything*. The indigo pad was old, softened by years of use, and imbued with such a potent personal aura that it practically vibrated with her latent magic. Stealing it was like stealing a piece of her soul. No, worse. It was like stealing her *sleep*. “Zerrin,” Roshanak whispered, the name a venomous hiss. “That unhinged wretch.” Her lethargy had vanished, replaced by a cold, simmering fury. Sleep, her lifelong companion, had been cruelly snatched away. And for that, there would be consequences. Iskandar, witnessing this transformation, felt a genuine chill. He’d seen Roshanak annoyed, even mildly irritated, but never like this. This wasn’t just about a stolen rest-cushion; it was about the fundamental violation of her right to undisturbed rest. He instinctively knew that whatever was about to happen would be profoundly uncomfortable for Zerrin, and probably quite public. “Farhad,” Roshanak said, her voice now dangerously sweet, “do you remember that rather intricate ‘Spiderweb Snare’ spell I taught you last cycle? The one that triggers when someone tries to sneak a second helping from the communal pudding?” Farhad blinked sugar from his lashes. “Yes, Mistress! The one that glows bright green and makes them stick to the floor for an hour!” “Precisely,” Roshanak purred. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched her lips. “It seems I need to set a few… *traps*… to ensure my personal belongings are kept safe. And perhaps, to ensure the *culprit* learns a very public lesson in property rights and the sanctity of a good nap.” Her eyes gleamed with a predatory light. “Zerrin will regret the day she ever thought of taking *my* pillow. I will make sure of it.” *** In the shadowed confines of her own small, cluttered chamber, Zerrin clutched the indigo headrest to her chest, fingers digging into the stitching. The fabric, so soft and warm, pulsed with an unfamiliar energy. It felt wrong, heavy, like a stolen heartbeat. A strange, metallic taste filled her mouth. [DESTINY SIPHON: TARGET ACQUIRED]

The Art of Sleepwalking Through a Duel