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All that death. And now the two banners hung side by side once more as if none of it had happened. A show of harmony to cover up the spilled blood.

Solemnly, students made their way up to the seats. Casters on the right. Wielders on the left. It was impolite, but Mira couldn’t help but stare at the black ink on the top of their right hands. Every Wielder bore the Shadowflame, but the magic brand looked different on each person. On some it appeared like a dark cloud, changing shape before a storm. On others it resembled black flames, flickering with menace.

Mira clasped her hands together, thankful Casters didn’t require any type of branding. White Magic was a lighter form of magic, in harmony with nature. It could be used only to protect, defend, or heal. But Dark Magic was only destructive. With nothing but a flick of their wrist, Wielders could inflict horrific injuries, maim, and kill.

Wooden benches groaned under the weight of the future magic elite, and she wondered what side the Wielder students had been on during the war. Had they fought alongside Casters—or killed them?

Behind her someone yelled her name, and when she turned around, she spotted the familiar face of her best friend in the sea of students more qualified than her. The crowd dispersed to make room for the brunette Caster with a bright blue overcoat barreling toward Mira.

“There you are!” Ella fell into her arms. Her friend’s hair still smelled of the same honeysuckle soap she had loved when they were kids. For the first time since entering Ivercrest, Mira could breathe. “How was your journey?”

“Fine,” Mira said, not wanting to discuss the hours she’d walked while others had coin traveled.

Ella said something about new beginnings and Mira desperately wanted to believe her, but she wasn’t even sure she would pass the entry test. All of these people around her had been actively using magic since the war. They had been practicing and honing their skills, while she had abandoned magic altogether. Ivercrest was going to smell it on her. She was never going to get rid of the scar. Of the nightmares. She would never get her old life back.

“You’ll see,” Ella assured her. “Things are about to turn around.”

Not being near her best friend had been Mira’s only regret about living in Yharvan.

“Can you believe it?” Ella asked, looking around the lecture hall in awe. “We started with simple protection spells, and now we’re here.”

They had met in magic base school in Edinas, a lower sphere. Back when magic was exciting.

“We should go to our seats,” Mira added. “The ceremony is about to begin.”

As they walked up the steps to the rows of seats, Mira had an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. This was it. Her future would be decided in mere minutes. When they sat down, she spotted Highmage Tinley of White Magic behind the director. The gray curls carelessly pulled into a bun and crooked glasses didn’t make her look it, but Tinley was a legend in her field. She had invented some of the most important potions and healing spells in the world.

Director Lochron lifted his hands, and everyone fell quiet. Finally, it was happening. Mira’s one chance at a normal life. Now or never.

“Good afternoon, prospective students.” Lochron’s sleeves were striped silver and gold to represent both specialties. “You’re about to take part in a ceremony dating back 738 years.” His voice was as tense as his posture. “Ivercrest is a beacon of magic. We pride ourselves in educating the future generations of Casters and Wielders and instilling them with the knowledge of thousands who have come before them. This year is not like any other. For the first time in its history, Ivercrest had to close its gates—during and after the war.”

Mira’s hand went to her left arm, feeling for the sting of her scar. The pain from it had never fully stopped. Not even in Yharvan. But now, surrounded by magic, she was worried it might only get worse.

“A war that separated us,” the director continued.

Her scar burned.

“A war that divided us.”

Mira bit her teeth together and dug her nails into her arm, attempting to distract herself with another pain.

“You are the first class to be welcomed back in these prestigious halls, and with that comes a responsibility you all bear. It is you who are going to shape our future and set an example so Casters and Wielders can once again live in harmony together.”

Applause rippled through the crowd, and Mira focused on what it would feel like to have access to the vast library and medical supplies of the healing wing. Once her scar was removed, she would return to Yharvan and leave magic behind for good. Free of magic. Free of pain.

“Let me introduce my esteemed colleagues. Highmage Tinley from the White Magic Institute.” Tinley smiled and waved at the crowd. The gold sleeves of her white robe glittered in the light. “And representing the Dark Magic Institute: Highmage Obryn.”

The gray-haired Highmage in the black robe with sleeves that appeared to be made of liquid silver didn’t move. He didn’t even produce the faintest smile. With a large scar across his left eye, he remained stoic, appearing to judge anyone who dared to look in his direction.

“It is an honor to stand in this great hall,” the director continued. “But your acceptance letter does not guarantee you a spot. We will separate into two groups, and you will present your magic. Your Highmage will decide if you’re worthy of Ivercrest. I wish you all good luck.”

Highmage Tinley stood on the left, Obryn on the right. They lifted their arms, and a row of candles on the ground lit up. Mira held her breath as the two Highmages recited an ancient incantation.

With a gust of wind, the candles on the right blew out and every Wielder student and Highmage Obryn disappeared from view. A gasp went through the crowd. Mira had read about this process and knew the Wielders hadn’t actually evaporated. But it was one thing to read about something and quite another to see it firsthand. Ivercrest wasn’t a regular building. Old magic construction meant there were two different realities of the school: one for each specialty, with no way to the other. The only common areas were the dining hall, the main library, the Circular Hall, and the courtyard.

The Wielder students were now in a different dimension of Ivercrest, where every Caster student had seemingly vanished.

Highmage Tinley called the first name, and a student with curly hair stood up and walked to the front. This was somewhat of a formality. Ivercrest hadn’t rejected anyone in decades, but it was always a possibility, especially since the school had just been reconstructed.