The rest of lunch passes in a blur of mashed potatoes, teasing, and bite-sized stories. Rozsen steals my bread roll off my tray and is mid-bite before I even notice it’s gone. Elliot bombards Finn with a thousand questions about air magick.
Noa never stops touching me—knuckles brushing mine, hand against my thigh, shoulder against my side. His presence grounds me. Even in the chaos. Especially in it.
When lunch is finished and we get ready to head our separate ways, he pulls me in for a kiss, long and lingering. The kind of kiss that makes our friends look anywhere but at us before Finn finally coughs and mumbles something about getting reamed by Professor Kael if they’re late.
The rest of the afternoon is packed with more new faces, syllabus breakdowns, first assignments, and professors who all seem equal parts brilliant and terrifying. I survive—barely. And by the time I finally make it back to the dorms, my head is spinning and I’m not entirely sure all my notes are in English.
Dusk on campus is quiet, lights blooming one by one acrossthe courtyards like small stars. I sink into my bed beside Rozsen, trading gossip and stories with lighthearted laughter. It reminds me of nights back in Virginia with Alissa, Noa’s sister. She was the closest thing I ever had to something like this.
My head aches in the best way—exhausted but buzzing, like I crossed an invisible threshold, and somehow I know there will be no going back.
Sleep comes fast that night. And with it, dreams.
Dreams of dark caves full of shadow, water full of secrets, and wildfire blooming on the horizon.
CHAPTER 10
Strength, speed, and technique matter. But so too do intent, composure, and what you are willing—or unwilling—to risk.
—Combat Theory I: Foundations of Defense
Iwake in the dark, heart pounding. For a breath, I don’t know why—fragments of the dream cling to me, the same one I always have, images slipping away like water through my fingers.
Stars rippling across a surface, fractured in black water.
My reflection staring back at me from the depths—scared, wide-eyed.
A voice, low and coaxing saying:Come here, Celeste.
And then a pull. The cold grasp of water dragging me under, the stars breaking apart above.
I shift beneath the covers and feel it.
My bedding is drenched. The sheets cling to my skin, hair damp at the nape of my neck. My shirt is soaked through.
Shit.No. No, no, no.
This hasn’t happened in years. But the nightmare is always the same—a black pool of stars, a voice, the cold water pulling me under. And then waking up like this.
Wet. Drenched. Soaked.
I lie still for a moment, breath shallow, as I slowly flex each finger. Each toe. Ankles. Hands. All here. All intact.
I’m still me. Just wet.
Water. Everywhere.
I ease out of bed, careful not to wake Rozsen, whose soft snores break the silence like a tether. She’s curled toward the wall, oblivious. I grip the edge of the mattress like it might ground me.
Blankets off. Sheets stripped. My laundry basket thuds against my leg.
5:03 a.m.
It’s still dark. Still too early. Plenty of time to wash the evidence and pretend this morning never happened.
But the chill has already sunk in.
Not just the cold. The knowing.
