“Just think of it this way—we’ll never need a torch again,” Morgan teases.
“I don’t think we’ll need torches or lanterns.” Ember points to the magical lights in the sconces of the hallway as we walk along. “Pretty sure they got that covered.”
“Star Arcana work in the forges to create our weapons,” someone snarks, bumping hard into Ember’s shoulder as they pass by. The druid girl bares her teeth at the indignation on my face. Her eyes are upswept, pretty freckles dot her cheeks like constellations, and her hair is long and straight, tied up in a black wave down her back. “If you weren’t a bunch of scabs, you’d know that.”
And I thought she was pretty until she had to go and say that.
“Scabs?” My lip curls, though sweat beads my temple at the confrontation. “Is that the best you can come up with? Immortal lifespans, butscabis the most original you got? It’s a wonder you’re not all extinct.”
She stops abruptly. “What did you just say?”
The tone in the hallway shifts, and it dawns on me that most of the druids around me are Sedah-born, their tattoos and nicer gear setting them distinctly apart. My fists clench, talons sliding from the beds of my fingernails, but I don’t want whoever this druid is to realize she’s getting to me with so little effort. I force a relaxed smile to my lips.
“Should I have said it slower?”
“How did Prince Draven wind up Selecting someone as witless as you?” She looks me up and down as if it’s impossible based on whatever she sees of me. “You don’t belong here. Onlypurebornsdo. And if this were twenty years ago, I’d have your head on a spike. You and your worthless, dirty-blooded mortal friends.”
I step forward, my boots nearly pressing against hers. She’s taller than me, but I won’t let her make me feel small. She’s the least of what I’ve faced.
“You really underestimate my level of spite.” Calm laces my voice, though I’m sure there’s fire in my eyes. “Just for this, I think I’m gonna give it my all. If for nothing else than to see you so threatened by us.”
Her long lashes flutter, and then she’s lunging. I reach for a knife that’s not there, remembering too late I left my weapons in Vexamire, and she grabs me by the throat, lifting me off my feet.How did she move so fast?I’m slammed into the stone wall behind us. My head cracks, lightning shooting through it. The hallway erupts. Changelings and druids brawling throughout it. I even catch Kasper throw an unblocked punch into a druid’s jaw, felling him in an instant.
My focus swivels onto the girl in front of me. For someone so slight, she shouldn’t be able to pin me here with one hand. Her grasp tightens, and some gurgle comes from my throat, butit certainly isn’t theFuck youI planned on saying. I scrabble for the pen in my bag, trying to slide it out. It’s not a knife, but it can still be a weapon.
“Get off her!” I hear Ember scream.
Two druids, likely my assailant’s friends, block Ember from reaching me. My fingertips can’t get purchase on the pen.
Fangs bared, the girl snarls, “You mortals are so weak. Just playthings to us. And if there were a way to reverse the Curse, we’d have wiped your lot out during your pathetic uprising.”
“What … Curse?” I cough.
Her eyes widen as if she’s let something slip.
“Mira!” a voice hollers over the crowd, the tone so chastising that everyone stops, and Mira drops me to the floor, where I steady myself against the wall.
There’s a ripple in the hall as the crowd’s attention shifts to a furious professor. He looks as if he could be her father, though I keep that observation to myself. He gestures to an open lecture hall behind him, speaking to everyone, “I am Professor Vexus, and I teach practical magic with Major Arcana. You’re all late.”
6Practical Magic
The last act of the mortals during the Great War appears to be … permanent. I’m afraid it is best to go forward with the proposal of the Selection, though we will continue to seek out a cure.
—Magical Division of Alchemy to King Silas
WE SHUFFLE INSIDE,quickly finding our seats, and the class settles beneath the gaze of Professor Vexus, his annoyance smothering the room. He stands with his arms folded at the front of the class: lithe, pale, and livid. Brushing his dark hair back with a couple of descended nails curved to points, he addresses all of us, his tone as cutting as broken glass.
“What started it?”
He looks around expectantly, but I keep my mouth shut. I don’t know what it’s like here in Sedah, but in Westfall, there was a general saying about not snitching that really sticks with me now. I lean back in my seat, waiting for someone to say anything, massaging the back of my scalp. Miraculously, there’s no blood.
It stays quiet. Apparently, druids abide by a similar code.
“Fine,” he growls. “I’ll go ahead and make some assumptions then. The first thing I’d like to remind you of is thatnoneof you fought in the Great War, as you were all children. You may have had to live with the fallout, but you can all stop pretending it was your damned fight.”
Across the room, I see Mira scoff lightly.
“Secondly, although the changelings are admittedly replaceable, killing them over minor slights causes a great detriment to all our futures.”
