“This,” Constance says, “is mastery. When each of you enters to receive your sigil, the flames will reveal your emotional state. Try to maintain control. If you cannot…” She pauses, eyes gleaming. “The Emberhearth will ensure you remember the lesson.”
A nervous shuffle ripples through the circle.
“I’ll call you alphabetically.” She unfurls a scroll. “When your name is spoken, enter the hearth and join Proctor Ashford. He’ll administer your Kindling sigil—the mark of first-years. Only after receiving it will you be true Blaze students, able to access the academy’s halls and its magic.”
Nervous chattering sounds throughout the room.
“What, exactly, is a proctor?” I whisper to Evie.
She glances at me, her eyes sparkling, as if she knowsexactlywhy I asked about Logan. “Think of him like the student body president. The senior elected to track minor infractions, take disciplinary action before issues are brought to the faculty, provide student mediation, give morning announcements, and to bring student concerns to the staff when warranted,” she explains, and I nod, since the real-world example makes sense.
Constance clears her throat to silence everyone, then begins. “Nina Aldridge.”
Nina steps forward without hesitation, her chin high. The moment she enters the fire, the flames turn deep forest green.
“Ambition,” Constance says. “Hunger for power and knowledge. A dangerous emotion if not tempered with wisdom.”
About three minutes pass before Nina emerges, flexing her right palm where a small flame symbol now glows against her skin. She looks smug, like she’s already won a competition no one else knew they were playing.
“Henry Baker,” Constance calls next.
Henry practically bounces into the fire, which immediately turns bright gold.
“Excitement. Anticipation. Youth’s enthusiasm.” Constance’s tone suggests this isn’t entirely a compliment.
More names. More colors. I try to memorize what each means as Constance announces them.
“Elizabeth Bradley.” Pale blue flames. “Loneliness. Isolation. The academy will cure that.”
“Gabriel Dumont.” Deep crimson. “Anger. Learn to channel it, or it will consume you.”
One by one, each student emerges with the same small flame marking their right palm. Some look proud. Others unsettled.
“Rebecca Gibson.”
A mousy girl with trembling hands approaches the flames. The second she gets close, they turn dark violet, and she freezes.
“Fear the fire,” Constance says, “and the fire will burn you.”
Rebecca jerks back, crying out when flames lick her wrist, leaving a red welt.
“Again,” Constance orders.
Tears streak Rebecca’s face, but she forces herself through this time, disappearing into the hearth. When she emerges a few minutes later, her hand is healed, the sigil glowing faintly.
“A lesson learned,” Constance says. “Next. Jade Harrington.”
The sound of my name slides like knives across my skin, every syllable heavy with expectation and doubt. My stomach plummets further as whispers ripple through the room.
Harrington. Dead bloodline. Clueless. Doesn’t belong.
It feels like I’m burning before I’ve even touched the fire. But despite the weight of their stares, I force my feet to move. Heat builds with every step until sweat beads on my brow, the fire looming large as it prepares to swallow me whole.
What will the flames show? Fear? Confusion? The storm that’s been buzzing in my veins since lightning struck the jet and T touched my forehead?
I have no idea. But if I show any hint of hesitation, it will fuel the gossip train even further.
So, I reach the edge of the hearth, take a shaky breath, and step into the fire.
