A woman in a black layered dress fumbles to her feet, nearly knocking over her water glass in the process. Ink stains decorate her fingers like abstract art, and silver-white hair escapes what was probably once a bun but now looks more like a bird’s nest.
She pushes thick glasses up her nose with the nervous gesture of someone perpetually overwhelmed. “Flame and Dominion—the politics and history of fire magic.” Her voice starts soft, gaining strength as she continues. “We’ll explore how witches have shaped the supernatural world, from the ancient covens to the creation of our shifter Guardians to modern treaty negotiations. History isn’t just memorizing dates—it’s understanding power. I’ll also teach your first-year specialtyclass, The Fire Within.” She brightens, her glasses sliding down again. “Did you know that every witch’s flame has an emotional signature? Like a fingerprint, but made of feelings. By year’s end, you’ll know exactly what feeds your fire, and what starves it. It’s my favorite course because—oh.” She catches Constance’s sharp look. “Right.Briefintroductions.”
She drops into her chair so fast she nearly misses it.
I like her already. At least I’m not the only hot mess around here.
Constance gives Delia a small, seemingly pleased smile, then turns her focus to a plump woman at the end of the table. “And finally, our healer, Nana.”
Nana waves cheerfully, her silver hair pinned in a bun decorated with what looks like flame-shaped hairpins. “Come see me for everything from training injuries to broken hearts,” she calls out with a wide grin. “I always have tea brewing and warm cookies waiting.”
Well, at least when Kieran destroys my body and soul tomorrow, I’ll know where to crawl.
Constance gives Nana a satisfied nod, then turns back to look at our table. “Your complete schedules, along with the materials you’ll need for your classes, await you in Phoenix Hall. I suggest you review them carefully.”
She sits with the fluid grace of someone who’s never stumbled in her life. Then, as if on cue, servers emerge from hidden doors along the walls, carrying what smells distinctly like herbs and meat, delicious enough to make my neglected stomach roar.
They head to the fourth-year table first.
Perfectly seared steaks sizzle on cast iron plates. Roasted vegetables glisten with butter and herbs. Goblets brim with red wine.
The third-years get served next. Still impressive, although not quite as decadent. The second-years’ food looks like what you’d find at a typical college dining hall, similar to what we were served back at Dalton.
The mystery meat on our plates, however, suggests it died twice and was rejected by subway rats. The vegetables sag in defeat. And inside our goblets sloshes the palest excuse for white wine I’ve ever seen.
“They don’t always give us wine,” Evie tells me with a smile that shows she’s trying to find a positive in a clearly negative situation. “Only for special occasions.”
“This is bullshit,” Garrett declares, holding up a slab of gray-tinged meat that keeps its shape even when vertical.
Sort of agreeing with him, I prod the thing thatmightgenerously be called chicken. The smell isn’t bad, exactly—just bland, like someone described seasoning to the cook through a very long game of telephone.
“Your bracelet.” Evie’s fingers brush my wrist. “It’s gorgeous. Where did you get it?”
“I made it.” I glance down at the hammered gold cuff, firelight dancing across its surface. The metal work took me three weeks to perfect, each tiny dent precisely placed to catch light.
Nina leans over from her chair in the center section of the table, apparently wanting a better look. “You made it yourself?”
“It’s kind of my thing.” Warmth blooms in my chest at their interest. None of my friends in the city ever cared about, or seemed to even like, my jewelry at all. “I’ve been making jewelry since I was twelve.”
“Amazing.” Evie tilts my wrist, studying the details. “Do you have more?”
I lift my other hand, showing the rings I crafted last summer. Silver bands with tiny flames etched into them.
Felix studies the rings with an artist’s eye, charcoal-stained fingers hovering close. “This is really good work. Like, professionally good.”
“Thanks.” I give him a genuine smile. “If we survive tomorrow, maybe I’ll make you all something.”
“Whenwe survive tomorrow,” Evie corrects firmly.
The conversation shifts to tomorrow’s combat assessment, voices dropping as people share half-whispered rumors about Kieran’s teaching methods. The Scorched Circles—his training grounds—are a big deal, although everyone talks about them so quickly that I’m barely able to keep up, let alone join in.
Eventually, dessert is served. For us at the first-year tables, berries that look like they’re hours away from needing to be thrown in the trash. I poke at them a bit, searching for ones that look somewhat edible, and failing miserably.
Apparently, serving first-years food like this is supposed to “build our character,” but I’m not sure how developing scurvy helps anyone’s magical education.
“Surprise!” A hand slides over my shoulder, and suddenly a plate of silky chocolate cake appears in front of me. “Can’t have the first-years suffering too much on their first night. Especially not my sister’s beautiful new roommate.”
Oliver winks at me before moving on, as casual as breathing, as if he didn’t just save me from dessert despair.
