Then I yank open the door and step into the cool darkness of the tower, ready for my last first day at the academy.
Chapter 2
Severin
SEATED IN THE ARMCHAIR IN my staff apartment, I sip from my coffee mug while perusing my open journal. The page is covered in tidy notes and lesson plans for my first class of the day: Dangerous Magic Across Time.
Senior Seminar—Dangerous Magic Across Time
Objective: Examine historical cases of dangerous magic—what was attempted, what went wrong, and why. Focus is on analysis, not fear. Most practitioners only recognize danger in hindsight. This course aims to correct that.
Key Question:What separates dangerous magic from innovative magic?
Students will be expected to evaluate intent, method, and outcome and to consider what could have been done differently in each case.
Opening Exercise:
Present three cases without attribution:
A city rendered uninhabitable due to failed elemental anchoring (Tempest Cataclysm)
A healer’s work corrupting lineage rather than curing it
A scholarly invention destabilizing a ley-line network
Require silence. Writing only. Students must decide which outcomes were inevitable and which were preventable. Do not allow discussion yet. Early debate becomes performance.
It’s a class I’ve taught before—though never at Coven Crest—yet no matter how many times I teach a class, I still like to sharpen the edges of my mind before stepping out in front of the students. I owe it to them as much as I owe it to myself to do this right.
Otherwise, why teach at all?
I glance at the clock on the wall, then finish the rest of my mug—a mix of strong black espresso and a dash of blood from the blood bank in Wysteria. The journal closes with a familiar thump, and then I slip it into my briefcase and go to rinse my mug in the small kitchenette before preparing to leave.
I’m standing in front of my full-length mirror, adjusting the cuff links on my crisp black button-up, when the castle clock rumbles through the stone. I start at how loud and grating the sound is—it’s quite clear this castle is inhabited by witches and warlocks, not vampires. If it were, it’d be quiet.
It will simply take some getting used to, like most of the other things in my life.
With one firm tug, I snug my charcoal-gray vest into place, then brush a single fluff of lint from my shoulder. Before the clock is done with its cacophony, I have my briefcase in one hand and am striding out of my apartment and down the hallway toward the history wing, where I’ll spend the majority of my time here.
Students bustle down the hallways, filling the narrow corridors with their laughter and chatter and the excitement of starting a new school year. I flinch at a sudden and grating laugh, then take a deep breath and repeat one of my many mantras:Observation before impulse.
I focus my senses on what I can see—a lock of hair caught on a cloak clasp, the tiny rainbows of light cast through the stained glass—what I can hear—the rustling of fresh parchment, the whisper of a door swinging open down the hall—and what I can smell—herbs and butter from the dining hall, a hint of sage from a burning stick of incense, and... blood.
Always blood.
But I’ve been alive for over three centuries, and the scent of blood no longer tempts me—at least, not the way it used to. Now, I control my urges to feed.
