I was thirty years old.
Too old to still feel like the least impressive person in every room I entered.
Too old to still hear my mother’s disappointed sigh every time I failed another affinity test.
Too old to still not know where my magic belonged.
At Runevald, students generally discovered their dominant magical resonance within the first year.
Lunar. Elemental. Blood. Death. Dream. Shadow. Beast.
Everyone had something.
Everyone except me.
Professor Kenna folded her hands atop the desk.
“And what exactly are you trying to accomplish this semester, Miss Cordoza?”
The question should have been simple.
Instead, emotion clogged my throat unexpectedly.
Because the truth was humiliating.
I wanted to matter.
Not to the realms.
Not even necessarily to the Coven.
Just… somewhere.
“I know my mother has given up?—”
“Well,” Professor Kenna interrupted smoothly, “mothers are not the final authority here, as you well know.”
I stared at her.
The older Witch arched one perfectly sculpted brow.
“Though I suspect Evelyn Cordoza would disagree.”
A startled laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Professor Kenna smiled faintly into her tea.
It hit me suddenly then—how strange this all was.
Back on Earth, powerful women like Professor Kenna didn’t exist openly.
Witches hid.
Supernaturals blended.
Magic survived in whispers and old bloodlines and carefully buried secrets.
But here?
