Rozsen glares at her. “What shemeansto say is that you must be really talented if you got into Whittaker as a first-gen. Pretty sure most of us won’t be getting through these next four years completely intact.” She raises her right arm, and I see the fresh burn mark on the outside of her elbow, angry and raw. “If at all.”
She just shrugs like it’s nothing. Like dying is just another possible outcome—right alongside graduating.
“Bet your parents were surprised,” Elliot says. “I was sixteen when I blew my brother across the room for stealing my favorite hoodie. My dad couldn’t have been more proud.”
My eyes widen, but Elliot only grins, like this is a completely normal occurrence.
Most Magicks show an affinity to an element at a young age but are unable to fully draw from them until they are older. It’s rare for anyone under fifteen to have that kind of power. Something to do with the brain requiring a certain hormone to be triggered around then.
Amelia looks up from where she’s sitting. “Rozsen is right. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t already exceptional, Celeste. Normal colleges only teach magickal theory and the basics. Whittaker forges mastery—and only takes the best,” she adds matter-of-factly.
Rozsen’s eyes darken. “Translation? Survive four years of hell, then the government’s Service department gets the right to claim you after.”
Her words land heavy. I twist my ring as I look back out at the lake.
A knock sounds at the door and Magnus’s voice shouts out to meet him in the parlor in thirty minutes.
The eight of us gather in the common room, where two of the guys—Ian and Nate—claim the high-backed purple armchairs. A few of us settle on the navy-blue sofa that faces a fireplace on the far wall. The last two members of our squad, Peter and Sawyer, stand by the large bay window opposite the hearth. Earth and air Magicks; cousins, I believe—they keep close, speaking only to each other.
Magnus steps to the center of the room and walks us through the orientation schedule: the next few days of events, where to find the laundry room and infirmary, the gym and mess hall hours. When he finishes, he takes a moment, letting the silence settle, then looks each of us in the eye, one by one. “This is your new home,” he says. “And this squad will be your new family for the next four years.” He smiles then—warm, but with weight behind it. “This place will test you. Break you. Take until you think you’ve got nothing left. But I promise—you won’t leave here empty-handed.”
New family.The phrase cuts deeper than I expect.
I came here haunted by my father’s death—by everything he feared.
But I’m done being the ghost in my own story.
And I can’t help but wonder what these halls will strip away from me, and more importantly—what will be left after.
CHAPTER 3
At Whittaker, students advance through four ranks—initiate, cadet, lieutenant, and officer. Each stage demands greater skill, loyalty, and sacrifice. Advancement is earned. The cost can be personal.
—Whittaker School of Magick Handbook for New Students, “Ranks and Advancement”
The September morning breaks with a golden hush—late summer clings to the air, but it nips with a quiet warning of the autumn that’s coming.
The smell of lavender scones and hot coffee rouses me from sleep, along with the energetic voices of Rozsen and Elliot calling out to wake the rest of us up. Magnus is already waiting downstairs to herd us across campus to collect our assigned textbooks for the year.
At the heart of the ancient academy lies the quad, a broad expanse about the size of two football fields placed side by side.Towering oaks ring the perimeter, their silver-veined leaves casting patterns of shadow across the lawn.
At the northern edge, raised slightly above the courtyard by a fan of wide, worn steps, stands the stone dais—a broad, imposing platform carved from pale-gray granite and streaked with veins of volcanic black. Generations of headmasters and headmistresses have addressed students from this spot. Visiting dignitaries have offered solemn words.
Rows of long tables form a U shape across the lawn, weighed down by textbooks—towers of them, in every color and thickness, some brand-new, others dog-eared and lovingly annotated. The school is hosting a book sale, along with a buyback and trade event, allowing older students to sell their books to younger ones for discounted prices. Students surge toward the tables in waves—some hunting for bargains, others flipping through pages, trying to find the copies with the fewest underlines and torn corners.
Elliot scans our class list, ticking off required texts with an unexpected sharp focus. She leads us around the tables, pointing out stacks and muttering comments about edition numbers and good deals.
“So, Farris, is it?” My squadmate leans toward me as he smirks. Ian, the fire-wielder. His coppery hair falls wild and tangled, spilling over one side of his face. “Sawyer told me you’re a first-gen, no training… Hope you don’t sink us.” His English accent gives the words a teasing lilt, but it stings too sharply to be harmless. Heat pricks at my cheeks.
Rozsen doesn’t hesitate beside me, her voice laced with snark. “Careful, Ian. Last guy who underestimated a water-wielder ended up headfirst in a fountain. Besides”—she shoots me a quick but fierce smile—“pretty sure Farris can handle herself.”
Ian lifts his brows, amused, but his amber eyes stay on me a beat longer before sliding away.
The tension in my chest loosens. Embarrassment still lingers, but so too does the unexpected warmth from Rozsen at my side. For the first time since stepping onto Whittaker’s grounds, I don’t feel completely alone. I smile gratefully at her.
I shuffle back, following behind the rest of my squad as they browse through textbooks and old lecture notes, but my eyes keep drifting—sweeping across the quad again and again.
“Are you looking for someone?” Amelia asks quietly. Her moss-green eyes miss nothing as she tries to follow my line of sight.
