I shake it off. It’s probably indigestion.
Definitely not magic bond warning vibes or whatever.
Still might do it.
I roll my neck and slouch back in the chair, spinning my paper dagger between my fingers while Professor Bronze-Throat drones on about “precision of will” and “foundation of magical control.” Whatever.
I’ve never seen anyone able to control their magic. I mean, that’s why they drain you of nearly all of it when they send you to the island.
The man’s voice drags on. I’m almost asleep when a ripple passes through the room, the kind that prickles at your skin and makes your bones remember you’re not in charge here. A shimmer runs along the walls, pooling in the seams between the black stone tiles. Before I can even blink, everyone’s clothes dissolve into shadow.
My shredded skirt, my cropped jacket, my carefully tied bandolier, all melt away in a sweep of cool darkness, reforming into a fitted, long-sleeved tunic of black so deep it drinks the light. Pants, loose enough to move in, tuck into high, armored boots. The faint glint of silver winds across my forearms in curling runes I don’t recognize, and a belt hangs heavy at my hips, its clasp a snarling wolf’s head.
Now this? This I can work with.
The room itself shifted into a circular chamber. Unless we were transported somewhere all together.
Every tier of desks and benches rises like a coliseum, enclosing a broad open floor of obsidian in the center. Runes, faint and dormant for now, are etched in precise circles across the surface. The ceiling arches high above us, lost in a gloom that makes itimpossible to tell where stone ends and sky begins. The space is brightened by light sources that float along the walls like trapped fireflies, steady and silent.
It’s the perfect time to assess the competition while everyone adjusts to their new surroundings. Frankly, they’re unimpressive. A boy whose skin is an unusual gray color, nearly the exact color of rocks. Long, shimmering green hair then draws my attention to the girl next to me. Tiny sparks pop off her braid every few seconds.
I do a double-take when I catch the silver-haired girl from earlier locked on to me with such focus it’s like she’s waiting to see if I’ll combust.
Guess she’s checking out the competition, too.
I smirk at the thought, because if this outfit change tells me anything, it’s that I’m about to get to use my hands.
Professor Asshole is long gone. In his place stands a beast with bright eyes and green scales along his temple. A shifter for sure, but what kind?
He lifts his chin, attention shifting across the room as he takes slow steps toward us.
“Welcome to Mastery of Warcraft. My name is Orrith, but you will call me professor,” he announces, voice booming throughout the room. “This class will test and refine your mind, your command of magic, and your ability to act with precision under pressure.”
“Here, you will learn to blend weapon craft with your inherent gifts. To anticipate and counter not just a strike, but an opponent’s strategy. We study the battle arts of all magic, from the disciplined forms of the Stygian guard to the elemental fury of the Argent war mages. You will be broken down to your most basic abilities and rebuilt into warriors capable of defending your name, your realm, and your life. This is not sport. This is survival.”
Oh, hell yes.
“We’ll begin with basic warm-ups.” He steps back and the floor opens up, lofting him into the air on a dais. He moves in a circular motion above us, having the perfect viewpoint to keep an eye on us all. “Foundational work. If you can’t manage these with ease, you will find the rest of your training…difficult. And do not forget for a moment that today is assessment day. So don’t slack off. It will only hurt you in the end.”
He lifts his hand and a rack of throwing daggers appears at the center of the circle. Each one gleams with its own faint aura: storm blue, molten gold, or rich violet. “Summoning,” he says simply.
One by one, the students take turns. Rock Boy doesn’t move a muscle—just narrows his eyes, and a dagger launches from the rack straight into his palm. Spark-Hair flicks her braid and a blade spirals toward her in a neat corkscrew. A dragon-blood girl with bronze scales along her cheekbone exhales a thin ribbon of smoke, and a dagger drifts to her hand like it’s afraid to keep her waiting.
Then it’s my turn.
I lift my chin at the rack, trying to imagine the dagger flying to me.
Nothing happens.
I lean forward a little, glaring at it harder. Still nothing.
“Focus, Miss Haide,” the professor says in that tone adults use right before they decide you’re hopeless.
“Oh, I’m focusing,” I say. “Maybe it’s shy.”
A ripple of laughter runs through the room. Someone coughs “giftless” into their sleeve.
I lean back in my chair, folding my arms. “Next.”
