“Here is how it shall be,” Zirzahael continued. “Before each student now floats a large bubble—it is a trapped sigh, a breath of precious air. Each student may take one breath now. Once they exhale, my winds will not allow them another breath, but they can catch their bubble. If their next breath is not from a bubble, they lose.”

Izzi realised immediately—this was not about winning or losing, it was about not being deceived. She studied the object in front of her. It looked harmless, like a big soap bubble. Too easy.

She took her one allowed breath, but something nagged at her. The air in the bubble was right there—visible, perfect—but unattainable. Catching bubbles never worked. They always popped. The others were figuring that out too—Beena and Nele were frozen, red-faced. Further along, some boys were chasing their own bobbing orbs in vain, while Ravina stood stiffly, her bubble already popped, her lips pressing blue. She was about to pass out.

Zakra’s clouds were already lost. 

A whisper slithered through her mind: Pay attention.

Not now, she snapped inwardly. This was no time for distractions. Focus Izzi, what is special about these bubbles?

Her lungs began to burn. Instinct screamed at her to exhale. She whistled out the barest puff of air—but held. Pay attention? To what?

Then it struck her. The wind wile was devious. The bubble was a distraction!

She flicked her gaze to the wile. Smug. Coiled like a snake atop a whole nest of floating bubbles, enough air for all. A trickster always keeps the real prize close.

Izzi bolted. As she ran, she exhaled, letting her stale breath go free, and plunged headfirst into the cluster of bubbles. She inhaled deeply as they burst around her, releasing their sighs. 

Zirzahael spun away. “Always has to be a show-off, spoiling my fun.”

Beena, Nele, and most others caught on, racing after her. They too dove into the mass, breathing in lungfuls of freed sighs.

Unfortunately for any chance of rain, two students had collapsed.

“I win! I win!” Zirzahael crowed, hovering over them, poking Ravina with fingers formed from his fabric.

“Yes, yes,” Kalu said dryly. “But a little help with these two, if you will.”

The wind wile let out a thousand almost-synchronised sighs. “Very well, but all your clouds are mine!”

“Only for a year,” Kalu corrected.

With an exaggerated flourish, Zirzahael expanded into a grotesque bulge and exhaled a flurry of air into each student’s lungs. They ballooned for a moment—then coughed violently, sputtering back to life. Sick. Exhausted. Defeated.

Kalu folded his arms. “One day, I’ll win that rain from you.”

Zirzahael’s silk face somehow formed a smirk. “I wager you won’t—too tangled in your own foolish rules and scruples—they won’t save you from drowning in the end.” With a mirthless laugh, he twisted into the sky, scattering into the wind like a flock of birds.

Izzi had hoped she’d won some sort of points with Kalu, but he only glared at her and shook his head. “It had to be you,” he muttered, as if confirming some unwanted truth.

The turning storm had slowed, the seas calmed.

“What is this place, really?” she asked.

Kalu exhaled sharply. “The realm of the wiles, as I have told you,” he said, clearly exasperated, as he dealt out a set of tokens like cards from a deck—one for each student. 

Izzi grabbed one, and the air ripped her apart—thread by thread, thought by thought—before stitching her back together in the training room.

She stood there, breathless.

But what is it, exactly?