Chapter 8 - Lunch and Runes

Gemology had stretched on for what felt like hours—perhaps it truly had. The classroom held no clocks, and Professor Corven seemed to operate entirely outside the bounds of mortal time, lecturing in long, uninterrupted segments interspersed with the occasional sharp demonstration. After the feather exercise, Elara had returned to her seat in silence, the wet warmth between her thighs a constant presence, barely softened by the modest skirt. She’d tried not to squirm, but every small motion, every shift in her seat, every lean forward to scribble in her notebook—had brought the squish back to her attention. The lecture had continued, detailing gemstone harmonics and resonance curves, but her focus had wavered, tangled in a humid haze of discomfort and rising dread.

There had been no break. Not for the bathroom. Not for changes. Not even to stretch. And though Corven’s tone never grew cruel, there was a weight behind his voice that made even the most vocal students think twice before raising a hand for mercy. Elara had kept her head down, taking notes, clenching her legs together in a hopeless attempt to make the feeling less present. By the end of class, the padding beneath her had grown clammy and sour, the moisture now a thin, ever-present layer pressed into her skin like a whispered reminder of who—and what—she now was.

When the bell finally chimed—soft, melodic, more magical vibration than sound—Elara was the first to stand. She did so carefully, wincing as the swollen diaper shifted with her, clinging heavily between her thighs. There had been no time to return to the dorms. No time to change. Just a brief walk down a vine-laced corridor and into the sprawling, circular dining hall, where first-years were shepherded to their designated section like calves to pasture. No freedom. No illusion of independence. Just a slow procession of silver-trimmed skirts and shorts, crinkling softly with every step.

When she arrived, lunch had already been set. There were no trays, and there were no lines. The meals appeared as students sat, delivered by quiet, floating trays that shimmered with the school’s enchantments. Elara’s stomach rumbled as the warm scent of roasted vegetables, seasoned rice, and spiced rolls filled the air. Her eyes fell to her own plate.

Finger foods.

A small pile of steamed carrots cut into tiny strips. Cubes of soft cheese. Crustless sandwiches, halved and quartered like they might be served in a toddler’s lunchbox. And beside it, nestled lovingly in the tray’s cup holder, was her drink: a pale-yellow bottle, still warm to the touch, the rubber nipple glistening as if recently cleaned. Elara stared at it in silence, her jaw tight.

Selena wasn’t here. That was the first thing she’d noticed upon entering the hall. No radiant smile. No hovering hand to guide her into her seat. No highchair, even. Just the absence of presence, and yet the influence of her so-called Mommy lingered in every detail. This tray had her mark. The bottle. The finger food. The calculated portion size. Someone had made sure Elara ate like a baby… even in her caregiver’s absence.

And gods help her, for the first time… she wished Selena were there.

Not for comfort. Not for the insufferable cooing and faux affection. But for relief. Because now, halfway through the day, still stuck in the same wet diaper from breakfast, Elara could feel the beginnings of a rash blooming across her skin. She shifted uncomfortably, cheeks flaring as the friction stung beneath her skirt. Her legs parted slightly to relieve the pressure, and she sat back with a soft, defeated sigh.

At least if Mommy were here, she thought bitterly, I might get changed.

And then she picked up the first carrot stick, biting into it without looking up, and tried not to feel like she was losing another part of herself with every chew.

The soft chime of the end-of-lunch bell echoed through the grand dining hall like the trailing note of a lullaby, subtle and yet impossible to ignore. Around Elara, first-years began shifting in their padded seats, rising slowly with soft crinkles and murmured guesses about where to go next. The second-years, most of them already in uniform and far less babied than the new arrivals, moved with more certainty, though even among them, a few waddled quietly in padded shorts or sipped from pastel bottles. The room emptied in waves, like tides pulling out to sea, but Elara remained seated.

She didn’t know where to go.

There had been no printed schedule, map, or list of assigned mentors or guides—only the silent assumption that someone—Mommy, in her case—would appear to guide her next steps. But Selena was nowhere to be found. Her tray had long since vanished, and the space beside Elara sat conspicuously empty, her absence somehow heavier than her presence.

She stood slowly, the damp diaper between her thighs tugging downward with uncomfortable weight. She could feel how swollen it had become—warm in some places, cold in others, clinging to her like a soggy reminder of everything she could no longer hide. She scanned the crowd, fidgeting, uncertain. Students filed out in clumps and pairs, each heading toward one of the arched hallways branching from the dining hall like the arms of a sunwheel. She turned in place, eyes bouncing between uniforms, between colors and ranks, hoping someone—anyone—might take pity and help.

Eventually, she spotted a cluster of upper-year students in Ruby sashes laughing near the far wall. They were fourth-year students, clearly. They looked older, more refined, and less diapered. Her heart thudded as she approached them, her fingers wringing the hem of her skirt to keep them from shaking.

“Um, excuse me,” she said, voice quiet but firm. “Do you know where Selena is? I… I think she’s supposed to escort me.”

The tallest girl turned, raising a perfectly arched brow. Her lipstick matched the gleam in her eye. “Aww,” she cooed mockingly. “Did the little baby lose her Mommy?”

A few others chuckled behind her, none cruelly, but with that effortless superiority that made Elara feel instantly three inches shorter.

Elara flushed. “I just need to know where I’m supposed to go next.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” The girl leaned in and tapped the ruby pin on Elara’s chest—the one affixed just above her heart. “Press the emblem, diaper-butt. That’s what it’s for.”

Before Elara could react, the girl applied just enough pressure to trigger the charm.

The pin glowed.

It was soft at first—just a shimmer—but then pulsed twice with warm red light before fading.

Elara took a step back, clutching her skirt. The fourth-year returned to their conversation, already dismissing her. But before she could shrink into herself, a voice echoed down the corridor behind her, smooth and familiar and infuriatingly cheerful.

“There you are, baby girl!”

Elara turned to see Selena approaching, her steps measured and graceful, and that ever-present smile lighting up her face like sunrise. She wore a slate-red robe trimmed with elegant silver thread, and her eyes sparkled as if Elara’s mere existence brought her joy.

“I was just finishing up a faculty check-in,” she said breezily. “Did someone press their little pin for help?”

Elara hesitated. “I didn’t know where to go next,” she said, trying to keep the bite out of her voice. “And… I need a change.”

Selena’s smile didn’t falter, but her brow lifted just slightly.

“Oh no, no, no,” she said sweetly, brushing Elara’s bangs back from her forehead like she was speaking to a fussy toddler. “Good babies don’t ask for changes. Mommy decides that.”

Elara’s mouth opened—but no sound came out.

Selena stepped behind her, guiding her with gentle pressure on her lower back toward one of the side corridors. “That diaper is good for at least another class or two. The padding is built to last, sweetheart. We wouldn’t want to be wasteful.”

“But it’s—” Elara began, voice tight, face reddening.

“—Not your concern,” Selena finished for her. “Your job is to focus on learning and being a good girl. My job is everything else.”

Elara’s steps slowed, the heavy quiet of the corridor pressing on her chest like a held breath. The soft squish of her diaper echoed louder than her thoughts, every step a reminder she couldn’t escape. She tried to suppress it, to focus on the carved archways and flickering gemstone sconces lining the walls, but her discomfort—physical and emotional—was a fire beneath her skin.

“I know I’m not supposed to ask,” she said quietly, almost hoping Selena wouldn’t hear, “but… I really think I need a change.”

Selena stopped.

She turned slowly, her robes sweeping behind her, and knelt so their eyes were level. The gentle amusement on her face faded, replaced by something else—not anger, but certainty. A steel-wrapped patience that made Elara’s throat tighten. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t frown. She just looked at Elara like a teacher might look at a student teetering too close to a lesson they hadn’t yet earned.

“That’s enough, baby girl.”

The words weren’t cruel. They were soft, yet firm and final.

“I know this is big. I know it’s new. I know it’s scary,” Selena continued, her voice lowering, smoothing over Elara like a warm blanket drawn too tight. “But you have to trust the process. You have to trust me. Trust that I know what’s best for you.”

Elara blinked, her composure splintering. Her lip trembled before she could stop it. “But… I think I have a rash,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. The shame of the admission burned through her like acid, her entire face flushing crimson.

Selena sighed softly—not in exasperation, but in understanding. “Okay. That’s something I can help with.”

She slipped a ruby-set ring onto her finger. Elara flinched instinctively, the memory of what magic had done to her still sharp in her nerves. But Selena reached out gently and cupped the side of her face.

“Relax, sweetheart. I’m not punishing you. I’m taking care of you.”

Elara closed her eyes.

The magic pulsed—not cold and clinical like the emerald’s touch but warm and radiant, like the glow of morning sunlight through closed eyelids. She felt it travel through her, not invasive but encompassing, soothing the raw discomfort she hadn’t wanted to name. The shame was still there, but dulled.

“As you get more accustomed,” Selena said softly, her hand still resting gently on Elara’s shoulder, “this kind of intervention won’t be necessary. Your body will learn. Your mind will follow. But this part—the part where you fight—it only gets harder if you resist.”

She pulled back, the ring’s light fading.

Elara didn’t speak. She swallowed the lump in her throat, ashamed of how grateful she was that the burning pain had stopped.

“Don’t let me catch you asking for a change again,” Selena added, not unkindly. “Do you understand?”

Elara nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Selena tilted her head. “Yes, who?”

The words stuck. Elara looked away, but the pressure of Selena’s gaze held her like gravity.

“…Yes, Mommy,” she said at last, the words fragile and hollow and true all at once.

Selena smiled again. Not triumphant. Not smug. Just content.

“Good girl,” she said. “Now, let’s get you to class.”

The classroom for reading and writing runes was tucked into one of the narrower wings of the school, its ceiling low and arched like an underground library. Dust lingered in the air despite the magical ventilation stones embedded in the corners, and every wall was lined with bookcases filled with dry tomes that looked like they hadn’t been touched since the first brick was laid. The room smelled faintly of parchment, stale ink, and something older—something like memory and mildew.

Elara sank into the small, cushioned bench designated for first-years, still sore from walking the long corridors in a damp diaper that Selena had so confidently declared “good for another class or two.” The squish was maddening. Still, she tried to ignore it, folding her arms tightly across her lap as the rest of the students filtered in.

And then he entered.

Professor Wendal Thatch.

He was, in every possible way, the most unremarkable man Elara had ever seen. Short, with thinning grey hair and spectacles so thick they made his eyes look like two cloudy marbles, he moved with the speed and stiffness of someone who’d been alive too long and learned too little joy. His robe was a dull taupe, stained at the sleeves with ink and faint yellowing that no spell had ever successfully removed. He didn’t speak so much as drone—his voice a single, uninterrupted tone that hummed just above a whisper and just below Elara’s ability to care.

“Runes,” he began, as he shuffled to the chalkboard, “are the foundation of structure, both magical and linguistic…”

And that was it.

That was the entire energy of the man.

The words rolled on. Long strings of exposition about etymology, phonetic sigils, structural stroke orders, and ancient binding customs. No spells. No magic. Just lines and definitions. Elara’s eyelids drooped almost immediately. Her body still ached from the spanking the class before, her eyes were dry from the long morning of magical lessons, and her nerves were shot from having her autonomy stripped away one layer at a time. Her wet diaper had cooled, made worse by the way the bench creaked beneath her with every shift of her hips. It was like sitting on a pillow made of shame.

The lecture dragged. Professor Thatch hadn’t looked up from his notes once in what felt like twenty minutes. His chalk scratched slowly at the board, the runes nearly identical in shape to each other, lined up in painfully precise rows. Elara’s head tilted, her arms drooped, and her eyes fluttered.

And then she was gone.

Sleep claimed her like a thief in the dark—sudden, unwanted, and absolute.

She didn’t know how long she drifted, but the sound that woke her came like lightning.

CRACK.

The sharp snap echoed through the classroom like a gunshot, slamming into her chest and jolting her upright. Her eyes shot open. Her limbs flailed. The warmth between her thighs sloshed again, a humiliating reminder of where she was and what she was wearing. Several students turned to look. Some smirked. A few flinched from the sound.

Standing at the front of the room, his expression unchanging, was Professor Thatch.

In one hand, he held a thick, polished wooden paddle.

“Elara,” he said—his tone the same as it had been during his lecture, as if stating a fact rather than posing a question, “do you believe it’s appropriate to fall asleep in my class?”

Elara’s mouth opened. Closed. She stared, wide-eyed, her cheeks flushing scarlet. Her voice caught somewhere between explanation and disbelief, her heart hammering beneath the weight of dozens of stares and the warm squish of her soaked diaper beneath her.

Elara’s breath caught in her throat.

Moments ago, the classroom was a sleepy haze of chalk dust and droning voices, but it had become a chamber of judgment. The paddle in Professor Thatch’s hand wasn’t lifted threateningly—it was simply there, like the nameplate on his desk or the runes carved into the walls. It was a tool. Its presence made no noise, but it thundered in her ears louder than the sharp crack that had startled her awake.

She opened her mouth to speak. To defend herself. To lie, maybe. But her mind stumbled between excuses and truths, unable to decide which was safer. She was tired; she hadn’t slept. Her body ached, her mind frayed from everything that had been done to her since arrival. But none of it mattered under his stare—dry, expectant, unbothered by her shame. Her lips parted, then closed again, trembling uselessly.

“Front of the room, Miss Elara,” Thatch said, not raising his voice. “Now.”

The silence was unbearable. Her legs moved before she fully registered it, each step toward the front of the room slow, echoing against the flagstone floor. Her heart pounded. The warmth between her thighs, already a persistent discomfort, became unbearable as she imagined every eye following the subtle crinkle beneath her skirt. She wanted to melt into the ground. To vanish. To wake up and find this had all been part of some twisted initiation rite.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice catching, her eyes wide as she reached him. “I didn’t mean to. I was just tired. It won’t happen again.”

She didn’t realize she was pleading until her hands curled around themselves in front of her chest, her voice brittle with the edge of panic. “Please don’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re correct on one point,” Professor Thatch said. “You will not do it again.”

His eyes swept over the rest of the class as though she were already forgotten.

“Let this stand as a lesson to all of you. Magic requires focus. Discipline. Attention. If you can’t stay awake on your first day, what hope do you have of controlling the energies that shape this world?”

Elara flinched. His tone didn’t change, but each word settled like stone in her chest.

She felt the shift in the air before she saw it—his gaze returning to her, his hand gesturing gently, not cruelly, but with expectation. “Bend over the desk, Miss Elara.”

The world tilted.

She froze, her breath shallow, eyes burning with the sting of tears she refused to let fall. Her knees locked, her arms tight at her sides. Behind her, she could hear someone inhale sharply, followed by the quiet shuffling of feet—students adjusting in their seats, uncomfortable but not intervening. Not one of them would save her. Not here.

Elara felt herself being gently but firmly pushed over the desk, her skirt hiked, her shame revealed to the entire class, and before she could react, the paddle made contact with her diapered rear.