Leevens' question hung in the air, sharp and heavy as a guillotine's blade. Who trained you?
Zephyra kept her expression neutral, a mask of polite indifference she had perfected over years of hiding. Inside, her thoughts raced. She couldn't tell him the truth—that her tutors, Xian and Soren, had trained her in all five elements since she was a child. They had taught her that the elements were not separate disciplines, but a single language with different dialects. To speak one, you had to understand them all. That secret was too dangerous.
"My private tutors," she answered, her voice even. "My parents hired them when I was young."
Leevens' eyes narrowed. He wasn't satisfied. "And what is their names? What academy are they from?"
"Xian and Soren," Zephyra replied, offering the names freely. They were real, at least. "They weren't from any academy. They believed true mastery didn't come from sparring or exams." She met his gaze, deciding a partial truth was her strongest shield. "They taught me that Air wasn't a tool to be used, but an extension of my own body. Like another limb. We spent ten years focusing on nothing but breath, on feeling the currents, on connection. They considered everything else a distraction."
Leevens was silent for a long moment, his gaze searching her face. He was looking for the lie, the tell, but she gave him nothing. Finally, he gave a slow, reluctant nod. "Their methods may be unorthodox," he conceded, his voice a low grumble. "But I cannot argue with the results. You are disciplined. That is rare." He paused. "Do not let it make you arrogant. Pride is a weakness my son has yet to overcome. See that you do not share it."
He dismissed her with a sharp gesture, turning away before she could respond. Zephyra walked away, the tension slowly draining from her shoulders, leaving a cold residue behind. She had passed the test, for now. But Leevens would be watching her.
She found Sabrina waiting by the edge of the woods, buzzing with vicarious excitement.
"That was insane!" Sabrina whisper-shouted, falling into step beside her. "You didn't just beat him, you humiliated him! The look on his face!"
"He was all brute force and no finesse," Zephyra said, though she felt a small, uneasy knot in her stomach. She hadn't meant to be so merciless, but Kyle's sneering arrogance had touched a nerve.
"Yeah, well, it runs in the family," Sabrina muttered, nodding towards the field where Leevens was now speaking to his son. Kyle's shoulders were slumped, his head bowed. For the first time, he looked less like an arrogant rival and more like a disappointed kid. Zephyra felt a flicker of something uncomfortable—not quite pity, but close.
She pushed the feeling away. "Did you see Willow on your way out?" she asked, changing the subject.
Sabrina's excitement dimmed."No. I asked Kira about it. Apparently, she hasn't left the house all day."
"Something's wrong," Zephyra said, more to herself than to Sabrina. The image of the Head Girl's haunted eyes surfaced in her mind again, a puzzle she couldn't solve.
That night, sleep pulled her under into the same silver-lit forest. But this time was different. It wasn't silent. She could hear the ragged, desperate panting of someone running for their life. She was closer, the dream more vivid, more urgent.
She pushed through phantom branches until she came to a small clearing. A hulking creature stood with its back to her, its massive form a grotesque silhouette against the moon. Its skin was gray and leathery, its shoulders unnaturally broad, and long, filthy claws dripped with something dark. A Berserker. The monsters from her history books, supposedly extinct for nearly two decades.
The creature wasn't looking at her. Its attention was fixed on a figure huddled at the base of an ancient oak tree—the man from her previous dreams, his face still hidden by the deep cowl of his cloak. He was clutching his side, his breathing harsh and strained. He was hurt.
The Berserker took a heavy, silent step towards him.
Zephyra's dream-self tried to move, to shout, but she was frozen. She saw a twig lying on the ground near her foot. She had to warn him. She strained, focusing all her will on that one, simple movement.
Snap.
The sound was tiny, insignificant, but in the suffocating silence, it was as loud as a gunshot.
The Berserker's head swiveled around, its glowing, feral eyes locking directly onto hers. It let out a guttural roar, a sound of pure rage that vibrated through the ground, and lunged.
Zephyra woke with a strangled gasp, sitting bolt upright in her bed. Her heart hammered against her ribs, the phantom roar still echoing in her ears. Her room was dark, quiet, but the terror of the dream was viscerally real. It wasn't a memory; it was a warning. It was happening right now.
For a moment, she was paralyzed by indecision. It was just a dream. Going out would mean breaking a dozen Academy rules. It was insane.
But the feeling… the raw terror, the scent of damp earth, the sight of that demon's blood on the grass… it felt more real than the stiff sheets tangled around her legs. She thought of the hooded figure, bleeding and cornered.
He's not my enemy, she had told Lucius in the original draft. But why did she believe that? Because her gut, her instinct, screamed it at her. The same instinct that allowed her to command the wind.
"Damn it."
She threw back the covers. There was no choice, not really. Slipping out of her nightgown, she pulled on the black leggings and long-sleeved shirt she'd worn for training. She grabbed her Air Staff—a simple, unadorned quarterstaff of polished ash wood that helped focus her power—from its place in her closet. Quietly, she slid open her ground-floor window and slipped out into the cold night air.
She ran, not with her legs, but with her instincts, her feet barely touching the ground. The air seemed to part for her, to propel her forward as she plunged into the dark woods bordering the school. She followed the pull in her gut, the echo of the dream guiding her through the trees.
She slowed as she approached a clearing, her senses on high alert. It was eerily similar to the one in her dream. She quieted her steps, using a wisp of air to cushion her footfalls until she was as silent as a ghost. Ahead, she heard a low grunt of pain, followed by the sickening scrape of claws on bark.
Peeking from behind a tree, she saw them. It was real. The Berserker had the hooded man pinned against the oak tree, its massive form blocking any escape. The man was fighting back, a short, wickedly curved sword in his hand, but he was clearly injured and losing ground.
The Berserker raised its claws for a final, lethal strike.
Zephyra didn't think. She acted.
She burst from the trees, her staff a blur in her hands. She slammed the hardened ash wood into the back of the Berserker's knee. There was a sickening crunch as the joint buckled. The monster roared in pain and fury, dropping to one knee. That was the only opening she needed.
Focusing her will, she pulled the air around the tip of her staff, compressing it, sharpening it into an invisible, razor-thin point. She drove it forward with all her strength, stabbing through the thick hide at the base of the creature's skull. The Berserker went rigid, then collapsed, falling face-first onto the forest floor with a ground-shaking thud.
Silence.
The clearing was still, the only sound her own ragged breathing. The hooded man slowly pushed himself away from the tree, his sword held loosely at his side. He stared at the massive, dead creature, then at her, his head tilted. He was safe.
He finally raised his head, the moonlight falling across his face as his hood fell back. His features were sharp and aristocratic, his skin unnervingly pale, and his hair was the color of night. But it was his eyes that held her captive—a brilliant, impossible shade of blue, ringed with glowing gold near the pupil. A demon.
He took a step towards her, his gaze filled with a bewildered amazement. "Who are you?" he asked.
Zephyra's breath caught in her throat.
She knew that voice.