I watch, momentarily distracted, as he pivots with elegant ease, sidesteps the dummy’s slow swing, and counters with a harmless kinetic push that sends it sprawling backward. He looks annoyingly composed for someone who once broke his arm trying to enchant a lantern.
A faint smile touches my lips.
I turn back toward my own dummy just as it barrels into me.
The collision knocks the breath from my lungs, a hard, unexpected impact that sends me stumbling several steps backward. It shouldn’t hurt this much, not with the safety runes in place, but the blow blooms sharp across my ribs, and a startled gasp tears from me before I can brace.
Laughter erupts from the cluster of Vespera students on the left side of the room, their voices rich with amusement and cruelty. I recognize some of them, boys who hover near Trevor like flies around spoiled fruit, girls who sharpen their words on softer targets. Their eyes lock onto me with a kind of hungry delight. I can almost hear what they’re thinking.
Trevor’s version of events has spread.
My humiliation has become their entertainment.
My cheeks heat, embarrassment simmering into something darker.
Before I can regain my footing, the dummy lunges again, faster this time. Shock prickles along my spine, these constructs are not supposed to hit with such force, but instinct kicks in before thought does.
Gripping my wand, I react.
The room hangs in stunned silence, the only sound the soft ticking of rune-lamps adjusting to the sudden surge of magic. Wood fragments litter the floor in a messy halo around my boots, thin curls of smoke rising from the splintered remains. My wand is still warm, too warm, in my grip, its vibration tapering off slowly like the last beat of a racing pulse.
Poppy lowers her hand from her mouth, wide-eyed, her expression caught between awe and concern. She shifts closer to me but doesn’t speak, as if she’s suddenly unsure what language would even fit this moment. Around us, the Vespera students who laughed a moment ago stop mid-smirk, several of them stepping back with uncertain scoffs that sound more like fear than amusement. Their stares presshard against my skin, searching for an explanation that I am not ready, and not able, to give.
Theo has gone nearly rigid at his desk. His usually open expression folds into something more troubled as he tilts his head, listening to the crackling remnants of magic that still buzz faintly in the air. I can sense him piecing through what he felt, what he observed, what he will absolutely not ask aloud in front of the class. Liam, too, looks shaken. He knows what a simple defensive spell should look like, what level of force should be possible, and what shouldn’t. His gaze slips from the wrecked dummy to my wand, then back to my face with a mixture of disbelief and protective dread.
But it’s Sebastian who draws my attention the most, not because he moves or speaks, but because he doesn’t. He’s still standing behind his desk, one hand braced lightly on the polished surface, the other hanging at his side, fingers curled just slightly as though he’d begun to reach for his wand and then thought better of it. His eyes track the scattered remains, then the scorch on the floor, then finally rise to meet mine.
The bruise on his cheek makes the stark pallor of his skin even more pronounced; whatever exhaustion or turmoil he walked in with is now layered with something heavier. The look he gives me is not anger, not judgment, not mockery. It is a quiet, unsettled recognition, as if he has just watched something that confirms a suspicion he wasn’t ready to have proven true.
The air between us shifts with the weight of it, a subtle tightening that coils around my ribs. I don’t know what he saw in the tavern that night or what he might have pieced together since, but the intensity of his stare now feels like a mirror turned toward a part of me I have fought my entire life to keep hidden.
Professor Anwen clears her throat sharply, the soundcracking the quiet like a whip. She steps forward, evaluating the wreckage and the lingering energy in the air with an expression I cannot read. Her eyes narrow slightly, though she says nothing at first, perhaps gauging whether what she witnessed was talent, recklessness, or something far more complicated.
My breath catches as her gaze sweeps back to me.
Everything feels precariously balanced, my standing in this class, the fragile peace I’ve kept since arriving, my secret, Liam’s trust... and what happened in that infirmary with Sebastian. I grip my wand tighter, grounding myself in the familiar weight of it as I brace for whatever comes next.
The shattered remains at my feet are the only evidence of what just happened, but the tension that settles over the room suggests that everyone here understands this was no ordinary misfire.
Professor Anwen steps forward, her robes whispering softly against the stone as she raises both hands in a calming gesture. The hum of startled whispers gradually fades beneath her even tone. “Everyone settle yourselves,” she instructs, her voice firm but not condemning. “Overreaction helps no one. The dummies are designed to absorb magical variance. This is why we practice. Focus on discipline, not spectacle.”
Her words ripple through the room like a cooling breeze, but the students’ eyes still flick toward the demolished dummies, toward me, toward the faint scorch blooming across the floor. Anwen’s gaze lingers on the broken fragments for a long, measuring moment before she continues lecturing about stability, breath work, and controlled enchantment flow. Her voice is authoritative, yet somewhere in the cadence, I sense a shift. A question she chooses not to ask. A thought she decides not to speak aloud.
Poppy subtly nudges my elbow, a silent check-in. Liamhasn’t looked away from me once, his face tight with concern. Theo’s expression has folded into something more cautious, something he doesn’t want me to notice but fails to hide. Even Sebastian, bruised and smelling faintly of ale, has remained unusually still in his seat, his gaze never fully leaving the burn mark until Professor Anwen resumes speaking.
I try to steady my breathing, to pretend the room hasn’t constricted around me, but then my attention drifts toward the window again, pulled by the same prickling awareness I felt earlier, the sensation that something is watching from beyond the glass.
Sunlight spills across the courtyard. Students move in clusters, their robes flickering like banners in the wind. Nothing stands out at first. Nothing lingers. Nothing waits.
Still… I can’t shake the feeling.
I lean closer to the window just enough for the glare to shift. The light refracts across the pane, and suddenly I’m staring not at the courtyard, not at the fountain or the lawn, but at myself.
Not as I am now.
As I was in that moment outside the tavern.
My reflection stares back with the faintest trace of color where none should be, an unnatural brightness clinging to the violet of my irises, the same afterglow I saw in that man’s terror-stricken eyes right before Sebastian tore him away from me. A shimmer that lives somewhere between memory and warning. The sight is subtle, almost imagined, but enough to send a cold rush down my spine.
