Chapter 18
Lyra
IT’S BEEN A GRUELING WEEK. Midterms are here, and everyone drags from one class to the next, bags beneath their eyes from staying up late studying, hair in messy buns and robes slightly rumpled.
Juniper wanted to come today, but I was too nervous to let her tag along, so I don’t have her to console me or to tell me to stop biting my nails.
But the thought of her voice is enough to get me to lower my hand. I cross my arms over my stomach, gaze darting to the door, where Professor Stone’s third-year student assistant, Nella, appears every ten minutes or so to fetch the next student and escort them to the practice room for the exam.
I jump when the door opens, and Nella steps into the doorway. She holds a clipboard and what looks like a quill enchanted to never run out of ink—I should definitely get one of those. Scrunching her forehead, she works down the list, then says, “Maeve Vandermere.”
I’m not sure if I’m relieved or frustrated. Both, I guess. I’m terrified, but I want to get this over with so I can run back to my dorm and flop into my bed and sleep for an eternity—or at least until Samhain. I’m definitely not missing the festival this year.
Maeve stands and moves gracefully toward the door, all eyes on her as she pushes her glossy hair over her shoulder. Before stepping into the hallway behind Nella, she tosses a glance at me and winks one purple eye.
Then the door closes, and I’m left to spiral into more worrisome thoughts.
If I fail, will that be it? Will Headmistress Moonhart expel me? And even worse, what if I totally fuck up and set something on fire? What if I set Professor Stone on fire?
With a groan, I lean forward and rest my forehead on my desk.
Goddess, I just want this to be over.
FOUR STUDENTS LATER, NELLA STEPS into the room and calls another name.
“Lyra Wilder.”
For a moment, I don’t move, just stare at her like she’s here to escort me to my own fiery doom.
“Lyra?” She tips her head and arches a brow curiously. “Is that you?”
“Y-yes,” I say, then push to my feet too fast, causing my chair to tip back and fall to the floor with a clatter. The other students titter with laughter, but I don’t care. It’s not like they understand how much is riding on this moment for me.
And I get an even heavier sinking feeling when I realize these are just midterms—and I have to make it through another two and a half years here without accidentally setting fire to all the irreplaceable tomes in the library or burning down the exotic greenhouse plants . . . again.
Grabbing my bag, I slip the strap over my shoulder, then right the fallen chair and follow Nella into the hallway.
“Are you okay?” she asks as we set off down the hallway together. “You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine.” I swallow hard and flex my fingers into fists at my sides.
“Nervous?” Her voice is light and friendly, like she’s never been worried about a midterm in her life.
I let out a scoff. “That would be an understatement.”
“You’re going to do just fine,” she says comfortingly.
As we approach the door to the elemental magic practice room, she says, “It helps me to face away from the professor as I perform my magic—then I can pretend I’m alone, just practicing like it’s any regular day.
” Her shoulders lift in a shrug. “Maybe that’ll help you too. ”
Doubt it.
“Maybe,” I say, stare locked on the door. “Thanks for the tip.”
Nella flashes me a bright smile. “Anytime. Good luck!”
She opens the door and gestures me through, and I take a deep breath before stepping over the threshold.
Professor Stone stands at the front of the room, a book open in his hands. The sight of it makes me queasy.
It’s his gradebook, the book that determines whether I pass or fail.
I wish I could enchant it to give me passing marks.
“Miss Wilder,” he says as Nella closes the door behind me, leaving me to my fate. “Set your bag down by the door, then come stand in the center of the room.”
I do as I’m told, but my feet feel leaden as I walk to where the professor indicated.
The room is completely bare, apart from golden runes that glow on the walls, ceiling, and floor.
The runes make the practice room resistant to elemental magic, so it’s safe for students to use their magic without fear of burning something down or sending a typhoon gushing through the hallway.
“This is your elemental midterm,” Professor Stone says.
He closes his gradebook with a thump, then regards me through slightly narrowed eyes.
“You will demonstrate appropriate control over all four elements—air, earth, water, and fire, in that order. Each manifestation must be precise, deliberate, and contained. Remember, power is nothing without discipline.”
I swallow hard and flex my fingers.
Fire last. I’m not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.
Professor Stone nods once. “You may begin when you’re ready.”
Despite being a fire witch, I’ve always found air and earth to be the easiest of the four elements to control. They’re not as finnicky as water and fire, more open to suggestion and manipulation.
All right, air.
I extend my hands, stretching my fingers wide.
With a little bit of coaxing, I’m able to summon a gentle breeze and shape it into a spiral.
The air movement makes Professor Stone’s long black robe flap around his calves, and his messy brown hair ripples like he’s underwater. His face displays no emotion.
With a flick of my wrist, I funnel the wind into a small controlled vortex that dances at my feet before dispersing with a whisper.
I look to Professor Stone, and he gives a subtle nod.
Okay, one element down, three to go.
I can do this, I tell myself. It’s not so hard.
Earth’s next.
Kneeling, I place both palms flat on the floor, imagining that the stone beneath my feet is moving, breathing.
A slight vibration tingles through my palms, and I catch it, hold on like it’s a kite being tugged along by a summer wind.
Standing from the floor, I pull on that subtle vibration, and with a crack, a narrow column of stone rises before me.
I narrow my eyes, focusing my magic, picturing what I want to do before I try to do it.
My fingers twitch as I move them through the air, imagining myself a painter, a creator.
The sharp edges of the stone column begin to smooth out, and the stone groans as it changes shape—until the previously blocky column now somewhat resembles an oak tree.
It’s not my best creation, but Professor Stone raises his brows a little bit, and I think that’s his version of being impressed.
The stone crumbles into dust with one clap of my hands.
Two more.
Water. The second-hardest element to master. And master it I have not. But this midterm isn’t about mastery; I don’t have to be perfect, just good enough to pass.
I lift my hands, trying to focus on the moisture hanging in the cool air. At first, nothing happens. No water condenses out of the air. A little ember of panic flares to life in my chest. Then I inhale and steady my breathing. Focus, I think.
Again, I attempt to pull moisture from the air.
This time, a little bubble of water starts to form, individual droplets combining to create one rippling sphere of clear water.
It wobbles when I move one hand too fast, but I’m able to steady it and keep it from splashing to my feet.
With focus and a furrowed brow, I gently coax it into a narrow ribbon, which twirls and twines through the air before I banish it in a shimmer of mist.
Three down. Fire’s last.
Is it just me, or did the room just get a bit too warm?
I tug at the collar of my academy-issued sweater, trying to cool the back of my neck, but it’s no use. Professor Stone is watching me with a wary expression, maybe getting ready should he need to shield himself from an erratic fireball or something. Wouldn’t be the first time . . .
I take a breath. Then another one. But it does nothing to slow the thundering of my heart.
My fingers tremble slightly as I lift my hands out in front of me, preparing to call on my magic.
But the fire comes too fast, before I’ve truly had a chance to ground myself.
Suddenly, my palms are encased in flame.
Whips of fire lash up and out, painting my face with heat and bursts of bright light.
One of my curls gets too close to a flame, and the scent of burning hair twines around me before I yank my head out of the way.
On the other side of the flames, I see a subtle movement from Professor Stone, one of his hands reaching out, preparing to quench my flames should I be unable to get them under control.
No, I tell myself. I can do this. I have to do this!
My pulse pounds in my ears. I shift my hands, facing them toward each other, trying to contain the blaze.
It fights me, hissing and writhing and spitting embers that catch on my sleeves, leaving tiny burn holes in the material.
I can feel the fire’s desire to break free, to consume everything in its path.
Like the midnight lotus flowers. Like so many other times before.
My throat goes dry.
Not this time. This time, I’ll contain it.
I grit my teeth and widen my stance, rooting my feet to the floor. I imagine standing in Cairn’s garden, pushing my roots into the earth, holding myself firm and strong, like the moonflowers.
Breathe.
I take a breath, then let it out slow. The fire dims, but just slightly.
Intention. Intention. Intention.
Cairn’s voice echoes in my mind, each utterance a balm on my frayed nerves. And every time I hear him, I rein my flames in a little more.
They buck and hiss, fighting my control, trying to take it back from me.
But I start funneling them inward, folding the fire over on itself, flame by flame, breath by breath.
When I’m done, what remains is one gold-red orb of flickering fire, held aloft in the cage of my firelit fingers.
It continues to dance, moving this way and that, but it no longer rages against me. For once, it’s almost . . . calm.
Likewise, the racing of my heart has slowed, and I can finally catch my breath.
My mouth threatens to pull into a smile. I cradle the orb of fire in my palms, then toss it toward the ceiling. Professor Stone flinches back as there’s a small thump, like the far-off detonation of a firework.
Sparks rain down over me, harmless this time, and sizzle to ash that I brush from my shoulders and shake from my curls.
I meet the professor’s eyes. He regards me for a long moment. Then he gives me a firm nod, and I think he’s almost smiling at me.
“Well done, Miss Wilder. You should be proud.” He raises his gradebook and opens it, then scribbles something down that I wish I could see from here.
I’m still standing there, fingertips tingling, when he looks up and says, “You may leave.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice.
I grab my bag from the floor, use the burnt sleeve of my sweater to mop the sweat from my brow, and pull the door open. Immediately, cool air rushes in to greet me, kissing the heat from my skin.
Nella is leaning against the opposite wall, and she straightens up. “How’d it go?” she asks.
And I give her a big smile. Because I’m pretty sure I just passed my midterm.