Trying to remember who I used to be and figuring out who the hell I might still have the chance to become.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimes, loud and resonant, pulling me back to the present. I step out into the corridor, hearing the muted voices of students through heavy oak doors that lead to the gym, their iron hinges creaking as they swing slowly shut with a thud.
Behind me, another door opens with a gust of wind cutting through. I turn to look and catch a flash of black—but they are gone before I can call out, leaving only fragments of words on the breeze.
She’s here.
The whisper twists through the air like a thread. And for a heartbeat, I swear the ring on my finger burns cold.
I frown at my hand before looking back toward the empty doorway. Maybe I imagined it? But I’m also standing on the grounds of an ancient school of magick… where nothing is quite what it seems. But then again,I’mnot quite what I seem either.
For some reason, my father’s voice chooses that moment to echo in my head:Magick will be the end of the world.
But maybe?—
Just maybe?—
It might be the beginning of mine.
CHAPTER 2
To study at Whittaker is to step willingly into ancient currents of power. It is impossible to come out unchanged.
—Whittaker School of Magick Handbook for New Students, “New Student Orientation”
Boom.The gym doors slam shut as another student barrels through. The sound ricochets down the corridor before being drowned beneath a rising drumbeat of boots and voices. A wave of first-years surge past me, shoulder-to-shoulder, and I’m forced to flatten against the side of the hall to let them through—my back hitting cold rock, trying to make myself small as the stream of bodies funnels toward the double doors. When the last of them disappears, I push off the wall and slip in after them.
Inside the gym, I’m immediately herded into a long, winding line of registration tables—schedules, syllabi, ID badges, room keys, and enough paperwork to make my fingers ache and make me question whether I’ve just signed away my soul.
My badge says:
Celeste Farris
First Year
Red Squad
Blue Dahlia Commons
The spaceI’m standing in stretches two stories high with arched glass windows lining the upper walls, allowing sunlight to pour in and illuminate the floor. I keep glancing at my ring, but it just gleams back at me, gold and jewels sitting innocently where they’ve always been. No trace of the whisper that slid into my ears earlier, no sign of that cold, needle-fine feeling on my hand.
But the truth is, the feeling of unease started before that moment. From the instant I stepped onto Whittaker’s grounds, my body has felt restless. Like something is prowling within its confines, erratic and sharp-edged. It feels like the earth here knows something I don’t and is just waiting for the right moment to tell me.
I look up from my hand and take in the rows of bleachers and observation platforms found in every corner of the room—all looking down on the black mats that line the floor in a modular pattern. TheTraining Room is what the guy who gave me my schedule called it. The mats reek of sweat and something sharper—bleach cut with pine and citrus. It burns through my sinuses, clean and cruel, like punishment disguised as purity.
I see a guy to the left of the room holding a sign sayingRed Squad, a group of other first-years circling around him. I bite my lip, forcing my feet forward before doubt can root me inplace. I count each step like a mantra, keeping my mind from spiraling.
“I think I’m with you,” I say, pointing to my badge.
He nods and checks something off his clipboard. “Cadet Magnus Williamson,” he says, dipping his head in greeting. “Second-year. Your Red Squad orientation leader.”
His short black hair is shaved into sharp zigzags along his scalp like lightning bolts—a rebellious contrast to his otherwise meticulous appearance. His figure is lean, almost delicate, more whipcord than muscle. His shrewd black eyes sweep over me with curiosity—and nothing more.
I step into line behind him and find myself between two girls.
The taller one is intently looking at her schedule and pointing to it, annoyed. “Blue Dahlia Commons is clear across the east ridge, but half our classes are by the quad. Whoever planned campus logistics must enjoy watching us run.”
A second girl shrugs before running a hand through her blonde shoulder-length hair, one side shaved close, the longer layers sweeping across her face with streaks of blue hidden underneath. “They probably always give the crappier schedules to the first-years.”
