Finn grits his teeth, then unleashes a pulse from his chest—a rippling ring of wind that cracks against Lyrah like a shockwave. His eyes narrow as he follows up fast and low, sweeping wind toward her calves and sending her stumbling. Before she can recover, he sweeps his arms wide, lifting himself several feet into the air while a powerful gust throws her clean out of the ring.
The crowd is stunned. Even the air itself seems to pause.
Other duels follow in quick succession—some fierce, some forgettable—but none quite as commanding as watching Finn in his element. The third-year, Dash, has mastered sound manipulation, using the wind to redirect the voices of the crowd to disorient his opponent. It’s clever, effective. But still, Finn’s display set the standard.
We leave the Mountain in silence. Even Finn.
The weight of our futures clings to us like mist. Intangible still, yet inescapable.
* * *
That nightat the Steps with the boys, we end up in a quiet conversation about post-graduation plans. It doesn’t surprise me that all three—Noa, Finn, and Ryan—plan to enlist with the Service.
There is a heaviness to their voices, a layer of meaning in their half-mentions and sidelong glances. Things they likely can’t say in front of me—just an initiate. Information classified for officers alone. But I’ve heard the rumors, the things theydon’torwon’tsay on the news. Tensions are rising. Between the Service and Krovya. Between Magicks and non-Magicks incertain parts of the world. China has all but shut their doors to outsiders recently.
Gavrail taught me about Bulgaria’s military structure when I was younger, and I’ve seen enough during diplomatic missions to know that military hierarchies vary by region. Whittaker’s, though, is clearly defined: first-years are initiates, second-years become cadets, third-years are lieutenants, and fourth-years, officers.
After graduation, officers can rise to become captains, then commanders, if they join the Service.
At the top—generals.
The thought of being separated from Noa next year makes my heart plummet. But he reassures me, saying officers have plenty of leave, and now that I’m at Whittaker, we would have clearance to communicate more freely.
Still, something unsettles me. A quiet fear, clawing at the edges of my thoughts. Not just about distance. But about change.
About what we are all becoming. Whether we want to or not.
Because we aren’t just students. That is becoming more and more clear.
We are being shaped into weapons. Honed and sharpened. Ready to make the world bleed on someone else’s orders.
CHAPTER 17
Bloodline is not merely inheritance—it is leverage. Where leverage exists, so does the will to take it.
—Lineage and Law: A History of Elemental Governance
November arrives under moody gray skies, long drizzles, and a chilling mist that clings to every surface. By the time I reach the bottom floor of the Logistics building, my sleeves are damp from brushing past wet stone and my boots squeak against the corridor’s polished floor.
The room is already warm with bodies, the air thick with the smell of rain-soaked clothing. A handful of upperclassmen sit scattered through the hall today—Straits’s idea of “remediation” after last week’s essays proved some people could recite dates but not understand why they matter.
Professor Straits stands at the front, not one to waste time on greetings. She turns to the board and writes three names in sharp, deliberate strokes.
MORVAINE
VIRELLAN
THALRIEN
We’ve just begunour unit on the history of water magick—diving into the ancient bloodlines that fascinate me the most. But it isn’t just fascination anymore. It’s a tug under my ribs, like the names are hooked to something inside me.
Straits dusts the chalk from her hands. “Today we’re discussing the three major water lineages—how they rose, how they held power, and how they fell.”
Stella Moreau—the third-year water-wielder, and Noa’s ex—is sitting in the front row like she’s holding court, her blonde braid laid like a crown around her head. She acts like her attendance in this class is beneath her. The essay peeking out of her bag, bleeding with Straits’s red ink, would suggest otherwise.
“The Morvaines never fell. They’ve always been the most stable of all the water lines,” I hear her murmur to the boy sitting next to her. It’s well known that Stella has an ancestor with Morvaine blood, a fact she likes to remind everyone of constantly.
Professor Straits’s gaze snaps to her. “Miss Moreau,” she says, each word clipped, “while I appreciate your enthusiasm for the subject matter, talking out of turn will not be tolerated.”
