Chapter 5
Throughout magickal history, no element has been more prone to dwelling in memory—or vengeance—than water.
—A History of Magick, Vol. I
Thursday afternoon finds us walking down a rocky moss-slicked path behind the Blue Dahlia Commons.
Lake Caldrith stretches out like a pool of labradorite cradled in the arms of the forest. Dense pines, birches, and maples hug the shoreline, their reflections hazy in the blue-gray water below.
Early autumn is just beginning to show at the edges of the leaves—flashes of crimson and gold flickering among the green here and there.
The air is cool, but not cold, with that crisp, clean bite particular to New England this time of year. Mist clings to the far edges of the lake in the mornings, curling along the banks before the sun burns it away by midday.
It is beautiful, yes—but it is the kind of beauty that watches you back.
The grass along the bank of Lake Caldrith waves softly in the breeze as the afternoon sun casts gold over dark waters. The air smells faintly of wet stone and something wilder beneath.
First-year squads gather in a semi-circle around the instructors, six squads in total—Red, Blue, Green, Silver, Gold, and Black—each group buzzing with anticipation of the task ahead. A Whittaker orientation week tradition: the Squad Room Regatta Challenge.
The regatta staging area is set up on the lake’s western shore—a broad, gently sloping field dotted with flat river stones and patches of moss.
The grass here grows thick and soft underfoot, interrupted by wildflowers and tufts of reeds where the land meets water.
Wooden platforms jut out intermittently over the edge, some clearly newer, others faded and warped with age.
“Your assignment,” Professor Neris says, pacing before us in her silver-threaded robes, “is to construct a vessel from natural materials and transport it across the lake, using only your magick. Creativity, cooperation, and elemental synergy are your only tools. You are all first-years here; therefore we aren’t expecting perfection…
only fun.” Her pale eyes brighten for a heartbeat—just long enough for a soft smile to curve her lips before her original stern demeanor slides neatly back into place.
Behind her, the lake glints like a dare.
“You have one hour before the regatta begins.”
Rozsen cracks her knuckles. “Let’s make it float and explode glitter when it wins.”
“No explosions,” Amelia mutters, already running her fingers through the rich soil at the water’s edge. “We’ll need a stable base. Clay reinforced with bark, maybe.”
“I can help seal the seams,” Rozsen adds, her hands warming.
I step closer to the shore, kicking off my shoes and socks while staring into the dark stillness of Lake Caldrith. A breeze stirs my hair. I can feel something in the water—not just coolness, but awareness.
“Elliot, think you can steer it with wind?” Amelia asks.
Elliot is already gathering up floating reeds with threads of air. “Easy. I’ll make it glide.”
We build fast. It’s part engineering, part teamwork, and part elemental creativity.
Amelia shapes the hull using a curl of bark with thin slabs of clay to stabilize it, then Rozsen bakes the edges to a firm crisp, sealing the base.
Elliot crafts a light breeze for the thin, fluttering sail we made from moss and twigs.
I concentrate on trying to balance the water around the edges, forming a gentle current to guide it.
My efforts come out choppy at first—uncertain and uneven, the water torn between stillness and storm.
But after a few trials and errors, I manage to find a rhythm that makes the water within me hum with begrudging approval.
Our boat looks crude, but elegant. It moves like it belongs here—graceful, as though the lake itself now holds our favor today. We name it the Water Wasp.
The boys’ boat is a brute of a thing. Peter sculpted the base from branches of pine and hardened mud, while Ian fused the seams with blackened fireglass he made from the combination of his fire and the sand along the shore.
Sawyer added windblades along the sides—delicate-looking sails that crackle with kinetic air.
Nate is running thin rivulets of water through the interior like veins, regulating the structure’s buoyancy with eerie precision.
It looks less like something meant to float and more like a toy warship someone dared to bring to a school event—impressive, fast, and a little bit fierce.
When the race begins, squads shout, clap, and manipulate their elemental creations across the surface. Some boats topple; others wobble forward awkwardly. Sawyer’s wind battles Nate’s current, ending with their boat turning sideways and colliding with another team’s.
The Water Wasp is flying ahead, gliding effortlessly.
“We’re winning!” Rozsen whoops.
But halfway to its destination, something happens. The water stills.
I blink once at a shadow slithering below the surface. It coils like a serpent of ink before vanishing.
My gut clenches. I’m unsure if I imagined it.
Without warning, a ripple shoots out beneath our boat. The Wasp begins to spin, then it dips. A circular wave pattern that doesn’t match any of our efforts begins to form.
“Is that part of the challenge?” Rozsen asks, voice tight.
“Not unless someone’s cheating,” Amelia mutters, already crouching, her hands pressed to the ground as if willing the surface under the lake to answer.
I step closer to the water, feeling it lap around my feet. It’s stirring beneath the surface—but not in rhythm. At least not to my rhythm.
My hand trembles outward, and without meaning to, I reach out—just a flick of my fingers. Wanting to soothe the waves. Settle, I think.
But the lake jerks in answer. Not forward, not back—against me. A ripple snapping toward our boat like a lash.
I feel the pull in my chest before it happens.
“Celeste—what are you doing?” Rozsen yells.
But it’s too late. The current I tried to calm rebounds, flipping the boat sideways. A whirlpool opens, not wide, but strong enough to suck the Water Wasp under in one horrible, splintering gulp, as though a great unseen hand grabbed it and pulled. One blink, and it’s gone.
A gasp goes through the crowd as the instructors and students whisper to each other.
“What the fuck?” Rozsen cusses.
“Did you just drown our boat?” Elliot snaps at me, incredulous.
“I—I was trying to fix it.” My voice comes out hoarse. “I didn’t mean to—” I step back, eyes falling to the lake as a cold unease slithers across my skin.
The water at my ankles fizzes, static and strange. A pulse throbs against my hand. I glance down. My ring is glowing, faint but unnaturally bright in the afternoon light.
Then—
A whisper. Not a sound exactly, but something in my mind. A name—not mine. Something older, worn, and wild that echoes in my blood.
And then it’s gone. Swallowed by the wind.
My breath catches.
The ripple is still echoing. Not only from whatever I did, but from… something else.
“You didn’t just stir the lake, Celeste,” Amelia whispers. “You called it.” She’s looking at me with guarded, curious eyes. Her gaze flicks to the water. Then back to me.
I stand frozen, hands trembling as I lower them. There’s a quiet shift in the air—as if something sacred has just been disturbed.
I say nothing.
Something brushed through my magick in the lake, and I can’t help but feel like now it knows my name.
And for the first time since I arrived at Whittaker—
I start to think that maybe the danger here might actually be me.