Page 34 of The Witch They Crave

My hands tighten on the chair. I come back into my body hard enough that I feel the landing.

"Professor Aamon." The center adjudicator doesn't look up. "You are the subject's designated training supervisor."

Aamon stands. "I am."

"Describe the subject's regulatory progress since enrollment."

He gives them what they want to hear. Channeling duration up from twelve seconds to sixty. Emotional spike recovery improved by forty percent. Two documented instances of self-correction during high-stress episodes. He cites session numbers, dates, metrics I didn't even know he was tracking. He makes me sound like a project that's trending upward—not a person, not a threat, just data moving in the right direction.

"In your professional assessment, Professor"—the adjudicator on the left, the cracked leather face—"is the subject capable of full emotional regulation within the original enrollment timeline?"

The room tightens.

Aamon looks at me.

Just for a second. Long enough for me to see what he's about to do.

"No," he says. "Not within the original timeline."

My stomach drops. My hands find the edges of the chair and grip.

"However," Aamon continues before the word has finished settling, "the subject's progress in the last thirty days exceeds the developmental trajectory the council projected at enrollment. With continued supervision, full regulation is achievable within an extended—"

"Thank you, Professor." The center adjudicator closes that door without letting him through it. "Dean Leyonna. You've submitted a statement."

Aamon’s jaw clenches before he sits back down.

Leyonna speaks from her chair. Doesn't stand, doesn't approach—and somehow that reads as more authoritative than a podium.

"The events of October thirty-first did not occur in a vacuum," she says. "The subject was exposed to a deliberate provocation. Her sealed file—sealed by council order—was obtained and read publicly by a fellow student. The emotional trigger was engineered."

The gallery shifts. A rustle, a collective adjustment.

I bite the inside of my cheek and listen as she continues.

"The subject's magic responds to emotional distress. This is documented. It’s the foundational premise of her training program. To expose her to a targeted emotional attack in a crowded venue and then cite the resulting cascade as evidence of unfitness is to punish the patient for the symptom while ignoring the infection." She pauses. "The incident was not a failure of the subject's regulation. It was a failure of the institution's duty to protect her. That failure belongs to us. Not to her."

The room goes quiet and my ears start ringing.

The center adjudicator's expression doesn't change. "Noted. The tribunal will weigh the Dean's statement alongside the incident report." She turns to me. "Miss Dellaby. You may address the tribunal."

I stand up. My legs aren't steady. My hands are shaking and I don't know what to do with them so I clasp them in front of me. The puncture wounds sting and I can feel the whole room watching my hands and I drop them to my sides.

I look at Emric's mother.

"I—" My throat closes. I swallow. Try again. "I knew your son."

The words come out small. Smaller than I mean them to. The courtroom is too quiet and my voice doesn't fit in it.

"He… was in my combat class. And on the second day, when nobody would partner with me, he just—" I stop. My hands are wringing against each other and I force them still. "He walked over with two staffs and handed me one. Didn't hesitate. Didn't care what anyone thought about it." I'm looking at her and she's looking at me and her face is her son's face and I'm losing the thread. "I'm sorry. I'm trying to—"

I breathe.

"I didn't know him well enough. That's the thing I keep—he was kind to me for weeks. He defended me in class. He asked me to coffee." I shake my head. My eyes are burning. "And I kept him at arm's length because I was afraid of what happens when people get close to me. Turns out I was right to be afraid. I just—I wish I'd let him in while I had the chance."

My voice cracks on the last word and I let it crack because I can't hold it together and talk about him at the same time.

"At the Revel. When I—when it happened. He stepped in front of me." I'm staring at a point on the floor now because I can't look at his mother's face anymore. "Everyone else was running and he stepped forward. Toward me. Because he was—" I press my fist against my mouth. Hold it there until I can speak again. "He was trying to help."