A commotion near the academic wing entrance pulled my attention toward the raised voices and the clatter of footsteps. Scout chittered anxiously on my shoulder.
My grip tightened on my notes. The smell of magic in the air had me moving before I consciously made the decision.
Two students—both upperclassmen—were shoving each other. Magic crackled between them, seconds from escalating into an actual fight.
Enough, I said, stepping between them.
They both turned on me, their anger redirecting.
This doesn’t concern you, one snarled. Fire magic sparked at his fingertips.
If Cyrus were here, this would be over. One look from the first heir, one surge of controlled flame, and the threat would evaporate.
But Cyrus wasn’t here.
I was.
It concerns me, I said, keeping my voice level, when students fight on campus during security protocols. Stand down.
Or what? The other student stepped closer, his magic crackling. You’ll run to the interim council? Tell them we’re not following the rules the heirs decided to make?
The crowd was watching, waiting to see if I’d fold.
I felt my necromancy stir, the dead things in the ground responding to my tension. Not a threat. Just… presence. Keane had suggested the same technique last week when I’d asked how to enforce authority without Cyrus’s fire or Elio’s illusions.
It reminded me that death magic ran through this campus, and I could feel every piece of it.
Or, I said quietly, I’ll enforce the movement restrictions with magical containment instead of cooperation. Your choice.
The student’s eyes widened slightly. He’d felt it too—the shift in ambient magic. The way the air had gotten colder.
Neither aggression nor a display of power. Just… true.
Using death magic to intimidate still felt wrong, but it worked.
Fine. He stepped back, his magic dampening. Whatever.
They both left, the crowd dispersing with murmurs. No fight. No drama. Just de-escalation that took three times longer than it should have because I had to negotiate authority I technically had but hadn’t earned the respect to wield easily.
Keane appeared beside me, Wisp at his heels. His shoulder brushed mine, grounding me.
I should probably file a report about the magical threat, I said quietly. Brandishing fire at an heir during an argument.
Keane’s hand skimmed my lower back, a silent signal to step away. I didn’t want to move, but I let him steer me clear.
Already documented, Keane said. Captain Morrison will follow up. There are consequences for threatening heirs, even during confrontations.
That should have felt like vindication. Instead, it just felt like another reminder that my authority came from bloodline and interim council backing, not from anything I’d proven to the students watching.
That would have been faster if Cyrus were here, I said. He would’ve had the entire courtyard frozen in respect—and maybe a little fear—before the first spell sparked.
Yes, Keane agreed. No point denying it. But you handled it. That’s what matters.
Maybe. But handling it and handling it well were different things.
And the gap between them felt wider every day.
THAT NIGHT, MY PHONE RANG.
