Chapter 3
At Whittaker, students advance through four ranks—initiate, cadet, lieutenant, and officer. Each stage demands greater skill, loyalty, and sacrifice. Advancement is earned. The cost can be personal.
—Whittaker School of Magick Handbook for New Students, “Ranks and Advancement”
The September morning breaks with a golden hush—late summer clings to the air, but it nips with a quiet warning of the autumn that’s coming.
The smell of lavender scones and hot coffee rouses me from sleep, along with the energetic voices of Rozsen and Elliot calling out to wake the rest of us up. Magnus is already waiting downstairs to herd us across campus to collect our assigned textbooks for the year.
At the heart of the ancient academy lies the quad, a broad expanse about the size of two football fields placed side by side. Towering oaks ring the perimeter, their silver-veined leaves casting patterns of shadow across the lawn.
At the northern edge, raised slightly above the courtyard by a fan of wide, worn steps, stands the stone dais—a broad, imposing platform carved from pale-gray granite and streaked with veins of volcanic black.
Generations of headmasters and headmistresses have addressed students from this spot.
Visiting dignitaries have offered solemn words.
Rows of long tables form a U shape across the lawn, weighed down by textbooks—towers of them, in every color and thickness, some brand-new, others dog-eared and lovingly annotated.
The school is hosting a book sale, along with a buyback and trade event, allowing older students to sell their books to younger ones for discounted prices.
Students surge toward the tables in waves—some hunting for bargains, others flipping through pages, trying to find the copies with the fewest underlines and torn corners.
Elliot scans our class list, ticking off required texts with an unexpected sharp focus. She leads us around the tables, pointing out stacks and muttering comments about edition numbers and good deals.
“So, Farris, is it?” My squadmate leans toward me as he smirks.
Ian, the fire-wielder. His coppery hair falls wild and tangled, spilling over one side of his face.
“Sawyer told me you’re a first-gen, no training…
Hope you don’t sink us.” His English accent gives the words a teasing lilt, but it stings too sharply to be harmless. Heat pricks at my cheeks.
Rozsen doesn’t hesitate beside me, her voice laced with snark. “Careful, Ian. Last guy who underestimated a water-wielder ended up headfirst in a fountain. Besides”—she shoots me a quick but fierce smile—“pretty sure Farris can handle herself.”
Ian lifts his brows, amused, but his amber eyes stay on me a beat longer before sliding away.
The tension in my chest loosens. Embarrassment still lingers, but so too does the unexpected warmth from Rozsen at my side. For the first time since stepping onto Whittaker’s grounds, I don’t feel completely alone. I smile gratefully at her.
I shuffle back, following behind the rest of my squad as they browse through textbooks and old lecture notes, but my eyes keep drifting—sweeping across the quad again and again.
“Are you looking for someone?” Amelia asks quietly. Her moss-green eyes miss nothing as she tries to follow my line of sight.
I shake my head. “Just trying to get my bearings.”
The lie rolls off my tongue easily.
I haven’t told anyone about my history with a certain student here—not yet.
Most of the crowd is first-years like us, but I spot a few second- and third-years weaving through the rows. “Where are the fourth-years?” I murmur, tapping my fingers against my thigh, still scanning.
A student manning the potions table glances up. “Some of the fourth-years got deployed to help down south. That hurricane last week wrecked a few towns.”
I blink, surprised—I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud.
He shrugs. “It happens sometimes. Once you’re an officer.”
He’s not even here.
The disappointment hits like a slow wave—thick and heavy with false hope. Because some small, humiliating part of me had been braced for impact the moment I stepped through the gates—like he might be waiting for me. Like fate would intervene and be kinder than it’s ever been before.
* * *
That night, my roommates and I curl up around the fireplace in our dorm, trading stories from home. The things or people we’ve left behind. What we’re most excited to learn.
I don’t tell them about my dad, or how I ended up at Whittaker. That pain is still too fresh. Too sharp around the edges.
I do tell them about my mom—how she saw me call the lake this summer, and the rush to get a late application in.
Turns out that Elliot left behind her girlfriend in California—a non-Magick. They decided against trying to stay together due to the school’s strict rules on outside communication.
Rozsen left behind three boyfriends, each one with varying promises of love and devotion ’til the end of time.
Amelia and I stay quiet, not giving anything away.
I’m starting to doubt if I even have something to tell.
* * *
The last time I saw Noa, we were in his living room. He was waiting for his parents and sister to get home before starting the long drive back to Whittaker. Summer was ending, the emotions between us tangled and threadbare.
He’d already changed into his uniform. I sat tucked into his side on the couch, just breathing him in. Wishing for more time. Wishing the distance wouldn’t feel so impossible.
When his parents’ car finally pulled up, we both stilled. One last moment.
He kissed me—long, lingering. A kiss full of promise and passion we wouldn’t get to act on. Our time was up.
When he pulled away, I could still feel him. A slow burn on my lips. An ache settling deep in my chest. And when I walked him to the car, I had to stop myself from begging him to stay just one more day.
We said goodbye, whispering promises that only hope or fate could keep.
I wonder if he’s thought of me the way I think of him.
If he’s missed me.
If my dreams of him have slipped into his somehow—the ones where I wake up warm, my skin tingling, the ghost of his touch still lingering.
Like he never really left.