Chapter 4
FOUR
LINDSAY
By the time I reach Runic Arts, my legs are shaking. Not just from climbing half a dozen staircases, though that doesn’t help.
Combat Casting wrung me out. Magic still hums under my skin, half-awake, like it wants another fight. My pulse hasn’t fully settled. My brain definitely hasn’t.
And the constant whispers followed me.
“Did you hear? She hit Raiden.”
“Not trained. No house.”
“Human.”
I grit my teeth and shove the door open. I’m going to lose my shit if they keep gossiping like junior high kids.
Runic Arts looks nothing like the arena.
The room is warm, softly lit by hovering globes that pulse faintly with light. Long stone tables stretch in rows. Shelves packed with rune-etched stones, vellum scrolls, jars of powdered herbs and crystal line the walls. The air smells faintly of old parchment and something metallic.
I let out a slow breath.
Okay. This, at least, feels less like a fight waiting to happen. I pick an empty seat near the middle. Not too close to the front. Not too far back. Safe zone.
A few other students file in, still whispering. I catch another sideways glance, another murmur I can’t quite make out.
Whatever. Let them talk.
I’m dropping my bag onto the table when someone falls into the seat next to me. Literally topples into it. There’s a clatter, a muttered curse, and a flash of papers as the guy tries to untangle himself from his own bag strap.
I blink.
He’s tall and lean, tousled brown hair falling into his face. Glasses slightly crooked, with deep chocolate eyes behind them. And a fine dusting of day old scruff along his jawline. A worn notebook clutched in one hand. He glances over, cheeks flushing pink.
“Hi. Sorry. Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. I’m, uh—hi.”
The words tumble out too fast.
I blink again, then feel a laugh slip out before I can stop it. The guy straightens, pushing his glasses up with one finger, looking flustered but determined.
“I’m Nolan,” he says, this time slower. “Nolan Porter. Just Nolan is fine. You’re…Lindsay, right?”
I nod, still fighting a smile. “Yeah.”
He lets out a breath like he just passed a test.
“Good. I, uh, heard about Combat Casting. Not in a creepy way! Just—word gets around. Fast.”
His ears are turning pink now. For the first time all morning, some of the tension in my chest loosens.
“Well,” I say, grinning, “it’s been a hell of a first day.”
Nolan laughs, the sound a little too loud, a little too relieved. But genuine.
“Yeah,” he says. “Welcome to Blackthorn. Where the monsters don’t play nice.”
Nolan shoves a few scrolls and a battered notebook onto the table, still pink in the ears. He fumbles with his quill, drops it, catches it mid-fall, then immediately knocks over an ink pot already sitting on the table.
I catch it before it tips fully.
“Whoa.” I grin, handing it back. “You okay there?”
He laughs, pushing his glasses up again. “I’m fine. Just… first day. Nerves.”
I arch a brow. “You look like you’ve been here longer than me.”
“I have,” he admits sheepishly. “Second year. Doesn’t mean the nerves go away.”
That earns a small, genuine smile from me.
“You’re not like the others,” I say before I can think better of it.
Nolan shrugs, giving me a lopsided smile. “Yeah. I’m not First blood or a legacy. I, uh… earned a place here on scholarship. Barely.”
He ducks his head, then glances up at me, eyes bright with curiosity behind his crooked glasses.
“I mean…neither are you, right? First blood, I mean. I don’t think…” he trails off, looking horrified at his own words.
I laugh, the sound surprising both of us. “Yeah. You can say it. Human.”
Nolan winces. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—I just…people are idiots. That’s all. And you're as rare as a unicorn here.”
The awkward rush of words makes me smile wider.
“It’s fine. I’m getting used to it. I've always been different. Although, usually it’s me being the asshole, not other people.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath.
“Well, for what it’s worth…I’m glad you’re here.”
I pause, caught off guard. “Thanks.”
Before either of us can say more, the door swings open with a low thrum of magic. Students straighten. Conversations hush.
Professor Marris enters, robes trailing, silver runes glinting along her sleeves.
But even as I shift to attention, I can feel Nolan’s sideways glance. Not hostile, but curious.
The door closes with a soft hum, sealing the room.
Professor Marris strides to the front, movements graceful and deliberate.
She’s tall and willowy, silver-streaked hair pinned back with rune-etched combs.
Her robes shimmer faintly, layered in deep charcoal and indigo, sleeves traced with delicate shards of glass of different colors and shapes.
Her presence is quieter than the other professors so far, but no less commanding.
She lifts a hand. Without a word, the globes overhead pulse, the glow brightening over the tables.
“Welcome to Runic Arts,” she says. “In this class, you will learn the foundational languages of magic.”
A flick of her fingers, and glowing runes bloom mid-air—intricate, shifting symbols that pulse in rhythm with her words.
“Runes are the bones beneath the body of spell-craft,” she continues. “They bind. They shape. They endure long after raw magic fades. Without them all you have is a pretty illusion.”
I stare, breath caught. The symbols move like they’re alive, forming elegant patterns in the air. Nothing in Combat Casting felt like this. This is precision. Art. Beauty.
Professor Marris gestures again. The runes scatter into smaller glyphs, each drifting down to settle on the surface of the tables.
“You will begin with the basics,” she says. “Form, intent, flow.”
Around me, quills come out. Scrolls unroll. Students shift into work mode. At my side, Nolan is already scribbling in his battered notebook, mouth moving soundlessly as he traces shapes with his finger.
He catches me watching and flushes.
“I, um… I practice the stroke order,” he whispers. “Makes it stick. I remember it better.”
I grin. “Whatever works.”
He hesitates, then leans in a little. “If you need help, just…let me know. I'm really good at this.”
The offer is awkward, a little rushed. But genuine. For the first time since I stepped through that damn portal, someone other than Tamsin is being nice.
I nod. “Thanks. I might take you up on that.”
Nolan beams, then nearly knocks over his ink pot again in his excitement. I bite back a laugh and turn my attention to the glowing rune still hovering above my parchment.
As I focus on it, the symbol sinks lower, settling into the paper.
The lines pulse faintly, glowing against the parchment.
I stare, unsure what to do next, until Nolan nudges me gently and holds up his quill.
He gestures toward mine, raising his brows in silent encouragement as he lowers his to his paper.
Right. Trace it.
I dip my quill into the ink, but when I lift it out, a splatter of black drops scatter across the desk and my paper. Nolan chuckles softly. Before I can apologize, his hand covers mine, warm and steady. Without a word, he guides my hand back toward the ink pot, fingers light on my wrist.
Together, he helps me lower the quill, then taps it gently against the rim, showing the right motion to knock off the excess ink.
“Like this,” he murmurs, voice low and a little breathless. “You want to knock the extra ink off.”
The simple contact and his quiet patience sends a flutter of butterflies through my stomach. When he lets go, my hand feels lighter.
I glance sideways and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. He’s grinning now, still flushed, still a little shy but so adorable I can't help the answering smile that pulls at my lips. The tremble in my hand eases, but the buzz of lingering magic under my skin makes it hard to breathe evenly.
The rune on my parchment pulses faintly, waiting. I draw in a slow steady breath and lower the tip of the quill to the first glowing line. The ink catches the light and shimmers faintly as it touches the rune.
I start tracing.
Slow. Careful. The shape curves under my hand, flowing smoother than I expect. But as the last stroke connects, the rune flares. Not bright, but clearer than the others around us. A faint pulse of heat moves through the table, up my arm, making the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
I yank the quill back instinctively. The rune fades slightly. I did that. Beside me, Nolan lets out a soft breath.
“Whoa,” he whispers. His eyes are wide, flicking from the rune to me. “That’s…you felt that too, right? That’s a perfect rune.”
I nod, pulse quickening again.
“I—yeah.”
Across the room, Professor Marris’s gaze lifts from another student’s parchment. Her eyes flick toward me. She shifts her attention to my rune and then back to me. Then focuses back on the student in front of her as if whatever my rune is doing isn’t unusual.
I shift in my seat, trying to look normal, but the rune still glows faintly beneath my ink. And the hum under my skin hasn’t faded at all.
Around us, voices start up again. Soft, but loud enough for me to catch them.
“Did you see that?”
“Too strong for a first trace.”
The words crawl under my skin, cold and unwanted. I grip my quill tighter, knuckles white. I thought I hated people. I guess I hate monsters too.
Then Nolan leans in slightly and whispers, “They, uh…they talk about everyone. It’s not a big deal. Totally normal,” he says quickly, though his eyes flick toward the nearest cluster of whispering students.
Not exactly convincing. I glance at him. He’s flushed again, glasses sliding a little down his nose, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his notebook. He’s so sweet; it’s so opposite of everything else today that I feel a real laugh bubbling up.
I let it out softly. “You’re a terrible liar, you know.”