Chapter 15
Maeve
“ELEMENTAL CONTROL IS NOT MEASURED by the output of your magic, nor the sheer amount of power you can summon,” Professor Azula says from where she stands in the center of the elemental magic practice room. “It is precision that defines mastery.”
She begins to walk slowly around the room, her hands clasped behind her back, bright red hair pulled up into a sleek, tight bun atop her head. “If you cannot precisely control your magic, you will become victim to its whims.”
As she passes by me, her crimson eyes meet mine, and she gives me an almost imperceptible nod.
At my sides, my hands tingle.
My first- and second-year elemental magic classes were larger, with many more students.
But now that I’m a fourth-year, I’m in advanced classes, focused on our natural magical affinities.
This class only has six students, including Lyra, who stands across the room from me, arms crossed and one hip popped as her eyes track Professor Azula’s movement.
“Today, you will demonstrate control, not raw strength. Your task is simple: Use your elemental magic to cut along the line etched into your slate. This cut should be no wider than a hairline. No fractures.
“Each of you will perform individually. I will observe and note any mistakes. Begin only when you are fully composed.” She turns to a warlock with a water affinity. “Mr. Larke. When you’re ready.”
Percy looks visibly nervous—throat bobbing, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides.
From here, I can’t see what the line in his slate looks like, but mine curves along the stone, never moving in one straight line.
It makes sense that the other students are nervous—and Professor Azula’s hawkish gaze certainly doesn’t help—but I’m not concerned.
I’ve spent my life learning how to control my storm magic, learning how to guide the current of energy that tingles through my veins lest it explode in violent and disastrous ways.
Holding out his hands, Percy calls on his water magic, gathering moisture from the air before condensing it into one thin thread.
He uses this thread to carve into the slate, sweat gathering on his furrowed brow as he works.
Just when I think he must almost be done, a large chunk fractures and falls from his slate, crashing to the floor and making the other students jump.
The remaining chunk of slate has a jagged edge rather than a clean cut. Percy’s shoulders slump in defeat.
Professor Azula purses her lips, eyes narrowing. Then she moves on. “Miss Wilder.”
My chest squeezes.
Lyra has worked so hard to learn how to control her fire magic. Two years ago, she was on the verge of being expelled after one too many close calls with her flames. She’s come so far since then, and in my heart, I know she can do this.
It doesn’t make me any less nervous though.
Lyra’s eyes narrow, and she draws a deep breath. Then she lifts a hand, conjuring a flame into her palm.
“Fire should not leave scorch marks,” Professor Azula says. “Keep it contained.”
Lyra nods once, face focused. And then she begins, tracing her line through the slate with controlled threads of fire.
I bite my bottom lip, heart thudding hard as I watch her.
You’ve got this, Ly. Stay calm.
Her fire magic sends golden light flickering across her freckled face.
And though Professor Azula stands close, posture rigid, eyes sharp, Lyra doesn’t allow herself to become distracted.
And when the slate perfectly severs, the lines carved by fire smooth and curving, a small look of satisfaction crosses our professor’s face.
“Good, Miss Wilder.”
As Professor Azula moves on to the next student, Lyra looks up and meets my eyes. We grin at each other, and I give her a covert thumbs-up. I knew she could do it.
There are three more students to go. Two of them fracture their slate, like Percy, and one, an air witch, makes quick work of her slate, garnering rare praise from Professor Azula.
Then it’s my turn. And although it’s subtle, I note the way the other students—except for Lyra—step slightly back, giving me more space.
Storm magic is one of the rarest forms of elemental magic; no other fourth-years harness lightning. And it’s infamously dangerous, capable of enormous destruction. So really, I don’t blame them.
“Miss Vandermere,” Professor Azula says as she comes to stand beside me. Her eyes meet mine. “Prepare yourself.”
I draw a breath and close my eyes, grounding myself, reaching for the electrical currents running through my veins. My lightning is never far away, never difficult to grasp and manifest. It’s what happens after I manifest it that I’ve had to work so hard on.
The elemental magic practice room is enchanted to contain elemental magic, so there’s no risk of my lightning escaping and wreaking havoc on the campus, but to those standing around me, it poses a very real threat.
Professor Azula knows this, but she doesn’t falter or step away. When I open my eyes, she squares her shoulders and gives me a firm nod.
I call on my storm magic.
It starts with tingling in my palms as the electricity grows. Then thin white strands of energy begin to crackle and arc around my fingers.
“Control,” Professor Azula says softly.
But I don’t look at her. Instead, I focus all my energy on the line etched into my slate.
I hold up a hand, and the students immediately to my left and right step away in my periphery just as the first bolt of lightning strikes the stone.
It finds the narrow line and crawls along it, as I intended for it to.
White light glows from the crack, inching along, chewing through the slate one centimeter at a time.
I almost smile. My magic is mine, and I have absolute control over it.
Until a memory rushes into my head, unwelcome.
You play with fire, Severin whispers in my mind, his hands on my waist, my legs wrapped around him. When he kissed my throat, I thought he was going to bite me. And I knew in that moment I wouldn’t push him away.
Thinking of it now, thinking of him, my heart beats harder, and my magic responds.
Tendrils of lightning skitter across the slate, escaping the controlled line I’m supposed to be following.
A crack of energy flashes off the edge of the stone, making the two students on that side flinch back.
Professor Azula shifts slightly but doesn’t move away.
Within the etched line, however, my lightning grows stronger, and I can feel more power wanting to burst from my fingertips, wanting to obliterate the slate until it’s nothing but fine powder on the floor.
But I don’t allow it to. I rein it in. I control it.
And when my lightning severs the slate, cutting clean through it in an arcing line, everyone in the room seems to let out a collective held breath.
I lower my hands and banish my magic, skin tingling with residual heat. But inside, my lightning feels irritable at having once again been forced into containment. And my thoughts of Severin are making it even more volatile, like it hungers for him in the same way I do.
Professor Azula steps forward, sharp red eyes assessing my slate.
Finally, she says, “Impressive execution, Miss Vandermere. But note how perilously close to failure you came.” She reaches out to touch my slate, tracing her fingertips over the stone where my lightning momentarily escaped.
“Magic under duress does not forgive emotional indulgence. You must learn to temper instinct with intent and intellect.”
I draw myself up. I understand what she’s saying and the lesson she’s trying to instill, but something inside of me wants to rage against it.
Control and containment have always been important elements of my magical practice; they have to be lest I allow my storms to escape and cause pain or destruction.
But I’ve never experienced this tug toward emotion before, this feeling that a well of power lies just below the surface of passion, waiting for me to dive in.
And Severin is the one beckoning me to.
Professor Azula turns to meet my eyes, then lifts her voice to address the classroom. “Elemental mastery is a reflection of precision and patience. Do not mistake power for skill.”
The words have no sooner left her mouth than the academy’s clock chimes, signaling the end of the class period.
I start to step away, but Professor Azula says, “I’m still awaiting your revised application essay, Miss Vandermere.”
I’d hoped to slip away without her asking about it.
I’ve tried again and again to rewrite that essay, but every time, it feels like I’m missing something: the emotion, the passion, the exact thing Professor Azula told me to do away with.
“If you need guidance,” she continues, “come see me. Don’t wait until the last minute. Opportunity favors those who come prepared.”
“Yes, Professor,” I say.
Then Lyra is at my side, smiling, her wild red curls bouncing as she tips her head.
“Pretty impressive, huh, Professor?” she asks.
Professor Azula’s gaze slides to Lyra, one brow arching. “You met my expectations, Miss Wilder,” she says, but her tone leaves much room for interpretation.
Lyra, though, is unbothered. She just continues to smile until Professor Azula turns away.
“She does not like me,” she whispers as we grab our bookbags and follow the other students out the door and into the hallway.
“I’m not sure she likes anyone. Fire witches are like that.”
Lyra bumps my shoulder. “Ha. Funny. Always so funny.”
The corridor is crowded with students, and we follow the flow through the hallways.
As I walk, I continue plucking at this idea that’s been building inside me.
I’ve always strived for control without emotion, for leaving my feelings at the door when I wield my magic. It’s safer that way, with more predictable outcomes. Emotions are messy, convoluted, difficult to understand and wade through.
Yet I’m starting to feel like by tamping those emotions down, I may be inadvertently shoving my power down as well. And the idea that a deeper well of magic might be available to me makes my skin pebble with goose bumps.
Lyra and I step out of the elemental magic hallway and into a wider main corridor, where early-autumn sunlight slips through the high stained glass windows, sending mosaics of color across the marble floor.
“What’s your next class?” Lyra asks, glancing at me while she yanks her unruly curls onto the top of her head.
“My elective: Energetic Equilibrium,” I say.
“That’s the meditation class, right?”
“We do more than meditate,” I say. “We—”
A tickle at the base of my spine prompts me to turn, and despite the many bodies moving through the wide hall, my gaze locks on to one in particular.
Severin.
He’s standing in a band of shadow, speaking with a first-year student.
He wears a charcoal vest over a long-sleeved button-up, dark slacks, and shoes polished to a shine.
I wonder briefly if his entire wardrobe is filled with the exact same items of clothing.
Boring, but it’d make it easy to get dressed each morning.
Mostly, I wonder what his body would feel like against mine, what his fangs might feel like piercing my throat.
As if my thought called out to him, he looks up, and his onyx eyes meet mine.
Immediately, my magic reacts, and Lyra gasps.
“Ow! You shocked me!”
I glance down, and sure enough, little sparks of energy are dancing between my fingers.
“Sorry.” I clench my hand into a fist, smothering the sparks until they go out.
Lyra looks in Severin’s direction, and the moment she sees him, a catlike smile curls across her mouth. “You’ve got it bad for the vampire, Miss Vandermere,” she whispers, keeping her voice down so the other students around us won’t hear.
When I look up again, Severin is walking away, being swallowed up by students—many of whom stare after him as he goes.
My eyes narrow slightly while static dances under my skin.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “I do.”