Jade
Three weeks since the Void Pit.
One more win. That’s all I need to avoid kitchen and grounds duty for next semester.
As it is now, half of the first-years had the same idea as me—come to the library on a Saturday morning to catch up on the studying we’ve been ignoring for combat training.
The place looks like a refugee camp for the academically desperate.
Rebecca’s in the corner, surrounded by what looks like every Pyropsychology text ever written.
Sam’s building some kind of fort out of his books, probably trying to hide from Vera after she destroyed him in yesterday’s match.
I’ve claimed a corner table, surrounding myself with piles of textbooks and notes. My Flame & Dominion essay about treaties between supernatural creatures sits in front of me, half-finished and making about as much sense as my electricity magic.
The words blur together as I try to focus, but my mind keeps drifting to last night.
To Logan’s hands on my skin. The way he held me when he corrected my stances. The way our faces got so close during that last defensive drill that I swear he was a second away from kissing me again.
Then, like always, he pulled back.
I slam my book shut harder than necessary, earning a glare from Rebecca.
“Sorry,” I mouth at her, then bury my face in my hands.
Get it together, Jade. You’re here to study, not to pine over your emotionally unavailable combat instructor who happens to kiss like—
“Working hard, I see.”
I jump, nearly dropping my pen. Professor Thaddeus stands beside my table, that perpetual half-smile on his face that never quite reaches his eyes.
“Professor.” I straighten in my chair, trying to look like I wasn’t just fantasizing about Logan. “I didn’t hear you coming.”
“A common problem in this library.” He glances at my scattered papers, and his expression shifts to something that might be concern. “However, I came over here for a reason. Because I must admit, I’ve noticed your performance in my class has been... declining.”
Great. One more thing I’m failing at.
“I’ve been focusing on Kieran’s tournament. But I’m catching up, I promise.” I gesture to the pile of books as evidence. “See? Books. Lots of them. I’m practically drowning in knowledge over here.”
“Indeed.” He’s holding a leather-bound book, his fingers drumming against its spine. “I thought this one might also be helpful for your studies.”
He holds it out to me, and I take it carefully. The leather is soft with age, and embossed letters spell out the title: Divine Interference in Mortal Magic.
“That’s... specific.” I turn the book over in my hands.
“It discusses mortals throughout history who were blessed by higher powers. Individuals whose magic didn’t fit the traditional categories.
” He watches my reaction closely. “It’s presented as mythology—ancient stories, folklore, that sort of thing.
But sometimes...” He pauses. “Sometimes old stories hold more truth than we realize.”
My heart all but stops.
“Are you giving me this for my Magical Legacies essay?” I ask, my voice coming out steadier than I feel.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps just for your own edification.” He leans in slightly, like he’s sharing a secret. “Knowledge always finds its way to those who need it most, Miss Harrington. Even knowledge we don’t yet know we’re seeking.”
With that cryptic gem, he glides away from me and disappears between the stacks of books.
I wait until his footsteps fade completely before opening the book.
The first few pages are dense with archaic language. Something about divine vessels and celestial conduits that sounds more like religious propaganda than magical theory.
Then I reach a page with an illustration that makes me stop breathing.
A goddess wreathed in storm clouds, electricity crackling from her fingertips. The artwork is beautiful, but it’s the woman’s face that makes my blood run cold.
T.
Not someone who looks like T. Not a distant cousin or ancestor.
This is T’s face staring back at me from a page that looks centuries old.
Same sharp cheekbones. Same piercing eyes.
Same way of holding herself like the air bends to her will.
Same mischievous smile that made me feel excited on every flight.
The caption beneath reads: Tempest, Storm Goddess, Daughter of Selene.
No way. This cannot be happening.
I flip to the next page with shaking hands, reading what’s written on it.
When the stars align and darkness rises, four daughters of Selene will choose their champions. Sun, Moon, Star, and Storm—each selecting a mortal vessel to carry their light against the coming darkness. Only when all four unite can the balance be restored.
The rest of the page has been torn out.
This is insane. Completely, utterly insane. There has to be another explanation for T’s face staring back at me from an ancient book other than her being a literal goddess.
Maybe she has an ancestor who looked exactly like her. Maybe this is a cosmic coincidence. Maybe I’m hallucinating from magical exhaustion and too much coffee. Maybe someone slipped something in my coffee. Maybe—
But even as I grasp for rational explanations, I remember the storm. The way T touched my forehead and something changed inside me, electricity singing through my veins like it had come home.
Was she watching me the whole time? Waiting? Planning?
As the questions race through my mind, a voice whispers in my ear, one I remember from the Underworld trial.
She’s been waiting for you since before you were born. Your parents never had a choice in hiring her.
What did they say next? I don’t remember. There were so many voices, and I was focusing so hard on blocking them out that they’ve blended together by now.
Could my parents have known? Were they hiding this from me the entire time?
No, they couldn’t have. Although now that I think about it, they never questioned how T could fly through any weather. Or why she never seemed to age. Or why she always knew exactly when storms were coming.
I press my palms against my eyes hard enough to see stars. This is too much. First, I find out magic exists. Then I discover I have impossible electricity powers. Now my pilot is a goddess who might have chosen me as her champion for a cosmic war?
My chest tightens, and I have to fight for each breath. Because no. No way. I’m not equipped for this. I don’t want this. Why the hell would I be chosen for this? Why not Nina, or Evie, or Vera, or even Callie? Aren’t they all far more qualified than I am?
Deep breaths, I think. You’re in a library. Libraries are safe. Libraries are normal. Libraries definitely don’t contain books that reveal your entire life has been orchestrated by divine beings.
But it’s harder to breathe now than ever. The walls of the library are closing in on me, the sounds of pages turning and pens on paper suddenly so loud that they’re nails scratching deep into my brain, making it impossible to think.
I need to get it together.
So, I turn to a technique one of my therapists gave me over the years: grounding myself in my surroundings to center myself.
Think about five things I can see: books, stressed students, Sam’s fort, that weird stain on the ceiling that looks like a phoenix, my coffee getting cold.
Four things I can feel: the leather book under my hands, my nails digging into my palm, the hard chair, my heart trying to escape my chest. Three things I can hear: pages turning, someone muttering about Pyropsychology, my own panicked breathing.
Two things I can smell: old books and coffee. One thing I can taste: fear.
Okay, that last one wasn’t helpful. But still, the technique does help, and as the world comes back into focus, I zero in on the table that used to be Miles’s territory. I’d catch him watching me from there sometimes, like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve.
Did he know? Did something about me scream her family’s pilot is a storm goddess who gave her magic that no witch should have?
Now some second-year sits there, chewing on her pen and looking bored.
When did Miles’s spot become just another table?
I’ve been so caught up in Kieran’s tournament that I didn’t realize until now that the whispers about Miles’s death have faded.
No more hushed conversations in the hallways.
No more theories about who killed him and why.
No more nervous glances at the restricted section where his body was found.
It’s been what, five weeks? And it’s already like he never existed. Like someone being murdered in the restricted archives is just another Tuesday at Blaze Academy.
I’m finally returning my focus to the book when a chair scrapes across from me, and someone starts to sit down.
Avery Chambers. Oliver’s emberlinked partner. She settles into the chair with practiced grace, her honey blonde hair caught back in a simple silver clip.
“Hi.” Her smile is warm, but there’s something determined in her brown eyes. “Mind if I join you?”
“Um, sure?” I slide the divine interference book under my Flame & Dominion textbook, trying to look casual.
“Saturday morning studying.” She glances at my disaster of papers. “The tournament really is wrecking every first-year’s schedule.”
“Tell me about it.” I shift in my chair, trying to figure out why she’s really here. Because no one makes small talk about study schedules unless they want something, right? “What’s going on?”
“I wanted to talk to you about something.” Her voice goes higher, just slightly. “I heard Oliver might invite you to tonight’s Forge Night party.”
“There’s a party tonight?”
“You didn’t know?” Relief flashes across her face. “It’s at the Scorched Circles. Should be fun. Fire displays, drinking, the usual recipe for questionable decisions.” She pauses. “Oliver loves making sure everyone’s included.”
The way she says it—practiced, like she’s explained away his attention to new girls a hundred times before—makes my heart hurt a little. But I can hardly focus on that, because if the party’s at the Scorched Circles, Logan and I won’t be able to train tonight.
Disappointment fills my chest. Because even though the training sessions are exhausting, seeing Logan is the big thing I look forward to each day. Our time together gives me faith that I can get through anything Blaze Academy throws at me, and that there’s someone on my side here, always.
“That’s nice of him,” I finally say, trying to be as diplomatic as possible.
“Oliver’s wonderful that way.” Avery’s fingers find each other in her lap, twisting together. “The thing is, he and I are emberlinked.”
“I know,” I say carefully.
Obviously I know. Everyone knows.
“Right. Of course.” Her laugh comes out shaky. “It’s just that I worry about him sometimes. He trusts everyone so easily and gets excited about new people without thinking about consequences.”
“Consequences?” The word comes out sharper than I intended.
“Emberlinked pairs share everything.” Her voice drops.
“Joy, pain, heartbreak. When he’s happy, I feel it.
When he hurts...” She shrugs, trying for casual and missing by miles.
“Something’s been off with him recently, and I’m worried he’s getting attached to someone who might not feel the same way. ”
Oh. That’s what this is about. She thinks I’m going to break Oliver’s heart.
At least this is something I won’t have to lie about.
“Trust me, there’s no need to worry.” I keep my voice gentle. “I’m not even going to the party tonight.”
Her whole body sags with relief. “You’re not?”
“No. I’ve got essays to write and tournament matches to train for.” I gesture at my book fortress. “Besides, Oliver’s great, but he’s not...” I trail off before I say that he’s not Logan. “It’s not like that between us.”
“Right. Good.” Avery stands quickly, nearly knocking her chair over. “I’m sorry. This was stupid. I shouldn’t have come over here.”
“It’s fine. And for what it’s worth,” I add as she turns to go, “Oliver’s lucky to have you as a partner. Even if he doesn’t see it yet.”
She pauses, something flickering across her face. “Thanks, Jade. And... sorry again.”
Then she’s gone, her vanilla perfume lingering like a ghost.
I shake my head and return my focus to the book Thad gave me.
T’s impossible face stares up from ancient pages, and I realize I’ve been running from one impossible situation to another all morning.
My pilot is a goddess. My professor might know something he shouldn’t.
My heart belongs to someone who won’t take it.
And I still have a Flame & Dominion essay to write.
One crisis at a time, I think, shoving the divine interference book into my bag and pulling my textbook closer, forcing myself to focus on treaty negotiations between vampires and witches in the 1800s.
It’s boring as hell, but at least it’s straightforward.
No hidden meanings, no torn pages, and no faces that shouldn’t exist staring up from ancient texts.
Just dates, signatures, and the careful dance of supernatural politics.
Whatever Thad meant by giving me that book, whatever game he’s playing, I’ll figure it out. Eventually. When I’m not drowning in homework, combat training, and constantly trying to contain my forbidden magic in an imaginary glass sphere.
Focus, I remind myself. Treaty negotiations. Vampires. Witches. 1800s. You can do this.
And I do. Sort of. I manage three whole pages about blood rights and territorial disputes before my mind drifts back to Logan. To T. To the word “champion” that keeps echoing in my head.
But that’s future Jade’s problem.
Current Jade has an essay to write and a tournament to survive.