“You kicked our asses out there,” Elijah says to Nala, a glimmer of admiration in his hazel eyes as his curls bounce over his brow.
“Well and truly,” Trina adds, tugging her black socks up under her boots. “Good job.”
Nala returns a small, proud smile, basking in her victory.
The cart steadies, and we hop off one by one onto the solid ground of Sun Castle. Gods, it feels good to feel the earth beneath my feet again.
We’re only a short distance from the school, but something feels off. A crowd has gathered around the greenhouse. We quicken our pace, drawn partly by the mass of students and teachers, but mostly by curiosity and a gnawing sense of dread.
Exchanging concerned glances, we push closer. The air feels tight, brittle, sharp, like the moment just before glass shatters. Faces in the crowd are twisted in a cruel mix of panic, confusion, and grief.
A cold weight settles in my chest. As we reach the edge of the crowd, my breath catches. I see the dome. The large doors of the greenhouse stand open, revealing its once-undying garden… now failing.
Flowers that have bloomed for centuries, untouched by time or decay, are wilting before our eyes, a slow, agonising death. Their once-vivid colours have dulled, fading a few shades from yesterday’s brilliance. Leaves curl inward, as if ashamed todisplay their blemishes, recoiling from their inevitable demise. The waterfall that runs through the dome, once endless and roaring, has shrunk to half its size. The birds sing a new tune—a sombre, haunting melody that scratches at my eardrums. Their cries rise over the limp vines that lie on the ground like bones finally laid to rest. Restorers kneel among the dying plants, hands trembling as they attempt to coax life back into the petals, but each touch carries defeat.
The magic is fading.
The garden is dying, petal by petal.
I had always believed this garden could never die. Watching it unravel now, I realise how wrong I was.
“Oriah, are you seeing this? What the hell is going on?” I call into the silence of my mind, but she does not respond. Ever since the Gods summoned her last week, our connection has been severed.
“I thought it couldn’t die?” Nala murmurs, eyes fixed on the garden’s decay, disbelief thick in her voice.
“So did I,” I reply, the colour draining from my face.
“W-what does this mean?” Her words tremble, and I know, deep down, that something is very, very wrong.
“I don’t know,” I whisper, watching another petal drift to the ground. “But it can’t be good.”
Mr Felix stands in the courtyard, half the man he was this morning, staring at the immortal garden now painfully mortal. His usual composure has melted away; the confident man who promised he would not leave mere hours ago now looks stranded, like someone who has waded too far into deep water.
The bell chimes sharply, a warning echoing in our ears, and the students are herded toward their next class.
Yet I can’t tear my eyes from the dying garden.
Chapter Five
My fingers grip the edge of my desk in Mr Herringford’s class as I shift in my seat uncomfortably, my legs still restless at what I have just witnessed. He addresses us students, though his words are lost in translation, like he is speaking a language in which we are all illiterate—our minds too preoccupied by the tragedy unfolding just under our noses. No one speaks about the greenhouse, but it lingers in the air between us like smoke, heavy, choking and impossible to ignore. Fear claims our breath like soot settled in our lungs, a disease infecting us, as if whatever rot that touched the greenhouse followed us into this very room.
Mr Herringford tries to keep us focused, encouraging us to draw on the sun’s power the way we have been trained, but the source feels… off.
I close my eyes and reach for the metaphorical power originating in my mind, expecting a slight tingling heat to ripple in my chest. But the energy doesn’t hum through my body the way it usually does, it doesn’t buzz with potential beneath my skin or shower me with warmth. Instead, it is barely a whisper, a flicker of a flame half as bright as it usually is, weak and unsteady. Like a match trying to strike in the rain, a small light embers on my palm then snuffs out. I furrow my brows and try again; it reignites, but it does not rage with the fierceness I am used to.
The invisible tether that binds me to the sun is weakening. The orbs that hang in the corners of each room flicker slightly, and my heart skips multiple beats. My eyes connect with Mr Herringford’s, a fragile ember shames his palm, and his cheeks redden. If I didn’t know he was a master of his craft, I would’ve thought that he had only had his Gift for all of four minutes, let alone forty years. And if he had the audacity to tell me he taught others how to yield light, I would laugh in his face. A half-eaten flame licks at his hand as he frowns, staring intensely at it like it is an alien invading his palm. Around me, students are frowning too, concentrating harder, palms glowing faintly.
Too faintly.
Then something snaps. Alex’s light flares with a violent spark, throwing him backwards into his chair. If I weren’t so shocked, a small smile would’ve stretched on my face at this. Trina’s glow twists wildly in her hands, turning a sharp, sickly white before vanishing entirely. We duck beneath our desks as bursts of fire shoot across the room, uncontrolled and volatile. My portal opens up uninvited and dances in my palm. I gasp and try to conceal its darkness with my hands, my heart thumping with adrenaline. It fades out, but my light Gift doesn’t take long to reappear, this time brighter than ever, sending bullets of light speeding through the room like fireworks.
Shit.
Shouts break out as we cower under our tables, victims to our own power. The orbs flail and ricochet off walls, threatening to singe the hairs on our eyebrows.
Fear claims us as someone knocks over a chair, and the sudden sound makes us all flinch. Alex stands up slowly, occasionally ducking when a bullet threatens to scorch him, and holds up his hands, confused. His light barely flickers before dying out completely. His face changes from confusion to angeras he realises he is not in control of his Gifts. He barely notices the arrow of light beaming straight for him.
It catches him off guard, flames eating at his blue shirt, he quickly takes it off and shoves it onto the ground, stamping out the flames in a fright, revealing the ridges of his abs. He may be a dick, but boy is he ripped. Another wave of panic ripples through the class. As I look around at each nervous face, I notice that some can only summon half the strength they usually do, while others lose control entirely.
