I stare at the willow wand. Part of me wants to fling it at his head and tell him to keep it, yet the wood is warm in my hand. I shouldn’t throw it—however much he deserves it. It is mine now; he gave it to me. I might not have wanted it yesterday, but I do now.
I hold the wand gently while Lander examines the shelves, sighing now and then in quiet appreciation. Dust settles on my shoulder as I lean against the wall, but I ignore it.
His expressions amuse me. In his Ministry office he keeps a skull with a candle stuck in it and mere trinkets. My collection could make the Magic Sector’s museum weep with joy. When he glances back, I only shrug; he shakes his head and continues, as if trying not to look too impressed.
At last he notices the sealed case—the one with the paperweights. Disgust clouds his face, and for a moment, my opinion of him rises. No one could fake that reaction. He circles the room, checking each ward with measured focus, then squats beside the engraved circle and traces its edge with his fingertips.
“Have you got any…?” he asks, looking up.
I hand him a small bag of salt and a stub of chalk. He smiles and sets to work. When he finishes, he looks pleased with himself.
But I am trained differently.
I draw my own manifestation chalk and begininscribing sigils. Each stroke is deliberate and precise. Fifteen minutes later the circle is complete: broad, intricate, and beautiful. My legs ache, yet satisfaction outweighs the discomfort.
That odd expression returns; Lander watches me as though seeing a mage for the first time.
“This is a masterclass,” he murmurs.
I huff, slide the chalk away, and step into the circle.
“I will be a while,” I warn him.
“It’s all right,” he says quietly. “Take your time.”
Under his gaze, I feel a flicker of self-consciousness. I could sit and meditate, but movement has always served me better. Father—who travelled constantly—filled our shelves with books of rituals from every corner of the world. The blend of motion and magic is rare; even then it was a dying branch of craft. I was twelve when I first attempted it.
I assume the opening stance?—
—and dance.
The style is closer to modern lyrical than to classical ballet: fluid, expressive, purposeful. My fingers carve runes in the air. My toes press meaning into the floor. Each twist and step is deliberate. Though I have not danced like this in years, my soul remembers. My body—this strange, borrowed thing—falls into the rhythm.
Something stirs. A cry from deep within, ancient and healing. Magic wells up to meet me. I hear music, a song unsung for a thousand years—perhaps imagined, yet it works.
I dance until strength fails. Finishing the last movement, I sink to the floor—one leg folded, the other extended—and bow, palms flat, releasing thespell.
The circle flares to life.
Salt and chalk ignite. Sigils blaze. Power races around the perimeter with a satisfying whoosh before settling back into the earth. Energy lingers where my feet touch, as if the ground is still holding the shape of my steps.
Power floods me, buzzing beneath my skin and lighting every cell. The air feels forest-clean—crisp, unsullied. Above, the light spheres I crafted gather and glow like soft sunlight filtered through leaves.
In time the brilliance fades. The circle calms. I am sweating and breathless, but exhilarated.
Lander is still staring.
I give a sheepish nod.
My breath catches when he smiles that glorious smile of his.
“You are incredible.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, suddenly fascinated by my boots.
“I’d love to learn. Will you teach me?”
“Yes,” I say, surprising myself with how quickly the word comes.
