Beautiful.
Their magic had manifested early, strong, undeniable.
Mine?
Late.
Inconsistent.
Embarrassingly weak.
And that was only if it showed up at all.
The Cordoza crest—a flame-bound heart—was meant to symbolize passion, strength, legacy.
When I thought of it now, it felt like something that shrank in my presence.
Like even that symbol knew I didn’t belong beneath it.
“Damn it,” I whispered.
Professor Franco was already heading toward the door.
And I needed to act.
Now.
Before this turned from failure into something worse.
I shoved the exam into my bag, nearly fumbling it in my haste, then hurried after him, my boots slipping slightly against the polished stone as I tried not to trip over the hem of my robes.
“Professor! Professor!”
He stopped—reluctantly.
Turned.
“Yes, Miss Cordoza. What can I do for you?”
I nearly walked into him.
He leaned back slightly, his round belly pressing forward, and I instinctively stepped back to create space.
Too close.
Too visible.
Too much.
Students moved around us, a blur of motion and conversation, but I felt exposed all the same. Like everyone could see it.
The failure.
The desperation.
The fact that I was about to beg.
Oh, well—it was now or never.
