Like something inside me roused while I slept—and slipped loose without permission.
I’m back in my dorm, my bed dry and freshly made, before the rest of my roommates even stir.
* * *
It’s Wednesday,and we have our first combat class in the Training Room—the same massive gymnasium where orientation and registration were held, now stripped of all banners and ceremony. Learning to defend and fight is not optional at Whittaker; in a world where power is commonly conscripted, ignorance is often the fastest way to die.
Gym uniforms on, we all stand along the edge of one of the many black mats scattered across the floor. A subway tile mosaic of promised pain. Some students are already sparring on the nearby mats, trading jabs, punches, and kicks in what look like rehearsed dances—fluid and deliberate.
Our instructor for the class isn’t actually a professor at all, but a fellow student built like a tank, with arms and legs the size of small tree trunks. He introduces himself as Jazz, a fourth-year in Green Squad and an earth-wielder.
He guides us through some combat basics, correcting stances, adjusting form, and letting us practice on the wooden dummies lined up along the wall. It’s obvious that Peter and Sawyer are the best fighters in our squad. They move as one, more like brothers than cousins, all instinct and rivalry. Rozsen and Elliot are similar. They’ve been training together since childhood. Rozsen is quick, hands moving so fast they’re almost impossible to track. Elliot fights like the air she commands, effortless and wild, making it difficult to predict her next move.
My stance is uneven; my punches don’t land clean. I’m still rattled from this morning’s quiet disaster and unwanted show of power. But I keep my focus on the wooden figure in front of me.
In the last twenty minutes of class, Jazz announces that we’ll be sparring—pairing with older students if any are free. One by one, my classmates partner off with second- and third-years. The older students guide them through the motions, stepping slowly, offering tips when someone misses an opening or leaves themselves vulnerable.
When it’s my turn on the mat, I see a girl approach Jazz and whisper something in his ear. He eyes her suspiciously but nods nevertheless. She smiles at me, but there is nothing kind in it. All teeth and intention.
She’s tall, with long, silvery-blonde hair and blue eyes sodark they’re nearly violet. I recognize her from orientation day. She and her friend were the ones by the Garden Grove wall. She’s quite stunning, if I’m being honest. And for some reason, I’m immediately on edge.
As soon as I set foot onto the mat, she sweeps my legs out from under me, and I hit the mat with a sharp, flat crack that empties the breath from my lungs.
Okay… so it’s going to be like that.
I grit my teeth as I get to my feet and she advances on me without holding back. I take a kick to my shin as she whips around and lands a jab into my kidney, my breath catching in a burning hitch. I attempt to block her, but she’s fast, ruthless, and seems to have a vendetta against me even though I’m certain I’ve never met her before in my life.
I try to send a punch to her right side, but she fakes left and spins behind me, and a kick to my back sends me flying.
Jazz is there in an instant, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her back. “You’ve made your point, Stella. Are you trying tokillthe girl?”
She flips her hair, breath barely affected. “Just trying to help,” she purrs, then saunters off, laughing with her friends like she didn’t just treat me like a training dummy. They speak in low whispers to each other, looking over their shoulders at me. She grabs her jacket off the floor—third-year, with a water patch stitched on the shoulder.
“You okay?” Rozsen asks, reaching a hand out to help me up, her eyes burning holes into the backs of the girls as they walk away from us.
“Yeah,” I say, wincing as I rub my side and shin—both of which will likely be black and blue by morning. “But what the hell was that about?”
* **
Later that night,I’m curled on the sofa at the Spanish Steps, trying to finish my essay on the first one hundred years of magick for Professor Straits. My legs are draped across Noa’s lap as he reads from a textbook, lazily marking pages with a highlighter while he sips tea from a mug on the console table. The domesticity of it all makes me smile to myself.
He absently rubs my calf until he presses into a sore spot, drawing a groan from me. He glances up, a brow arched in silent question.
“Ugh, don’t ask… Some third-year girl had it out for me during sparring today.”
Across the room, Finn and Ryan exchange a look. Finn suddenly finds a speck on the ceiling very interesting, while Ryan retreats into his room with a not-so-subtle mutter.
Noa sets his book aside, brow furrowed. “Let me guess—blonde, blue eyes, angsty?”
“Yes.” I squint at him. “Wait… how did you?—?”
Finn groans and starts shoving his schoolwork into his bag. “This is your mess, Gallegher. I’m out.”
I sit up and narrow my eyes at Noa as a faint flush colors his cheeks. He’s looking down at his hands like they’ve personally betrayed him.
I smack him with my essay. “Noa… what exactly is Finn referring to?”
He winces, sheepish. “I think you just met Stella.”
