Chapter Twenty
Haide
Professor Astra’s class is officially my favorite, even over Warcraft. Shocking as fuck, honestly. I never expected I’d like listening to someone talk more than I would punching their face, but here we are.
That’s because you never had the chance to be taught anything real before now.
Might also be the way the room changes with each class in a way that doesn’t necessarily reflect the outside world.
Storming inside when the courtyard is clear.
Or stars burning overhead in the middle of the day.
Today, it smells like hot metal and rain, even though it’s bone-dry inside.
Low clouds churn above us like someone tipped a cauldron of fog upside down and trapped it under glass.
Dozens of students are already seated when I enter. The sound of my boots hitting the stone floor instantly snatches their attention.
They don’t bother hiding it anymore.
Whispers stutter and die, eyes following me with open suspicion or even outright hate. I clock every stare, meet a couple dead-on until they flinch, and move toward my usual place at the back. For people who think I’m a murderer, they’re awfully fucking brave.
I drop my codex on the desk, the cover vibrating faintly once beneath my palm, like it’s happy to be here. Weird little book. I’m going to steal it and take it home with me when I leave.
The thought draws unease through my veins and I grit my teeth. Unease?
I am not uneasy. Nothing has changed. I know exactly what I want in the end.
I just want to do the dance here first. Get some powers and shit.
Rolling my eyes at myself, I throw my boots up on the desk, crossing one over the other and taking up the full space beside me—no one else will sit there anyway.
Professor Astra’s back is to us as she stands at the center.
Her rolled-up sleeves reveal the silver ink curling over her forearms in intricate, living patterns that shift when she moves.
The symbols she traces in the air are not the standard ones from her SpellChemy lessons.
They’re looser, more fluid lines that look half script and half smoke that glow faintly.
When the bell tolls, she flicks her fingers. One at a time, the symbols grow several sizes, pulsing in the air as they spin in slow, steady circles.
“Today,” she says without turning, “we move beyond repetition.”
A hush settles over the room, the kind that says even the little noblelings know this is important.
Astra faces us, hair braided tight against her skull, eyes sharp as ever.
“You all know how to cast a spell someone else designed for you.” Yeah, exactly one so far, but who’s fucking counting?
“When casting, you reproduce the pattern someone else designed and let your magic flow through their structure. That is spellwork.”
Her gaze slides over the class, lingering on certain faces—the promising ones with ancient family lines humming in their veins. The ones whose names start with “Lord” or “Noble” or “Prince.” When her eyes reach me, they pause for a solid second that snaps my brows together.
“Creative magic,” she continues, looking up at the hovering symbols, “is the art of weaving something new.”
She snaps her fingers and the room shifts. Threads of light appear in midair, thin as spider silk as they move above us. Some gleam golden and ember red. Others are shadow-black with a blue so soft it almost looks like bottled moonlight. They drift lazily, waiting for her instruction.
“The simplest way to explain creative magic is to focus on the three ideologies,” Professor Astra says. “Essence. Emotion. Intention.”
She lifts a hand and a strand of pale flame drifts toward her fingers. “Essence is the material you’re working with. Fire, water, shadow, bone, blood, time—whatever your principle powers and the realm allow you to touch.”
She catches the thread between forefinger and thumb. It coils there obediently, like a tamed snake.
“Emotion is the current. It motivates and nourishes. Rage, fear, love, desperation. You cannot cast or create without feeling. It is the one and only way. A numb mind is a worthless mind.”
The thread shivers brighter, flaring white.
“And intention,” she adds quietly, “Intention is the force that emanates from within that completes and creates. It is the difference between a trickle and a flood. Between a healing warmth and a killing burn.”
Her earlier words echo in my head. Magic isn’t just about power, Haide. It’s about precision.
Something sparks low in my chest, pushing against my ribs like it doesn’t know this body isn’t meant for things like that.
If magic is just another kind of knife, I can learn to use it with precision and intent.
“Open your codex,” she instructs. “Today, you will attempt to design a spell rather than repeat one.” She flicks her fingers and dozens of glowing threads drift toward us, hovering at eye level. “Something small and harmless.” Her eyes harden. “Relatively.”
Nervous laughter trickles through the room. I don’t join. My thread is ember-red, warm even before it touches my skin. When I wrap my fingers around it, heat licks along my palm, not burning, but tasting. Like it’s testing whether I belong to it, or it belongs to me.
“Remember,” she says, voice carrying even as she begins to move through the room. “Essence. Emotion. Intention. Pick one thread. Draw on one emotion, not five. And be specific in what you mean to create. A general spell is a sloppy spell. Sloppy spells misfire.”
She glances my way again as she says it.
Around me, students close their eyes, faces smoothing as they reach for whatever feelings live in their heads. Some glow faintly, magic answering like a well-trained pet. Others frown, their threads flickering.
I stare at the thread in my hand.
Intention. I huff. I can internally snap someone’s neck but it’s not something I plan beforehand. It’s impulse.
Every move I make is pure impulse. I’m not so sure I know how to think differently. My brain was wired this way—and unless there’s some kind of witchery shit for that—then it’s probably going to stay that way.
Be careful when calling on fire, Professor Astra had warned.
I release the thread and sit back in my chair, arms crossed. Yeah, not about to go full fucking pyro in here and get accused of escalating to mass murderer. Prickly fucks.
Professor Astra strolls toward me, hands carefully laced behind her back. “Sulking, are we?”
“Nah. Practicing self-control,” I tease. “It’s a terrible feeling.”
Her lips twitch but she shows no other sign of amusement. I think it’s safe to say she likes me, but what’s not to like? I’m fucking fantastic.
“You think you won’t be able to control the essence.”
“I bit one of your Kings, while he sat on his throne, in a room full of royal guards because I fucking felt like it.”
“That was foolish.”
“It was.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“Why not?”
“Because I wanted to make him bleed.”
She nods, coming to stand in front of me and lowering herself so we’re at eye level, and whispers, “Intent.”
My eyes narrow, following her as she stands.
“If you were listening, truly listening, then you heard the word I wove into my instruction.” Her fingers glide across my codex and it sparks angrily at her touch. “Look around the room, Haide,” she calls over her shoulder as she walks away.
I study the gifted in the farthest corner, slowly moving from one student to the next, and with each I pass, my frown deepens.
Everyone’s frustrated and annoyed. Some even slumped in their seats like they’re just waiting for this to end.
I replay Astra’s words.
I straighten in my seat. Attempt. That’s the word I missed.
Attempt.
My feet fall from the tabletop. A slow smile curves across my lips as I sit up. She doesn’t expect anyone to actually succeed. It’s an assignment beyond the capabilities of anyone in this room.
Finally, I understand school. Today, the gifted in this room are my fucking equals.
I laugh quietly and reach out for one of Professor Astra’s threads. This time, it’s light that settles in my palm.
I draw a slow breath through my nose and let my shoulders loosen.
I picture the light in my palm, not as a bright full moon over the island, but as something waiting for direction.
I feed it a sliver of irritation—at this school, these rumors, the way they attacked me in a group like cowards—and it brightens, intimately pleased.
Intention.
Fuck.
What do I want it to do?
Killing them all is probably not what Astra meant by harmless.
I picture a small blade of light narrowed to a single point. Pale and blinding at its core so it’s sharp enough to sting, but not enough to break skin. It appears in my mind as clearly as a knife in my hand. I wrap the intention around the thread, let my anger thread through it like wire.
Heat rolls up my arm, settling in my chest. It pushes against bone as if it wants out, and my heart beats like a wild animal beneath my ribs.
“Come on, Professor Astra,” a student begs, “give us something we can actually accomplish. Creative Magic is for fourth years. We haven’t even studied ancient symbols. How are we supposed to create our own without learning those first?”
My focus falls and the thread in my palms with it.
Professor Astra smirks at the boy. “Glad someone caught on to the missing piece.” She makes her way back to the front of the class.
“That was just an example to show you the amount of work needed here at Rathe U. That is, if you wish to get to the point in your journey where magic will answer to your call.” She snaps her fingers and the room grows brighter.
“Open your codex. Today is day one of ancient symbols.”
The sounds of bending leather and turning paper fill the space as the class obeys. A slow grin curls across my face.
So, none of us should be able to create new magic.
Pretty fucking sure I almost did.
“Professor?” I ask.
Her eyes lift to mine, hand freezing mid-write. “Yes?”