Owned.
The word lodges under my ribs.
Because that’s how we got here. To the edge of something vast and violent. A hush before chaos.
I know politics—I grew up in its shadow, at my father’s side.Wars don’t erupt overnight. They simmer. They wait. Sometimes for decades. Sometimes for centuries. And sometimes, they wait for the right person to light the match.
The water in my bottle gives a tiny, treacherous shiver—like it recognizes something within me it refuses to name.
* * *
An hour later,we climb the stairs, headed to the second floor for Potions—the class I am most excited about.
I majored in organic chemistry at my old university. At twenty-two, I was supposed to be starting a clean, sensible life after graduating last spring—Halcyon Biotech in New York this fall, a cute little West Village apartment with Alissa. Pharmaceutical research was the closest I could get to magick without losing my father’s approval. But that was before everything changed last summer. Before Noa. Before the lake. Before magick stopped being theoretical and started beingmine.
What non-Magicks call medicine or chemistry, Magicks call potions. Both factions usually work together in developing new drugs or compounds for various purposes. Where a chemist sees molecules, a potion-maker sees correspondences. Both transform matter, alter states, even save lives. Two sides of the same coin—science and potionwork, speaking different dialects of the same universal language.
The Potions classroom is sterile and orderly, with gleaming white tables and tall metal stools. Everything in its place. White wood shelves line stone walls, filled with glass jars of various sizes, corked vials, and brass-labeled bottles. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in generous natural light—perfect for observing subtle shifts in color and texture. The air smells like my college chemistry lab back in Virginia: crushed herbs, biting metal, the faint sulfur tang of propane flames. An unexpected pang of nostalgia hits.
I drag Rozsen, Amelia, and Peter to the front table, while Elliot and our other squadmates post up in the back. Elliot mutters about how Potions is “for people who like messes and blowing shit up.”
Professor Shim Ching looks like he’s been alive since the age of alchemy—small and stooped, with parchment-thin skin and a white beard twisted to a precise point. His voice rumbles like gravel, every word deliberate and heavy, like it comes from somewhere deep beneath the school’s foundations. His shrewd dark eyes scan the room—quick to narrow in disapproval, quicker still to gleam with curiosity when something, or someone, interests him.
He is also the first non-Magick I’ve met at Whittaker.
The class turns out to be fairly basic—disappointing, even. Despite it being my first official Potions course, I covered most of this material during my previous degree. Crushed herbs, flame management, simple neutralizers. I go through the motions, my hands working while my mind drifts, already several steps ahead.
After successfully brewing a Scent Veil potion, used to neutralize odors or to mask the scent of an object or person—“Perfect for sharing bathrooms with squadmates,” Professor Ching jokes—he asks if I can stay behind after class.
I walk over to his desk at the front of the room, the pristine surface showing organized rows of jewel-toned vials filled with strange substances. Some glow, some bubble, and one looks and smells suspiciously like wine.
“I’ve read your transcript and file, Miss Farris. Impressive. Very impressive, as a matter of fact.” He twists his beard between his fingers. “You have all the basic knowledge—and even some advanced understanding. More so than your peers.” He looks out across the now-empty classroom. “What you lack,” he says, fixing me with those sharp eyes, “is elemental knowledge. Understanding how magickbreathes.” He pauses then, eyessearching, measuring. “I’d like to move you into my Advanced Potions course. We meet in Browning Hall, Thursdays at nine o’clock sharp. If you’re interested.”
I thank him sincerely and gather my things, a quiet flicker of pride warming my chest as I head to rejoin my squad.
* * *
At lunch,I head to the mess hall to meet up with Noa and snag a table with him, Finn, Rozsen, Elliot, and another fourth-year named Mauve—the girl with strawberry-pink hair from the bonfire.
The mess hall at Whittaker is a sprawling, high-ceilinged space filled with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of trays and cutlery. Long metal tables and benches stretch across the polished floor, organized into tidy rows. Light slants through tall rectangular windows, cutting gold ribbons across the floor. A large electric sliding glass door on the west side opens and closes with a soft mechanical hiss as students shuffle in and out between classes. The air smells like garlic and yeast, with undertones of sugar and something fried.
Cafeteria workers in crisp aprons move quickly behind the counters, dishing out trays of hot food with practiced efficiency. Noa’s pink-hatted pancake chef is among them, flipping something sweet with an exaggerated flourish. It’s just past midday, and the lunch stations are in full swing: a make-your-own sandwich bar with fresh breads and fillings, and a rotating hot line that today features rosemary chicken and garlic mashed potatoes.
Finn is the epitome of politeness and affable charm to Rozsen, who’s settled beside him. The two fall into an easy rhythm—light banter, eyes brighter than they should be for people claiming to be just friends. Maybe it’s something. Maybe it’s not. But either way, it’s easy and carefree.
I sit beside Noa, who leans in, his familiar heat curling around me like a second skin.
“You sleep okay?” he asks, voice quiet. Then, closer, with words just for me: “I didn’t like waking up without you next to me.” His lips brush my temple, and his hand finds my thigh beneath the table—warm, steady, possessive in the gentlest way.
I try but fail to hide the satisfied smile tugging at my lips.
He studies me for a beat, his eyes glinting like he’s about to say something more—but Mauve cuts in, giving me a slow once-over.
“Soyou’rethe girl who walked into Whittaker with Noa Gallegher’s jacket and zero self-preservation instincts.”
I choke into my glass of water, coughing once before managing to look up at her. Noa’s glare is sharp and immediate.
But Mauve just grins, completely unfazed. “Welcome to the circus, Initiate.”
