Elara

I’ve faced angry mobs of sentient broomsticks, an outraged butcher, and now a glowing letter of doom, but none of that compares to the crushing silence of the mayor’s office as I sit waiting for judgment.

Three days. That’s how long it’s been since the letter landed on our doorstep, sealing my fate in crimson ink. Three days to scheme, to wriggle my way out of this disaster, and yet, sitting here again in this stifling office, my mind is blank.

This isn’t just about me anymore—not with my parents flanking me, their expressions sharp enough to carve marble. No amount of charm or quick thinking will save me from what’s coming next.

I shift in my chair, acutely aware of every creak it makes in the cavernous room. The mayor’s office is as grandiose and overbearing as the man himself, all dark wood and brass fixtures, with a massive window overlooking the harbor.

The albatross’s perch sits conspicuously empty in the corner. My stomach tightens at the sight.

The mayor, seated behind a desk large enough to double as a banquet table, regards us with the smug detachment of a man who knows he’s already won. He steeples his fingers, his rings catching the light.

“Miss Marowen,” he begins, his voice heavy with the kind of authority people practice while pacing in their dressing gowns. “I’m at a loss.”

I glance at my father, whose stony profile offers no comfort. “Me too,” I mumble, mostly to myself.

The mayor raises a brow. “Excuse me?”

“She’s apologizing,” my mother interjects smoothly, her tone clipped and polished. I try to suppress a wince. That’s Marowen code for say nothing more unless you want to make this worse.

The mayor exhales, as if even sitting across from me is taxing. “You are undeniably talented, Miss Marowen. That much cannot be disputed. But talent without discipline is a fire without a hearth—dangerous, uncontrollable, and liable to burn everything in its path.”

“Not everything,” I mutter. “Just a few things.”

My father clears his throat sharply, and I snap my mouth shut.

“This isn’t the first time we’ve had this discussion,” the mayor continues, ignoring me entirely. “Your disregard for rules, your reckless use of magic—it’s a pattern, not an accident.”

“I prefer to think of it as creative problem-solving,” I say before I can stop myself.

My mother sighs. My father’s glare could melt lead.

The mayor leans forward, his expression cold and unmoved. “Creative problem-solving,” he repeats, each syllable dripping with disdain. “Is that what you call turning my prized albatross into a snarling badger?”

I open my mouth to answer, but my father speaks first. “Mayor Corvin,” he says, his voice steady and commanding, “we’re not here to argue about what happened. We’re here to find a solution.”

The mayor shifts his gaze to my father, clearly weighing his words. “A solution,” he echoes. “The solution is simple: expulsion. Remove her magic. End the problem at its source.”

The words hang in the air like a guillotine. For a moment, I forget to breathe.

“With respect, Mayor,” my father says, his tone cool but firm, “that would be a waste. Elara’s magic, undisciplined as it may seem, is exceptional. What she lacks is structure. Guidance. And I believe Aethel University can provide both.”

Aethel. The name drops like a stone into the room, and even the mayor seems momentarily caught off guard.

“Aethel?” the mayor says slowly, as though tasting the word. “You think sending her to the most prestigious, most exclusive magical academy in Veridara is the answer?”

“It’s not just a school,” my father replies. “It’s a proving ground. Aethel demands excellence and obedience in equal measure. If Elara can thrive there, it will not only correct her course but restore confidence in her abilities—and in this family.”

My mother nods, her face a perfect mask of calm. “She has the potential. She just needs the right environment to realize it.”

The mayor taps his fingers against the desk, the sharp click of each ringed knuckle landing like a gavel in my ears. His gaze, hard and unrelenting, settles on me with the weight of a thousand unspoken judgments.

“Miss Marowen,” he begins, “let us review, shall we? In the past six months alone, you’ve conjured a fountain into a geyser, enchanted half a marketplace with dancing produce, and—most recently—turned my prized albatross into a creature more suited to a den than a garden.”

“A very vocal creature,” I mutter, earning a glare from both my parents.

The mayor’s lip twitches, but not in amusement. “This is your final chance. If you perform even one unauthorized spell at Aethel—if you so much as light a candle improperly—you will be stripped of your magic. Permanently. There will be no negotiation. No appeals.”

My stomach lurches, but I keep my chin up. “Understood.”

He leans forward, his voice dropping to a low, deliberate cadence. “Aethel University is not Raven’s Hollow, Miss Marowen. It is a place of order, of expectations, and of absolute adherence to the Covenant. Your magic is not a plaything, and Aethel will not tolerate students who treat it as such.”

I should nod and keep my mouth shut. That’s what a sensible person would do. But I’m not sensible. I never have been.

“Is obedience the same thing as growth?” I ask, tilting my head with a touch of defiance I can’t quite suppress.

My mother exhales, and my father stiffens beside me. But the mayor doesn’t flinch. If anything, my question only hardens his resolve.

“Obedience,” he says coolly, “is the foundation upon which growth is built. You’ll either learn that at Aethel—or you’ll learn to live without magic. The choice, Miss Marowen, is yours.”

The words slam into me, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder if he’s right. But the thought is drowned out by a sharper one: the bitterness of bending to someone else’s rules.

The mayor picks up his pen, signing the parchment that will finalize my enrollment. He straightens it with deliberate precision, then sets it aside. “You will begin within the month under strict probationary conditions. Your father has assured me that you’ll rise to the occasion. For your sake—and his—I hope he’s right.”

I swallow hard, a mix of emotions churning in my chest as he waves us toward the door.

***

Outside, the afternoon air sits heavy, like the weight of the mayor’s words is still pressing down on me. My father, ever the paragon of restraint, doesn’t look at me as we walk toward the carriage waiting at the curb.

“This is a second chance,” he says finally, his voice low but firm. “It’s more than you deserve, Elara, and less than you’ll need if you keep treating magic like a toy. Aethel will demand self-discipline. Obedience. Qualities I’m not sure you’re capable of—but I hope to be proven wrong.”

His words burrow under my skin, though I’d never admit it aloud. “I’ll manage,” I say, my tone flippant despite the knot in my stomach.

He stops abruptly, turning to face me. “This isn’t about managing,” he snaps. “This is about learning. About proving you can do more than make a spectacle of yourself every time the mood strikes. This family’s name, your future, your magic—all of it is on the line, Elara.”

My mother steps in then, placing a hand on his arm. “Gideon,” she says softly. Her eyes meet mine, not angry but weary. “You have so much potential, Elara. Don’t let it go to waste.”

Potential. The word tastes bitter on my tongue, like something I’ve heard too many times before. Everyone has an opinion about what I should do with my magic—everyone except me.

I climb into the carriage without a word, staring out the window as the wheels creak into motion. The official letter of enrollment is clutched tightly in my hand, the parchment warm and alive with the faint hum of magic. The seal at the bottom glows an authoritative gold, as if daring me to defy it.

My father’s expression is unreadable, a mask carved from stone. My mother offers a small, encouraging nod, but even that feels heavy with expectation.

I don’t look at them again.

The late afternoon breeze bites at my cheeks as I step onto the cobblestone street, the letter crinkling under the pressure of my grip.

I know what Aethel embodies. Rules, structure, and obedience—it’s everything I hate, wrapped in a pristine bow of elite magical education.

My boots scrape against the cobblestones as I walk, each step louder in the quiet stretch of Raven’s Hollow’s central square. Dread twists in my gut, curling tighter with every passing second.

I want to scream. I want to crumple this letter, tear it apart, and let the pieces scatter in the wind. But I can’t. Not with the threat of losing my magic hanging over me like a guillotine.

For once, there’s no clever plan, no bold retort to carry me through. Just this—me, the golden seal burning in my hand, and the realization that the next chapter of my life isn’t mine to write.

But then, beneath the dread, something flickers—a tiny spark. Not hope, exactly. Defiance, maybe. A reminder that if I’m going to Aethel, I’ll go on my terms. They can keep their rules and expectations, but they won’t keep me in a box.

I glance down at the letter, smoothing the edges where my grip has creased it. My voice is barely a whisper, but it feels like a vow.

“Just one chance,” I murmur. “I’ll make it work.”