IDOMENICSUMMER
Domenic Barrow didn’t know if he loved magic enough to die for it.
He trudged through the forest, the glow of his wand so feeble he didn’t catch the puddle ahead until his loafer sank deep into mud. But he didn’t risk feeding the wand more magic. Already its cheap plywood had begun to splinter, and the grit of its sawdust caked between his fingers, flaking like dead skin. If he’d known the night would require an expedition, he would’ve packed a spare.
“Would youpleasejust tell me where we’re going?” he asked.
“You promised to keep an open mind,” Hanna said, several paces ahead of him.
“That was before I started to wonder if by ‘intervention’ you meant dragging me out here to murder me.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”
“To kidnap me, then?”
“If I’d fancied kidnapping you, you’d already be in the trunk of my car.”
Domenic huffed but didn’t dispute it. After all, nothing about his flimsy training wand resembled the one she carried. Its pale aspen shaft curled underneath itself like an overgrown fingernail, and the dark knots in the handle looked uncannily like eyes, squinting into the golden radiance of Hanna’s enchantment. Whereas his wand’s romantic origins began on a conveyor belt, destined only to be drained and discarded—about the furthest thing from real magic, Domenic had always felt—Hanna’swas so ancient to be called an artifact, so powerful to be called notorious, so singular that it even bore a name.
Syarthis.
Syarthis was a Living Wand, an everlasting instrument that bonded to a sole wielder until their death, then passed onto successor after successor—an honor students such as Domenic devoted their lives to attaining.
Of the 536 Living Wands in Alderland, only forty-two did not currently bear a wielder. And, so Domenic suspected, those forty-two wands were the subject of his intervention tonight.
“So,” Hanna drawled, “how’s school going?”
“Spectacular, as always.” For the fifth year running, Domenic had clinched the title of dead bottom of his class.
“Mhm. You still holding your breath for that random old magician to keel over?”
“I wouldn’t—” He cursed as he stumbled over a tree root. “I wouldn’t put it likethat.”
“Well, how would you put it?”
Domenic had never been good at phrasing his thoughts into words. He settled with: “I think Octorion would suit me, is all.”
“Then kill him.” After a pause, Hanna chuckled. “Kidding. Kidding.”
Domenic wanted to believe her. And he did—hedid. But Hanna had changed in the five years since she’d bonded with Syarthis and joined the Magicians Order. Gone was the girl who’d used a faded postcard of Gallamere as a bookmark, who’d insisted their first task upon arrival was hiking up the city’s mountainside to compare the sepia skyline to the real view. Now Hanna didn’t stop to admire much of anything. Redness tinged her brown eyes from nights spent poring over moldy parchment. Her fair skin had gone ashen. Her nails were bitten to their beds, her lips perpetually scabbed, as if she chewed on them past the point of drawing blood.
Of course, wielding Syarthis would change anyone.
“So is that really your plan, to wait for him to die, then wait another year after that?” Hanna asked. A magician could only bond with a Living Wand on the death day of its previous wielder. So unless a student was present for that wielder’s final breath—as Hanna had been—another year needed to lapse before testing whether they were a match.
Domenic cringed as he sank into another puddle. His socks were soaked. “There are worse plans.”
“What about Ravfiri? Its vigil is on the twenty-eighth, isn’t it?”
“Ravfiri is volatile.”
“No, Ravfiri is powerful. Those words don’t mean the same thing.”
This wasn’t the first time Hanna had suggested Ravfiri to Domenic—or Pyrrinisus, or Ulthrax, or Quellbarrow. They were all incredible wands, ones many of his peers dreamed of wielding.
But Domenic wasn’t like his peers.
To the young magicians of the Order’s academy, Hanna Mayes was the prodigy and Domenic Barrow the enigma. His sightings in class were few and far between, but what he did with his spare time, no one could say. Many considered him lazy. Even more assumed him troubled—not that anyone blamed him for it, of course. And though his disheveled russet hair and exceptionally freckled fair skin weren’t handsome in the conventional sense, amid a school obsessed with prestige, he had the unique allure of a bad decision—one that, if you believed the gossip, a great many had made.
