Chapter 13
Lyra
Maeve is in this class with me—I had Introduction to Elemental Magic with Alina last year—but she’s on the other side of the courtyard, a few warlocks gathered around her as she creates a dark purple storm cloud and makes it rain.
The guys all smile and laugh and try to move closer to her, as if she’s interested in any of them.
Maeve could probably have her pick of the warlocks in Coven Crest, but she mostly seems bored by them. I just roll my eyes.
All around me, flames whisper, wind sends skirts and robes billowing, vines rise from the earth, and droplets of water shimmer in the air. And I stand in the center of it all, palms outstretched, brows pinched in frustration.
This class is supposed to be easy for me. I’m an elemental witch, a fire witch. The other elemental witches and warlocks seem to excel in this class, but I certainly don’t.
Air and earth magic aren’t so bad to learn, and while my water magic could still use some practice, it’s my fire magic that’s making me so nervous for midterms. Because it’s my fire that’s uncontrollable, that flares at the smallest provocation, that makes me dangerous to the other students and any flammable thing within my reach.
And it’s my fire magic that’s on the brink of getting me expelled.
I clench my teeth and flex my fingers. Thankfully, my sprained wrist is very nearly healed, and I’m no longer wearing the bandage Cairn gave me.
Though that hasn’t stopped me from keeping it close—in the nightstand beside my bed, to be precise.
I tell myself it’s just because I want to give it back to him next time I see him, but part of me whispers that it’s more than that. But I can’t think about that right now.
Hands held out, I take a breath and call to my fire magic.
This didn’t used to make me nervous, but as of late, the flames that used to be my friends now give me a tingle of fear whenever I summon them.
A small arc of fire leaps from my fingertips, then flares too bright, too hot.
The flames crackle and spark brighter. I wince and draw back instinctively, and the fire sputters out with a hiss.
“Too forceful again, Miss Wilder,” Professor Stone says from off to my right, arms crossed, watching with the weary patience of someone who’s seen too many singed sleeves and flaming textbooks—at least a few of which were because of me.
He narrows his brown eyes. “You’re trying to bend it to your will.
Fire doesn’t like to be bent. It doesn’t like to follow rules.
Guide it. Invite it instead of forcing it. ”
Guide it. Easy for him to say. He’s an earth warlock, not a fire witch, and earth isn’t nearly so finnicky.
I close my hands, curling my fingers tightly.
I need to do well, need to prove to Headmistress Moonhart that I deserve my place here at the academy, that I can control myself and get my flames in check before I accidentally set the castle and all its inhabitants on fire.
I take a breath. Pressure coils inside my chest like a clenched fist squeezing my heart. I know that fire responds to emotion; of all the elemental magics, it’s the most volatile, arguably the most difficult to control. Powerful but erratic. A sword with two sharp edges.
“Be intentional,” Professor Stone says. And his words cause a memory to flash in my mind.
Just go slow and be careful, Cairn said in regard to the sniffleblooms. Intentional.
Go slow. Be careful.
I listened to his instructions, was as delicate as possible while transplanting the vicious little blooms. And I did it. Not once did I breathe in their sneeze dust.
A little tingle goes through me when I hear Cairn’s deep voice say, Impressive.
I did something right. I saw it in his eyes, heard it in the tone of his voice.
And I can do this right too. I have to. If I want to stay at Coven Crest, I have no other choice but to get my magic under control. Somehow . . .
I take a deep breath and flex my fingers, holding my palms out again.
This time, I don’t push. Instead, I let my flames rise like a flower slowly blossoming in the spring, calling them with warmth instead of force.
The fire sparks to life on my fingertips, flickering delicately, steadily—a stream of gold that curls around my fingers like the pillowy kiss of a satin ribbon.
No flare. No bite of intense heat. No backlash.
Professor Stone steps forward, arms still crossed and eyes narrowed—though this time in surprise rather than judgment. “Much better,” he says slowly, as if raising his voice will cause the fire to lash out and singe him. “That’s progress, Miss Wilder.”
Something small and fierce flutters in my chest. I can’t help myself—I smile. Not just from relief, but with pride. Maybe I belong here after all.
And maybe Cairn—with his gentle ways and quiet insights—is more than an annoying community service project, more than a reclusive minotaur. Maybe he can teach me how to control myself, my emotions.
Maybe, in some small way, he’s exactly what I need.