Headmaster Thorne descends the stairs outside theAdministration building, his dark coat flaring behind him like a trailing shadow. Hair that was once blond but is now threaded with silver gives him a distinguished look. His smile is warm, his dark-brown eyes bright at seeing us together.
Noa grins, slowing to a stop beside me. “Doing my best, sir.”
“And doing it well,” Thorne replies, then turns his gaze on me. “Ms. Farris—Celeste, isn’t it? Professor Barrows tells me you are at the top of all your classes. And Professor Neris says that your control continues to improve.” He looks over me, gaze landing in a way that makes me instantly uncomfortable with its familiarity. “Water, of course, is notoriously temperamental, especially for newcomers. But according to her, you show remarkable promise.”
My throat tightens. “Thank you, sir,” I manage.
There’s something behind his gaze—curling at the edges. Not unkind. Just… measured, curated.
He nods once, then glances at Noa. “Keep an eye on her. I suspect she’ll leave a mark before the year is out.” He looks back at me then before flicking his gaze to Noa once more. “Raw talent rarely stays under the surface for long.”
The corner of his mouth lifts as his attention drifts between us.
Approval.
Like seeing the two of us together is exactly what he expected.
He smiles at us both, wide and genuine. But something deeper shifts there—a shadow crossing behind his eyes. Then he turns and walks away, the echo of his boots swallowed by the wind.
Noa grins, reaching for my hand and pulling me toward him. “I’m not the only one to notice how amazing you are. He sees it too.”
I nod, but a current prickles at the back of my neck. “It’sjust… strange. Why would the headmaster be asking my professors aboutme?”
Noa shrugs, flashing me another grin. “Because he’s not stupid. He knows potential when he sees it. Don’t overthink it.”
I smile, but the feeling lingers. The way Thorne said my name—not with care, but like it already belonged to him. Like it’s a blank medallion in a case of trophies. Another name on a ledger. Potential to be filed away.
I can’t help but wonder what else he sees when he looks at me—not only who I am, but what I might become.
And whether he’s already decided exactly what that is.
We keep walking toward the Mountain, a chill breeze in our wake. I glance back. Nothing but empty steps behind me. And yet something presses behind my ribs—like the echo of a gaze that hasn’t quite let me go.
* * *
It’s called the Mountain—eventhough it isn’t one—because it’s on the highest hill on Whittaker grounds.
At the summit is a ring of granite monoliths—nine in all—carved with glyphs whose magick has been lost to time. They were here long before there was ever a school, standing like jagged fingers reaching toward the sky. Set in a broken arc, they funnel the wind, turning the summit into a throat where every gust is amplified. For it is here that the wind is wildest, whipping through the stones in howls and sighs, never still, never silent.
Just below, crouched against the slope, is the Air Elemental Hall, a stark utilitarian building of pale cement, more bunker than school. Designed to endure rather than impress. There are no trees, no hedges, no sheltering foliage of any kind. Only grass that bends low in submission and rocks that have been bleached by the sun.
This is not a place for comfort.
Like all the other elemental training grounds, this one speaks to its power—invisible, mercurial, and unforgiving.
Professor Caelum Stroud stands at the center of the stone circle. Sharp-eyed, witty, and unpredictable, he is known for changing lesson plans mid-sentence—often mid-thought. His light-brown hair curls slightly in the breeze, and his slim frame is wrapped in flowing, layered robes that shift like cloudbanks with every gust.
Behind him stands Finn, flanked by another student. There is a seriousness on Finn’s face I’ve never seen before—his usual boyish charm replaced by grim determination.
Professor Stroud’s voice rings out clear and direct, addressing the small crowd that has gathered. He speaks of the importance of air magick—its complexity, its precision, its role in warfare and reconnaissance. There are no frills, no comforting words for the students about to duel. Just the cold weight of truth. His harsh tone clashes starkly with the typically carefree nature of both Elliot and Finn.
The wind has already begun to stir by the time Finn turns to face his challenger, another fourth-year—Lyrah is her name, I think. She stands tall, arms tense at her sides, pale braid snapping like a banner behind her. She gives a single, silent nod of acknowledgment.
Finn raises a hand, and a tight spiral of wind coils around his fingers. He moves with practiced ease—stance wide, shoulders loose. The air greets him like an old friend. With a sharp throw of his hand, a sudden gust barrels across the field, kicking up pebbles and grass as it goes.
Lyrah doesn’t hesitate. With a precise slice of her palm through the air, she sends a razor-thin gust slicing toward him. Their blows collide with a thunderous crack, the force knocking her back several steps.
She recovers quickly, her next move ruthless. Drawing in adense, high-altitude current, she slams it toward Finn in a sudden press of cold, low-oxygen air. The students behind him flinch, retreating from the blast as it passes.
