Brittany stares at the sphere. Then at me. Then at the sphere again.
"Give me your hands," she says.
"What?"
"Your hands. You're still bleeding." She's already reaching for the ritual knife on her nightstand—a small, sharp blade with a red gem in the hilt. "Hold still."
I extend my hands, palms up, and watch as she pricks her own finger with the knife. The gem glows faintly as her blood wells up. Then she presses her fingertip to my palm, and I feel—
Warmth. Not painful, just... warm, spreading through my skin like sunlight. The cuts tingle, then itch, then seal themselves closed, new skin knitting together like the wounds were never there.
"Blood magic," I breathe.
"Healing is the easy part. It's just moving vitality from one place to another." She wipes her finger on her black jeans and picks up the cracked sphere, turning it over in her hands. The colors still swirl inside—faint, but visible. "This is the part that's not easy. These things are designed to show one affinity. One. They don't do... this."
"Mine did. Professor Warrick put it back together, but she said I have to fix it myself. She wouldn't tell me how."
"Of course she wouldn't." Brittany sets the sphere down carefully, like it might bite her. "What exactly happened? Walk me through it."
So I tell her. The shadow first, then lightning, then the blood-red glow, then chaos purple. All four, swirling together, fighting for space inside the glass until it couldn't contain them anymore. The way Professor Warrick backed away. The way Callum looked at me after—like I was something dangerous. Something to be dealt with.
When I finish, Brittany is quiet for a long time.
"That's not undifferentiated magic," she says finally. "Undifferentiated is when your magic doesn't have a clear affinity—it's weak, unfocused, not strong enough to declare for any discipline. What you're describing is the opposite. You didn't fail to connect with any discipline. You connected with all of them."
"Is that possible?"
"It shouldn't be." She takes the bottle from under her bed, takes a long drink, and holds it out to me. "But you did it. And Callum saw it. That's why he warned you—he's trying to figure out what you are before anyone else does."
"And Atlas?"
"Atlas doesn't think. Atlas follows orders." Her eyes meet mine. "Someone pointed him at you, Everly. The question is who, and why."
I think about that. About the way the storm appeared seconds after my confrontation with Callum. About the way Atlas was waiting on that rooftop, like he knew I'd end up there.
"You think Callum sent him?"
"I think someone sent him. And I think whatever you did in that classroom scared them enough to want you gone before you could do it again."
I look down at my hands. The cuts are gone now, healed by Brittany's blood magic, but I can still feel the phantom sting of glass in my palms. I pick up the sphere and turn it over in my fingers. Four colors of magic. Four disciplines that aren't supposed to mix.
"What am I?" I ask quietly.
Brittany doesn't answer right away. When she does, her voice is uncharacteristically soft. "I don't know. But whatever it is, it's got the most powerful students on campus running scared." She pauses. "That's either very good for you, or very, very bad."
Outside, the sky is clear again—innocent blue, like nothing happened. But I can still taste metal on my tongue. Still feel the lightning gathering overhead. Still see Atlas Knox's cold blue eyes staring up at me as I pinned him to the rooftop.
If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead.
Two presidents. Two attacks. Three days.
And I still have no idea what I am—only that it scares them. Only that they want me gone.
Well, they're going to be disappointed. I'm not going anywhere. Whatever I am, I'm going to figure it out. And if CallumBolingbroke and Atlas Knox want to stop me, they're going to have to try a lot harder than warnings and weather.
"Brittany?"
"Yeah?"
