Chapter 12
Some magick is so rare that it shapes the future more than the past or present.
—Theory of Elemental Magick, Vol. I
The first week of classes is fascinating—and challenging—upending many of my preconceptions about how the world of magick really works.
On Friday, we finally reach the third floor of the Logistics building for our Theory of Elemental Magick class. Rows of sturdy oak desks curve in a semi-circle around a central demonstration podium. Each desk still bears its now-vintage built-in inkwell and a slide-out drawer for notes.
In one corner, a low bookshelf groans under the weight of well-worn tomes—On the Philosophy of Fire, Waters of the Deep, Earth’s Patient Heart, The Breath of Air—their spines faded from decades of use.
Above us, a mobile of carved wooden symbols—an air spiral, a flickering flame, a water droplet, an earthen gemstone—turns ever so slightly, though no breeze stirs the room.
At the podium stands Professor Gideon Barrows.
He is a tall man in his late forties or early fifties, with twinkling green eyes and a kindly smile framed by laugh-lined cheeks.
His salt-and-pepper hair is neatly cut but perpetually tousled, as if he just ran his fingers through it while working out a problem.
He wears a tweed jacket with multicolored elbow patches, a crisp shirt, and well-worn khakis—comfortable and approachable, like the favorite uncle you’d trust to help you ride your first bike. Or give you your first beer.
He begins class by defining the fundamentals.
“Every Magick here has the innate ability to manipulate their element—whether to move it, shape it, or redirect it. At your level, being a Whittaker student, you also all have the ability to project your element in directed forms: blasts, waves, spikes, whips… whatever your skill and creativity will allow.” He grins, leaning casually on the podium.
“Just a friendly tip: if you’re planning to impress a date, maybe go with a gentle wave, not a full-power blast. Singed eyebrows rarely lead to second dates. ”
Polite laughter moves across the classroom.
“You also possess elemental resistance. Fire-wielders burn less easily. Water-wielders can hold their breath longer, and resist cold, underwater. Earth-wielders shrug off blunt force with greater ease. Air-wielders can endure high speeds, crushing wind pressures, even thin oxygen. These resistances vary by individual, but they’re your first layer of defense. ”
He clicks a lever on the podium, and a video of water freezing into solid ice flashes onto the screen behind him.
“State manipulation—heating or freezing your element at will—is a rare skill that takes years of advanced study to achieve. And almost unheard of is full-spectrum mastery: controlling the solid, liquid, and gaseous forms of your element interchangeably.”
The room is silent, every student carefully copying down notes.
“And rarer than that”—he lowers his voice conspiratorially—“is elemental fusion: merging your element with an object, a tool, or even another Magick to create something entirely new. Only a handful of Magicks in history have ever actually achieved it. It’s dangerous and even deadly if not done correctly.
It is a lost art. But perhaps lost for a reason. ”
Wait, what did he just say?
I feel a tide rising inside me, something bolting upright and alert.
Fusion. Merging your element with another.
A lost art.
A dangerous one.
He steps down from the podium and begins to pace slowly in front of us, hands clasped behind his back.
“Over the next term, you will learn to sense the subtle currents of your element, to work with its natural tendencies rather than against them. You will practice projection until it becomes second nature, then experiment with defense and resistance drills. If you excel—and show the discipline and respect required—some of you may glimpse state manipulation before graduation.” He pauses beneath the symbol mobile, which is casting tiny shadows on the ceiling. “Any questions?”
A barrage of hands rise. And I’m grateful to slink back behind my fellow students as they eagerly discuss theory and ask questions specifically related to their elements.
Meanwhile, my mind is racing. Everything he described—the rarity of certain types of magick, the sheer impossibility of what some wielders can do—is going to make this year more complicated than I thought.
Professor Barrows’s words repeat through my mind.
Elemental fusion. A lost art. But perhaps lost for a reason.
I glance down at the sapphire ring on my hand, brushing the gemstone, feeling a vibration against my skin like the rumble of water rushing underground.
Was that what we did? I silently ask the ghost of the boy I once knew.
Wherever he is, he doesn’t answer. But his old warnings echo louder now, each one ringing with a truth I was too young to grasp back then. That there is a kind of magick that shouldn’t exist in me, and yet it does.
Something cold coils inside my chest, creeping into every vein until my whole body feels wrong, like something waiting to wake fully.
And I can’t shake the sense that this place, this school, is watching.
Waiting. Whispering, like it knows that whatever I am, it isn’t what I’ve been pretending to be.