Elara

I may end up being late for my very first class. Not a good look, even for me.

Navigating the corridors of Obsidian Hall is like trying to solve a labyrinth designed by someone who really hates people. Every hallway looks the same—gray stone, dim sconces, and the occasional looming portrait of a mage from centuries ago whose face radiates disapproval.

Armed with a map that’s more confusing than helpful, I dart past clusters of students, scanning for the lecture hall. My boots click against the floor, the sound unnervingly loud in the echoing silence.

Left. No, right. Wait, was that the same staircase I passed earlier? I groan, muttering under my breath.

“Who thought this was a good layout? A sadist, that’s who.”

Just as the possibility of being late—and by extension, giving Alistair Valen more ammunition—becomes a very real threat, I spot the lecture hall door. Bursting inside, I try not to look as frazzled as I feel.

The room is already packed, students filling row after row of curved seating. The air hums expectantly with latent magic, like the walls themselves are absorbing the energy. I exhale in relief and slide into an empty seat near the middle.

“Cutting it close, aren’t we?” a voice drawls beside me.

I glance over to see a girl with cropped auburn hair and piercing green eyes. She’s leaning back in her chair, her quill spinning effortlessly between her fingers.

“Not my fault this place was designed by someone with no sense of direction,” I say, dropping my bag onto the desk.

Her gaze flicks to the probation band on my wrist, the silver glow faint but unmistakable. A knowing smile curves her lips. “Ah. A fellow rebel.”

“Rebel’s a strong word,” I say, leaning back. “I prefer. . . innovator.”

She snickers. “Well, innovator, welcome to the zoo. I’m Faye Ashmere.”

“Elara Marowen,” I reply.

“Marowen,” she repeats, her eyes narrowing slightly, like she’s trying to place the name. Whatever conclusion she comes to, she keeps it to herself. “So, what earned you the shiny accessory?”

I shrug. “An experiment. A minor hiccup.”

Her smile sharpens. “Aethel’s rules could use a bit of color, anyway.”

Before I can respond, the professor enters—a tall, wiry man whose robe flares dramatically as he strides to the front of the room. The hum of chatter fades, replaced by the scratching of quills as students prepare for class.

The lesson begins, and I do my best to focus, though Faye’s occasional sarcastic whispers make it difficult not to laugh. By the time the lecture ends, I’ve learned two things: elemental theory is complex but fascinating, and Faye Ashmere is trouble in the best possible way.

My second class is in a smaller room, the atmosphere more relaxed. Faye and I snag seats together again, and soon after a boy drops into the seat beside me. His dark curls are unruly, his grin infectious, and he radiates an easy confidence that fills the space like sunlight.

“New faces,” he says, his eyes dancing with mischief. “And one of them already sporting a probation band. Impressive.”

“Do you make a habit of reading wrists?” I ask dryly.

“Only the spirited ones,” he replies with a wink. “Rhys Emberwood. Fire mage extraordinaire and occasional nuisance.”

“Elara Marowen. Experimenter of poorly defined boundaries.”

“Faye Ashmere,” Faye chimes in. “Observer of chaos and an incidental participant.”

The three of us exchange grins, and for the first time since arriving at Aethel, I feel a sense of camaraderie.

As the lecture begins, the professor—a reserved woman with sharp eyes and an aura of quiet authority—introduces herself as Professor Imara Holt. Her voice is calm but firm, commanding attention without effort.

The subject: the ethics of elemental usage.

“Consider this,” she says, pacing slowly. “If a village is threatened by wildfire, should a mage use their magic to suppress it—even if doing so risks upsetting the natural balance?”

The class falls silent, students exchanging uncertain glances.

“That depends,” I say, unable to stop myself.

Professor Holt’s gaze lands on me. “On what, Miss. . . ?”

“Marowen,” I supply. “It depends on the intent. Are they suppressing the fire to help the village or to avoid blame if it spreads?”

A faint smirk touches her lips. “An interesting distinction. And if their intent is selfish?”

“Then it’s a question of accountability, not magic.”

The professor tilts her head, considering. “You have a knack for questioning authority, Miss Marowen. Aethel prizes control over creativity. I suggest you keep that in mind.”

The warning is clear, but I catch the gleam of approval in her eyes. It’s enough to make me sit a little straighter, a small smile tugging at my lips.

As the lecture ends, Rhys leans over. “Questioning authority on day one? Bold move.”

“I call it creative problem-solving,” I answer.

Faye grins. “Bold and shameless. I love it! I think you’ll fit right in.”

We head out to the enchanted courtyard, which sprawls and meanders before us like something out of a storybook—a swirling tapestry of stone, ivy, and magic. Students dart between practice circles, their laughter and spells mingling in the air.

Somewhere, a burst of fire blooms, followed by a ripple of applause.

“This place feels alive,” I murmur, spinning to take it all in.

“Alive and slightly unhinged,” Rhys says, sidling up beside me. “Let’s add a little chaos to the mix, shall we?”

“Chaos?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “What kind of chaos?”

“The fun kind,” he replies, beckoning us toward an empty practice circle at the far end of the courtyard. “Watch and learn.”

With a flick of his hand, Rhys conjures a flame, its flickering light bright and warm. He shapes it effortlessly, the fire curling into a spinning spiral before morphing into the outline of a leaping fox. It bursts into golden sparks, drawing a small cheer from a nearby group of students.

“Show-off,” Faye mutters, though her grin betrays her admiration.

“Your turn, illusionist,” Rhys says, stepping back with a mock bow.

Faye rolls her eyes but steps into the circle, her hands moving in fluid gestures. A glowing mist swirls to life, forming the image of a knight in gleaming armor. The knight bows deeply before vanishing in a puff of glittering silver.

“Top that, Marowen,” Faye says, crossing her arms.

I step into the circle, my fingers tingling with anticipation. I’ve always loved the way magic feels—a soft hum just beneath my skin, waiting to be shaped.

With a whispered incantation, I weave the light into the form of a tree, its branches stretching skyward as luminous petals drift to the ground like snow.

Rhys whistles. “Not bad.”

“Not bad at all,” Faye admits, tilting her head to examine the tree. “A little dramatic, but it works.”

“It’s called artistry,” I retort, but my smile is easy.

Our banter is cut short by a silken voice. “That’s quite the display.”

We turn to see a tall woman approaching, her robes shimmering faintly with magic. Her silver-streaked hair is swept back in a way that speaks of deliberate control, and her gaze is piercing enough to make me straighten instinctively.

“That’s Professor Thorne,” Faye murmurs under her breath.

“Elara Marowen,” Isolde says crisply. “I assume this is your work?”

I nod. “Yes, Professor.”

“Impressive.” Her gaze flickers to the glowing tree. “Raw talent is always worth noticing.”

“Thank you,” I say, unsure if it’s a compliment or the setup for a critique.

She studies me a moment longer, her expression unreadable. “Balance,” she says at last, “is the cornerstone of magic. Without it, talent becomes a liability.”

Her words land heavily, and I feel the weight of her scrutiny. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say carefully.

“You’ll need to,” she replies, her tone shifting to something more pointed. “Your probation isn’t just about punishment, Miss Marowen. It’s a chance to prove your worth—to show that your talent can serve something greater than your impulses.”

Her words rankle, but I bite back the urge to argue.

Isolde’s lips curve into a thin smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Remember: balance within boundaries. Tradition exists for a reason.”

With that, she sweeps away, her presence lingering like the faint hum of magic.

Faye waits until she’s out of earshot before muttering, “She doesn’t compliment anyone without a reason. Be careful with her.”

“Noted.”

Before I can dwell on the professor’s words, a shadow falls over us. I look up to see Alistair Valen, his expression as sharp and unyielding as ever.

“Marowen,” he says coldly, his gaze cutting straight to me. “Don’t forget your probation. No unsanctioned activities.”

The warmth of the moment vanishes as quickly as one of Faye’s illusions.

“Yes, Captain,” I say, saluting mockingly.

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t take the bait. “See that you remember.” He begins to walk away.

“Friendship isn’t a crime, you know,” I call after him, my voice pointedly light.

Alistair stops mid-stride, his back rigid as a marble column. For a second, I think he might ignore me entirely. Then he turns, his expression carefully schooled into neutrality, though something flickers in his eyes—annoyance? Confusion? Amusement?

I don’t wait for him to figure it out. Instead, I toss him a grin, the kind that has gotten me both out of trouble and deeper into it on more occasions than I can count.

“But if it were,” I add, letting a mischievous lilt creep into my tone, “you’d probably write me up for it, wouldn’t you?”

To my immense satisfaction, his jaw tightens. For someone who always seems to have a response to everything, the silence is delicious. But, truth be told, his smoldering gaze is enough to send a shiver down my spine.

I ignore the heat pooling in my chest and force myself to smile as if his intensity has no effect on me whatsoever.

“See you around, Captain,” I say, giving a cheeky little wave before turning away for good.

“Was that wise?” Faye murmurs as I rejoin them.

“Wise?” I shrug, though my pulse is still quickened. “Probably not. But it was satisfying.”

Rhys snickers. “Well, if he wasn’t paying enough attention to you before, he definitely is now.”

I ignore the way my stomach twists at that.