Chapter 9
Magick, like history itself, is never static. It evolves with the ambitions of those who wield it.
—A History of Magick, Vol. I
Monday arrives with a bite in the air. Whittaker feels sharpened, like a knife waiting for fresh blood. Around me, the campus buzzes with the bright, nervous energy of a new term.
I should feel intimidated, being around so many Magicks who have been practicing with their element for years. But instead, I just feel… ready.
I put on my uniform and walk with the rest of my squad as we make our way to the tall cream-colored building I saw during orientation. History of Magick is our first class, held on the ground floor of the Logistics building.
The auditorium unfolds in a graceful half-circle, with ten ascending rows of polished wooden chairs, each cushioned in deep-maroon fabric.
Light filters in through high arched windows, catching on the soft sheen of the lacquered floors and casting long shadows across the room.
At its center, a modest stage rises just high enough to command attention without overpowering the space.
Professor Ella Straits looks like someone who does not like to dabble in theory and only enjoys cold, hard facts.
Her short black hair curls just above her shoulders.
Thick black-rimmed glasses balance precariously on a too-pointed nose that makes her look more like a hawk than a person.
She taps a pen on the podium before directing our attention behind her.
A suspended projection screen loops through the centuries—a living timeline of magickal history counting down in slow, luminous increments.
“Welcome,” she says, her voice sharp enough to slice through the remaining whispers, “to your first History of Magick class.”
The room quiets instantly.
“Most of what you will learn in this course is common knowledge. The Primordial Shattering—when power first fractured into elemental strains. The classification of the elements. The moment humanity learned to harness those forces in service of society.”
Her gaze sweeps the rows—and pins a Blue Squad first-year caught mid-yawn.
The student jerks and tries to cover her mouth with her textbook.
Professor Straits doesn’t raise her voice. She simply stops speaking. And somehow that makes it worse.
The silence stretches until it becomes a weight on everyone’s tongue.
“Miss…?” Straits says at last, glancing down at her roster.
The girl swallows. “Eva Mitchel. Ma’am.”
“Miss Mitchel,” Straits says, voice devoid of emotion. “Can you please tell us what year the Shattering is commonly dated?”
Eva freezes. Her eyes flick wildly to the screen, to her notes, to her neighbors—who suddenly become very invested in not knowing her.
“I—” she starts.
Straits taps her pen once. The screen scrolls back to the top, the date hovering there like a trap. Eva has the self-preservation to at least duck her head as her cheeks blaze.
Straits’s mouth doesn’t change. Not quite a smile. Not quite a frown. “Perhaps, one’s time is better spent getting a good night’s sleep so that one can actually pay attention in class.” She raises one thin dark brow at Eva before returning to the lesson in a steady monotone.
She leads us through a quick recap of current magick powers and their somewhat contested histories. The Service, Europe’s Krovya, and the smaller foreign organizations that orbit them. The timeline behind her begins to move again.
The screen shows a world map highlighting borders and the crests of old and new kingdoms.
“Eventually, what began as creation became conquest. As nations began recruiting Magicks into their armies and governments, everything shifted. Magick became less about wonder and more about warfare.”
Because power always invites appetite. It was something my father used to say. Over dinner. Over the sound of the news on the radio. I know from my own research that this was when competing nations began to build their own schools, their own doctrines, their own agendas.
“The Whittaker School of Magick was founded in 1745 by Headmistress Magdalena Jamison,” Straits says.
The screen shifts, painting Whittaker’s crest in clean lines—a mountain silhouette over a still lake, a single star pinned in the upper left like a secret the sky refuses to keep.
“It is also the youngest magick school still in operation.”
The image flickers. A school rises behind a wrought-iron gate shaped like two condors.
“The oldest was established in Peru—long before the rise of the Inca Empire.”
I glance up at the photo. The stone walls, the open sky—
For a split second, a cool draft seems to brush the back of my neck.
The screen shifts again. A gold dragon sigil coils across black. I can almost believe it’s trying to move across the screen, its scales catching the light as it twists. “Then came the highly secretive Xinj Academy in Beijing.”
Another crest replaces it—this one severe and angular. “Vikhrostrum Akademiya, in Eastern Europe.”
A shiver touches my spine when I look at the mountain peaks that represent the famous war college. Krovya’s prized jewel of the Carpathians.
“And finally, the ancient royal academy in Jordan.”
My fingers twitch at my sides, like my magick is grasping for something just out of reach. I shift slightly in my seat, brushing off the sensation.
Straits turns back to us, hands clasped behind her back. “For most of recorded history, only four elements were recognized. Does anyone know which four?”
Rozsen’s hand goes up. Straits nods once.
“Air, fire, water, and earth,” she answers.
“Correct.” Straits clicks her pen once more, and the screen changes to artwork depicting a bloody battle. “And in 1792, the First Magick Rebellion occurred. A conflict the non-Magick world prefers to romanticize as the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars.”
A murmur runs through the room—hushed and dissatisfied. Somewhere behind me, I hear Peter whisper, “My grandfather calls it the Slaughtering—”
Straits’s head turns. Just slightly.
The whisper dies in Peter’s throat like it’s been strangled.
“By World War II,” she says, “the Nazis were experimenting on Magicks. Testing the boundaries of what elemental bodies could endure. It was during that era that the other elements were identified—wood, metal, shadow, and light—long hidden, and perpetually misunderstood.”
The screen flickers: black-and-white photographs. Medical charts. Bodies reduced to data.
My stomach tightens.
“Professor, is it true that we have a metal Magick student here at Whittaker?” It’s Sawyer who asks the question.
Straits nods. “Yes, and two wood-wielders, and one light Magick.” Murmurs go through the auditorium.
But no shadow-wielders, I note. My finger twists the ring on my hand in reflex.
“A hundred years of uneasy peace followed, until the Second Rebellion—a brutal conflict where Magick and non-Magick factions warred openly across borders and ideologies.”
My father had a special interest in this particular piece of history. I remember combing through some of the many books I found in his office—texts describing the absolute horrors and atrocities committed in the name of the good of the world during that time.
In my peripheral vision, my water bottle trembles—the liquid inside rolling once, barely a ripple, but enough to make my pulse jump. I reach out and curl my fingers around the bottle, willing it to still.
“In the last forty years,” Straits continues, “more and more nations have turned their backs on democracy, choosing control instead. And with control came more Magicks—recruited, trained, owned. Bound by loyalty… or fear.”
Owned.
The word lodges under my ribs.
Because that’s how we got here. To the edge of something vast and violent. A hush before chaos.
I know politics—I grew up in its shadow, at my father’s side. Wars don’t erupt overnight. They simmer. They wait. Sometimes for decades. Sometimes for centuries. And sometimes, they wait for the right person to light the match.
The water in my bottle gives a tiny, treacherous shiver—like it recognizes something within me it refuses to name.
* * *
An hour later, we climb the stairs, headed to the second floor for Potions—the class I am most excited about.
I majored in organic chemistry at my old university.
At twenty-two, I was supposed to be starting a clean, sensible life after graduating last spring—Halcyon Biotech in New York this fall, a cute little West Village apartment with Alissa.
Pharmaceutical research was the closest I could get to magick without losing my father’s approval.
But that was before everything changed last summer.
Before Noa. Before the lake. Before magick stopped being theoretical and started being mine.
What non-Magicks call medicine or chemistry, Magicks call potions.
Both factions usually work together in developing new drugs or compounds for various purposes.
Where a chemist sees molecules, a potion-maker sees correspondences.
Both transform matter, alter states, even save lives.
Two sides of the same coin—science and potionwork, speaking different dialects of the same universal language.
The Potions classroom is sterile and orderly, with gleaming white tables and tall metal stools.
Everything in its place. White wood shelves line stone walls, filled with glass jars of various sizes, corked vials, and brass-labeled bottles.
Floor-to-ceiling windows let in generous natural light—perfect for observing subtle shifts in color and texture.
The air smells like my college chemistry lab back in Virginia: crushed herbs, biting metal, the faint sulfur tang of propane flames. An unexpected pang of nostalgia hits.
I drag Rozsen, Amelia, and Peter to the front table, while Elliot and our other squadmates post up in the back. Elliot mutters about how Potions is “for people who like messes and blowing shit up.”