Jade
All twenty-four first-years crowd around the Emberhearth, the flames shifting colors so fast it’s dizzying. Orange to red to blue to purple to green and back again, like a magical mood ring on steroids.
“Look at that,” Sam whispers beside me, adjusting his glasses. “The emotional resonance must be overwhelming the flame’s natural state. I read that when the emotions in the common room strongly conflict, the Emberhearth can’t choose—it just cycles through everything.”
A girl with copper skin and a halo of tight curls leans over. “My sister said her year’s ceremony looked like a rainbow exploded. The hearth’s been reading student emotions for centuries, so it sometimes gets overwhelmed by all that accumulated feeling.”
“Centuries?” I glance at the ancient stones surrounding the fire pit, the carvings worn smooth. “How long has this thing been burning?”
“Since the academy’s founding a thousand years ago. They say the first witches lit it with pure emotional flame—grief for what they’d lost, and hope for what they’d build.” She shudders. “The flames remember every feeling that’s passed through this room since.”
“Your sister went here?” Garrett perks up, predictably latching onto the family connection instead of the history lesson. I’ve seen enough people do it in the city to know the signs.
“Goes here,” she corrects him. “She’s a second-year. Deidre Mitchell. Watch out—she’ll recruit you for a dozen clubs before sundown.” She turns and offers me her hand, giving me what looks like a real smile. “I’m Lauren. You’re the Harrington girl, right? Jade?”
Before I can craft a sarcastic response about my already stellar reputation around this place, the flames flare white-hot, forcing us all to step back.
“Silence.”
Headmistress Constance appears at the edge of the circle like she walked straight out of the fire’s shadow. Her presence bends the air, and the flames bow as if even they know who’s in charge.
Logan stands beside her in black robes that make him look untouchable, sculpted in firelight. But when his eyes catch mine for half a breath, they’re haunted, almost in warning. It’s the kind of look that says he knows something I don’t—and that I won’t like what he’s hiding.
My heart pounds, but no matter how many more times I glance at him, he refuses to look my way again.
“The Emberhearth reflects emotion,” Constance announces, her voice carrying over the crackling flames. “As you can see, your collective state is currently... chaotic.”
The flames pulse, shifting through yellow, blue, and dark green in the span of a heartbeat.
“As first-years, controlling your emotions will be fundamental to controlling your magic,” she continues.
“They are inextricably linked. Master one, master both. Fail at one…” She lets the fire speak for her, the crackling roar loud enough to make a few students flinch.
Then, she gestures to Logan. “Proctor Ashford, if you would demonstrate.”
Logan steps forward, and I hate the way my pulse reacts just from watching him move. He pauses at the edge of the hearth, shoulders rigid, then exhales slowly and walks into the flames.
They swallow him whole, and for a terrifying second, I can’t breathe. Then I remember that walking into fire and traveling by fire is an everyday activity around here, and I relax slightly.
A second later, the flames settle into a perfect, steady orange. Neutral. Balanced. Controlled.
“This,” Constance says, “is mastery. When each of you enters to receive your sigil, the flames will reveal your emotional state. Try to maintain control. If you cannot…” She pauses, eyes gleaming. “The Emberhearth will ensure you remember the lesson.”
A nervous shuffle ripples through the circle.
“I’ll call you alphabetically.” She unfurls a scroll. “When your name is spoken, enter the hearth and join Proctor Ashford. He’ll administer your Kindling sigil—the mark of first-years. Only after receiving it will you be true Blaze students, able to access the academy’s halls and its magic.”
Nervous chattering sounds throughout the room.
“What, exactly, is a proctor?” I whisper to Evie.
She glances at me, her eyes sparkling, as if she knows exactly why I asked about Logan.
“Think of him like the student body president. The senior elected to track minor infractions, take disciplinary action before issues are brought to the faculty, provide student mediation, give morning announcements, and to bring student concerns to the staff when warranted,” she explains, and I nod, since the real-world example makes sense.
Constance clears her throat to silence everyone, then begins. “Nina Aldridge.”
Nina steps forward without hesitation, her chin high. The moment she enters the fire, the flames turn deep forest green.
“Ambition,” Constance says. “Hunger for power and knowledge. A dangerous emotion if not tempered with wisdom.”
About three minutes pass before Nina emerges, flexing her right palm where a small flame symbol now glows against her skin. She looks smug, like she’s already won a competition no one else knew they were playing.
“Henry Baker,” Constance calls next.
Henry practically bounces into the fire, which immediately turns bright gold.
“Excitement. Anticipation. Youth’s enthusiasm.” Constance’s tone suggests this isn’t entirely a compliment.
More names. More colors. I try to memorize what each means as Constance announces them.
“Elizabeth Bradley.” Pale blue flames. “Loneliness. Isolation. The academy will cure that.”
“Gabriel Dumont.” Deep crimson. “Anger. Learn to channel it, or it will consume you.”
One by one, each student emerges with the same small flame marking their right palm. Some look proud. Others unsettled.
“Rebecca Gibson.”
A mousy girl with trembling hands approaches the flames. The second she gets close, they turn dark violet, and she freezes.
“Fear the fire,” Constance says, “and the fire will burn you.”
Rebecca jerks back, crying out when flames lick her wrist, leaving a red welt.
“Again,” Constance orders.
Tears streak Rebecca’s face, but she forces herself through this time, disappearing into the hearth. When she emerges a few minutes later, her hand is healed, the sigil glowing faintly.
“A lesson learned,” Constance says. “Next. Jade Harrington.”
The sound of my name slides like knives across my skin, every syllable heavy with expectation and doubt. My stomach plummets further as whispers ripple through the room.
Harrington. Dead bloodline. Clueless. Doesn’t belong.
It feels like I’m burning before I’ve even touched the fire. But despite the weight of their stares, I force my feet to move. Heat builds with every step until sweat beads on my brow, the fire looming large as it prepares to swallow me whole.
What will the flames show? Fear? Confusion? The storm that’s been buzzing in my veins since lightning struck the jet and T touched my forehead?
I have no idea. But if I show any hint of hesitation, it will fuel the gossip train even further.
So, I reach the edge of the hearth, take a shaky breath, and step into the fire.