Maybe I wished too hard, and that’s my secret print coming to life, because he does fail.
More than that.
The chalice slips from his trembling hands—and just as the wine softens into a faint pink liquid, he collapses.
Some shouts of concern arch over the room, coming from the pews, but mostly it’s murmurs and chuckles.
Mikhail is carried out by a master.
Oliver wears no ego as he returns to his seat. He settles beside me, forearms braced on his thighs, and he shuts his eyes—like he’s going to powernap through the rest of the day.
And it isall day.
Artificery is next up.
That’s Courtney and Piper.
They each select items from the trolley to enchant.
Artificers are the reason we have the drapes around our beds in the dorms that silence any noise beyond, the reason we have pentacles to channel a chaotic power into something steady and workable.
It isn’t a rare print.
In fact, it’s so common that interest in the room has faded to murmured chats and, beside me, Oliver is half-asleep.
Piper and Courtney pick out small wooden chests, petite enough to fit in the palms of their hands. Their task is to enchant the boxes to decay when it is touched by another.
The first part goes well.
Then they swap boxes.
The moment Courtney’s is flat on Piper’s hand, it starts to blacken—and I sit up a bit straighter, lift my chin that touch higher…
And nothing.
It only blackens, like it’s been charred.
But it doesn’t decay.
Piper’s does.
Firm in Courtney’s hand, the chest bubbles and rots and darkens until it starts to cave in on itself.
My brows raise—and not a moment after, the box explodes. Literally explodes, shrapnel spitting through the room.
A collective shout rips through the room.
Front-row seniors flinch and throw themselves off the pews, onto the laps of the students behind them.
On the bench in front of me, just two students along, Landon’s back jolts with his laughter. The dark curls of his hair rustle as he shakes his head in disbelief.
Courtney and Piper head back to their seats, and Witchdoctor Urma is quick to rush to Courtney and pick out the splinters from her sweater.
I wince at the sight of it, and I have to look away.
The next is called.
Brews.
