As I fasten each button, I catch the faintest hints of the serpent tattoo peeking from beneath the fabric, small dark curves just visible near my shoulders. Hidden, yet always waiting to be revealed under the right touch. The thought sends a small, unwelcome surge of heat through me.
I drape the Vespera robe across my shoulders, letting its weight settle with a quiet authority. The deep red tie hangs loosely around my neck; I knot it without cinching it too tightly. Finally, I comb my hair free from the towel and let itfall in loose, soft waves, the brown strands contrasting sharply with the stark black of the robe.
When I step out of the bathroom, my belongings remain scattered across the bed. With a flick of my wand, I cast a protection charm over my side of the room, thin but potent, enough to keep Imelda or anyone else with vindictive intentions from creeping too close to my things.
The clock’s quiet glow reads 6:00 a.m., and though classes will begin soon, the early hour leaves me a slim window of opportunity, one I intend to seize. If I move quickly, I may be able to reach Anvaris, the neighboring town that serves as the lifeblood for Vireldan’s magical community.
Anvaris is not merely a village. It is an artery, an extension of the academy itself, designed for magic-wielding souls who require tools the school cannot always provide. Wandwrights, potionmongers, rune-carvers, sigil-smiths… all have storefronts clustered along the cobbled main road, their windows glowing with enchantment even before sunrise. Students slip there in handfuls during free hours, looking for stronger wands, rare inks, charm components, or simply air that hasn’t been stifled by the stone walls of Vireldan.
And today, I need it more than ever.
The loaner wand Locke gave me feels as hollow as a stick, it sputters even with simple charms, and yesterday’s confrontation with Sebastian made one truth painfully clear:
I cannot afford to be defenseless.
If something, or someone, unexpected confronts me again, I need a wand that responds to me, not one that shakes in my grip like a frightened branch.
Sliding my cloak around my shoulders, I fasten it at the collar. The fabric settles like a protective veil, soft enough to conceal the faint marks of ink along my upper back. For a moment, I glance at my reflection in the darkened windowpane: long skirt falling neatly to my ankles, blouse crisp andfitted, robe draped in Vespera crimson, hair cascading in soft brown waves.
I look like a student. But beneath the silk and fabric and illusion of order, something else thrums, something restless and alive.
Nudging open the heavy door to the Vespera common room, I step into a wash of gentle firelight that pools across the velvet furnishings and long stone floor. The early hour grants the space a quiet serenity; only a few students linger, voices low and unhurried. My eyes find Liam almost immediately. He stands near the tall arched windows with Theo beside him, both deep in conversation. Their postures are relaxed, their expressions warm, an ease I am grateful to see after everything that unfolded last night.
Liam’s face brightens the moment he notices me, and he gestures for me to join them with the same, familiar enthusiasm he has offered me since childhood. He shifts slightly as I approach, making room at his side and, whether intentionally or out of instinct, revealing a third boy with them. One I do not recognize.
He is not Vespera; that much is evident at first glance. The gold threading along his uniform identifies him as Kairoth, member of the house dedicated to Knowledge. His jacket catches the lantern light with a soft shimmer, complementing the warm olive tone of his skin. His white-blond hair falls neatly around his temples, and his eyes, light green laced with a quiet blue, regard me with a lively, unguarded curiosity. He smiles easily, and the expression feels refreshingly sincere.
“So,” he says as I draw nearer, his tone warm and utterly unthreatening, “this is Harper?”
His voice holds none of Sebastian’s sharp edges, none of the dark, veiled meaning coiled beneath every word he utters. The man’s manner is open, almost disarmingly so.
“My one and only sister,” Liam replies, reaching up to adjust the collar of my blouse with a small, protective tug. I know instantly what he’s doing, concealing the faint edges of my tattoo before strangers have the opportunity to ask. Whatever quarrels Liam and I fall into, his loyalty has always been a quiet, unshakeable constant.
The Kairoth boy extends his hand with a polite dip of his head. “Trevor Collins.”
“Harper Whitlock,” I answer, taking his hand firmly. His grip is steady, warm, respectful. I find myself offering him a genuine smile, surprising even myself.
The boys resume their conversation lightly, but my mind is already turning toward something far more pressing. The loaner wand Locke gave me barely cooperated with the simplest charm this morning. With everything that’s happened, the attack, the academy, Sebastian, I cannot go another day armed with a weapon that feels more like driftwood than a conduit.
If I am to have any hope of keeping myself safe, I need a wand that chooses me. A real wand, from a real wandwright.
Turning to Liam, I feel the urgency settle beneath my ribs.
“I was wondering,” I say, straightening my robe and meeting his eyes, “can we go to Anvaris this morning?”
The words hang between us with more significance than I intend, but they feel right. Necessary. I cannot face whatever lies ahead at Vireldan unprepared, not with violet eyes, not with the serpent at my spine, and not with someone like Sebastian prowling the same halls.
Liam’s brows lift the moment the words leave my mouth. “This morning?” he repeats, surprise flickering across his features as he glances toward the nearest clock. “Harper, classes begin soon. And Anvaris is a fair walkfrom Vireldan, longer still if the morning frost hasn’t lifted. Why would you want to go now of all-”
He stops.
Something in my expression halts him mid-sentence. His eyes search mine, initially for logic, then for reason, and finally for something deeper. Whatever he finds there shifts the entire shape of his posture. The confusion softens. His breath catches quietly in his chest. Concern flickers first… but what follows, unmistakably, is understanding.
He knows me too well.
The way his shoulders draw back, the way the playful crease at the corner of his mouth fades into something solemn, tells me he recognizes this for what it is: not a whim. Not a curiosity. A need.
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “Harper… what happened?”
