So, taking a deep breath, I press my right palm—the one branded with my first-year Kindling sigil—against the iron andpushas much heat into the door as possible.
The magic pulses against my senses like a heartbeat. It’s old, powerful, and layered with centuries of protective enchantments that read like geological strata in my heat detection. The outermost layer burns hot and aggressive, designed to repel. Beneath it, cooler threads of containment magic weave together in patterns so intricate my brain aches trying to trace them. And at the center, an ancient power thrums with a warmth that predates the academy itself.
For a moment, the ward-web flexes, like it’s considering my request.
Yes. There. Just a little more?—
The iron turns cold enough that I have to yank my palm away or risk frostbite bad enough that it might result in a lost finger. Only the strongest witches have magic powerful enough to regrow limbs, and while I might now fit into that category thanks to the Crown’s amplification, it’s not an experiment I’ll be conducting anytime soon.
Suddenly, a heat signature moves in my peripheral awareness.
Cordelia’s rising from her desk and coming this way.
I pivot to the nearest bookshelf and yank a book at random as she rounds the corner.
“Finding everything you need?” She smiles, but her eyes are sharp.
I glance at the book in my hands.Culinary Applications of Fire Magic: A Comprehensive Guide to Temperature-Controlled Cooking.
“Yes! Absolutely.” I smile and hold up the book like evidence. “I was just looking for additional reading on thermal applications. For cooking. Professor Rousseau mentioned something about heat signatures in food preparation, and there’s a fascinating correlation between magical temperature control and the Maillard reaction, which is the chemical process that?—”
Stop talking. Stop talking right now.
“—creates the browning effect on seared meats, although I suppose that’s more chemistry than magic, but the intersection of the two fields is really quite?—”
Cordelia holds up a hand. “Evelyn.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
“You were researching oceanic geography.” She glances at the stacks of maritime texts on my study table. “Now you’re in the culinary section.”
I shrug and attempt another smile, smaller this time. “I have multitudes of interests?”
Her expression suggests she’s never heard a worse excuse in her decades of existence.
“I just needed a mental break from all the ocean research,” I try again. “When I’m stuck on a problem, looking at something unrelated helps my brain reset. And cooking is very unrelated to oceans. Unless you’re cooking fish, I suppose. Although I’ve never liked fish, so I’m not skilled at cooking it.”
“Perhaps you should return to your dormitory and get some rest,” Cordelia says with the patience of someone who’s dealt with generations of rambling students. “You’ve been here for quite some time, and exhaustion can lead to unfocused thinking.”
“You’re probably right.” I shove the cookbook back onto the shelf. “I’ve been pushing myself too hard. With the studying. For classes.”
Please, floor, open up and swallow me whole.
Cordelia just stares at me.
“I’ll get my things.” I gesture at my table and hurry to it before Cordelia can further question me.
Once there, I slump into my chair and press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
Option Two: Find a faculty member who will help without asking too many questions.
Answer: Kieran Cross.
It’s been exactly one week since I woke up in his bed and he shattered my understanding of this academy with truths about permanent amplification and a witch who can compel other witches. A week of carrying secrets this island is built on, waiting for him to keep his promise to help me find out what happened to Oliver.
In that week, we’ve barely exchanged two words outside of class, and class doesn’t count, since it’s a professional context with other students present.
In the dining hall, his gaze slides past me. During Applied Flamecraft, he treats me the same as every other first-year—barking orders, correcting form, and making cutting remarks about our collective incompetence.
