Jade
“First, your Applied Flamecraft professor, Kieran Cross.” Constance gestures to where Kieran sits to her left. “Who you’ve already met.”
The chandeliers drift lower, flames brightening to spotlight Kieran, who’s dressed in the same black fighting outfit he wore during the Hydra trial that leaves little of his lean, sculpted body to the imagination.
He leans back in his seat, lifts his chin slightly in acknowledgment, and scans over our table, assessing each one of us in what feels like a second. His hard expression gives away none of his thoughts.
“Next, Professor Thaddeus Morgrave,” Constance continues, and a man rises with genuine enthusiasm, silver threading through dark hair that curls slightly at his collar.
“Fire Philosophy and Practices,” he says, his voice warm. “We’ll explore the connection between emotion and flame, the difference between reacting and casting. Because magic isn’t just power. It’s understanding yourself and empathizing with others.”
The flames in the nearest chandelier soften to a gentle glow.
“Notice how the flames respond to my calm?” he asks. “Fire mirrors the soul. A witch who masters their emotions masters their magic. Those who let emotion control them...” He glances meaningfully at the flickering flames. “Well, the fire reveals all truths.”
“Thank you, Professor Morgrave.” Constance nods for him to take his seat. “Now, onto Professor Lydia Rousseau.”
The woman who rises makes everyone else look like they rolled out of bed five minutes ago. Her sleek red hair is twisted into a perfect chignon, and her embroidered robes look like they were handstitched by a Parisian dressmaker she probably has on speed dial.
“Pyropsychology.” Her French accent transforms the word into something elegant and slightly terrifying. “We begin with emotional mirroring and empathetic casting. By year’s end, you’ll fully understand how fire and mind interconnect, and how your own emotions may become the weapon you fear most.”
Dread sinks into my stomach at the ominousness of that last part.
Constance gives her a nod, looks to the person next to Lydia, and continues, “Professor Delia Carver.”
A woman in a black layered dress fumbles to her feet, nearly knocking over her water glass in the process. Ink stains decorate her fingers like abstract art, and silver-white hair escapes what was probably once a bun but now looks more like a bird’s nest.
She pushes thick glasses up her nose with the nervous gesture of someone perpetually overwhelmed.
“Flame and Dominion—the politics and history of fire magic.” Her voice starts soft, gaining strength as she continues.
“We’ll explore how witches have shaped the supernatural world, from the ancient covens to the creation of our shifter Guardians to modern treaty negotiations.
History isn’t just memorizing dates—it’s understanding power.
I’ll also teach your first-year specialty class, The Fire Within.
” She brightens, her glasses sliding down again.
“Did you know that every witch’s flame has an emotional signature?
Like a fingerprint, but made of feelings.
By year’s end, you’ll know exactly what feeds your fire, and what starves it.
It’s my favorite course because—oh.” She catches Constance’s sharp look. “Right. Brief introductions.”
She drops into her chair so fast she nearly misses it.
I like her already. At least I’m not the only hot mess around here.
Constance gives Delia a small, seemingly pleased smile, then turns her focus to a plump woman at the end of the table. “And finally, our healer, Nana.”
Nana waves cheerfully, her silver hair pinned in a bun decorated with what looks like flame-shaped hairpins. “Come see me for everything from training injuries to broken hearts,” she calls out with a wide grin. “I always have tea brewing and warm cookies waiting.”
Well, at least when Kieran destroys my body and soul tomorrow, I’ll know where to crawl.
Constance gives Nana a satisfied nod, then turns back to look at our table. “Your complete schedules, along with the materials you’ll need for your classes, await you in Phoenix Hall. I suggest you review them carefully.”
She sits with the fluid grace of someone who’s never stumbled in her life. Then, as if on cue, servers emerge from hidden doors along the walls, carrying what smells distinctly like herbs and meat, delicious enough to make my neglected stomach roar.
They head to the fourth-year table first.
Perfectly seared steaks sizzle on cast iron plates. Roasted vegetables glisten with butter and herbs. Goblets brim with red wine.
The third-years get served next. Still impressive, although not quite as decadent. The second-years’ food looks like what you’d find at a typical college dining hall, similar to what we were served back at Dalton.
The mystery meat on our plates, however, suggests it died twice and was rejected by subway rats. The vegetables sag in defeat. And inside our goblets sloshes the palest excuse for white wine I’ve ever seen.
“They don’t always give us wine,” Evie tells me with a smile that shows she’s trying to find a positive in a clearly negative situation. “Only for special occasions.”
“This is bullshit,” Garrett declares, holding up a slab of gray-tinged meat that keeps its shape even when vertical.
Sort of agreeing with him, I prod the thing that might generously be called chicken. The smell isn’t bad, exactly—just bland, like someone described seasoning to the cook through a very long game of telephone.
“Your bracelet.” Evie’s fingers brush my wrist. “It’s gorgeous. Where did you get it?”
“I made it.” I glance down at the hammered gold cuff, firelight dancing across its surface. The metal work took me three weeks to perfect, each tiny dent precisely placed to catch light.
Nina leans over from her chair in the center section of the table, apparently wanting a better look. “You made it yourself?”
“It’s kind of my thing.” Warmth blooms in my chest at their interest. None of my friends in the city ever cared about, or seemed to even like, my jewelry at all. “I’ve been making jewelry since I was twelve.”
“Amazing.” Evie tilts my wrist, studying the details. “Do you have more?”
I lift my other hand, showing the rings I crafted last summer. Silver bands with tiny flames etched into them.
Felix studies the rings with an artist’s eye, charcoal-stained fingers hovering close. “This is really good work. Like, professionally good.”
“Thanks.” I give him a genuine smile. “If we survive tomorrow, maybe I’ll make you all something.”
“When we survive tomorrow,” Evie corrects firmly.
The conversation shifts to tomorrow’s combat assessment, voices dropping as people share half-whispered rumors about Kieran’s teaching methods. The Scorched Circles—his training grounds—are a big deal, although everyone talks about them so quickly that I’m barely able to keep up, let alone join in.
Eventually, dessert is served. For us at the first-year tables, berries that look like they’re hours away from needing to be thrown in the trash. I poke at them a bit, searching for ones that look somewhat edible, and failing miserably.
Apparently, serving first-years food like this is supposed to “build our character,” but I’m not sure how developing scurvy helps anyone’s magical education.
“Surprise!” A hand slides over my shoulder, and suddenly a plate of silky chocolate cake appears in front of me. “Can’t have the first-years suffering too much on their first night. Especially not my sister’s beautiful new roommate.”
Oliver winks at me before moving on, as casual as breathing, as if he didn’t just save me from dessert despair.
“Did he just—” Felix stares at the cake like it might vanish.
“Told you he’d come through.” Evie grins. “Oliver always keeps his promises.”
The three of us share the deliciously perfect cake, and for a moment, things don’t seem quite so terrible. But as we’re scraping the last bits of chocolate frosting off the plate, someone clears their throat behind me.
“Jade Harrington?”
I turn to find a guy about Logan’s age. Sandy hair falls across his sharp features, and something in his hazel eyes makes my skin prickle. It’s like being analyzed by a particularly intelligent predator.
“Yes?” I watch him closely, prepared for anything.
“Interesting timing earlier.” His tone is polite enough, but there’s an edge beneath it. “When Logan showed up while Callie was... agitating you.”
“Student mediation is part of the proctor’s job,” Evie says quickly.
“Of course.” His focus stays on me, unnerving in its intensity, and the chandeliers above us brighten slightly. “Just like saving first-years during the Hydra trial is part of the job.”
“Isn’t it literally the proctor’s job to keep students safe?” I glare at him, since I’m tired, stressed, and in no mood to be taunted about my humiliating public crush on Logan again. “I don’t understand why everyone’s talking about his saving my life during the Hydra trial like it’s a bad thing.”
He pauses for a second, toying with something shiny inside his jacket pocket.
“It’s not bad because he saved your life.
It’s bad because the wards have never failed.
Ever. Which makes me wonder…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, instead simply extending a hand.
“Anyway, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Miles Deveraux. Logan’s emberlinked partner.”
Oh.
“Jade.” I force myself to shake his hand, surprised by how cold it is. “Harrington.”
“Yes. We’ve covered that already,” he says slowly, as if he’s speaking to a child, and I realize with a flash of embarrassment that this entire conversation started with him saying my name.
“Nice to meet you,” I lie, yanking my hand out of his before I accidentally shock him. “Did Logan send you over here?”
If he did… why would Logan send him over here? My heart beats faster at the possibilities, and I glance at the fourth-year section, where Logan looks visibly annoyed by a girl with strawberry blonde hair who’s animatedly speaking to him across the table.
“No,” Miles says, snapping my attention back to him. “I came here of my own accord. I was curious about the first-year who’s caught Logan’s attention so thoroughly.”
He stands there for another beat, his gaze like cold fingers on my spine, before turning suddenly and walking away.
“That was weird,” Felix mutters once he’s gone.
“Everything here is weird.” I drop my fork onto the thoroughly clean plate where the chocolate cake once sat. “I’m starting to think normal doesn’t exist at Blaze Academy.”
“Normal is overrated.” Evie bumps my shoulder with an encouraging smile. “Come on. Let’s head back and figure out our schedules. We need to be ready for whatever tomorrow throws at us.”