Chapter 13
Beneath every calm surface lies a current strong enough to drown. Mastery is knowing the depths you stir.
—The Art of Water Magick, Vol. I
It isn’t until the second week of school that we finally begin actual lessons in magick.
Aside from our classes in the Logistics building, where we meet as a full cohort, we’re now split into groups for Elemental Mastery I. Water-wielders meet at the Lakehouse, fire at the Caldera, earth at the Garden Grove, and air at what is known by students as the Mountain.
The Lakehouse stands with quiet elegance at the northern edge of Lake Caldrith.
Crafted from pale stone and smooth river wood painted a soft eggshell-white, it’s accented with light-blue shutters and trim, mirroring the colors of the sky and the lake beyond it.
The architecture is simple and clean—timeless and calming to the eye.
Two stories high with a pitched roof that slopes down gracefully, it has wide-set windows that line both floors, letting in an endless view of the lake.
A large open deck extends from the rear of the house, the cedar planks jutting out over the water, the wood gently weathered by decades of mist and rain. It too offers uninterrupted views of the ever-changing water.
At first glance, it is the perfect image of calmness and serenity. But as I step closer, I can feel the power under its stillness. Water, after all, can drown, carve stone, and pull entire ships under without warning.
In the courtyard stands a fountain carved from pale moonstone that glitters faintly in the afternoon sun.
The base is a wide, round pool, its edges wrapped in flowering vines.
Set into the stone is a brass plaque, worn at the edges as if countless fingers have traced it for comfort.
The inscription is simple, but it lands in me like something spoken aloud:
A tide-child is never lost. Return to the beginning—to wonder—and you will find your way home.
I look up to the heart of the fountain, where three mermaids rise from a curling wave of sculpted sea foam.
Their long tails coil together, forming the base of the sculpture.
Each mermaid faces a different direction—a trinity of elemental wisdom.
I find myself drawn to them, taking in their expressions, carved so delicately they seem alive somehow.
Their lips brush over words I can’t hear but desperately want to know.
Whispering of pasts seen and futures unknown.
A bell rings out—low and resonant, like the kind you hear in temple courtyards. It ripples through the air, a single perfect note.
The illusion shatters, and I blink—the fountain is just stone and water again.
I slowly walk past it and into the Lakehouse.
* * *
The class is a mix of first- and second-year water elementals. Twenty of us in total.
Professor Ondine Neris is in her late sixties and carries herself with the grace of still, deep water.
Long, white hair flows down her back, her pale skin so smooth it looks almost luminous.
But it is her eyes that stand out—so light blue they look nearly translucent.
It’s almost unnerving. Like she’s not from this world but perhaps lives beneath the surface of the lake itself.
She wears a flowing dress of layered blue silk with a simple belt made of rope to give it shape.
On her left wrist are two ornate seashell bangles, her only adornment.
Long rows of bleached wood desks with matching chairs take up the bottom floor of the house. In front of each student stands two glass cups, one empty and the other full of water.
“We start simple today.” Her voice is melodic, like the sound of a river moving over stones.
“Move the water from one cup to the other without spilling a drop,” she commands.
“Second-years, this should be review from last year, but a good way to wake up your magick if you haven’t been practicing over summer.
” Her pale eyes sweep across the classroom as more than a few students look down at their desks. “You may begin.”
Okay, I think. This is easy. Just focus, Celeste.
Gavrail’s face instantly comes to my mind. “See, it’s just like breathing, Cel. The water? It’s an extension of you. You and it are the same. See what you want in your mind, then make it happen.”
The water in the cup starts to tremble and a thin stream of it stretches out from the glass, reaching toward the empty one as if in question. Waiting for me.
Okay. Now move, I tell it.
Crashes of glass sound all around me as students scramble away from their desks, stepping over broken shards and slipping on the now-spilled water that’s pooling across the classroom floor.
A boy in the row behind me was crossing the aisle when my magick flared. I wince as I watch his heel skid and see him go down—hard. There’s a sharp hiss of pain as his palm slices open on a jagged shard of glass. Crimson blooms bright, carried outward by the water in silent streams.
Shit. Not the impression I wanted to make. I casually knock over my glass so that it can join all the others in their sad, broken forms. I feign a look of surprise to Nate on my left so as not to draw attention to myself.
Professor Neris raises a single eyebrow, her expression unreadable.
With a flick of her fingers, she calls the scattered water to gracefully sweep up the broken crystal, collecting it all into a waiting bucket at the edge of the room.
She calls the injured student forward, inspecting his palm.
“It’s not too deep. But it will need tending.
” She waves to the door. “Head to Madame Ching at the infirmary.”
The boy cradles his bleeding hand against his chest and slips out of the room, his shoes squeaking on the damp floor. The door shuts with a hollow click. The sound reverberates in me longer than it should.
Professor Neris watches him leave before her eyes focus on me, lingering a heartbeat too long. “We are teaching precision here,” she says, her voice cool and crisp. “Not party tricks.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. The guilt pools deeper than the spilled water. I glance toward the boy’s now-empty seat. My fault. The words land heavy in my chest as I send a silent apology his way, but I keep my focus on my desk.
Neris hands out more glasses and pitchers of water. By the end of class, I have mastered the task. The water obeys—smooth, clean, controlled—but my head throbs from the effort of concentrating so hard.
I need to learn better control.
My power is now too tangled in warnings and restraint.
With Gavrail, my magick used to be pure instinct and surrender.
Now it feels like walking a tightrope over water—one misstep, and I’m drowning.
Every moment demands discipline. Precision.
It’s a constant balancing act—holding the line between focus and flooding, control versus complete and utter chaos.
My father’s fears and Gavrail’s warnings echo in my head as I leave the classroom.
Professor Neris’s pale eyes follow me—too sharply to be merely coincidence. But all I keep seeing is the water I spilled, dragging the blood after it like a trophy it wanted to keep.