Chapter 2
To study at Whittaker is to step willingly into ancient currents of power. It is impossible to come out unchanged.
—Whittaker School of Magick Handbook for New Students, “New Student Orientation”
Boom. The gym doors slam shut as another student barrels through.
The sound ricochets down the corridor before being drowned beneath a rising drumbeat of boots and voices.
A wave of first-years surge past me, shoulder-to-shoulder, and I’m forced to flatten against the side of the hall to let them through—my back hitting cold rock, trying to make myself small as the stream of bodies funnels toward the double doors.
When the last of them disappears, I push off the wall and slip in after them.
Inside the gym, I’m immediately herded into a long, winding line of registration tables—schedules, syllabi, ID badges, room keys, and enough paperwork to make my fingers ache and make me question whether I’ve just signed away my soul.
My badge says:
Celeste Farris
First Year
Red Squad
Blue Dahlia Commons
The space I’m standing in stretches two stories high with arched glass windows lining the upper walls, allowing sunlight to pour in and illuminate the floor.
I keep glancing at my ring, but it just gleams back at me, gold and jewels sitting innocently where they’ve always been.
No trace of the whisper that slid into my ears earlier, no sign of that cold, needle-fine feeling on my hand.
But the truth is, the feeling of unease started before that moment.
From the instant I stepped onto Whittaker’s grounds, my body has felt restless.
Like something is prowling within its confines, erratic and sharp-edged.
It feels like the earth here knows something I don’t and is just waiting for the right moment to tell me.
I look up from my hand and take in the rows of bleachers and observation platforms found in every corner of the room—all looking down on the black mats that line the floor in a modular pattern.
The Training Room is what the guy who gave me my schedule called it.
The mats reek of sweat and something sharper—bleach cut with pine and citrus.
It burns through my sinuses, clean and cruel, like punishment disguised as purity.
I see a guy to the left of the room holding a sign saying Red Squad, a group of other first-years circling around him. I bite my lip, forcing my feet forward before doubt can root me in place. I count each step like a mantra, keeping my mind from spiraling.
“I think I’m with you,” I say, pointing to my badge.
He nods and checks something off his clipboard. “Cadet Magnus Williamson,” he says, dipping his head in greeting. “Second-year. Your Red Squad orientation leader.”
His short black hair is shaved into sharp zigzags along his scalp like lightning bolts—a rebellious contrast to his otherwise meticulous appearance. His figure is lean, almost delicate, more whipcord than muscle. His shrewd black eyes sweep over me with curiosity—and nothing more.
I step into line behind him and find myself between two girls.
The taller one is intently looking at her schedule and pointing to it, annoyed. “Blue Dahlia Commons is clear across the east ridge, but half our classes are by the quad. Whoever planned campus logistics must enjoy watching us run.”
A second girl shrugs before running a hand through her blonde shoulder-length hair, one side shaved close, the longer layers sweeping across her face with streaks of blue hidden underneath. “They probably always give the crappier schedules to the first-years.”
The first girl looks up from her schedule, eyeing me thoughtfully before her gaze flicks to my badge.
“Hey, I’m Rozsen. You our other squadmate?
Looks like you’re in the same commons as us.
” Her voice is low and dry, filled with the heat of someone used to speaking her mind and not caring about the consequences.
I nod, offering a small smile, but before I can answer, the other girl beside her gives me a once-over, slow and deliberate.
She sighs dramatically. “Ugh, she might be too pretty to be friends with us, Roz. Those hazel eyes should come with a warning label.” Her mouth quirks. “But I’m liking the sexy librarian that could commit arson vibe she’s got going on.”
I blink, caught off guard, unsure whether to laugh or be offended—but she grins and holds out her hand.
“I’m Elliot,” she says, her tone light and teasing.
I reach out and shake her hand, still a little stunned but warming quickly to her chaotic charm.
Rozsen just rolls her eyes. “Don’t mind that one. She speaks before she thinks most of the time.” She gives Elliot an exasperated shake of her head.
Eight of us in total make up Red Squad—four girls and four guys. Magnus tells us to grab our stuff for a quick campus tour as we head over to the commons to settle in.
The walk through campus feels surreal—every building, every tree-lined path, like walking through a story I should already know. Every step feels like retracing a trail someone carved for me long before I arrived. I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
I came to Whittaker for answers. To try to understand more about the current running beneath my skin, the magick that clawed its way back into me after my father’s death, no longer content with the cage I built.
But I’d be lying if I said it was the only reason I’m here. There’s another I don’t let myself speak aloud. One with unruly hair and turquoise eyes, and a history I can’t quite seem to leave behind, no matter how hard I try.
* * *
After high school, my father moved us to Virginia—a small town, no highways, no fast-food restaurants, a little land for my mom to get as many silkie hens as she wanted. Acreage over politics was her request.
My best friend there was Alissa—and she had an older brother.
He was the kind of beautiful that stole your breath away, leaving only trouble in its wake. Tall. Confident. And a Magick…
Back then, he was always away at school, so I mostly admired him from afar—or from the numerous photographs strewn about Alissa’s house.
But all that changed a few months ago.
I thought it would be a fun summer fling, something reckless before real life began.
Some stories don’t feel like they start until you say a name that changes everything. His was Noa.
* * *
Magnus is talking but it’s not his voice that I hear in my mind. He points to the mess hall on the left, and I remember Noa telling me that the best pancakes are from the chef who always wears a pink hat.
The quad to the right is where most Whittaker gatherings are held.
The Garden Grove to the south is where the earth-wielders practice. Noa’s words float in the air like a spell, describing earth Magicks as grounded, steady, and “impossibly stubborn.”
I spy a low stone wall surrounding dark beds of soil and rows of herbs and trees. Deep-rooted vines cover shadowed lattice alcoves. Small water channels filter through the walls, providing natural irrigation for the space. Brilliant, I think as we pass.
“What the—”
“Make it stop!”
“It wasn’t me.”
I look back at one of the water channels spouting like a fire hydrant over a group of students as they shout and scramble to get away.
My throat goes dry. Did I—? No. I clamp down on the thought before it takes root. My squad looks back curiously; a few of the boys snigger. Laughter echoes, but I don’t dare glance back again.
We pass by two girls standing by the garden wall. The brunette with bronze skin is staring amusedly at the cascading water, but the tall girl with silver-blonde hair beside her doesn’t laugh. Her gaze pins me instead, eyes narrowing like she knows more about what’s under my skin than I do.
Willing my thoughts to focus on the trees only, I tighten my grip on my duffle and keep walking.
Magnus takes us by the Caldera: an ancient colosseum carved directly from black volcanic rock down into the ground.
Rows of tiered granite benches lead down to an arena—a large oval of smooth obsidian and scorched basalt.
Deep channels have been carved into the floor in rune-like patterns, likely remnants of forgotten rituals that this arena once honored.
A stage for elemental prowess, and duels.
The air around it simmers with residual heat, imbued with the element whose power is displayed there.
Fire. Noa’s power, I think as my heart twists.
Behind the Caldera rises a five-story cream-colored building, its windows framed in dark bronze—giving it a modern edge in contrast to the ancient stone architecture surrounding it. Most likely home to our core academic classes: History, Potions, and Elemental Theory.
Everywhere we walk, my eyes search the grounds for a familiar tall figure with brown hair. But fourth-years are probably off doing things far more important than worrying about first-years’ orientation. Plus, he doesn’t even know I’m here.
Oh gods, what if I see him, and he walks right past me—whole while I’m still haunted? I shudder slightly at the thought.
“You okay?” asks Rozsen.
No.
“Yeah, it’s just colder than I’m used to in Virginia,” I lie. I curse myself for even thinking about him right now.
We walk in silence for a few minutes, lost in thought… or in my case—memory.
Magnus points out a few more buildings in the distance and spouts off various descriptions of their purposes and uses.
“Green and Silver Squads are in the Silver Fern Commons.” He points to an ivy-covered stone manor.
“Black and Gold in the Obsidian Sun Commons.” He nods to an angular building, modern and brutalist in style.
He then points up the hill. “Blue Dahlia Commons—Red and Blue Squads. Your new home away from home.”