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Mira Winters was about to break her cardinal rule: Never use magic again.

With each step she took across the polished marble floors of Ivercrest University, her powers—dormant for years—came back to life. Like a beast waking from a long winter slumber, the strands of her magic stretched their limbs. It was a soft prickle on her skin, a gentle hum in her bones.

And she was terrified. Terrified her magic could wake something else. Something worse.

Dark Magic always came with a price, and although as a Caster she didn’t possess any, all these years later, she still suffered its consequences.

Instinctively, she wrapped her hand around her left arm, waiting for the familiar pain to burn her skin, but for the moment, her scar was silent. Some wounds only magic could heal, and she had exhausted all other options.

Ivercrest had opened its gates for the first time in six years, and enrollment was about to begin. The newly rebuilt reception hall bustled with prospective students admiring the impressive arches and pressed banners. The air still smelled of fresh paint, but magic construction was different, and beyond all the layers of newness lay the true bones of the school. A carcass of stone, brimming with ghosts of magic pasts.

The laughter and chatter from the crowd were not enough to cover up the noise of Mira’s wet shoes, but she ignored the stares. After all, they hadn’t just walked hours through rain, fog, and mud. While they had coin traveled themselves to Ivercrest in their best formal wear, Mira’s old leather shoes were covered in mud and her coat was soaked.

Not even sore legs and blistered feet could slow her down as she made her way toward the older woman in a black dress with a high collar, checking names off a scroll. Several students stood in line, waiting to be let into the famous Circular Hall.

Mira hadn’t come to Ivercrest with the goal of a diploma or an illustrious career. Her sole motivator was the scar currently hidden underneath her sleeve, and Ivercrest’s world-renowned White Magic Institute, with its extensive library and ingredient room, was her last hope for a normal life. Magic had brought her nothing but pain, and now she was convinced only magic could take away that pain.

She exhaled shakily and focused on the familiar parchment of the acceptance letter in her hand. Getting into the most prestigious magic university used to be her life’s goal, but that was before the war. Before the bloodshed. Before her entire world came undone.

What would her parents say if they could see her now? When she had graduated from magic base school during the war, her parents had cheered and surprised her with her favorite lemon cake from the small bakery on Amory Lane. If she focused, she could still remember the taste of the frosting.

The line shuffled forward, and with each step her heart rate increased—the letter didn’t guarantee she would become a student. Ivercrest was the only school that required a magic test to prove someone was worthy of this institution.

When it was her turn, Mira adjusted the straps of her rucksack and handed the letter of admission to the woman with the stern look and thick glasses.

“Name and specialty?” She ignored the piece of paper in Mira’s hand, so Mira stuffed it back into her coat.

“Mira Winters. White Magic. Healing.”

Healing was one of three subfaculties at Ivercrest’s White Magic Institute, next to Shielding and Research.

“Winters,” the woman repeated as she looked through the list. “There you are. Graduated Scion with honors. Top of your class.”

Mira stared at the back of the scroll. What else did it say about her? Did it know about her parents? Did it know about her scar?

“You worked as a healer during the war, and since then you—” The woman raised her eyebrows and looked at Mira disapprovingly. “Since then you have been living in Yharvan.”

It was the only region in which magic didn’t exist. Several gates away (five, to be precise), the magicless sphere was mostly inhabited by outcasts. Not students with admission letters to Ivercrest.

“That’s correct, but I have the admission letter,” Mira responded, hoping her lack of magic practice during the last few years was not going to preclude her from admission.

“So you’ve said. It is, however, not up to me, Miss Winters, if you’re going to be a student of Ivercrest. I am just checking credentials.” She waved the student behind her to move up. “Next.”

Mira walked into the room she had only ever seen pictures of, and the sheer size of the rounded atrium overwhelmed her. The dome glittered with painted star constellations, and at its center was a round window, directing light to shine right onto the center stage, where Director Lochron stood in his ceremonial robes at the podium, waiting for everyone to take a seat. Even though gray was peeking through his dark hair, he was the youngest director in Ivercrest history.

Much of Ivercrest had been destroyed during the war, but this wasn’t an average building and reconstruction took years. Ancient spells had to be repaired by expert Casters. Now the university stood mighty like it had before. Stone walls tall and imposing. Nothing about it was warm or inviting, but she supposed that was the point of it all. This wasn’t a welcome; it was a test, and this was the arena.

As a teenager, Mira had read everything that was publicly available about Ivercrest. She knew the names of the Highmages and their academic qualifications. She knew the stone circle in the middle of the hall represented energy continuation in ancient spells. If asked, she could recite the incantations written above the door she had just walked through.

She had been dreaming about this moment for years, and yet she felt nothing but dread standing in the Circular Hall. As she walked deeper inside, students around her shuffling like ants trying to find their seats, she realized this was no longer her dream. She had outlived it a long time ago. Now it felt like a shoe that didn’t quite fit. A life that wasn’t hers anymore.

She used to love magic. What a ridiculous notion. How naive she’d been. Were it not for her scar, she would have burned the admission letter and never returned to the magic sphere.

Two large banners hung from the ceiling, representing the two specialties: The White Magic Institute’s banner was gold on white and featured the symbol of Casters, the Healing Hand hovering over a star, surrounded by a laurel wreath.

But it was the black-and-silver banner that gave Mira pause. She hadn’t seen the symbol of Dark Magic Wielders since the war. A star above a half-moon sigil represented the Dark Magic Institute. The star’s eight edges looked like shards of glass, slicing through the moon.