Rows of raised beds stretch before us, the soil dark and rich. Leafy greens shiver in the breeze, while luminous stalks of flowered herbs bend gently under the weight of their blooms. Small fruit trees, their trunks pale and knotted, frame the edges of the garden, casting dappled shadows across the walkways.
Vines curl thickly along trellises and latticed alcoves, creating shaded spaces—one currently occupied by a pair of students entangled in a kiss. Amelia averts her eyes quickly, cheeks pink with embarrassment.
Thin stone aqueducts no wider than a hand run through the space, carrying cool water from unseen sources. The channels split and rejoin in meandering paths, quietly irrigating the garden. The sound of trickling water echoes softly in the background, a calming pulse. The entire space breathes—ancient and alive.
A cluster of students kneel near a bed of silver sage, their fingers nimble and careful. Near one corner of the grove sits a large greenhouse, its glass fogged and softly glowing from within. Inside, figures move like shadows tending to rarer, more delicate flora.
“This place is amazing,” I murmur, mostly to myself. It’s wild and cultivated all at once—chaotic, yet harmonious.
At the heart of the grove lies a square training courtyard, its soft sand pale and fine. The earth has been tamped down over the years by generations of feet. It feels like standing inside the memory of something sacred. A place of stillness and strength. The earth waits here. It doesn’t yield. It endures.
We pass through the courtyard, and Amelia leads us to a shaded corner beneath a copse of black adder trees. Nestled at their base is a patch of pale blue-violet thistle, the edges of their petals rimmed with a silvery sheen—frostbloom thistle.
“What do you use this for?” I ask, crouching beside her.
“It’s used in heat resistance potions,” Amelia replies, snipping stems just below the bloom and gently placing them into acloth-lined basket. “But it can also be combined with silver bark and shadowmint to dull pain and slow bleeding.” She glances up at me. “It’s also used to amplify magick—especially freezing spells.”
“Really? How can a plant do that?” My curiosity flares—part fascination, part potioneer’s instinct.
“The wielder has to ingest it in powdered form,” she says, returning to her work.
I drop to my knees beside her and follow her lead. She guides me with a soft word here, a quick glance there. We fall into a rhythm, surrounded by the whisper of leaves and the distant babble of water.
The afternoon passes just like that—in the hush of growing things, and the quiet company of someone who understands the strength of silence.
CHAPTER 16
Precision. Discipline. Power with purpose. The Service forges more than soldiers—it forges those worthy to command the unseen currents of a changing world.
—Recruitment pamphlet for the Service of Elemental Defense and Reconnaissance
(issued to upper-year Whittaker students, confidential circulation)
The air-wielders are going to duel at the Mountain and students are invited to observe. Elliot and Sawyer make us promise we will meet them there after class.
Professor Straits taps her chalk against the board, drawing a sun with a spear through it.
“Before we move into post-rift treaties, we need to discuss the entity that shaped modern magickal law more than any other—the Service.” She says it like it carries weight. Like it’s not just a name, but a system. “Formed after the Second Rebellion, the Service began as the Elemental Security Bureau—anagency meant to regulate elemental violence, stabilize rogue wielders, and protect the nation’s sacred sites. Over time, it absorbed every independent enforcement branch across all federated territories, both magick and non-magick. Today, its reach extends into almost every facet of life as we know it—military, magitech research and development, weaponry, education, diplomacy.” She pauses, letting that list settle over the room. “Whittaker, while not officially under Service jurisdiction, operates under the terms of the Altair Pact—meaning the strongest among you will likely be recruited.”
There’s a beat of silence.
I know what the pact really means—that even if we’re not on the Service’s leash, we’re still always under their rule.
Rozsen mutters under her breath, just loud enough to be heard, “So… conscription with prettier uniforms?”
A few students snicker.
Professor Straits arches a brow but doesn’t correct her. “Some see it that way,” she replies. “Some call it duty. Others—control. Regardless, the Service is watching. Always.”
“And who watches them?” Rozsen asks, eyes narrowed, crossing her arms in front of her.
Straits doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t reprimand her either. “A good question, Initiate. And a necessary one. One every government fears, and every student should remember. Every power must be held accountable.”
* * *
Later that day,Noa and I meet up on campus to walk together to where the duel is to be held. We’re halfway across the quad when the sound of polished shoes on stone makes me look up.
“Ah, Officer Gallegher,” comes a smooth voice. “Still dazzling your instructors, I trust?”
