She lifts a hand and a strand of pale flame drifts toward her fingers. “Essence is the material you’re working with. Fire, water, shadow, bone, blood, time—whatever your principle powers and the realm allow you to touch.”
She catches the thread between forefinger and thumb. It coils there obediently, like a tamed snake.
“Emotion is the current. It motivates and nourishes. Rage, fear, love, desperation. You cannot cast or create without feeling. It is the one and only way. A numb mind is a worthless mind.”
The thread shivers brighter, flaring white.
“And intention,” she adds quietly, “Intention is the force that emanates from within that completes and creates. It is the difference between a trickle and a flood. Between a healing warmth and a killing burn.”
Her earlier words echo in my head.Magic isn’t just about power, Haide. It’s about precision.
Something sparks low in my chest, pushing against my ribs like it doesn’t know this body isn’t meant for things like that.
If magic is just another kind of knife, I can learn to use it with precision andintent.
“Open your codex,” she instructs. “Today, you will attempt todesign a spell rather than repeat one.” She flicks her fingers and dozens of glowing threads drift toward us, hovering at eye level. “Something small and harmless.” Her eyes harden. “Relatively.”
Nervous laughter trickles through the room. I don’t join. My thread is ember-red, warm even before it touches my skin. When I wrap my fingers around it, heat licks along my palm, not burning, buttasting. Like it’s testing whether I belong to it, or it belongs to me.
“Remember,” she says, voice carrying even as she begins to move through the room. “Essence. Emotion. Intention. Pick one thread. Draw on one emotion, not five. And be specific in what you mean to create. A general spell is a sloppy spell. Sloppy spells misfire.”
She glances my way again as she says it.
Around me, students close their eyes, faces smoothing as they reach for whatever feelings live in their heads. Some glow faintly, magic answering like a well-trained pet. Others frown, their threads flickering.
I stare at the thread in my hand.
Intention. I huff. I can internally snap someone’s neck but it’s not something I plan beforehand. It’s impulse.
Every move I make is pure impulse. I’m not so sure I know how to think differently. My brain was wired this way—and unless there’s some kind of witchery shit for that—then it’s probably going to stay that way.
Be careful when calling on fire,Professor Astra had warned.
I release the thread and sit back in my chair, arms crossed. Yeah, not about to go full fucking pyro in here and get accused of escalating to mass murderer. Prickly fucks.
Professor Astra strolls toward me, hands carefully laced behind her back. “Sulking, are we?”
“Nah. Practicing self-control,” I tease. “It’s a terrible feeling.”
Her lips twitch but she shows no other sign of amusement. Ithink it’s safe to say she likes me, but what’s not to like? I’m fucking fantastic.
“You think you won’t be able to control the essence.”
“I bit one of your Kings, while he sat on his throne, in a room full of royal guards because I fucking felt like it.”
“That was foolish.”
“It was.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“Why not?”
“Because I wanted to make him bleed.”
She nods, coming to stand in front of me and lowering herself so we’re at eye level, and whispers, “Intent.”
