Shelves of ancient grimoires lined the circular chamber from floor to vaulted ceiling while floating candles drifted lazily overhead, their flames blue instead of gold.
Strange celestial instruments rotated slowly in the corners, ticking softly as if measuring time differently than the rest of the realms.
Or maybe they were.
Nothing about Runevald functioned normally.
Not the castle perched atop black cliffs at the edge of the sea.
Not the skies streaked with green and silver auroras where ley lines bled through the multiverse itself.
And definitely not the students casually attending lectures beside Monsters and Witches and creatures out of mythological nightmares.
Meanwhile I was over here failing Introductory Realm Theory for the second semester in a row.
Awesome.
Professor Kenna sat behind her enormous carved desk reviewing my academic file in complete silence.
Which somehow felt worse than yelling.
The older Witch possessed the kind of quiet authority that made confession seem inevitable.
Her silver-threaded dark hair was braided intricately down one shoulder, and glowing runes shimmered faintly beneath the olive skin of her wrists as she turned another page.
I resisted the urge to fidget.
Barely.
Finally, she looked up.
Green eyes pinned me instantly.
“You are gifted,” she said calmly.
My stomach sank.
Because whenever teachers started with compliments, disaster usually followed.
“But unfocused,” she continued. “Your practical spell work remains inconsistent, your affinity alignment is unstable, and your emotional regulation scores?—”
“Are bad,” I finished weakly.
Professor Kenna’s mouth twitched slightly.
“Yes.”
I sighed and slumped lower into the chair despite every instinct telling me not to slump in front of someone this terrifyingly elegant.
Outside, thunder cracked violently over the cliffs of Asgarheim.
Fitting.
“I’m trying,” I murmured quietly.
The words sounded pathetic even to me.
Gods.
