Alistair

The roster is a disaster waiting to happen.

I scan the list of incoming students, my fingers tapping a rhythm on the desk. It’s a ritual, this review of names and faces, a game of sorting out potential prodigies from future headaches.

Aethel University doesn’t attract mediocrity, which means the troublemakers here are always a cut above the rest—brilliant, creative, and utterly exasperating.

“Another year, another roster of egos to wrangle,” I mutter, setting the parchment down and leaning back in my chair.

Being a Praetorian Guard is a huge honor—but I won’t pretend it’s easy keeping watch over my fellow students. The same people I sit with in class, or ask for help with assignments. Some of whom have more respect for the Guard than others.

The Praetorian Guard headquarters is as cold and unyielding as its purpose—stone walls, steel fixtures, and not a single unnecessary embellishment. It suits me fine. I don’t need distractions in my job.

“Valen,” comes Edris Gale’s sharp voice. My second-in-command strides into the room, his expression pinched like he’s already predicting doom. “There’s a special assignment this term. One that requires. . . precision.”

“Precision,” I echo, arching a brow. “Is that your polite way of saying it’s a mess no one else wants to handle?”

Edris snorts, which is as close as he ever gets to laughing. “Something like that.” He tosses a file onto my desk, and I catch it before it slides off. The name on the front catches my attention.

“Elara Marowen,” I read aloud.

Edris nods, his mouth curling into what might be amusement. “Repeated magical infractions. Unauthorized transmutations. A tendency to bend the rules.”

“Bend?” I say, flipping open the file. “That’s generous. It looks more like she snapped them in half, set them on fire, and sent the ashes back as a thank-you note.”

Her record is impressive, if you measure “impressive” by the sheer volume of poor decisions. Transforming livestock, enchanting household objects, experimenting with unsanctioned spells. It’s a wonder she’s managed to keep her magic this long.

“What’s the catch?” I ask. There has to be one. Students like this don’t end up at Aethel by accident.

Edris rolls his eyes. “Her father, Gideon Marowen, is a High Magister. Pulled every string he could to get her in, under the condition that she be placed on strict probation. You’re to oversee her personally.”

I stare at him. “You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I joke?”

“No,” I admit. “You look like you write instructional manuals for fun.”

Edris doesn’t dignify that with a response.

I glance back at the file, scanning the list of her misdeeds and the accompanying reports. The details are as colorful as they are concerning.

One incident involves a rogue fountain that ended with an entire street soaked in lavender-scented water. Another describes her attempt to “improve” a town square’s holiday decorations, resulting in an army of animated snowmen terrorizing passersby.

“And what, exactly, am I supposed to do with her?” I ask, closing the file.

“Ensure she doesn’t destroy Aethel,” Edris replies simply. “Or herself.”

I rub the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache coming on. “I’m not a babysitter.”

“You’re the best we’ve got,” Edris says, and there’s no flattery in it—just fact. That doesn’t make it any less irritating.

I set the file aside and fix Edris with a look. “You’re asking me to manage someone who has no respect for rules, no concept of restraint, and a reputation for chaos. At Aethel. Where half the faculty would expel her on principle.”

Edris shrugs. “She’s talented. Enough to be worth the risk.”

“And if she’s not?”

“Then it’s your job to make that call,” he says, his tone uncompromising.

He turns to leave, but pauses at the door. “One more thing, Valen. Remember that our duty to Aethel is above everything else.”

I bite back a scowl. “I’ll keep that in mind. And while we’re at it, let’s remember who’s in charge here.”

Edris shrugs nonchalantly. “Aye, aye.”

“Different,” I mutter to myself, picking up the file again. Elara Marowen. Reckless, brilliant, and apparently immune to common sense. The kind of student who could either set Aethel on fire or become its brightest star.

I’ve spent my entire life upholding rules, building order out of chaos. People like her are my antithesis. And yet, as I study her file, I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to her than the chaos.

I look at the photo of Elara Marowen in the file, lingering on it for a fraction too long. She’s mid-laugh, her eyes bright with mischief and her hands caught in the act of an incantation. Her wild curls frame her face like a storm cloud, and there’s a confidence in her expression that’s almost magnetic.

Almost.

“She looks. . . ” I search for the right word.

“Problematic?” Edris offers.

“I was going to say ‘arrogant,’” I reply, though trouble isn’t far off.

Edris snorts. “Pretty, though, isn’t she?”

I glare at him. “Is that relevant?”

“Only if you let it be.” He shrugs, unbothered. “Just thought you’d appreciate knowing who you’re dealing with. That face has been attached to more disciplinary reports than I’ve seen in years.”

I close the folder and place it on the desk, careful not to let Edris see the flicker of annoyance—or something else I’m not quite ready to name.

“She’s a distraction,” I say, standing straight. “And distractions are dangerous.”

“Then don’t get distracted,” Edris says, his tone smug. “She’s arriving Wednesday. Expect her by midweek. Best of luck.”

He leaves the room without another word, and I’m left staring at the folder, my mind running in circles.

Elara Marowen. A rule breaker. A disruptor. A problem.

I’ve handled worse. Haven’t I?

With a little sigh, I get up. There is an early orientation event I have to oversee.

Aethel has always been a place of rules, order, and high expectations—a sanctuary for those who understand that magic is as much about discipline as it is power. For me, approaching my last year of my studies, it’s home.

The corridors of the Praetorian Guard headquarters are quiet. My steps are measured, my thoughts steady. My years at Aethel have been shaped by adherence to the Covenant and a belief that structure, not spontaneity, is the backbone of progress. That belief has earned me respect. And responsibility.

Too much responsibility, if this week is anything to go by.

I stop at the edge of the courtyard, watching the sweeping expanse of stone and spires. Aethel’s signature wards glint faintly in the late afternoon light. It’s a fortress of knowledge, a training ground for the best and brightest. The students here have worked tirelessly to earn their place.

Then there’s Elara. Nothing in her file suggests she belongs here. Aethel isn’t built for rule breakers. It’s a crucible meant to refine, not indulge.

I think of my own first day, standing in this very courtyard, wide-eyed and determined. Back then, I saw Aethel as a beacon, a chance to prove I could meet my family’s expectations. Every rule, every lecture, every sleepless night was a step toward earning my place—not just at school, but in the world.

I know Elara’s type. She bends rules until they snap, as if magic were a game instead of a responsibility. People like her have always baffled me. What’s the point of talent if you refuse to respect it?

The thought irritates me more than I care to admit. She hasn’t even arrived yet, and already she feels like a thorn in my meticulously ordered side.

“Wednesday,” Edris had said. “Expect her by midweek.”

Expect. I don’t like that word. It implies uncertainty. Aethel thrives on certainty—plans, protocols, contingencies.

Elara is none of those things.

Still, my orders are clear. Oversee her probation. Ensure she doesn’t derail the university—or herself. Make sure she understands the rules and follows them.

No excuses. No second chances.

By the time I reach the orientation pavilion, the courtyard thrums with energy—magic and nerves in equal measure. A gust of enchanted wind sweeps through, scattering shimmering motes of light that twist into fleeting shapes before fading into the crisp air.

I weave through the crowd, keeping a watchful eye out.

Overhead, the magical wards flicker, shifting between shapes like a living kaleidoscope—a constant reminder of the power and precision Aethel demands. Faculty members demonstrate small feats of magic, controlled and elegant, meant to dazzle without overwhelming.

“Stand back!” comes a sharp voice from my left.

I pivot, catching sight of a fireball streaking toward a group of students. One of the upperclassmen misjudged their demonstration—an elemental fire orb spiraling wildly off-course. The recruits scatter, their faces pale with panic.

Reacting instinctively, I raise my hand, summoning a shimmering ward of blue light. The fireball slams into it, bursting harmlessly into sparks. A few students gasp in awe, while the upperclassman responsible turns crimson.

“Quick reflexes, nephew,” comes a smooth voice from behind me.

I turn, and find my uncle and High Magister of Aethel University, Lysander Valen, standing at the edge of the scene, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression unreadable.

“Uncle,” I greet him, lowering the ward.

“A bit ambitious, don’t you think?” he says darkly, nodding toward the scene of the near-accident.

“It’s the first day,” I sigh. “They’re nervous. They’ll settle.”

His lips twitch into a faint smile. “I admire your optimism, Alistair, but nervous energy left unchecked becomes chaos. And chaos, as you know, is intolerable.”

“I’ll ensure it doesn’t escalate,” I reassure him.

Uncle Lysander hums thoughtfully, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “I have no doubt. Still, vigilance is key. This year is. . . unusual. The administration is watching closely.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate. He rarely does.

His brows knit in a discernible frown as he glares at the student who caused the uproar. The student scurries away, his eyes lowered to the ground. “The roster this term has its share of challenges. One in particular.”

“Elara Marowen,” I say, anticipating him.

He raises a brow, amused. “You’ve done your homework.”

“I’ll handle her,” I assure him.

“I trust you will.” Uncle Lysander replies briefly. “Don’t let her drag you into her chaos. Remember who you are, and more importantly, who we are.”

With that, he turns and strides away.

I scan the crowd one last time. The students here are already learning, adapting, falling into the rhythm of Aethel’s order.

Except for one, who hasn’t yet stepped foot on campus. Whatever disruption she might bring, I’ll have to be ready.