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“Go on,” he challenged. “Prove me wrong.”

Mira couldn’t even do that. He had pegged her correctly because of her wet shoes. A dumb mistake on her part. She should have changed into a different pair or used a drying spell.

“If I play your stupid game, regardless of the outcome, I get the direweed?”

He nodded. “Ready?”

“Ready,” she confirmed.

She might not have grown up in a high sphere like he surely had, but at her magic base school, she was the undefeated Fireshield champion. No Wielder was able to get past her reflexes.

The Wielder would shoot fire at the shot glasses. She was supposed to shield against each. If she failed, she had to drink. If she succeeded, he had to.

His eyes were locked on her and gave no indication of his intended target. His right hand sat unmoving on the bar counter. Mira waited for one of the typical telltale signs before a Wielder cast a spell. A slight twitch of their fingers or a flicker of their Shadowflame. But not even his tendons moved when the second whiskey shot lit on fire.

She tried to look unimpressed, but by his widening smirk it was obvious she had failed. The blue flame in the glass danced higher and higher.

Fucking show-off.

Before he could revel in his masterful talent any longer, she downed the shot. The flame extinguished as it hit her mouth, but she swore she could feel the cool sting of his Dark Magic on her tongue.

The second she set down the glass, triggering the next round, flames appeared in one of the shots on the left.

“Drink up,” he said with wicked satisfaction.

She couldn’t help but grimace as the liquor burned in her throat. The list of her current grievances was long, but on top was the fact that even if she wanted to use magic, she wouldn’t be able to best him. It made her blood boil. On her hand, buried deep in her pocket, she felt her Shadowflame dance across her skin.

The purple lights around them vanished in his colorless eyes. His pupils were the blackest black she had ever seen and then she noticed them dilate just a smidge. She immediately took hold of the strand of White Magic in her mind, reached out her left hand, and just as she pulled on the strand to cast a shielding spell, she caught herself. He almost made her use magic.

A deep chuckle reverberated through his chest. “Reluctance,” he proclaimed, bathing in his victory. “I was right.”

The experiment was over. With an obvious twitch of his fingers, flames lit up the remaining shots. Without hesitation, she drank shot after shot, wanting to get away from him as fast as possible. When she reached for the last glass, he took it from her, his fingers brushing hers.

He downed the drink, and she watched the liquid travel down his long throat. Even that felt like a threat. “You don’t seem like someone who can handle their liquor.”

She held open her left hand, awaiting her prize. He pulled the vial of direweed from his breast pocket and, with an overexaggerated swirl of his hand, presented it to her. When she tried to take it, he didn’t let go and leaned in closer.

“Good luck not using magic at Ivercrest.” His cold breath hit her neck.

She yanked the vial out of his fingers, and the last thing she saw before she disappeared in the crowd was that stupid smirk on his face.

4

Mira stared at her own reflection when she got dressed, leaving the Dark Magic pin for last. It was a requirement to wear while attending classes. Another outdated rule. She removed the center spire of the pin and threaded the sharp silver through the fabric of her waistcoat.

She winced in pain as the sharp metal sank into her flesh. She dropped the pin and stared at her finger where blood bloomed. A dark red. Droplets fell to the ground, covering the pristine silver of the pin. Her blood wasn’t red…but black. The liquid moved on its own. Synth. Impossible.

She jumped back, but it was too late. The liquid leapt at her, grabbing her arm.

“No, no, no,” she rasped, trying to roll up the sleeve—the cuff was too tight.

It couldn’t be back. The black liquid that had killed her parents and maimed her. There had to be an explanation. And then her scar burned. She unbuttoned her shirt frantically as the pain sunk deeper into her left arm with old familiarity.

Gasping for air, she removed the shirt and stared at her skin. Her scar oozed black liquid, seeping like lava.

With a scream, she woke up. Covered in sweat, she looked around her dark room. Nothing appeared out of place. She moved her blanket and exhaled when she saw her scar was unchanged. White and raised. Long healed, or so it appeared on the surface. Around it were new scratch marks from her clawing at her sleeve.

Usually, she was able to tell when she was in a nightmare because it was always the same one. Her walking into her parents’ clinic, the smell of death already in the air—and that of Dark Magic. Black liquid everywhere.