Evie
The library’s nearly empty at this hour.
Most people are at the Forge Party celebrating the “good news” that Oliver and Thad are alive. But they’re wrong. They’re all wrong. I know they’re wrong.
Because what I saw on the Crown… the thermal signatures burned into the volcanic rock…
I shake my head, trying to get the image out of my mind. It doesn’t work. It never works.
Now, I’ve been in the main reading room for three hours, surrounded by stacks of books about oceanic magic, maritime wards, and the geographical anomalies of the Lost Islands.
On the off chance that the Council is right and Oliver really did leave the island and get lost in the surrounding waters, I need to understand what he’s facing.
My notes cover six pages, written in the shorthand I developed in second grade when Eleanor used to steal my journals. The pages are full of cross-references, dead ends, and promising leads that turned into nothing.
One pattern, however, keeps emerging.
Every serious text about the seas surrounding Blaze Academy references the same source material. All that source material is housed in the Ember Archives—the section of the library that’s banned to students and warded against entry via fire travel.
I slam my current book shut hard enough that the sound cracks through the silence. The librarian—an ancient witch named Cordelia who’s been here since before my parents were born—gives me a warning look from across the room.
Sorry, I mouth, and she goes back to whatever she’s reading, and I return to my previous thoughts.
The Ember Archives is only accessible by faculty and graduates.
I tap my pencil against my notes, running through options in my mind.
Option one: Break in.
Problem: I want answers now, and it will take time—likely a long time—to devise a way to manipulate my sigil to give me full access to the academy, if that’s even possible at all.
Although, Kieran said that old magic can change rules. Now could be a good time to test that hypothesis, especially given the amplification I received at the Crown.
I glance at Cordelia. She’s still engrossed in her book.
Other than her, the library’s empty, thanks to the Forge Party.
The risk-reward ratio is acceptable. What good are amplified powers if I don’t use them to find answers about Oliver?
Decision made, I gather my notes, shove them into my bag, and head to the back of the library.
The Ember Archives are deep underground, accessed through a spiral descent. I’ve obviously never been down there, but my parents, Eric, and Eleanor have told me all about them.
The entrance is marked by a huge, foreboding iron door. I’ve walked past this door dozens of times, but I’ve never tried to open it. I’ve never had a reason to.
Until now.
So, taking a deep breath, I press my right palm—the one branded with my first-year Kindling sigil—against the iron and push as much heat into the door as possible.
The magic pulses against my senses like a heartbeat.
It’s old, powerful, and layered with centuries of protective enchantments that read like geological strata in my heat detection.
The outermost layer burns hot and aggressive, designed to repel.
Beneath it, cooler threads of containment magic weave together in patterns so intricate my brain aches trying to trace them.
And at the center, an ancient power thrums with a warmth that predates the academy itself.
For a moment, the ward-web flexes, like it’s considering my request.
Yes. There. Just a little more—
The iron turns cold enough that I have to yank my palm away or risk frostbite bad enough that it might result in a lost finger.
Only the strongest witches have magic powerful enough to regrow limbs, and while I might now fit into that category thanks to the Crown’s amplification, it’s not an experiment I’ll be conducting anytime soon.
Suddenly, a heat signature moves in my peripheral awareness.
Cordelia’s rising from her desk and coming this way.
I pivot to the nearest bookshelf and yank a book at random as she rounds the corner.
“Finding everything you need?” She smiles, but her eyes are sharp.
I glance at the book in my hands. Culinary Applications of Fire Magic: A Comprehensive Guide to Temperature-Controlled Cooking.
“Yes! Absolutely.” I smile and hold up the book like evidence.
“I was just looking for additional reading on thermal applications. For cooking. Professor Rousseau mentioned something about heat signatures in food preparation, and there’s a fascinating correlation between magical temperature control and the Maillard reaction, which is the chemical process that—”
Stop talking. Stop talking right now.
“—creates the browning effect on seared meats, although I suppose that’s more chemistry than magic, but the intersection of the two fields is really quite—”
Cordelia holds up a hand. “Evelyn.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
“You were researching oceanic geography.” She glances at the stacks of maritime texts on my study table. “Now you’re in the culinary section.”
I shrug and attempt another smile, smaller this time. “I have multitudes of interests?”
Her expression suggests she’s never heard a worse excuse in her decades of existence.
“I just needed a mental break from all the ocean research,” I try again.
“When I’m stuck on a problem, looking at something unrelated helps my brain reset.
And cooking is very unrelated to oceans.
Unless you’re cooking fish, I suppose. Although I’ve never liked fish, so I’m not skilled at cooking it. ”
“Perhaps you should return to your dormitory and get some rest,” Cordelia says with the patience of someone who’s dealt with generations of rambling students. “You’ve been here for quite some time, and exhaustion can lead to unfocused thinking.”
“You’re probably right.” I shove the cookbook back onto the shelf. “I’ve been pushing myself too hard. With the studying. For classes.”
Please, floor, open up and swallow me whole.
Cordelia just stares at me.
“I’ll get my things.” I gesture at my table and hurry to it before Cordelia can further question me.
Once there, I slump into my chair and press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
Option Two: Find a faculty member who will help without asking too many questions.
Answer: Kieran Cross.
It’s been exactly one week since I woke up in his bed and he shattered my understanding of this academy with truths about permanent amplification and a witch who can compel other witches.
A week of carrying secrets this island is built on, waiting for him to keep his promise to help me find out what happened to Oliver.
In that week, we’ve barely exchanged two words outside of class, and class doesn’t count, since it’s a professional context with other students present.
In the dining hall, his gaze slides past me. During Applied Flamecraft, he treats me the same as every other first-year—barking orders, correcting form, and making cutting remarks about our collective incompetence.
But he said he would help me. And since my heat sensing has never once read Kieran Cross as emotionally cold—no matter how dangerous the rest of him might be—I believe him.
So, I shove my notes and the most helpful books into my bag and stand, giving Cordelia a small smile as I leave the library.
The hall, like the library, is empty. There are no heat signatures nearby, which means there’s no time like the present to do a bit of fire traveling.
Closing my eyes, I picture Kieran’s quarters.
The weapons rack on the far wall, every blade mounted with the same obsessive organization he brings to everything.
The violin case tucked in the corner that he’s never once mentioned and I’ve never once asked about, even though my fingers itch to know what he sounds like when he plays.
And the bed where I woke up in his arms, his furnace heat burning against my spine.
I shouldn’t want to go back there as badly as I do. But my magic latches onto the warmth of that memory with an eagerness that would embarrass me if I let myself think about it for too long, and the world dissolves into flames.