First generation.
Dormant gene.
Activated.
An anomaly.
I straighten my shoulders, forcing myself to breathe around the attention.
Noa shifts closer—not touching, but there, solid beside me—an unspoken warning to anyone watching.
The hallway starts moving again as more students spill out of classrooms. I fall into step beside Noa, heart pounding. The air suddenly feels sharp around me, needling my skin, charged with something dangerous.
Because if magick is inherited…
Then my blood has a story I don’t know yet.
And somewhere in those hidden lines—dormant and waiting—there are secrets someone decided I wasn’t allowed to know.
* * *
By dusk,the wordinheritancestill tastes like metal on my tongue—until Noa proves exactly why the world keeps count.
That evening, third- and fourth-year fire-wielders are scheduled to duel at the Caldera, the massive sunken arena carved out of the cliffside I saw on my first day. Noa invited my squad and me to come watch, and we arrive just as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting gold and blood-orange light across the stone terraces.
We file into the front row and sit in the growing dark as the arena begins to pulse with light and heat. The air here tastes of ash and anticipation. The Caldera itself seems to speak to thefire it commands. Bright and volatile, always reaching. Always consuming.
Two fourth-years are already engaged in a dazzling duel—fire whirling, shields forming and vanishing in precise rhythm. Footwork matched at every movement like a choreographed dance.
When their match ends, a girl with copper curls named Tasha steps into the ring, fire already dancing at her fingertips. She squares off against a boy I vaguely recognize—Liam, one of Noa’s friends.
They bow. And then Tasha attacks.
She is fast. Faster than I expect, slinging arrows of flame in a barrage that lights up the dusk like fireworks. Liam blocks one, dodges two, but a fourth slams into his left arm and sends him to the ground with a strangled shout.
Professor Kael is already moving, a metal tin in his hands. He opens it and dabs something onto the wound. A tincture we made in class not long ago—Emberveil. Liam hisses faintly through clenched teeth as the professor applies it to the wound, sealing it shut.
Tasha stands unbothered, barely acknowledging the professor as Liam is helped from the arena. She looks confident. Smug.
That lasts about ten seconds.
Because then Noa steps into the ring.
And the Calderachanges.
The moment his boots hit the arena floor, the air shifts. I can feel it, like the oxygen around us has turned into something heavier, thicker. The crowd goes silent. Even Tasha hesitates.
Then she moves—sending bolts of fire screaming toward him. Noa doesn’t even flinch. With one flick of his wrist, he summons a wall of flame that curves around him like a cloak. She throws more bolts, each faster than the last. He dodges with minimal effort, barely moving more than a step at a time. Hisfire bends and arches with lazy precision, deflecting every attack with grace. His fire forms into something almost solid in his hands.
He’s toying with her. And she knows it.
Her expression twists into one of frustration and determination. She shifts tactics and summons a burst of firelight so blinding that the entire front row has to shield our eyes, gasping as our vision turns white. When we blink the light away, she’s hurling full-bodied fireballs, huge and erratic, like she’s trying to land a single hit just to salvage her pride.
Noa doesn’t move. Until suddenly, he does.
And just before he strikes—he catches my eye. Smiles.
And then?—
