A Moment of Weakness (The Shadow and Spell Universe #1)
Chapter 1
HARPER
Anxiously, I tap my foot, the faint yet persistent rhythm seeming to echo far louder in this narrow stone corridor than propriety should allow.
Every subtle movement I make, adjusting my posture, folding and unfolding my arms, pressing my shoulder more firmly against the chilled wall, draws Liam’s ever-watchful gaze as though I were some peculiar specimen he felt obliged to observe.
Professor Locke had assured us he would return momentarily after speaking with the headmaster regarding our rather unfortunate arrival at Vireldan this morning.
Yet I am swiftly learning that a “moment” within these ancient halls possesses quite a different meaning than anywhere else.
Truly, I shall be astonished if anyone manages to recover even a fragment of our belongings after the manner in which our carriage was destroyed, splintered wheels, a shattered trunk, scattered books and provisions strewn like the remnants of a storm.
The image replays again and again in my mind, like some ill omen I failed to interpret.
“You know,” Liam murmurs, nudging my foot with his own, his being considerably larger, of course, because fate insists I must feel small even beside my own brother- “I once read that individuals who tap their foot so incessantly are nine times more likely to become murderers.”
His unruly curls bounce with the playful shove, and despite my earnest attempt to maintain irritation, a soft, treacherous laugh escapes me.
“Then perhaps,” I reply under my breath, finally lifting my gaze to his, “you ought to cease provoking me… for your own sake.”
His grin widens, precisely as though that had been his aim all along.
“I daresay that is the most nonsensical remark you have made in some time,” I add, pushing myself away from the wall and adopting as dignified a stance as possible. The effort does little to diminish the height difference between us, but at the very least, I may pretend it does.
“Well, it succeeded in stopping that infernal tapping,” Liam says, altogether too satisfied with himself. He pulls his worn satchel closer, one of the few possessions he managed to keep hold of when Professor Locke cast the dissipation spell that whisked us away from the wreckage.
Everything else, I imagine, lies scattered across that forest clearing… if not burned to ash or carried off by whatever peculiar creatures make their homes beneath those darkened trees. I try not to dwell on the possibility; the thought alone threatens to sour my already frayed composure.
The longer we remain here, the more acutely aware I become of how dreadfully we stand out.
Professor Locke left us outside the headmaster’s office with a simple “wait here” and no further guidance regarding where “here” precisely was.
Students glide past us in steady intervals, each one slowing ever so slightly to stare without the slightest attempt at discretion.
Their gazes trail over our torn garments, our soot-stained sleeves, the smudges of earth beneath our nails.
Compared to their pristine uniforms and impeccably polished boots, we must look as though we clawed our way out of the underworld.
A most dreadful first impression for our new peers.
“You know,” Liam mutters, shifting until his back presses against the polished marble beside the office door, “I am beginning to suspect the Elantrix possess a most unyielding rod up their-”
I cut him a sharp look before he can finish, though the sentiment itself is not entirely unearned.
Elantrix, those born into the academy, legacies whose bloodlines gleam with expectation and entitlement. No initiation. No trials. Certainly no near-fatal carriage catastrophes. Merely privilege wrapped in embroidered robes and polished arrogance.
“I am certain you shall fit splendidly among them,” I say, offering the sweetest, most insincere smile I can muster.
His eyes narrow, a blend of irritation and reluctant amusement crossing his features before he gives my shoulder a light shove.
I long to speak of it, the attack, the moment the very air seemed to tear itself apart before our carriage was struck, the unmistakable horror in Professor Locke’s eyes as he whispered whatever spell spirited us from disaster.
I want to ask Liam whether he sensed the same dreadful twist in his stomach that seized mine, whether he believes it was merely coincidence or something far more sinister.
Yet I suspect his conjectures will provide no greater comfort than my own.
Even Locke appeared half-shaken after the dissipation, and ambushes of such violent nature are hardly commonplace, least of all so near the academy grounds.
Three sharp clicks reverberate down the hallway, followed by the drawn-out groan of hinges stirring to life. The office door swings open at last. Professor Locke stands in the threshold, tall, composed, hands folded with his customary precision, as he finishes speaking with the headmaster.
Finn Brindle.
The moment I saw him, I knew the type: a man who holds respect for no one, neither colleague nor student, nor even the prestige institution in which he serves.
If I were to take a guess, I should say he features prominently on the list of individuals upon whom students might wish to test their magical assignments.
Brindle’s gaze sweeps over Liam and me, lingering upon the ash smudged across our skin and the dirt ground into the tatters of our clothing. The disdain that settles upon his features is so pronounced it borders on theatrical.
“I cannot say I am pleased you brought them here in such a state,” Brindle mutters, his lip curling ever so slightly.
My eyes very nearly roll into the back of my head.
“We shall be certain to don the academy’s uniform next time we find ourselves mere seconds away from becoming-” I begin, heat rising in my throat as I fixate on the uneven bristle of his beard. Each errant hair seems designed expressly to irritate me.
Before I can finish, Liam’s hand clamps firmly upon my shoulder, his fingers digging into my collarbone, unyielding, unmistakable. A warning. A do not even think of continuing sort of grasp.
It is effective. For the moment.
“As you can see, we have not yet been informed of our placements, and thus cannot attire ourselves appropriately,” Liam says, his voice taking on that polished diplomacy he wields with infuriating ease. “It has been a rather taxing day, forgive my sister’s… spirited manner.”
He even has the gall to smile as he extends his hand to the now-placated headmaster.
Unbelievable. Utterly insufferable.
Liam Whitlock, devoted flatterer, occasional sibling, perpetual torment, is forever finding the most opportune moment to cast me beneath the proverbial carriage wheel while offering someone else his very best manners.
Watching him perform his sunshine-and-chivalry routine makes my jaw tighten until I fear a tooth might crack.
Were I not standing before one of the few men within these walls whom I genuinely hold in esteem, I would gladly deliver a swift right hook to Liam’s smug, apologetic face for presuming to speak both to me and for me. And worse...about me.
My fists curl at my sides, knuckles whitening, breath measured only by sheer will.
He knows precisely what he is doing.
Brindle releases Liam’s hand with a curt nod, one meant to appear approving, though irritation flickers unmistakably beneath its surface. His gaze drifts over me one final time, steeped in disdain, before he shifts his attention back to Professor Locke.
Locke clears his throat with quiet purpose, a gentle sound that nonetheless commands the room, drawing attention away from Brindle’s disapproval and back to himself.
His eyes settle on us, first Liam, then me, and for the briefest moment, something unspoken glimmers there.
Relief, perhaps. Or guilt. Or the fading shock of nearly losing two students before we even reached the academy steps.
"Your placements are prepared,” Professor Locke announces, his voice calm yet commanding, a steadiness that seems to settle the very air about us. “Follow me.”
No reprimand. No lecture. Merely instruction. And, by the heavens, I am grateful for that small mercy.