Chapter 28
Some remnants of magick are not lost; they merely change form—into scars, into relics, into reckoning. Waiting to be discovered once more.
—Foundations of Arcanarchaeology, Vol. I
It takes Finn the entire holiday break to recover. All of us take turns visiting him in the infirmary beside the Administration building.
Christmas break at Whittaker is quiet in the way snow makes everything quiet. Headmaster Thorne doesn’t do holidays—no campus leave without special permission, no school-hosted parties. Not officially.
Gods help us if anyone tries to celebrate something that isn’t a duel or a near-death experience.
I leave my dorm with my mother’s voice still in my ear—I miss you, sweetheart—and a tightness in my throat. It’s my first Christmas without my father, and the guilt of leaving my mother to spend it alone tugs hard enough to make my chest ache.
Noa is waiting at the bottom of the stairs like he belongs there. Like winter can’t touch him. It must be some unfair fire-wielder advantage—sun-warm skin in the dead of December, turquoise eyes bright as if he’s carrying his own light.
They soften when he sees me. He doesn’t ask what my mother said or how I’m feeling. But he knows. Somehow he knows. Instead, he just hooks his hand around mine and squeezes—steady, warm, grounding—then walks with me across the quad like it’s the simplest thing in the world to hold me together.
We already exchanged gifts yesterday. I gave him a small box of personally modified potions, salves, and tinctures—for burns, bruises, and whatever stupid heroics he insists on doing.
He gave me a signed book by my favorite alchemist and potion master, Dr. Sage Davenport, like he’d reached into my head and pulled out the one thing I didn’t realize I needed.
The infirmary is the only place on campus that dares to look like Christmas.
The air smells like mint and antiseptic, sharp with sterility, but Madame Nahira Ching—the school nurse, a light Magick, and Professor Ching’s wife—has threaded warmth into it anyway.
A small pine sits near the front desk, its branches hung with tiny glass charms that catch her magick and scatter it in soft prisms across the walls.
Above the beds, an intricate lattice of light magick drifts in slow loops—constellations stitched between gold and silver streamers, gentle as breath.
Rows of crisp white beds stretch wall to wall. A fountain in the corner trickles over smooth stone in a steady cadence that barely muffles the low groans of the injured. Nearly every bed is filled now—the aftermath of the Vikhrostrum “showcase.”
Professor Ching’s words drift back to me.
Spectacle has a habit of becoming consequence.
Finn is propped up against a mound of pillows like a reluctant prisoner, arm in a sling, ribs wrapped, burns fading from angry red to tender pink. He looks better than he did before.
Rozsen strides in first and drops a paper holiday crown onto his head like she’s knighting him.
Finn squints up at her. “If you’ve come to mock me, at least bring tribute.”
“I did.” Rozsen produces a wrapped bundle with a flourish. “Stolen bread pudding from the dining hall. Don’t ask how.”
Ryan follows with two steaming cups. “Hot cocoa,” he says, offering one.
Finn eyes the cup suspiciously.
“We didn’t poison it,” Rozsen says, then tilts her head. “Well… I didn’t poison it.”
Before Finn can respond, she throws herself onto the side of his bed like it belongs to her. Finn makes a pained sound and awkwardly tries to make space that doesn’t exist. His gaze flicks to her face, then away—but his mouth betrays him, softening at the corners.
“When do you get to stop playing patient?” Rozsen asks, already raiding the candy stash someone else left on his bedside table.
“I’m not playing,” Finn mutters. He jerks his chin toward the sling. “I’m actually injured. In case you couldn’t tell.”
“You’re still annoyingly unavailable for sparring.” Rozsen sighs like she’s mourning a tragedy. “Ryan’s doing his best—good lad—but alas… it’s just not the same.”
Ryan’s brows lift. “Wow. Rude.”
Noa’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. He sets a tin on Finn’s bedside table. “Celeste made you this. Emberveil… with a few of her own modifications.”
“I added frostbloom thistle,” I say, stepping closer. “And a few things for inflammation. It’ll help with swelling and pain on top of healing the burns.”
Finn lifts a brow. “I knew we kept you around for a reason.” He smiles then—his first real one. “A brilliant alchemist and a water Magick to boot.”
Noa’s arm loops around my waist immediately, pulling me into his side. “Hands off,” he tells Finn, dry as dust. “She’s already taken.”
Finn snorts. “Only because you saw her first,” he teases before looking around at our little half-circle. “So now you’re all my handlers?”
“Correct,” Rozsen says, patting his crown. “Try not to die out of spite.”
Finn groans, but he’s still smiling.
I hover at the foot of the bed, watching the bandages, the healing skin, the faint wince on Finn’s face when he adjusts his sling. My stomach twists.
It was Tsvetan—Gavrail’s friend—who did this. And I watched it happen. I saw the scorched pattern under Finn’s feet, saw the trap tightening, and didn’t do anything to stop it. The guilt clings to me like the frost that coats the campus every morning—cold, stubborn, impossible to shake.
Noa shifts closer behind me, reading me like he always does now. His hand slides to the small of my back—subtle, protective—and his thumb presses one slow circle through my sweater. When I lean back into him, his chin dips briefly to my temple.
“He’s going to be just fine,” he murmurs, so low only I can hear.
Rozsen turns bright as poison. “Merry Christmas, Finnian.”
Finn squints. “I hate when you call me that. Also—that tone means you’re ten seconds away from stealing something.”
Rozsen smiles. “Already did.”
“What?”
She taps his paper crown. “Your dignity.”
Finn growls at her, but his eyes are bright.
Above us, Madame Ching’s light constellations drift in slow loops, throwing soft gold across Finn’s too-white sheets, turning a room made for injuries into something almost gentle.
Noa’s hand stays warm at my back, steady as a heartbeat, and for a few minutes—cocoa steaming, Rozsen bickering with Finn like it’s her religion, the fountain tinkling in the corner—it almost feels like a real Christmas.
* * *
The trees on campus are now bare and brittle, their branches often rimmed with snow from the night before.
Lake Caldrith’s smooth surface is beginning to surrender to winter’s grasp.
A delicate sheen of ice shimmers across the surface—thin, fragile, not yet solid, but enough to dull the water’s usual luster.
Noa and I spend much of our break in the Cavern, warming up in the natural hot springs while enjoying private moments in his officers’ quarters in the furthest chamber.
At least in here, I know I won’t accidentally run into a certain silver-eyed student.
Which means I can truly relax—or at least pretend to.
The afternoon got away from me today; I lost track of time in the Potions lab before rushing to meet Noa.
I pause at the Crystal Cavern pool, taking in the icicles now sparkling above it like crystal daggers.
A light dusting of snow glistens over the surface from the open sky above.
Oddly, the water here doesn’t freeze, nor does the snow just melt into it, but instead hovers like a breath made of stardust, its tiny, perfect flakes catching the light from above and below.
The pool’s song tugs at me like it always does—a louder, deeper whisper these days. I step closer, boots crunching on frost, crossing the runed circle that surrounds it. My gaze drifts to the rocks scattered like a crumbling wall just above the waterline on the left.
Something carved into the stones catches the light: three interlaced symbols, half buried in lichen and veined with mineral deposits. I kneel, breath fogging the air, and look closer.
Curious, I tug off my glove and brush away the frost, then peel the moss away from the stones. The carvings are even more beautiful up close—weathered, yes, but still pulsing with some long-buried intention.
The first is chipped and faded but I can just make out a long, curling tail that, on closer inspection, resolves into the hidden silhouette of a mermaid in profile. The shape is familiar somehow.
Beside it is a crescent shape above a spiral of concentric waves, like a moon standing guard over the ocean.
The third is softer: a circular bloom of petals over ripples of lines, as though a water lily steadfastly tied to a lake floor has been impressed into the rock and forever frozen there.
I lean closer, fingertips tracing the shapes carved into the stone. What stories lie hidden here? What history was made only to later be forgotten?
Then I spot it.
A fourth symbol. Half submerged in the water. Almost invisible beneath the thin dusting of snow piled against the edge.
I lean forward, heart quickening, and reach out. My skin brushes the wet stone—just barely—and my fingertip slips into the surface of the pool.
The reaction is instant.
The water jerks back, like a creature startled. Waves ripple out from where I touched it, sharp and concentric, smacking against the carved rocks like a warning.
A jolt shoots up my arm. Cold fire surges through me, sharp enough to steal my breath. I yank my hand back, stumbling slightly. Images fog at the edges of my vision, too fast and fleeting to hold on to: a tall hooded figure. A child. A night sky.
For a second, I swear I see something shimmer beneath the surface—a faint outline, a glimmering symbol just out of reach. Light flaring out to multiple points, like a star…
I clutch my fingers to my chest, heart pounding.
What the fuck was that?
Was it trying to speak to me?
Or did it just push me away?
The pool’s surface stills, calm again, as if nothing happened.
Maybe I imagined it. Or maybe I wasn’t supposed to touch it.
A place of ancient magick buried deep. I can still feel it, sleeping… perhaps waiting for the right time, or the right person.
A soft cough echoes from the chamber behind me. Noa’s here.
My gaze lingers on the carving of the mermaid one last time—her tail curling like a question.
I grab my glove from the stone floor and rise, turning toward him. The water is calm now, but the ripple still echoes beneath my skin.
I follow Noa back to where the curling steam beckons—but part of me continues to listen, in case the water has more it wants to say.