Prologue 2-Amrin
Rain battered the towering windows of Professor Kenna’s office while I sat across from the most intimidating Witch in the multiverse trying not to feel like a complete failure.
Again.
This was the tallest tower of the Asgarheim Runevald Institute and it always felt unnaturally warm despite the storms constantly raging outside.
Shelves of ancient grimoires lined the circular chamber from floor to vaulted ceiling while floating candles drifted lazily overhead, their flames blue instead of gold.
Strange celestial instruments rotated slowly in the corners, ticking softly as if measuring time differently than the rest of the realms.
Or maybe they were.
Nothing about Runevald functioned normally.
Not the castle perched atop black cliffs at the edge of the sea.
Not the skies streaked with green and silver auroras where ley lines bled through the multiverse itself.
And definitely not the students casually attending lectures beside Monsters and Witches and creatures out of mythological nightmares.
Meanwhile I was over here failing Introductory Realm Theory for the second semester in a row.
Awesome.
Professor Kenna sat behind her enormous carved desk reviewing my academic file in complete silence.
Which somehow felt worse than yelling.
The older Witch possessed the kind of quiet authority that made confession seem inevitable.
Her silver-threaded dark hair was braided intricately down one shoulder, and glowing runes shimmered faintly beneath the olive skin of her wrists as she turned another page.
I resisted the urge to fidget.
Barely.
Finally, she looked up.
Green eyes pinned me instantly.
“You are gifted,” she said calmly.
My stomach sank.
Because whenever teachers started with compliments, disaster usually followed.
“But unfocused,” she continued. “Your practical spell work remains inconsistent, your affinity alignment is unstable, and your emotional regulation scores—”
“Are bad,” I finished weakly.
Professor Kenna’s mouth twitched slightly.
“Yes.”
I sighed and slumped lower into the chair despite every instinct telling me not to slump in front of someone this terrifyingly elegant.
Outside, thunder cracked violently over the cliffs of Asgarheim.
Fitting.
“I’m trying,” I murmured quietly.
The words sounded pathetic even to me.
Gods.
I was thirty years old.
Too old to still feel like the least impressive person in every room I entered.
Too old to still hear my mother’s disappointed sigh every time I failed another affinity test.
Too old to still not know where my magic belonged.
At Runevald, students generally discovered their dominant magical resonance within the first year.
Lunar. Elemental. Blood. Death. Dream. Shadow. Beast.
Everyone had something.
Everyone except me.
Professor Kenna folded her hands atop the desk.
“And what exactly are you trying to accomplish this semester, Miss Cordoza?”
The question should have been simple.
Instead, emotion clogged my throat unexpectedly.
Because the truth was humiliating.
I wanted to matter.
Not to the realms.
Not even necessarily to the Coven.
Just… somewhere.
“I know my mother has given up—”
“Well,” Professor Kenna interrupted smoothly, “mothers are not the final authority here, as you well know.”
I stared at her.
The older Witch arched one perfectly sculpted brow.
“Though I suspect Evelyn Cordoza would disagree.”
A startled laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Professor Kenna smiled faintly into her tea.
It hit me suddenly then—how strange this all was.
Back on Earth, powerful women like Professor Kenna didn’t exist openly.
Witches hid.
Supernaturals blended.
Magic survived in whispers and old bloodlines and carefully buried secrets.
But here?
Here she sat in layered black robes inside a sentient castle on a multiversal ley nexus discussing my academic failures while storms literally responded to the emotional atmosphere of the realm.
Normal.
Totally normal.
“I just…” I exhaled shakily. “I need to find something that resonates with me.”
The words sounded desperate.
Because they were.
My sisters had all found their callings easily.
Potion sciences. Political magic. Divination. Ritual leadership. Celestial weaving.
Meanwhile I bounced from class to class like a lost ghost hoping something would finally click.
“I understand,” Professor Kenna said softly.
And gods, somehow that almost made me cry.
Because she sounded like she actually meant it.
The older Witch leaned back slightly in her chair.
“However,” she continued, “I wonder if you fully understand that students at Runevald share more than simply academic space with the Monsters here.”
I blinked.
“What do you mean?”
Then another thought struck me.
“And honestly, Professor… is Monsters even politically correct?”
Silence.
Professor Kenna stared at me for exactly three seconds before a sharp laugh escaped her unexpectedly.
Not polite amusement either.
An actual laugh.
“You,” she said dryly, “would somehow manage to find offense in the terminology used for an entire multiversal classification of supernatural species.”
Heat flooded my face instantly.
“I didn’t mean—”
“No,” she interrupted smoothly, still amused. “You meant precisely what you asked.”
I groaned internally.
Fantastic.
I was a social disaster as usual.
“Monsters,” Professor Kenna continued calmly, “is not political, Miss Cordoza. It simply is.”
She rose then, dark robes whispering softly against stone floors as she crossed toward the massive arched windows overlooking the cliffs below.
“Asgarheim is unique,” she said quietly. “Here, Witches, Monsters, and supernaturals who cannot safely exist within the human realm may live openly without fear of persecution or exposure.”
Lightning flashed beyond the glass.
For one eerie moment, her silhouette looked ancient against the storm.
“However,” she continued, “such openness carries consequences.”
I frowned slightly.
“What kind of consequences?”
Professor Kenna turned slowly toward me.
“The Fates take notice. And they do enjoy their games.”
A chill slipped down my spine.
“Games?”
“Yes.”
The older Witch folded her hands loosely before her.
“The boundaries between realms weaken here. Power deepens. Bonds strengthen. And the Fates…”
Her green eyes sharpened slightly.
“The Fates are fond of creating matches where none existed before.”
Oh.
OH.
I nearly laughed from sheer relief.
“Professor,” I said immediately, “I really don’t think I have to worry about that.”
One dark brow lifted elegantly.
“No?”
“My mother is completely fine with me becoming a spinster,” I admitted dryly. “As long as I eventually prove I have some use to the Coven.”
The words came out lighter than they felt.
Because underneath the sarcasm sat years of ugly truth.
No one in my family expected romance for me anymore.
Not really.
My older sisters had husbands or mates or prestigious magical partnerships.
My cousins already produced magically gifted children and hosted elaborate realm gatherings back home in New Jersey.
Meanwhile I attended graduate school at thirty years old, trying not to fail Introductory Affinity Mapping.
Not exactly legendary feminine mystique.
Professor Kenna watched me too carefully.
“Well,” she murmured at last, “we shall see.”
Something about her tone made my stomach tighten.
“But be warned, Miss Cordoza—if the Fates choose you for a mate, they are rarely kind to those who ignore the signs.”
I blinked.
“Signs?”
“Mating fever,” she said simply. “Resonance. Obsession. Compulsion. The bond manifests differently depending on species and magical affinity, but when denied…” Her expression cooled slightly. “It can become unpleasant.”
Unpleasant?
That sounded ominous as hell.
“How unpleasant?” I asked carefully.
Professor Kenna took another sip of tea before answering.
“I once watched a Dragon Shifter male set fire to three villages because his mate attempted to marry someone else.”
I stared at her.
“Well, that seems excessive.”
“It was.”
“And you’re saying this like it’s normal?”
“At Runevald?” She smiled faintly. “Quite.”
Jesus Christ.
I rubbed both hands down my face slowly.
“Professor,” I said weakly, “I genuinely do not think this will be an issue for me.”
“And why is that?”
Because no one looked at me and saw destiny.
Because men barely looked at me at all unless loneliness or convenience lowered their standards enough.
Because I was too soft, too emotional, too uncertain, too much and not enough all at once.
Because I had spent most of my life being overlooked standing beside prettier, stronger women.
“I’m no one’s idea of a mate,” I admitted quietly.
The room went still.
Not silent.
Still.
Even the floating candles seemed to pause overhead.
Professor Kenna regarded me for several long seconds.
Then, softly—dangerously softly—she said, “The Fates have never once concerned themselves with human expectations of worth, Miss Cordoza.”
Lightning split the skies of Asgarheim outside the tower windows.
And for one strange impossible moment—I felt like the realm itself was listening.