Chapter Nine
Haide
The world spins sideways, then inside out. Magic tears at my skin like it doesn’t want me here either, which is fair—I wouldn’t let me in if I were them.
But then, that’s what makes it fun.
I crash to the ground like a meteor in heat.
Stone slams against my knees and palms, a shockwave of power whooshing through the lecture hall the second my body hits the floor.
Gasps echo around the chamber—sweet, startled sounds—and it takes me a full second to realize I’ve landed right in the center of the room.
Dead center. The eye of some shiny, sculpted hurricane of stunned silence.
Tables arc around me in clean concentric rings, tiered for maximum judgment, and every seat is filled with someone who looks like they’ve never seen a girl drop out of hell before.
Lucky them.
I pop up with a grin.
“Well, this looks like it’s going to be as boring as I assumed it would be.”
No one moves. Not the professor, not the students, not the glowing board behind me with floating notes mid-lecture. The only sound is a single rune quill that clatters to the ground near the front row.
I pick it up, and flick it back to the wide-eyed boy it belongs to.
“You dropped your stick.”
He doesn’t catch it. It bonks off his chest and rolls across his desk.
Someone snorts behind him.
A silver-haired girl narrows her eyes at me like she’s trying to determine if I’m diseased or just…uncivilized.
At the head of the class, the professor, an older male with curling bronze tattoos climbing his throat, clears his. “And you are?”
“Bored, thanks for asking.”
His gaze sweeps down my ensemble, taking in the shredded skirt-turned-bandolier, the cropped jacket, the boots, and the knife strapped against my thigh. “Welcome to Introduction to Ethereal Theory.”
I blink at him. “I have no idea what that is.”
He doesn’t look surprised. “Miss—?”
“Haide.” I snap off a little bow, possibly flashing my ass on the other side. “But some people call me holy shit, run.”
“I see,” he says slowly. “Well, Miss Haide, there are no mistakes at this school. You’ve been put in this class for a reason, even if it has yet to reveal itself.
But something tells me I should note: here at Rathe U, we favor respectful discourse and regulated conduct.
This is a school, which means you act accordingly. ”
I stroll forward, boots clicking against the polished black stone of the lecture floor. “Yeah well, never been to one of those before so…not sure what ‘accordingly’ means. Sir, professor sir.”
“Take a seat,” he says tightly. “Before I assign you a disciplinary rune.”
“I mean you could try,” I say sweetly, then plop into an open chair in the front row, throwing my feet up on the table.
The chair beside me shifts. A boy with tan skin and a jaw like sin slides his things closer to the edge of the desk, clearly hoping whatever plague I have won’t touch his precious codex.
I smile at him, all teeth. “Don’t worry, I only bite when asked.”
He blinks rapidly.
“Though sometimes I don’t wait. Ask your king. The baby one.”
The silver-haired girl from earlier leans forward in her seat behind me. “You really don’t know who you’re sitting next to, do you?”
“Should I?”
She smirks. “That’s the heir to the Sable Stone. Lord Kael.”
I snort. “Sable Stone? What is that, some King Aurther shit? Because, girl, I would fight to the death for a good sword.”
She gives me a weird look, probably having no idea what I’m talking about. It was a giftless book, after all. One we found on the helicopter that crashed on the island.
Lord Kael shifts uncomfortably beside me.
Professor Bronze-Throat coughs again. “Let’s return to the lesson, shall we?”
“So, we just, like, sit here and listen?”
The man blinks at me and turns back to his floating fucking pictures and words.
I tune him out completely, trying to decide how to play it for when a certain royal shows up.
That little shit will show his face eventually, and when he does, I’ll find a way to make him hate the sight of mine.
I just have to figure out how to piss him off. Clearly, biting him was not the answer.
He seemed to really, really like that. And, ever since I did it, it’s like I can taste him in my throat.
I bolt upright in my chair as a thought occurs.
He loved it when I bit him.
Wonder how he’d feel if I bit someone else?
The thought coils warm and dangerous in my head, sparking a wicked grin, but the second it fully forms, something tightens in my chest. It’s not panic or fear, but it’s undeniable…pressure.
Weird.
I shake it off. It’s probably indigestion.
Definitely not magic bond warning vibes or whatever.
Still might do it.
I roll my neck and slouch back in the chair, spinning my paper dagger between my fingers while Professor Bronze-Throat drones on about “precision of will” and “foundation of magical control.” Whatever.
I’ve never seen anyone able to control their magic. I mean, that’s why they drain you of nearly all of it when they send you to the island.
The man’s voice drags on. I’m almost asleep when a ripple passes through the room, the kind that prickles at your skin and makes your bones remember you’re not in charge here.
A shimmer runs along the walls, pooling in the seams between the black stone tiles.
Before I can even blink, everyone’s clothes dissolve into shadow.
My shredded skirt, my cropped jacket, my carefully tied bandolier, all melt away in a sweep of cool darkness, reforming into a fitted, long-sleeved tunic of black so deep it drinks the light.
Pants, loose enough to move in, tuck into high, armored boots.
The faint glint of silver winds across my forearms in curling runes I don’t recognize, and a belt hangs heavy at my hips, its clasp a snarling wolf’s head.
Now this? This I can work with.
The room itself shifted into a circular chamber. Unless we were transported somewhere all together.
Every tier of desks and benches rises like a coliseum, enclosing a broad open floor of obsidian in the center.
Runes, faint and dormant for now, are etched in precise circles across the surface.
The ceiling arches high above us, lost in a gloom that makes it impossible to tell where stone ends and sky begins.
The space is brightened by light sources that float along the walls like trapped fireflies, steady and silent.
It’s the perfect time to assess the competition while everyone adjusts to their new surroundings.
Frankly, they’re unimpressive. A boy whose skin is an unusual gray color, nearly the exact color of rocks.
Long, shimmering green hair then draws my attention to the girl next to me.
Tiny sparks pop off her braid every few seconds.
I do a double-take when I catch the silver-haired girl from earlier locked on to me with such focus it’s like she’s waiting to see if I’ll combust.
Guess she’s checking out the competition, too.
I smirk at the thought, because if this outfit change tells me anything, it’s that I’m about to get to use my hands.
Professor Asshole is long gone. In his place stands a beast with bright eyes and green scales along his temple. A shifter for sure, but what kind?
He lifts his chin, attention shifting across the room as he takes slow steps toward us.
“Welcome to Mastery of Warcraft. My name is Orrith, but you will call me professor,” he announces, voice booming throughout the room. “This class will test and refine your mind, your command of magic, and your ability to act with precision under pressure.”
“Here, you will learn to blend weapon craft with your inherent gifts. To anticipate and counter not just a strike, but an opponent’s strategy.
We study the battle arts of all magic, from the disciplined forms of the Stygian guard to the elemental fury of the Argent war mages.
You will be broken down to your most basic abilities and rebuilt into warriors capable of defending your name, your realm, and your life. This is not sport. This is survival.”
Oh, hell yes.
“We’ll begin with basic warm-ups.” He steps back and the floor opens up, lofting him into the air on a dais.
He moves in a circular motion above us, having the perfect viewpoint to keep an eye on us all.
“Foundational work. If you can’t manage these with ease, you will find the rest of your training…
difficult. And do not forget for a moment that today is assessment day.
So don’t slack off. It will only hurt you in the end. ”
He lifts his hand and a rack of throwing daggers appears at the center of the circle. Each one gleams with its own faint aura: storm blue, molten gold, or rich violet. “Summoning,” he says simply.
One by one, the students take turns. Rock Boy doesn’t move a muscle—just narrows his eyes, and a dagger launches from the rack straight into his palm.
Spark-Hair flicks her braid and a blade spirals toward her in a neat corkscrew.
A dragon-blood girl with bronze scales along her cheekbone exhales a thin ribbon of smoke, and a dagger drifts to her hand like it’s afraid to keep her waiting.
Then it’s my turn.
I lift my chin at the rack, trying to imagine the dagger flying to me.
Nothing happens.
I lean forward a little, glaring at it harder. Still nothing.
“Focus, Miss Haide,” the professor says in that tone adults use right before they decide you’re hopeless.
“Oh, I’m focusing,” I say. “Maybe it’s shy.”
A ripple of laughter runs through the room. Someone coughs “giftless” into their sleeve.
I lean back in my chair, folding my arms. “Next.”
The professor’s mouth pinches, but he moves on.
The rest of the warm-up is more of the same: light a practice torch with a spark; shift a pebble with telekinesis; balance a rune in your palm without frying it.
All the little tricks they’ve clearly been doing since they could toddle around in mage diapers.
I fail every single one, because hello—born on exile fucking island where magic literally goes to die.