Professor Ching barely looks up. “Stella, you’re late—as always. Take your seat so we can begin.”
My heart sinks as I glance back. Stella is glaring—at me, at Noa. Mostly me.
“Well,thisis delightfully awkward,” Finn murmurs, lounging back with his hands behind his head like he’s settling in to watch a show.
Noa jabs him in the ribs, and Finn feigns injury then looks at me apologetically.
“Shit, Cel… I’m sorry,” Noa says under his breath. He reaches under the table and squeezes my hand gently. “I didn’t know she’d be in this class.”
“It’s fine,” I mumble. Annoyed, but nothing I can do about it.
Professor Ching clears his throat, and the lecture begins.
* * *
Measure here.Stir there. Mix. Pour. Melt. Boil. Cool.
I lose myself in the rhythm of the classroom.
Potions feels natural to me—like water, like breathing. There’s something soothing in the measured steps: the carefulweighing, the deliberate stirring, the slow transformation of one thing into another. It’s a dance I know instinctively, even without needing to look at a page. My hands always seem to move on their own, confident and precise.
The scents of herbs and minerals rise in delicate waves, curling into the air like incense. Each crackle of heat, each simmer of liquid, pulls me deeper into focus. The classroom, the students, even Noa beside me—it all blurs around the edges until there’s only the task and the process.
But the hold on my focus is better than the hold on my magick.
I’m attempting to pour ten measured drops of water into our pyraleaf and ironroot mixture when a flicker of power jumps beneath my skin—unasked for, unformed—and the water in the beaker shivers. Then jumps. For a heartbeat, it almost looks like it’s trying to flee. Like it knows something the rest of us don’t.
The glass vibrates in my hand like it’s alive.
I freeze, heart pounding.
Too late.
The beaker fractures in a clean, startling snap, liquid spilling in a glittering arc across the workstation and into Finn’s open notes.
He curses softly, flicking droplets off his paper. “What was that?”
“I didn’t… I barely touched it,” I say, voice low, trying to steady my breath.
Noa leans in, his warmth cutting through the fog in my chest. He doesn’t say anything—he just grabs a spare cloth. Mops up the spill. Collects the pieces of glass and disposes of them. All the while shielding me from the curious glances of Mauve and the looks and sniggers from the back table.
Professor Ching glances over from his desk but doesn’t comment—just lifts a single snowy brow and continues writing.
“You’re fine,” Noa says under his breath. “It was just anaccident.” The glow from his fingers now rests softly on my knee under the table. Steadying me.
But it wasn’t. Not really.
It’s the third time this week something has slipped.
The magick inside me is unruly and impatient. Like some part of it is no longer waiting for permission. Like it’s done asking if I’m ready.
Today we’re making Emberveil—a tricky, dual-purpose tincture. When applied, it creates a thin barrier to prevent burns, but it can also heal skin that’s already been damaged. One wrong move and it curdles. Noa keeps a steady hand on me through the rest of the lesson—no more mishaps. Our group works well together, precise and coordinated, our potion turning a soft, perfect amber when we finish.
Noa walks over to the container shelves and leans forward to grab a fresh beaker, just as Stella brushes past him—unnecessarily close. Her fingers graze his wrist, deliberate and dripping with suggestion.
“Careful, Noa,” she murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear. “Wouldn’t want to break anything that looks so very fragile.”
My stomach knots.
