And then I feel it.
A flicker of heat—fire. A tug beneath my feet—earth. A stirring pressure in my lungs—air. The shadows from the tall oaks seem to reach toward me as the sun moves overhead. The scent of scorched metal fills the air. Nothing loud. Nothing certain. Just whispers. Glimpses. Like each element blinked once in my direction. Unnoticeable to anyone but me. At least that’s what I hope.
But under the oak tree, the headmaster shifts slightly. His sharp gaze scans the stone platforms before turning back to me. The man in black jots something down before glancing toward the trees where he stands. But Thorne’s gaze is now locked on the column of water in front of me.
I let my hand drop, and the water collapses back into the basin with a splash that soaks the stone steps as well as therobes of the front row of professors. I stand still in the circle, breath quiet, heart suddenly too loud.
No one speaks.
A professor in academic gray, her flowing blue dress showing beneath it, sits forward, wiping an errant bead of water off her face, one brow raised. “Definitely water.”
I step back without a word—uncertain whether something has gone wrong… or very right.
The silence stretches, eyes on me. Some curious. Others wary.
Either way, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve caught their attention.
And I don’t know if that’s a good thing.
* * *
Toward the endof the day, I cross campus at dusk, the sky fading to a soft lavender. I’ve just picked up pizza from the mess hall for my squad when I see him.
A tall figure in uniform, standing near the eastern gate. The posture. The tilt of his head. The way he’s turned, just slightly.
My chest locks as the air tangles in my throat. I pick up my pace and walk toward him, almost calling out?—
But when he turns to face me, it isn’t him.
Different eyes. Different smile.
I swallow hard. The longing feels foolish. Like I’m conjuring him out of habit, some muscle memory of missing him too much for too long.
Where are you, Noa?
I’m turning to walk back to the commons when I see them—Headmaster Thorne and the Service agent, locked in quiet conversation beside a black car at the far edge of campus.
“She’s not ready,” Thorne says. His voice is low, but clear enough to reach me. He sounds angry.
I slip into the shadows of the nearest building, unwilling to be caught eavesdropping on what is clearly a private exchange, but the rest is lost to the hum of the engine as the agent steps into the car and drives off.
The warmth of the cardboard boxes in my hands suddenly feels too real, toonormal, against the cold rising off the stone path. I look out over the campus, ghosts suddenly in every shadow.
I shake my head, trying to clear the feeling of eyes tracking me from every darkened window I pass as I walk back to the commons.
CHAPTER 5
Throughout magickal history, no element has been more prone to dwelling in memory—or vengeance—than water.
—A History of Magick, Vol. I
Thursday afternoon finds us walking down a rocky moss-slicked path behind the Blue Dahlia Commons. Lake Caldrith stretches out like a pool of labradorite cradled in the arms of the forest. Dense pines, birches, and maples hug the shoreline, their reflections hazy in the blue-gray water below. Early autumn is just beginning to show at the edges of the leaves—flashes of crimson and gold flickering among the green here and there.
The air is cool, but not cold, with that crisp, clean bite particular to New England this time of year. Mist clings to the far edges of the lake in the mornings, curling along the banks before the sun burns it away by midday.
It is beautiful, yes—but it is the kind of beauty that watches you back.
The grass along the bank of Lake Caldrith waves softly in the breeze as the afternoon sun casts gold over dark waters. The air smells faintly of wet stone and something wilder beneath.
