That cocky bastard winks.
Hewinksat me as fireballs scream toward him across the arena.
Before I can even curse under my breath, he throws a lasso of flame with a sharp flick of his arm. It wraps around Tasha’s legs and sends her sprawling.
The crowd erupts into cheers.
Tasha pushes herself off the stone floor with shaking arms and walks off the field with what little pride she has left. Noa barely acknowledges her departure. He’s already turned to the next duel underway, standing at the arena’s edge with a casual tilt to his stance—the epitome of poise and confidence, just another day, for him at least.
He walks up to our row after the final match, and more than a few of my squadmates look up at him in full fan-girl mode as he approaches. Including some of the boys. Rozsen and Ian practically launch themselves at him with a barrage of questions, animated and breathless in their praise. As fire elementals themselves, they clearly see him as some kind of god.
Noa takes it in stride, smiling, listening, answering every question with patience and ease. He is always like this in public—gracious, charismatic, disarming. But I know better. Beneath the smile is something far more dangerous. Something burning. And damn if I don’t want to burn right along with him.
It makes me wonder, though—if I ever let go of the reins, even for a second… what would they see in me? Something to be revered?
Or would I be thought of as a threat? Something to behandled? Someone that disappears without a trace like those Magicks before me?
The thought curls around my spine like smoke, unshakable.
Because the truth isn’t just that I fear what I can do.
It’s that I fear whattheywould do if they ever saw it.
CHAPTER 15
The strongest roots grow in silence. Power beneath the surface is the hardest to uproot.
—Botanical Studies and Applied Herbology, Vol. II
The path to the Blue Dahlia Commons is slick with fallen leaves—amber, rust, and crimson—all damp from last night’s rain. October has settled over Whittaker like a second skin, the air heavy with the scent of moss and woodsmoke.
It’s Sunday, and my squadmates are draped across the common room furniture, bickering over how best to spend our day off.
Sawyer wants to head to the Cavern hot springs.
Ian tells us that some second-years are having a barbecue at the Silver Fern Commons.
Nate suggests a study group after reminding everyone of tomorrow’s History exam.
Rozsen flicks a single glance at me. “Why bother? Celestealready said we could use her notes. And she’s already figured out what the three essay questions will be, based on Professor Straits’s hints in class.”
“Cel, have I told you how much we love that you’re in our squad?” comes Ian’s teasing voice.
I laugh, moving my feet off the coffee table where I’m sprawled next to Rozsen. “And here I thought you just kept me around for my sparkling personality.”
The rest of the group goes back to arguing about whose ideas are better. Only Amelia is quiet, methodically collecting her gardening tools.
“Heading somewhere?” I ask.
She glances up, surprised I’ve noticed her, then nods and gestures to the tools bundled in her arms. “The frostbloom thistle are blooming. They have to be harvested before winter, or else they lose potency.”
“Can I come?” I ask, intrigued. I’ve never heard of frostbloom thistle—it’s certainly not something that grows in Virginia.
She shrugs, then turns toward the door. I take it as a yes.
We walk in companionable silence. Amelia’s soft brown hair is tied in a ponytail, though loose strands keep slipping free, which she keeps tucking behind her ears. Her gaze remains mostly downward, scanning the path like she might discover a rare root or seed tucked between the stones. She moves with the hesitancy of someone used to being overlooked—but there is a quiet strength in her. A grounding, as if she is a part of the earth she communes with.
To the south, past the sandstone path that veers toward the central quad, the low stone wall of Garden Grove comes into view, ivy spilling over its edge like an invitation. We step through an arch of twisted iron, where vines bloom pale lavender and mint green. The air shifts immediately—thicker, fragrant with damp soil and crushed basil.
