Basics of Earth Incantingis next, taking place outside in the dirt. Professor Thornton at least came up with a creative way to evaluate our skills—we’re to recreate all the earth-based focals we know, using the incantation itself to do so: ones that grow flowers should be made of flowers, ones that create stone, made of stone. The most difficult by far is the one that cleaves the ground in two; making a circle out of jagged cracks proves to be quite arduous.
By the end of the period, Reid has seventeen intricate circles of various natural materials while I have nineteen. He doesn’t wait for me to walk to the dining hall with him.
One more person irritated by my ability.Not in the mood to risk making things worse, I skip lunch, heading to the library to get started on Dewey’s corrections.
* * *
The next day’s back to fire and water incanting classes in the morning. As expected, Beckwith has prepared another set of conditioning exercises for us to do in the same small classroom, just the two of us. But this time, he warns he’ll return shortly to go over “forms” with us. On the one hand, it’s a relief to know we won’t be spending an entire bell destroying ourselves again, but it also means we can’t strip down to our small clothes this time. I make a mental note to check if there’s any special uniforms better suited for this kind of training.
“You’re not still upset with me, are you?” I ask, drumming up the courage after Beckwith leaves.
“Huh?” Reid pauses in the middle of stretching his arm across his chest. “What are you talking about?”
“Yesterday, after earth incanting. You left without speaking to me.”
His brow furrows. “Oh. No, I was mad at myself. Messed up my circle of vines. If I hadn’t, I probably would’ve gotten one more than you.”
Relief washes over me. “Doubtful. I was two ahead, remember?” And just like that, my nerves go taut again.I shouldn’t have rubbed it in. I should’ve said something encouraging, something—
“Yeah, but you went the easy route. It’s quicker to fix mistakes made of grass and flowers.” A smirk flashes across his face as he lowers himself to the floor, preparing for sit-ups.
A warm glow blooms within—my retort didn’t make things worse—but my solace is short-lived. Reid and I are a sweat-drenched mess when Beckwith returns, handing each of us a wooden practice sword.
“The sword is the perfect tool to develop and focus an incanter’s skill with fire, especially for those who can incant as quickly as the two of you.” Unlike us, Beckwith wields a gleaming saber—the standard weapon for the Order, outside of incanting. “It requires precise control of your mind and body, but you’ll find the results to be devastating on the battlefield.”
To illustrate his point, he ignites the blade without a word, flames surging from hilt to tip in half a heartbeat. Pointing the weapon away from us, he demonstrates a forward thrust that sends the blaze rushing off the tip into a fireball that shoots another two feet before dissipating. The saber instantly reignites with a horizontal swing that leaves flames burning the air behind it.
My jaw drops. It never occurred to me to use incanting this way, always imagining it better suited for ranged combat. The idea of fighting in close quarters makes swallowing difficult.
“Obviously, you won’t be attempting any of this with those wooden swords. You’ll begin by practicing proper form and basic footwork, and I’ll return at the end of the lesson to review your progress.”
Professor Beckwith shows us the basic stance: his back foot pointed to the side and his front foot forward, with a slight bend in his knees. We imitate him, and to my relief, he makes corrections to both of us.
“Remember—perfecting your form can mean the difference between life and death.”
With those foreboding words as our motivation, we spend the rest of the period taking small steps forward and backward across the room while trying to maintain the proper stance, with the occasional forward lunge to break the monotony of it. The wooden sword grows heavy within minutes, and by the end, I can barely hold my arm up. Luckily, Beckwith returns earlier than expected and is satisfied with our demonstration, so there’s time to take a quick soak in my dorm before my next lesson.
Beckwith’s the only professor who doesn’t overload us with assignments, but at least it’s not limited to Reid and me. Alexis often joins us, drawing focals and memorizing incantations late into the night, barely finishing everything before exhaustion overtakes us.
After several days of barely leaving Reid’s company except for sleep, I’m in dire need of some alone time. Following aBasics of Strategylesson focused on fae curses—a subject not worth worrying about during the heat of battle but can be incredibly dangerous during prolonged encounters—I decline his invitation to get a head start on our assignment in the library. Instead, I relax into one of the large, cushy armchairs scattered about the Tactical Wing’s antechamber and pull out my sketchbook. Like most of the Academy, the ashen space is sparsely decorated, relying mostly on the purple upholstery with floral motifs to give it any semblance of life. A gray carpet muffles the sound of footsteps as it leads up the wide staircase to the classrooms above.
Two girls sit on the far side of the room, speaking animatedly to one another. I sketch several quick gestures of them, hoping to capture their mirth as they gossip about our fellow students.
I’ve barely found time to draw since arriving here, and my stress rinses away with each stroke of charcoal along the page. A few weeks into term, and life’s settled into a routine not much different from home. I haven’t spoken to Sophie since our squabble, and while I’m getting along with Alexis well enough, the connections I’ve longed for still feel out of reach. Despite spending all my time with Reid, I simply don’t have the same rapport with him that Alexis does. Incanting seems to be all I have going for me, which means I’ll be spending my life praying the wars have truly ended so I never have to fight for real.
“Ellie?”
“Hmm?” I’m so intent on getting this nose right that I don’t look up until a hand lands on my shoulder, fingers tracing back and forth along its dips and curves.
Heat blooms through my chest as my heart quickens. It’s him.
“Caeo.” A smile lights up his face as he squeezes into my seat. It’s a large chair, but still meant for one, so we’re blissfully cramped together. Butterflies dance in the warmth where his body presses against mine.
He tucks his arm around me. “It’s been a while.”
It has, hasn’t it?Between my roommate drama, heavy workload, and Beckwith-induced exhaustion, I’ve hardly had a moment to think of him. Realizing how long it’s been, my nerves spike with worry that his feelings have changed.
“You didn’t find me,” I say.
