Severin looks down at my essay, tracing a line with his finger. “Here, you describe your energy theory beautifully. But”—his eyes meet mine—“you sound like every other top student in this academy. Nowhere in this essay do you sound like the tenacious storm witch who openly challenged and argued with me on the first day of class.”
My chest and throat get tight.
We’re discussing an application essay, that’s all. So why do his words make me feel like heseesme?
“The woman who challenged me in class was invested,impassioned. This woman?” He gestures to the essay. “I don’t know this woman. I’m not sure you do either.”
I flex my fingers into fists at my sides. “Azula said that emotional language weakens credibility.”
Severin lifts one shoulder in a small shrug. “She’s not wrong. It can do that, especially in an academic framework.”
I feel like we’re running in circles.
“But you still think she’s wrong?”
There’s another roll of thunder, closer this time. My magic reacts to it, like a bird longing to go and fly with its flock—like calling to like.
Severin leans forward, his forearms pressing against the desk. “Maeve, your project is about bringing accessible energy to people who have none. To villages that struggle to keep themselves warm through the winter. To families that cannot afford magic.” He lowers his voice. “That is not a sterile goal.”
I swallow hard, staring at him across the firelit office.
“What if they read it and think I’m naive?”
He doesn’t hesitate before answering. “Then they are not the right scholars to steward your work.”
A startled laugh slips out of me. “You’re suggesting I risk my fellowship on principle?”
This time, Severin does hesitate, like he’s puzzling through his response. Then, finally, he says, “I’m suggesting that if you gut the reason you care”—he taps the essay, punctuating his words—“you may win Azula’s approval but lose thewhybehind the work you actually want to do.”
Now it’s my turn to hesitate, to ponder over his words, turning them this way and that in my mind.
I didn’t expect this from Severin. In the time I’ve known him, he’s always championed control, resistance, and resilience. Now he’s asking me to bring my emotions out, to lean into them instead of away from them.
What’s changed?I wonder, searching his dark eyes as he holds my gaze. My storm magic stirs again, but rather than tugging toward the storm intensifying outside, it feels like it’s tugging me towardhim.
And I know that I trust him on this.
With a sharp nod, I cross the office and reclaim my seat in front of his desk. “Okay. What would you change?”
Severin slides the essay back to me. “Keep your structure, but stop trying to write what you think they want to hear. Write why this matters to you. Why it matters to the people you want to help.”
I lift my quill and dip it into my inkwell, then flick a glance at Severin. “That sounds impassioned,” I say, a slightly playful lilt to my voice.
Finally, for the first time since I stepped into his office, he offers me a small smile. “Passion isn’t always something to be feared.”
We hold each other’s gazes, and a tingle dances up and down my spine. For a moment, I consider leaping over the desk and finally discovering what that shadow of a beard might feel like on my face. But I temper myself and refocus on my empty parchment.
Then I start to write, leaning in to my heart instead of away from it.
A handful of minutes pass. Severin says nothing, just watches me as the quill scratches across the page and the fire and rain fill the office with comforting autumn sounds.
Without looking up, I ask quietly, “Do you really think I can do it? Get the fellowship?”
“Yes.”
There’s no hint of hesitation in his tone.
And now I find myself smiling.
