I gasp, stepping back so quickly my heel knocks against the leg of my desk. My wand slips from my fingers and clatters onto the stone floor with a sharp, echoing crack. The room falls briefly silent again, heads turning just enough to feed my rising panic.
No. Not here. Not again.
I take another step backward, heart pounding, my breath catching hard enough to hurt. The reflection still sears behind my eyelids even after I force myself to look away from the window. I can feel that other version of myself watching, waiting, pressing against the edges of my control like a shadow cast where no light touches.
My pulse races. My hands tremble.
I need to leave before someone sees something they shouldn’t. Before someone asks a question I don’t know how to answer. Before Sebastian reads the truth in my expression. Before Professor Anwen notices the momentary flare of panic and links it to the spell I just cast.
Without waiting for permission or explanation, I step fully away from the center of the room. My feet move before my mind catches up, carrying me toward the door in a daze of fear and nausea. Someone calls my name, Poppy, or Liam, or perhaps both, but the sound dulls under the pounding of my heartbeat.
I push the classroom door open and slip into the hallway, the stone arch swallowing me in cold, echoing quiet.
For a moment, I brace both hands against the wall, forcing air back into my lungs. The faint hum of my wand lies forgotten on the floor behind me. My reflection lingers in my thoughts like a haunting before the door shuts behind me with a gentle click.
12
HARPER
The library at Vireldan is nothing like the cramped, dusty reading rooms I once imagined academies having. It is vast, cathedral-like in its silence, with vaulted ceilings that disappear into shadow and aisles of tall shelves that rise like sentinels guarding centuries of forgotten lore. It should feel comforting. Safe. A refuge from the noise of the day.
It doesn’t.
I sit alone at a table near the back windows, where the rain batters the glass in relentless sheets. The world outside is washed in grey, blurred beyond recognition. Even the ancient stone statues in the courtyard have softened under the downpour, their edges turning ghostlike in the storm’s haze. I’ve been staring at the same spot for nearly half an hour now, watching droplets chase each other down the pane, matching their descent to the rhythm of my heartbeat.
But no matter how hard I try to quiet my mind, I keep hearing him.
“Magic like yours is a curse, Harper.”
My father’s voice slithers through my thoughts, unwelcome and sharp. I grip the edge of the table until my knuckles pale. The memory is old, years old, yet it returns as vividly as if he were standing behind me now, breathing those words against my ear just to remind me what he believed I was.
A danger.
An abomination.
A threat.
My throat tightens, and I rise abruptly from my seat, unable to endure the stillness any longer. The library swallows sound so completely that my footsteps echo like intrusions. I begin to pace, weaving between rows of shelves and back toward the window, my pulse thudding unevenly beneath my ribs.
“You were born wrong.”
“Don’t touch anything without permission.”
“If anyone sees what you can do, they’ll drag you away from us.”
“Do you understand, Harper?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. The storm outside offers no comfort, only a murky reflection of my own unrest.
I turn sharply, pacing again, fingers trembling as I press them into my palms hard enough to sting. My wand, the same one that hummed like a living thing in my hand, the same one that splintered a dummy with barely a push, is missing. I left it behind when I fled the classroom. I don’t know how long I can go without someone noticing its absence.
But even that worry pales behind the echo that refuses to quiet.
“Magic like yours isn’t meant to be wielded.”
I stop pacing, forcing a breath into my lungs, but the air feels thin, as if the walls themselves have leaned inward.
And then, a voice cuts through the quiet.
