Chapter 2 #3
"No." I say without knowing if this was actually his doing or not because he seemed as surprised as me.
I look across the hall. Valerius is sitting again, Eli leaning toward him with an amused expression, Luc watching me with unsettling calm.
Valerius doesn't look back. He picks up his cup as if nothing has happened, as if he didn't just cross the hall to cut me open with a few quiet words.
As if I am already forgotten but I don't believe that. I don't know why... I just don't.
The final breakfast bell rings a few minutes later, releasing students toward their first classes. Seren stays close to my side as we leave the dining hall, a small storm cloud of fury disguised as a girl in green-lined robes.
"I could curse his boots," she says.
"No." I laugh.
"Nothing fatal. Just something inconvenient. Maybe make them scream every time he steps." She suggests. I know she's serious.
"That would be obvious." I give her a look.
"Fine. Whisper, then." She raises her hands in defeat.
I breathe out, almost laughing. "You are terrible at comforting people."
"I'm excellent at vengeance. Comfort is secondary." She says.
The corridors outside the dining hall are chaos.
Students split toward different wings, branch colors flashing through shafts of morning light.
Final-years move toward the east lecture hall, where branch theory is held in a room large enough to fit every specialty at once.
First-years cluster nervously beneath floating signs that redirect them when they take a wrong turn.
A portrait of Headmaster Elowen, who died two centuries ago and still complains about modern spellwork, shouts at a group of Tempest boys for running.
I walk with Seren beneath arched windows that overlook the west courtyard.
Outside, students already practice. A Tempest girl raises both hands and pulls rain from a cloudless patch of sky, droplets glittering like diamonds before freezing midair.
Across from her, a Veil boy sends green light into a cracked stone planter, coaxing dead roots into sudden bloom.
Near the fountain, two Aether students face each other with palms raised, the air between them trembling with red and blue energy.
Everywhere I look, magic answers. I look down at my hands.
Pale fingers. Short nails. No glow. No spark.
No hidden sign that anything extraordinary lives beneath my skin.
Just me. The girl without a branch with two of the most powerful magicians as parents, or maybe only one because as we know my father is convinced I'm not his, he never told me directly but I can see it everytime he looks at me.
The east lecture hall is already half-full when we arrive.
It is one of the oldest classrooms in Arcana, built in a circular shape with tiered seating rising around a central floor.
The walls are covered in carved histories: scenes of the three branches working together during ancient wars, ceremonies, healings, storms, coronations.
At the very center of the ceiling is a circular opening filled not with sky, but flame.
The Eternal Flame symbol.
Not the real one. Just a lesson-charm, a representation used in theory classes. It burns gold and red above us, contained inside a ring of black iron. I stare at it too long. Something about it makes my skin prickle.
"Come on," Seren says softly.
We sit halfway up the left side, near the aisle. Not too close to the front where professors can call on me out of pity, not too far back where students whisper louder because they think no one hears.
Around us, final-years settle into seats by habit.
Tempest in clusters. Veil together. Aether claiming the right side like they own the room.
Valerius enters last. Professor Thorne follows behind him, which is the only reason the room does not react openly.
Thorne is tall, severe, and grey-haired, with a face made entirely of disapproval.
His branch is technically Tempest, but his specialty is ward theory, which means he can make walls more intimidating than most people can make swords.
He moves to the center floor and waits. The room quiets. "Final-year branch theory," he begins, "is not a review of what you already know." His voice scrapes like stone over stone. "It is where we dismantle the comfortable lies you have told yourselves about your magic."
Several students shift. I sit very still.
Professor Thorne lifts one hand, and the classroom walls respond.
The carved scenes brighten, each branch symbol glowing in turn.
"Tempest believes force can solve what discipline cannot."
Blue light flashes. "Veil believes understanding death makes them wise about life."
Green light hums. "Aether believes feeling deeply is the same as controlling what feeling creates." Red light pulses.
His eyes sweep the room. "All of you are wrong." No one speaks. "Power is not identity," he says. "It is not morality. It is not worth. It is a tool. A weapon. A responsibility. Sometimes, a curse."
The word curse makes a few students glance toward Valerius. He doesn't react.
Professor Thorne turns toward the ceiling flame.
"Tomorrow night, the Eternal Flame will choose your bonded partner. Many of you believe you know who you need. Many of you believe the Flame will honor your branch ranking, family alliances, personal affections, or ambitions."
A dry pause. "It will not." The ceiling flame flares.
A circle of light opens above the central floor, and illusions appear inside it: two figures standing on opposite sides of a golden flame. The flame splits, sending a thread of light into each figure's chest.
"The bond formed during the Gathering is temporary," Professor Thorne says. "But while active, it allows paired students to stabilize one another's magic during advanced trials. A strong bond can amplify control. A poor bond can expose weakness."
One of the Tempest boys raises a hand. "Can the Flame choose across branches?"
Professor Thorne gives him the kind of look that makes students regret possessing voices. "Yes. It often does. Branch contrast is useful."
Another hand rises. An Aether girl this time. "Can it choose someone without a branch?"
The room changes. Not loudly and not kindly either. Seren goes rigid beside me. I know without turning that people are looking.
Professor Thorne's gaze cuts to the girl. "The Flame chooses from all eligible final-year students." The answer should end there but it doesn't.
The Aether girl tilts her head, her smile sweet enough to rot teeth. "But how would the bond stabilize magic if only one partner has any?"
A few students laugh under their breath. I keep my eyes on my desk. My face is hot, but my hands are cold.
Professor Thorne says nothing for a long moment. Then... "Miss Ardent." The girl sits straighter, pleased he knows her name. "Stand."
Her smile falters. "Professor?"
"Stand." He demands again.
She rises slowly. Professor Thorne lifts one hand. The flame illusion above the floor shifts. The two figures vanish, replaced by an image of a red branch flame burning too high, uncontrolled and wild.
"Your last practical examination resulted in three cracked shields, one scorched instructor's robe, and an emotional feedback pulse strong enough to make two first-years sob uncontrollably in the corridor."
The room goes silent. Miss Ardent turns bright red.
Professor Thorne continues, merciless. "You have magic, certainly. Too much confidence. Too little discipline. If the Flame chooses you a partner with less power and more sense, I suggest you consider it mercy."
Someone chokes back a laugh. Seren smiles. Miss Ardent sits.
Professor Thorne's gaze moves across the room. "Let me be clear. Mockery is easy. Control is not. Arcana Academy has buried more arrogant mages than powerless ones."
The words strike the room hard. I should feel relieved. Defended, maybe. Instead, I feel exposed because even when he helps me, it is still about me. Still my lack of magic sitting in the center of the room like a body no one knows how to bury.
Professor Thorne turns back to the lesson.
For the next hour, he speaks about bond theory, magical compatibility, branch instability, and the ancient laws governing the Eternal Flame.
I take notes because notes are something I can do.
My handwriting is neat. My ink never smudges.
My pages look like they belong to someone capable. That has to count for something.
Seren passes me a folded slip of paper halfway through class. I open it under the desk.
'Miss Ardent's hair looks like a broom that lost a fight with lightning.' I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
For a few minutes, I breathe easier. Then Professor Thorne says, "Paired analysis."