Liam stands a breath taller, though pride wars subtly with disbelief in his expression. When he pulls his hand from the water, scarlet light clings to his fingertips before dispersing like embers extinguishing in the air.
Professor Locke inclines his head. “The fountain has chosen. Vespera welcomes you.”
The words are formal, ceremonial, yet the faint warmth in Locke’s tone suggests genuine approval. Liam steps back, shoulders squared despite the tremor of excitement he tries, and fails, to hide. He nods toward me, his mouth tugging in a small, reassuring smile that is far more genuine than the bravado he displayed moments ago.
When I approach the fountain in his stead, the courtyard shifts again, not louder, but deeper. The silence becomes heavier, as though a pressure builds in the air, tightening around my ribs and urging my steps forward. I feel the weight of eyes upon me, curious, expectant, and perhaps slightly wary after witnessing Liam’s strong placement.
The Reflecting Fountain has settled by the time I reach it.The ripples have vanished, the color has drained, and the water’s surface has smoothed into polished glass. My reflection stares back at me, tired, disheveled, marked by soot and the strain of our disastrous arrival, but the sight is steadier than I feel.
Locke’s voice softens, though the warning in it is faint. “When you are ready, Miss Whitlock.”
I draw a breath, hold it, then extend my hand. At the moment my fingers touch the water, the temperature shocks me, icy, as though I have plunged my hand into the heart of winter. A jolt travels up my arm, not painful, but sharp enough to drag a gasp from my lungs.
Where Liam’s placement began gradually, mine erupts with startling immediacy.
The runes ignite in full brilliance, leaping to life as though they’ve been waiting impatiently for my touch. Light rushes outward in a violent burst, several shades flickering so rapidly across the basin that they blend into a dizzying spectrum. Students gasp, stepping back instinctively, some clutching their robes as though bracing for an explosion.
Gold blazes first. Then silver. Then a deep, rolling violet. Blue surges to the surface only to be swallowed by a flood of green. The colors war with one another, none holding long enough to claim me, and the water churns with a soundless agitation.
Locke takes an involuntary step forward.
The light swells, far brighter than when Liam placed his hand into the fountain, and the intensity forces me to narrow my eyes. My hand vibrates with the power pouring up from the water, as though the fountain is reaching for something within me, something buried, something it recognizes with unsettling certainty.
All at once, the chaos collapses.
Crimson floods the water.
Not the steady, controlled crimson that claimed Liam.
This shade is deeper, richer, blazing with a vibrancy that spills over the edges of the fountain and splashes the courtyard in red-hued light. The statues around the basin cast long, warped shadows, their carved expressions appearing sharper, more alive in the glow. Some students shield their eyes; others stare as though unable to tear their gazes away.
The light does not steady, as Liam’s did.
It grows.
Expanding. Intensifying. Almost… pulsing.
My stomach twists violently, as if some invisible thread between the water and my core is being tugged, drawn tight enough to bruise. The air tastes metallic, thick with magic so potent it borders on suffocating.
And still the crimson grows brighter.
So bright it is almost white at its core.
Locke’s breath catches, a sound so faint I would have missed it if the courtyard hadn’t fallen utterly silent. His expression is no longer merely watchful; it is alert, cautious, edged with an emotion that chills me far more than the fountain’s initial touch.
Fear.
He masks it quickly, but not quickly enough.
Only after several relentless breaths does the light dim, not all at once, but slowly, reluctantly, as though the fountain itself is unwilling to release me. When the glow finally returns to a stable crimson, the color remains darker than Liam’s, its edges shimmering with residual brilliance that refuses to fade completely.
“Vespera,” Locke says quietly, his voice composed but strained around the edges. “You, too, have been claimed by the House of Power.”
But he is lying.
Not about the house, I know what the crimson signifies. He lies about thesimplicityof the decision.
Because unlike Liam’s calm selection, mine felt like something else entirely. Not a choice. Not a gentle calling.
