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The last thing Mira wanted to do was be surrounded by a bunch of drunk Casters and Wielders, dancing, laughing, and using illegal potions.

But perhaps there was something positive in all of this. Mira was in Osterbury, a high sphere where people probably had access to all sorts of ingredients.

Then it clicked. All she needed were books and ingredients to continue her work on removing the scar. She might not have access to Ivercrest’s ingredient library, but because people mixed all kinds of things illegally into potions to consume at parties, they would surely sell them to her for the right price.

She stared up at Ivercrest’s impossibly tall towers, overgrown with ivy. Hundreds of years old, they looked like sharp daggers cutting into the low cloud cover.

Magic didn’t seem to play by the rules—so neither would she.

3

Her steps were the only sound on the old stone floor as she walked to the room assigned to her. Every so often, Mira looked over her shoulder, expecting other students. But she was alone, walking Ivercrest’s long corridors and dimly lit staircases. She felt like a ghost, haunting the halls. Most Wielders accepted into Ivercrest came from money. They would return to their mansions after classes and did not rely on school housing.

The wooden door to her room creaked open. Narrow with tall, vaulted ceilings, the space wasn’t much bigger than her dingy apartment in Yharvan. There was just enough room for a bed, a small desk, and a closet. The heavy velvet curtains, even when pulled open, only let in so much light. She placed her rucksack down with a thud. Unpacking it seemed wrong. Too permanent.

On her desk sat a scroll with her syllabus for this academic year: combat, signifiers, and demonology. None of them would help her remove her scar. In the confines of her room, she dared to move her sleeve and look at the deep cuts on the inside of her left arm, carved by black liquid that had burned hotter than anything she could have ever imagined. It had leapt at her like something alive, winding its way up her arm. To her, the scar looked like roots. It felt like it, too—because something had taken hold in her that day. A darkness had settled in her and never let go.

All the healers she had visited over the years told her there was no Dark Magic residue in her scar. Her symptoms were psychological. Maybe they were right, but staring at the scar on her arm, she still wanted it gone—this constant reminder of the darkest day of her life.

She pulled her notebook from her rucksack, feeling the familiar worn leather beneath her fingertips. It was the notebook her father had given her as a birthday gift. Now it was riddled with notes on her attempts to remove her scar. Pages torn, writing crossed out. A catalog of her frustration. Of her failure.

Potions weren’t simple recipes. Even with the right formula, it was difficult to stabilize the different magic elements to make it work.

Her latest research had pointed her to a new mixture she wanted to try. So far, she had been lacking two key ingredients: serrumptase and nightgale shade. Both were difficult to come by, especially without access to the White Magic Institute’s ingredient library. She had never solicited ingredients at a party before, but there was a first for everything.

In Yharvan, she had been somewhat of a recluse. Her run-down apartment had been her safe haven. There, she could surround herself with books and research and lock out the rest of the world. During the day she used to work at a small apothecary. Separated from the other spheres by a thick fogbank, magic didn’t exist in Yharvan, but her knowledge as a healer was sought-after.

She might carry the Shadowflame, but she was still a Caster, capable of using healing magic. All she needed were a few ingredients for her potion. Beginning tonight, she had a real chance at healing her scar—even if she had to attend one of Ivercrest’s infamous parties.

Mira pulled on her long sleeve, checking for the sixth time that her scar was covered, as she stared at the ruins of the old citadel on the outskirts of town. Where political prisoners were once tortured by the order of Osterbury’s governor, parties were now held. The decapitated statue of the former governor standing out front was overgrown with moss. The building had fallen victim to the First Sphere War 237 years ago. Despite all the wars during the course of history, she never expected to see one in her lifetime. She had imagined it to be different. Big battles and large armies fighting each other. But the war she witnessed had been slow and relentless. Years of small victories and large defeats.

She had lived in Edinas, a sphere far away from the active fighting. She and Ella never saw open warfare—only its victims. They had arrived at Edinas’ hospital in droves. And as the years went on, their injuries got more gruesome.

Mira walked down the uneven steps on the side of the building and opened a wooden door. The cold, wet catacombs were illuminated by a few torches. Her only guide was the loud music, traveling along the arches of the passageway. She had deliberately waited until two in the morning, when those seeking potions would be less than discreet. Finally, she arrived at a heavy set of doors, pulled them open, and was instantly overwhelmed by the number of people.

Purple lanterns illuminated the crowd. A band played, and the music thrummed through her. Sweat whipped off people who had been dancing for hours. Potions and alcohol flowed freely.

Mira looked for the quiet people in the back—she felt they were the ones most likely to be selling potions. It didn’t take long until she noticed a guy with dark curly hair handing a vial of blue liquid to someone.

She squeezed through the dancing crowd. The floor was sticky with spilled alcohol, and the room vibrated with the heat of all those moving bodies.

Mira had never bought drugs before and wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. In her scar-healing journey, she had only tried a mind-altering potion once. Her friend had given it to her at a party. It had taken her mind off the pain for a moment but had made the nightmares even worse.

Awkwardly she approached the potion-seller. It was hard to gauge who in the crowd was an Ivercrest student, but he could be one. At least he looked to be around her age.

His dark eyes scanned her. “Mira…Winters, right? You’re the Caster who disappeared mid-test. Good to see you’re still alive. Rumor had it you were dragged straight through the floor to the dark dimensions.”

Perhaps the rumors were true. This could be the dark dimensions. That seemed more plausible than her bearing the Shadowflame.

“Did the people of the White Magic Institute come up with an explanation for it yet?”

“No, you have everyone quite stumped. Did you get admitted in the end?”

She nodded and pushed her right hand with the Shadowflame into her pocket.

“Good. Your endare healing spell was impressive. I’m Rylan, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you.”