Page 23 of Echoes of the Banshee

“I see.” Professor Tennant raises an eyebrow. “You’re my transfer? Any idea what your magic is? Or what elements you can connect to?”

“No. My coven priestess always had me focus on Illusions. But I knew that wasn’t right. I wasn’t sure what I needed, but the foresight faculty left a note in my file to place me here,” I explain

“Wonderful,” she says. Her tone is so dry, I’m not sure what she’s actually saying. “Well, only way to find out is to test, remember, elemental magic is about relaxing and letting go. Let’s see what you can do.”

“Let go?” I repeat under my breath. I don’t know if I can do that. Control is all I have left.

“Are those real?” Tennant asks sharply and I look around confused. Are what real?

“Your eyes,” she clarifies. Not waiting, she casts an illusion blocker over me. It feels like a bucket of cold water has been dumped over my head and I’m left feeling like a drowned rat. I wasn’t wearing one. Except my wrist. I tug my sleeve down to hide the brand.

“Interesting.” She studies me for another moment before shaking her head. “Lira is my aide, she’ll sit with you, ask her any questions you have.” Tennant walks away.

No one has ever commented on my eyes before. A side effect of breaking the shackle? Should I cast an illusion? I like my green eyes. They look like my mom’s. Tennant is British — does she know what my eyes mean? Did she ever spend time at Briarhold? This is an unexpected complication.

No. Thema Verdelace is even deader than Adora Lockwood.

My eyes sweep the greenhouse. The other students move the elements as if they’re born knowing how to shape them, a fluid ease to their every motion. I feel the weight of my own hesitation, the part of me still tethered to my past mistakes, to the danger I hold in my hands. The elements don’t bend for me, not like they do for them.

Just as I start to slip into the moment, something shifts in the corner of my vision.

A shadow by one of the trees. It’s out of place, stretching in a way that doesn’t match the direction of the light, as if it’s a little too far from where it should be.

The dirt is soft as I sink my hands into it. I focus my attention on how it feels, the coolness of the soil, the subtle hum of energy beneath my fingers. Slowly, the connection begins to form, a shimmer of awareness spreading from my hands into the roots of something deeper, older, listening.

The earth stirs beneath me. A faint ripple, like a distant whisper. Then it grows. A pulse of energy, stronger now, flowing upward into my palms. It feels alive. Not mine to command, but responding, inviting.

I open my eyes as a tiny sprout breaks the surface; delicate, trembling. Real.

“I did it!” I gasp, maybe too loudly for something so small.

“Very good,” Lira says. “Now—”

But in my excitement, I push more magic into the earth, unthinking.

The sprout jolts upward.

It grows faster now, too fast. The trunk thickens, the bark curling into coarse, intricate patterns. Branches explode outward, unfurling leaves so green they almost glow.

“Thea, stop! That’s too fast.” Lira’s hands close over mine, tugging on me, trying to physically sever the link. But I’m frozen. Caught somewhere between awe and fear.

The energy twists inside me, expanding beyond anything I mean to give. It swells and swells until it swallows me whole. The tree surges higher, its crown scraping the ceiling. Roots shove against the floor, testing its limits.

It’s too much. I can feel it. I hear people yelling. But I can’t stop it. My hands are still pressed to the earth. They burn. The magic rushes through me like fire through dry grass.

A sharp crack tears through the air.

Then heat slams into me, sudden, searing. The trunk splits open, deep fissures glowing with embers. And then, flames. They race up the branches, ravenous and bright, devouring everything they touch.

“No,” I whisper, breathless. “No, no—”

I wrench my hands free and cower away from the tree, curling in on myself. The heat claws at my skin. And the memory hits like a lash.

Fire swallowing me whole. Screams in my throat. Pain, thick and endless. The memory bleeds into the moment, blinding me. I can’t tell what’s now and what’s then. And the fire, the fire is everywhere. Pressing in, choking me, burning through every inch of control I have left.

I can’t breathe. I’m going to die again. In this fire. Alone.

Without Lazlo.