Chapter 4
To awaken an affinity is to invite the element to speak through you. Listen well. But be warned—it does not always whisper.
—Theory of Elemental Magick, Vol. I
We arrive at the quad bright and early on Wednesday, the sky stretched wide and watchful overhead.
It’s evaluation day.
The central lawn bears the signs of those that have already taken place—a large circle outlined with pale stones, scorched in places, grass cut clean in others.
A staggered row of high-backed chairs has been arranged with exacting precision on the dais.
In them, professors sit robed in the academy’s dark gray and silver, silent and sharp-eyed, their gazes turned toward the circle ahead.
But one chair—far right—is occupied by a figure not like the rest. A man dressed in the black uniform of the Service, stark against the others.
His coat bears a single sigil—a gold sun with a spear through it on his shoulder.
He sits with disciplined stillness, watching everything, a clipboard in his hands—a list of all the first-year names on the sheet in front of him.
“Since when does the Service attend first-year trials?” Rozsen mutters beside me, eyes narrowed as she crosses her arms in front of her.
“Recruiting early this year, it seems,” Elliot adds, looking curiously at the man.
Rozsen huffs under her breath, but says nothing.
Ian leans in slightly from behind, voice low. “Last year, a guy from Black Squad got taken right after his affinity trial.”
“What?” Elliot twists around to look at him.
Ian shrugs, eyes still on the trial ring. “Some second-years told me about it. Trial ended, and before he even got feedback, two Service agents walked him off the field. Straight into an unmarked car parked by the western gate.”
“What did he do?” Amelia asks, voice cautious.
“No one knows. His name was Hayden. His dorm was cleared out by the end of the week.”
“I heard he tried to draw two elements at once,” Nate whispers.
“Bullshit,” Rozsen says too quickly. “That’s impossible anyway.”
Nate doesn’t answer. Just stares at the circle ahead of us.
My fingers twitch. My palms suddenly feel too warm against my sides.
I glance at the Service officer again. He’s still watching. Still not blinking.
Behind the dais, the spires of Whittaker stretch up toward the cloudless blue sky. In front, four stone platforms, waist-high and rectangular, stand in a clean arc, each holding a symbolic representation of the most common elements—simple, ancient, and unmistakable.
Water: a shallow stone basin filled to the top, its surface so smooth it reflects the blue sky above.
Fire: a low iron brazier holding a single candle-sized flame, burning blue at its core, utterly still despite the breeze.
Earth: a flat slab piled with smooth stones and shards of crystal, including amethyst and feldspar—local to Whittaker—laid in a spiral pattern.
Air: a tall, narrow vase of handblown glass, sealed at the base and open at the top, containing a column of softly spinning leaves and petals held in place by invisible currents.
There are other elements, of course, but their magick is rare and not often found among the general population. According to the Whittaker handbook, if a rare affinity is found within the student body, the school arranges for a private evaluation.
Blue Squad just finished and Red Squad is up next. A chill breeze chooses this moment to roll in from the bay, rippling the Whittaker banners that hang from the poles flanking the dais.
A tall man with dark hair and shrewd blue eyes appears at the front.
“Professor Riven Kael,” he says by way of introduction.
“I’m running today’s evaluations.” His expression suggests he collects disappointment the way other men collect medals.
“One at a time,” he calls. “We’ll begin with the standard affinity reaction.
Control, not strength. Precision, not power. ”
Waiting students shift nervously along the sidelines.
Near the edge of the tree line, an older man stands half in shadow with his hands clasped behind his back.
A ghost of authority in his long coat, he stands silent and still.
I try not to stare at him, but I feel his dark eyes pass over me once, sharp and unyielding.
Amelia catches my stare and her eyes widen. “Is that Headmaster Thorne? He doesn’t normally watch the affinity trials… does he?” she whispers.
Rozsen nods. “That’s definitely him. He looks just like his photo in the handbook. Maybe he heard what a kick-ass squad we have this year and came to watch.” A slight smile tips the corner of her lips as she nudges me.
We wait to be called up.
Magnus briefed us this morning, but no amount of preparation could quiet the buzz of nerves now humming through my body.
Elliot is first, bouncing into the circle with all the grace of someone who either doesn’t know she is being watched by twelve solemn professors and a Service agent—or doesn’t care.
Shoulder-length blonde hair frames her face in soft waves, the bold streaks of color catching the morning light.
It matches the blue in her eyes, now sparkling with anticipation.
Elliot grins and cracks her knuckles. “Here we go,” she says, more to herself than anyone else. Her nails are painted silver, chipped at the edges—short and uneven.
She raises her hands, fingers loose, breath steady.
The air answers immediately.
The leaves inside the suspended current stir faster, swirling in a playful cyclone. The entire column pulses outward with a soft whoomph, and wind rushes toward the dais in a gentle circle, tousling the robes of the seated professors, scattering petals, flipping a few pages.
Elliot, still smiling, looks up at them and gives a little bow—half mockery, half delight. “Well, that went breezily, don’t you think?” she says as she rejoins me on the side of the field.
Rozsen is next. She steps into the circle like she owns it—shoulders squared, brown eyes sharp, the air around her already warmer.
She raises her hand, palm open toward the flame basin.
The focus is absolute. Fire flares instantly, leaping twice its height in a single breath.
It twists upward in a tight spiral, burning hotter, brighter, until the white-hot tip arches toward her like it knows her name.
The ground beneath her boots cracks faintly from the heat. Rozsen doesn’t flinch, just smirks.
Next is Amelia, who steps into the circle almost apologetically, gaze lowered, hands clasped in front of her.
The professors barely look up—until the moment she exhales and touches her fingertips to the ground.
There is no flash, no noise. Just a deep, resonant thrum beneath the grass, like something ancient stirring.
One of the stones on the platform cracks clean down the center as fine moss blooms along its surface.
Amelia looks up, green eyes steady now. The earth listened. She looks relieved.
It’s my turn next. I step into the circle with quiet determination, but tension rides my shoulders. The wind catches my hair as I pass the dais, the flickering elements stationed at the four points waiting—watchful. I draw a breath, steady but sharp, and reach toward the water basin.
And… nothing.
I set my feet and try again.
The surface of the basin remains perfectly, frustratingly, still.
A hush spreads over the dais. I hear the faint scrape of a pen, someone making a note.
My pulse kicks into panic. My hand trembles. I try to recall what it felt like in the lake this summer—how the water moved for me. How I called it back.
Nothing.
I hear a flicker of laughter from a group of second-years watching. Ian turns to whisper something to Nate. Rozsen stiffens where she stands beside Elliot. She steps forward just slightly. Toward me.
I bite my lip and lower my hand.
Maybe everything that’s happened before this means nothing.
Maybe I don’t belong here after all.
My thoughts start to cave inward, fear and doubt spreading, seeping through me—cold and deep. I start to turn away.
But then—
The basin shifts.
The water moves—slowly, like a shy creature coaxed from its den. It swirls, forming a shape in the air, its lines sweeping and graceful, almost like a mirrored flower unfurling, or a figure twisting beneath waves. It faces me, as if it’s looking at me. Through me.
I inhale sharply, turning toward it, raising my left hand once more—
And the water twitches, like a stone being thrown through it, ripples edging outward.
My pulse quickens.
The water surges upward in a spiraling column, not gentle like Elliot’s air, but fierce and high, sloshing over the basin’s rim and hanging in the air like a suspended wave.
Water stretches outward, forming small blades, so thin at their edges that mist bursts outward in a sudden ring, catching light in every droplet.
The ground dampens. The temperature drops.
It’s beautiful—and completely out of control.
My eyes widen. I don’t move.
I didn’t mean to do that. Not really.
And then I feel it.
A flicker of heat—fire. A tug beneath my feet—earth.
A stirring pressure in my lungs—air. The shadows from the tall oaks seem to reach toward me as the sun moves overhead.
The scent of scorched metal fills the air.
Nothing loud. Nothing certain. Just whispers.
Glimpses. Like each element blinked once in my direction.
Unnoticeable to anyone but me. At least that’s what I hope.
But under the oak tree, the headmaster shifts slightly. His sharp gaze scans the stone platforms before turning back to me. The man in black jots something down before glancing toward the trees where he stands. But Thorne’s gaze is now locked on the column of water in front of me.
I let my hand drop, and the water collapses back into the basin with a splash that soaks the stone steps as well as the robes of the front row of professors. I stand still in the circle, breath quiet, heart suddenly too loud.
No one speaks.
A professor in academic gray, her flowing blue dress showing beneath it, sits forward, wiping an errant bead of water off her face, one brow raised. “Definitely water.”
I step back without a word—uncertain whether something has gone wrong… or very right.
The silence stretches, eyes on me. Some curious. Others wary.
Either way, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve caught their attention.
And I don’t know if that’s a good thing.
* * *
Toward the end of the day, I cross campus at dusk, the sky fading to a soft lavender. I’ve just picked up pizza from the mess hall for my squad when I see him.
A tall figure in uniform, standing near the eastern gate. The posture. The tilt of his head. The way he’s turned, just slightly.
My chest locks as the air tangles in my throat. I pick up my pace and walk toward him, almost calling out—
But when he turns to face me, it isn’t him.
Different eyes. Different smile.
I swallow hard. The longing feels foolish. Like I’m conjuring him out of habit, some muscle memory of missing him too much for too long.
Where are you, Noa?
I’m turning to walk back to the commons when I see them—Headmaster Thorne and the Service agent, locked in quiet conversation beside a black car at the far edge of campus.
“She’s not ready,” Thorne says. His voice is low, but clear enough to reach me. He sounds angry.
I slip into the shadows of the nearest building, unwilling to be caught eavesdropping on what is clearly a private exchange, but the rest is lost to the hum of the engine as the agent steps into the car and drives off.
The warmth of the cardboard boxes in my hands suddenly feels too real, too normal, against the cold rising off the stone path. I look out over the campus, ghosts suddenly in every shadow.
I shake my head, trying to clear the feeling of eyes tracking me from every darkened window I pass as I walk back to the commons.