Not the alban in the Citadel grove—the one in Nordmere. As a child, she’d climbed often in its bone-white branches, high enough for the wind to tousle her hair and sting her face. High enough that when she closed her eyes, she could pretend she’d escaped her hometown, that she belonged somewhere, anywhere else.
It was no wonder, then, that this alban tree was where she first did magic.
Ellery had just turned seven, and the world was buried beneath a quilt of snow, the air clear and quiet. When she grasped the lowest branch, silver crept from her fingertips across the trunk, then froze into a shimmering coat of ice. Then the canopy bloomed, flowers unfurling, until a perfect silver plum appeared.
Alban trees did not bear fruit.
Ellery ate it greedily, triumphantly. Juice dribbled down her chin, until only a diamond-shaped pit remained. Even in the dream she remembered the taste of its flesh, tart and crisp.
She’d done magic. Shewasmagic. And magic was wonderful.
Then, as always, a different memory invaded.
The snow rumbled, cracking beneath her feet. The gentle flakes whipped into a terrifying barrage. And a winterghast advanced upon her. In the glassy sheen of its ice, she saw her own reflection. Her eyes gleamed a glacial blue.
Ellery woke in a cold sweat to the weak sunrise spilling intoher dorm room. She fumbled through her nightstand drawer, pushing aside spare training wands and magazines until she found the alban pit. It was her only memento from childhood. A stubborn reminder of those simple, early days where she’d loved her magic.
Ellery clutched the pit tightly. She tried to draw comfort from the familiar clippings of fashion ads and movie posters adorning the walls, the photographs tacked to the corkboard above her desk. But panic pinned her to her mattress, her breaths sharp and fast.
Something tapped her shoulder. Ellery yelped and jolted up. But it was only an enchanted envelope, flitting impatiently through the air like a bird.
Ellery tucked the pit into her satin pajama pocket and snatched the envelope. It bore no name or address, but the thick, rich paper and wax seal of an alban tree signified that it came from an Order magician.
She tore it open.
Seven o’clock sharp. My office. We have much to discuss.
It wasn’t signed. It didn’t need to be.
Ellery grimaced and crumpled it into a ball.
Edgar Glynn’s office had belonged to generation after generation of the Order’s Directors of Education and Recruitment, each determined to make their mark. The resulting space had become a cornucopia of enchantment magic. A bespelled record player crooned the latest stylings of the Gallamere Philharmonic Orchestra. Paintings offered small windows into other parts of the country, sunlight dancing off the Portmere coast, clouds shifting above the dense forests outside Danmere. An Aldrish flag hung in the corner, rippling in an imaginary breeze. And a special calendar, a twin to the one in the student lounge, kept meticulous track of upcoming vigils.
“Ah, you’re finally here.” Glynn peered up from a pile of paperwork, sounding harried.
Ellery glanced at the clock—she was early. Frowning, she sank into the familiar leather seat across from his desk. He was surrounded by newspaper clippings and dusty books, along with three mugs of tea: two empty, and one long since gone cold. She could barely make out the photograph of Glynn, his husband, and their toddler amid the mess.
“Did you sleep?” she asked him.
He waved dismissively. “I’ll get around to it. Didyou?”
Ellery grimaced. “I tried.”
“I gave you as much time as I could, but I’m afraid I can’t hold off any longer. We need to talk about Mercester Square.”
He reached for his wand Aetherium and waved it. Dust flecked off its simple oak tip, and the piles atop his desk shuffled until a crisp copy of theGallamere Gazetteemerged.
UNSEASONALWINTERGHASTDEFEATEDBYORDERTRAINEES
Ellery had known this was coming, but that didn’t make the words any easier to read. “The whole city must be terrified.”
“The Council was up all night ensuring otherwise. Seong has an address planned for Parliament, as well as a public statement promising everyone that this was a terrible fluke. What matters most is that no one was hurt, and everyone’s safe now. And, Ellery… it’s all thanks to you.”
It was unusual for an administrator to call a pupil by their first name. But Ellery’s relationship with Glynn had always been unusual. When they met, her name was splashed across every headline: the tragic heroine orphaned in Winter’s conquest of the fallen territory. Glynn had expected a prodigy who’d slain a winterghast. Instead he found a thirteen-year-old terrified of her own magic.
In more affluent parts of Alderland, all children were tested for magical aptitude. The most talented were fed into a networkof prestigious public schools, where they trained for the Citadel’s famously difficult entrance exam.
But Ellery had grown up in the rural North, where limited resources meant that few ascended beyond the ranks of hedge magicians. Many fell through the cracks. And Ellery hadn’t just fallen—she’d plummeted. Her parents forbid her from being tested for magic. No one ever questioned them.
