Unbelievable. Utterly insufferable.
Liam Whitlock, devoted flatterer, occasional sibling, perpetual torment, is forever finding the most opportune moment to cast me beneath the proverbial carriage wheel while offering someone else his very best manners. Watchinghim perform his sunshine-and-chivalry routine makes my jaw tighten until I fear a tooth might crack.
Were I not standing before one of the few men within these walls whom I genuinely hold in esteem, I would gladly deliver a swift right hook to Liam’s smug, apologetic face for presuming to speak bothtome andforme. And worse...aboutme.
My fists curl at my sides, knuckles whitening, breath measured only by sheer will.
He knows precisely what he is doing.
Brindle releases Liam’s hand with a curt nod, one meant to appear approving, though irritation flickers unmistakably beneath its surface. His gaze drifts over me one final time, steeped in disdain, before he shifts his attention back to Professor Locke.
Locke clears his throat with quiet purpose, a gentle sound that nonetheless commands the room, drawing attention away from Brindle’s disapproval and back to himself. His eyes settle on us, first Liam, then me, and for the briefest moment, something unspoken glimmers there. Relief, perhaps. Or guilt. Or the fading shock of nearly losing two students before we even reached the academy steps.
"Your placements are prepared,” Professor Locke announces, his voice calm yet commanding, a steadiness that seems to settle the very air about us. “Follow me.”
No reprimand. No lecture. Merely instruction. And, by the heavens, I am grateful for that small mercy.
2
HARPER
He steps into the corridor, his robes gliding across the marble floor with a soft whisper as he beckons us onward. Liam’s fingers finally loosen their grip upon my shoulder, and I promptly shrug him off with a glare that promises retribution at a more convenient moment. He lifts his hands in a display of false innocence before falling into step behind Locke.
We leave the oppressive confines of the space and enter one of the grand central corridors of Vireldan, vaulted ceilings arching high above us, lanterns suspended in the air as though caught mid-breath, the faint hum of enchantment threading through every stone. Students pass by like a well-trained current, their gazes flicking toward our soot-streaked garments before darting away the instant they register Locke’s presence.
Locke walks with unwavering purpose, navigating the halls with ease until the corridor opens into a magnificent courtyard situated at the very heart of the academy.
And there, at its center, stands the Reflecting Fountain.
A vast circular basin filled with water so still it resembles polished glass, shimmering faintly with a silver luminescence. Beneath its surface, runes pulse in rhythmic succession, like the beat of some ancient heart. Surrounding the pool are statues of the original Elantrix founders, their chiseled visages carved with expressions of solemn, centuries-old expectation.
“This,” Locke says, coming to a halt at the water’s edge, “is where each student receives their placement.”
The air seems to crackle softly. My stomach coils with nerves. Beside me, Liam straightens, shoulders stiffening with subtle anticipation.
Locke turns to face us fully, his expression gentling, though only by the smallest measure.
“Step forward,” he says quietly, “when you are ready.”
Liam releases a breath that seems to steady him only marginally, though he straightens his spine with the kind of earnest resolve that makes him look far older than he is. Without waiting for Locke to prompt him again, he steps toward the Reflecting Fountain. The shift in the courtyard is immediate, conversation dwindles, shoes still on marble, and the faint hum of the lanterns overhead softens as though the academy itself holds its breath.
The water within the circular basin is impossibly still, its surface a perfect mirror unmarred by breeze or movement. Only the faint silver glow beneath hints at the power waiting to be stirred. Professor Locke folds his hands behind his back, his posture rigid but reverent, as though even he approaches this ritual with care.
“Place your hand upon the water, Mr. Whitlock,” he instructs.
Liam casts me a small glance, brief but unmistakably seeking reassurance, and then lowers his hand until his fingertips brush the surface.
The reaction is subtle at first, a faint quiver beneath the water like a breath of wind. Then the runes flare to life, spiraling outward in a pattern that expands from his touch in controlled, deliberate pulses. Color blooms within the basin, first a pale, glimmering blue, then a muted gold, followed by a swirling violet. Each shade flares, lingers, then fades, asthough the fountain is considering him carefully, weighing his essence like a meticulous judge.
Only when the color settles does the courtyard truly react.
The water deepens into a bold, unmistakable crimson.
Not a timid shade or an uncertain hue but a decisive, resonant red that illuminates the marble tiles beneath our feet and casts a rosy glow across Liam’s face. A second ripple follows the first, brighter still, and then the light steadies, holding its color with quiet certainty.
Whispers bloom around the courtyard like wind weaving through leaves.
Vespera.The House of Power. The house rumored to produce leaders, conquerors, and those whose influence bends the world around them.
