Elara

The gates of Aethel University rise like the jaws of some ancient, slumbering beast. Set high in a runic circle above the gates, the symbol of the university—a snake twisting around a sunburst, eating its own tail—seems like both a promise and a threat: Aethel might enlighten you, or it might destroy you.

Beyond the gates, the campus sprawls in gothic grandeur: spires reaching up to stab the clouds, stone walls laced with glittering wards that hum ominously, and ivy flowering from every crevice and corner in fierce green glory.

It’s as if the entire place was designed to intimidate first-years into submission before they even step foot inside.

I love it.

For a moment, I just stand there, taking it all in. The wards shimmer like liquid constellations, each symbol more intricate than the last, and I feel a little spurt of hope. Maybe this isn’t a prison sentence after all. Maybe it’s a fresh start.

Then I hear a throat clear behind me.

“Miss Marowen.”

The voice is smooth, precise, and so lacking in joy it could flatten a festival. I turn and find myself face-to-face with the most depressingly pristine person I’ve ever seen.

His uniform is immaculate, his dark hair swept back like it’s afraid to disobey him, and his icy gray eyes are appraising me like I’m a particularly unimpressive specimen of rogue magic.

“And you are?” I ask, tilting my head just enough to suggest I don’t care about the answer.

“Alistair Valen,” he says, and somehow, he manages to make his name sound like a reprimand. “Praetorian Guard.”

Ah, a rules enthusiast. Perfect.

He continues without waiting for my reply, pulling a piece of parchment from a leather-bound folder.

“I’ve been assigned to oversee your probationary period at Aethel. You will adhere strictly to the rules outlined in the Covenant. Any deviation—any at all—will result in immediate expulsion and the permanent revocation of your magical privileges.”

I blink at him.

“Wow,” I say. “I feel so welcomed already. Do I get a gift basket too, or is this lecture the whole package?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he might be capable of smiling—if only out of sheer spite.

“This isn’t a joke, Miss Marowen. Your record precedes you. Unauthorized transmutations, reckless experimentation—”

“Creative problem-solving,” I correct.

“—and a blatant disregard for authority,” he finishes, ignoring me entirely.

I cross my arms, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “Look, Alistair, I appreciate the dramatic entrance, but I already got the lecture from the mayor. Do you people rehearse this, or is it just a shared talent for condescension?”

“You’ll find that Aethel takes its rules very seriously,” he says, his tone as frigid as his eyes. “And so will you, if you intend to keep your magic.”

I open my mouth to retort, but he cuts me off.

“Your probationary conditions are non-negotiable,” he says, putting the parchment back into its folder. “You will attend all mandatory classes, submit weekly reports to the Guard, and remain within the approved bounds of your coursework. Any unsanctioned use of magic will result in immediate disciplinary action.”

“So no fun, then,” I say, deadpan.

“None whatsoever,” he replies, clearly immune to humor.

For a moment, we just stare at each other, the silence crackling with mutual irritation. There’s something maddeningly unshakable about him, like he’s spent his entire life preparing for this exact moment: standing in a courtyard, judging me.

“All clear?” he asks, arching a single, impossibly condescending brow.

I swallow a snarky comment about how I’m not fluent in the language of pretentious sighs. “Crystal.”

“Good,” he says, and turns sharply on his heel. “Follow me.”

I trail after him, my initial awe of the campus dampened by his relentless efficiency. We pass under a series of archways, each one etched with shimmering runes that pulse faintly as we walk beneath them. I can’t help but slow down, my fingers itching to reach out and trace the patterns.

“Don’t touch the wards,” Alistair says without looking back.

I roll my eyes, but let my hand fall back to my side. “Do you ever loosen up, or is this your whole personality?”

He doesn’t answer. I don’t expect him to.

As we approach Obsidian Hall, the air seems to grow heavier, tinged with the scent of old magic and stone. The building is as intimidating as its name suggests—a monolith of blackened rock and sharp angles, its towering windows glinting like shards of glass.

“Here,” Alistair says, stopping abruptly. He turns to face me, his expression as unreadable as ever. “This is where you’ll be staying. Your classes begin tomorrow. Remember: the Covenant isn’t just a set of rules—it’s the foundation of everything we do at Aethel. If you respect it, you might actually succeed here.”

“And if I don’t?” I ask, my tone light but my stomach twisting.

“Then you won’t last long enough to find out,” he says, his voice colder than the shadows pooling around Obsidian Hall.

Alistair Valen walks away with the kind of confident stride that screams I own the world, and the world has to like it. As for me, I stand there, staring after him like he’s a particularly baffling riddle, my insides inexplicably tied in a knot.

He is gorgeous. Infuriatingly, unfairly gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that would normally make me roll my eyes and mutter about how looks are wasted on people who act like stone statues carved by angry deities. But there’s something worse at play: my heart, the traitorous thing, skips.

No, I tell myself firmly. That’s not attraction. That’s. . . altitude adjustment. Or the overwhelming amount of magic in the air. Or my general disdain for people who live and breathe by rulebooks.

Alistair Valen might have a jawline that could cut glass, but he’s also the walking embodiment of everything I despise: rigidity, control, order.

And if I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that order has no place in magic.

I shake off the moment—the blip, the hiccup, the temporary lapse in judgment—and focus instead on the breathtaking sprawl of Aethel University. As Alistair disappears into the shadows of some high-arched hallway, I take my time weaving through the courtyard.

The glimmering wards sparkle above me, and the ivy-clad walls seem to hum with their own ancient song. It’s beautiful. So beautiful that for a brief moment, I let myself feel hopeful again.

Then I reach the entrance to Obsidian Hall, and my mood crashes harder than a spell gone wrong.

The name isn’t metaphorical. The lightless façade is sharp and unwelcoming, like a warning that only the brave or the foolish dare enter.

“This is home?” I mutter, pushing the door open.

The inside is no better. Dim sconces barely light the hallways, leaving long stretches of shadow in their wake. The windows are narrow slits, throwing jagged stripes of watery light onto the flagstones. Everything feels muted, suffocating, like the building itself is warning me to behave.

I take a breath, the lifeless air laced with the faint scent of burning parchment and old magic.

Two Praetorian Guards patrol the hall with an intensity that suggests they’re looking for blood—or at least someone to scold. Students pass them in near silence, their heads down, their footsteps soft.

The only sounds are the low murmur of voices and the occasional metallic click of the Guards’ boots. I bite my lip and try to quell the knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach.

This is just another obstacle, another challenge. And I’ve had worse. Like the time I accidentally set my mother’s herb garden on fire during a particularly ambitious attempt at pyromancy.

Or the time the village kids dared me to conjure a windstorm during harvest season—an experiment that ended with three toppled haystacks, one very angry goat, and my father dragging me home by the ear.

Or the time I realized that magic was the one thing I loved more than anything else, and the adults in my life seemed determined to crush that love under rules and expectations.

I glance around the hallway, noting the heavy, locked doors and the smell of damp stone. It’s not unlike the cellar back home, where I used to hide when things got too loud, too much. My parents meant well—I know that now. But back then, their endless insistence on discipline and control felt like a cage.

“Magic is power, Elara,” my father used to say, his voice stern. “And power must be wielded responsibly.”

“Magic is life,” my mother would add. “And life doesn’t tolerate carelessness.”

They were right, of course. But they were also wrong.

Magic isn’t just power or responsibility. It’s wonder and curiosity and wild, untamed beauty. It’s the spark that ignites when a spell dances perfectly through your fingertips, the rush of possibility when you whisper an incantation into the wind.

And it’s mine.

That’s what they didn’t understand—not really. Magic isn’t something I do. It’s who I am.

But here, in the shadowy confines of Obsidian Hall, it’s hard to hold on to that belief. The walls feel like they’re pressing in, reminding me of all the rules I’m bound to follow if I want to keep my magic. Rules that feel less like guidelines and more like shackles.

I clutch my satchel tighter and make my way to my assigned dormitory. The door creaks ominously as I push it open, revealing a small, sparsely furnished room. A single window lets in just enough light to illuminate the gray walls and the bare desk in the corner.

Not exactly inspiring, but I’ve dealt with worse. I drop my bag onto the bed and flop down beside it, staring up at the ceiling.

“This is fine,” I tell myself. “This is totally fine.”

The words feel hollow, but I say them again anyway. Because no matter how suffocating this place feels, no matter how much Alistair Valen and his Covenantal lectures make me want to scream, I can’t afford to fail. Not here. Not now.

I sit up and glance at the faint glow of the wards outside my window. Aethel might be a maze of rules and expectations, but it’s also a treasure trove of resources, of magic, of knowledge.

And no one—not Alistair, not the mayor, not the suffocating walls of Obsidian Hall—will stop me from exploring every inch of it.