Chapter 4: Dunes
I wake before dawn, as always, to the soft hum of warded runes beneath my cot. The phosphorescent carvings in the ceiling pulse in pale starlight, echoing the distant tides I won't hear for hours. I slip from beneath the blankets—silk lined with minor temperature wards—and stand on the cool stone floor. In the washbasin's mirror, I see eyes the color of seafoam checking themselves for the day's calm.
I don charcoal linen undergarments—simple shorts and a fitted bralette, each warded to wick moisture and steady my breath—then braid my hair into its usual calm-seal pattern. No cloak, no boots, just the bare minimum. The word "routine" catches in my throat, but I swallow it down. Routine is safety; I'll worry about the world once I've claimed mine.
Twenty minutes later, I'm in the quadrangle beneath the arching elven spires, emerald coat thrown over charcoal tunic. The mesh dragonhide is light but warded for abrasion and fog—practical, muted elegance. I pull the hood low, tuck my braid behind an ear, and stride toward the central fountain, scroll case at my hip. Morning air tastes of stone wards and jasmine carried on an unseen breeze.
He's waiting at the fountain's edge: tall, broad-shouldered, with copper-bronze hair that flickers like embers in the half-light. Magic pools around him—thick, confident, like oil on water. I've heard them call him "the Strongest," spoken in awed tones. Today, he appears almost casual, one hand resting on the fountain's rim.
"Good morning, Feyri Virelle," he greets, voice smooth and resonant. "Your schedule is remarkably consistent."
I pause, turning around to reveal only the faintest curve of my face. "Consistency prevents chaos," I reply.
He smiles—an expression that doesn't quite reach those bright eyes. "True. But even the most disciplined mind benefits from new challenges." He gestures to the barred benches around the plaza. "May I walk with you?"
I study him. His reputation precedes him: arcane duelist at sixteen, wardsmith whose lattice gates stop siege-magic, soul-binding prodigy. He's assembled teams of students before; none asked for nuance—only raw power. "State your purpose," I say.
Caelen Aranthir steps forward, slow and measured. "I'm forming an enchantment team for the Crystal Relay trials." His tone is businesslike, though the evening glow ignites his hair. "I have nobody on my team and I need three people. I've seen your work. Few read the currents of feeling like you do."
I raise an eyebrow. "Emotions muddy wards."
He inclines his head. "They also sustain them. Magic doesn't feed on pure logic—it thrives on conviction."
I cross my arms beneath the emerald folds of my coat. "And what makes you think conviction carries battles?"
His lips twitch in a fleeting grin. "History." He steps closer—four strides, then halts. The air thickens. "I'd like you on my team."
I consider the weight of his words. The Crystal Relay trials test speed, resilience, and collaborative enchantment under pressure. If he wins, he becomes practically untouchable in the academy's power structure. "Why me?" I ask.
"Because," he says, brushing a fingertip across the filigree clasp at your throat, "you ground magic in human truths. You see waves in numbers, heartbeats in runes. That's rare."
His fingers linger near the silver trim. I shift, and he withdraws as though stung. "A pretty coat for a pretty lady," he offers quietly.
Without thinking, I snap, "Don't even start."
The air between us shivers; his easy smile vanishes in a breath. He bows his head. "Understood. No more flattery." His tone is crisp, respectful. "Consider my offer. I'll send a letter and maybe stop by later."
I nod once, curt. "Sure that's fine. I'm dorm number 325, Oh, and I'll think on it."
He inclines his head again and strides away, each step a ripple of raw power. Students part before him, whispering in his wake. I exhale, the plaza's wards releasing their tension.
Lectures blur—Anselm's Memory Weaving, Maravelle's Living Glyphs—but my mind drifts back to Caelen's words. Emotional attunement… conviction. If I joined him, I'd shift political currents here. And if I refused—he'd probably recruit someone less qualified. I sip green-root tea in the Cloistered Garden—Lina's specialty, mint sharp and grounding—and let the thought settle.
Lunch is swift: pickled barley cakes, marinated mushroom skewers, jasmine iced tea. Selene nudges me about Caelen; I give only clipped replies—"I'll decide later," "He's persuasive," "Emotion isn't my game." They keep asking me dumb questions, "Was he hot in person?" "Do you think he likes you?" and I just keep saying no. They exchange glances, nod, and let the subject die.
Back in my dorm, I pull off the emerald coat and hang it neatly. Then I unlace boots and tug off trousers and tunic, slipping into the swimsuit I chose this morning:
- A one-piece of light white with gold accents, breathable and light.
- Translucent mesh panels along the waistline, edged in silver runic filaments that catch the light like distant ripples.
- Lattice straps of glimmering silver runes crisscross my upper back, warded for sun protection and modesty.
- A modest scoop neckline reveals only collarbones, not curves, and a small shield rune glows faintly at the left hip.
- A hidden slit at the base of the hem lets me stride freely.
I tug the suit up, adjust the panels, then braid my hair in the calm-seal pattern, weaving a minor ward at the end. I tuck towel and stylus in my pack, step into sandals, and slip through the academy's beach gate. Wards overhead flip to ocean-mode, and the salt breeze hits me like an old friend.
I drop my towel with a slow shake and kneel to redraw the circle with clean precision. Each line hums with quiet power as I sketch—a wide ring bordered by emotion-resistant glyphs, then two anchor lines spaced at opposite ends. Today's intention: binding trust to layered resilience.
I'm halfway through the final spiral when I hear him.
"Feyri," Rowan Graves says, voice half-startled, half-rehearsed. "I didn't know if you'd be here early."
I don't look up. "I'm not early," I reply. "You're exactly on time. Step lightly."
He approaches the edge of the ward, clutching his satchel in one hand. He's rolled his sleeves up again, dark curls tousled from wind, and the lower hem of his trousers is damp—either from surf or nerves. Likely both. His eyes linger—not subtly—on the curve of my thigh as I crouch beside the rune, then flit guiltily upward when he realizes I've noticed.
"I—I brought notes from yesterday," he says, fumbling in his bag. "Your rune layering—that helix structure—it's still glowing in my memory field. Not physically glowing. Just… you know."
"I know." I finish the spiral and press my palm gently to the center. The rune pulses beneath my fingers.
Rowan sets his satchel down, slipping off his shoes like he's about to enter a temple. "I've been practicing," he says. "With tide-sync movement and breath calibration. I walked through five cycles this morning. Felt… off. But better."
"That's because you're still translating rhythm through reason," I say. "Magic responds to alignment. Not analysis."
He nods, then settles cross-legged beside the circle—five feet away exactly—and watches me. His gaze drifts, even though he tries to keep it on the runes: up my arm to my shoulder, to the lattice straps across my back where they intersect with a calming glyph etched in silver. He swallows and glances at the sand again.
"You look radiant," he says quietly.
I glance sideways. "Radiant is not the point."
"I know." His voice is warm, apologetic. "But you carry your magic like it belongs. Like it's part of you. Even here… on the beach. In that suit. It suits you."
My stylus hesitates mid-stroke, hovering. I stand slowly, brushing grains of sand from my thigh, and turn to face him directly. "Do you want to learn today, Graves?"
He straightens like he's been summoned. "Absolutely."
I motion to the ward circle. "Then place your palm here. Breathe deep. Speak one intention you believe but haven't fully embodied."
He nods and crosses the distance—not quite entering the circle, but kneeling at the edge. His hand hovers above the sand. "I trust that effort leads to resonance," he says.
"Speak it again," I reply, "but without qualification."
He inhales, gaze steady. "I trust effort leads to resonance."
"Now lay your palm flat." I mirror his gesture on the opposite side of the circle, and the sand glows faintly gold. Our pulses sync.
"I—I can feel it," he says. "It's different than last time. Quieter."
"Quieter is stronger," I reply. "Today, we test layering. Three glyphs: shield, reflection, attunement. We use a tri-spoke anchor and interweave them into a resonance grid." I begin sketching the spokes—each line drawn in cardinal direction, edges tipped with inverted hooks to catch emotional drift.
Rowan mimics me, slowly. His fingers are sand-slick but intent. He doesn't look up at all this time. That, oddly, annoys me more.
"Good," I say after the third line. "But your reflection spoke is two degrees off-center."
He groans and presses a palm to his forehead. "I know. I felt it when I finished the curl."
I reach across and trace over his line—not erasing it, just layering a corrective rune atop it. Our fingers brush. His hand jerks back like he's touched fire.
"Sorry," he breathes.
"Stop apologizing."
He lowers his hand again. "I—I think I just… admire the way your hands move. That's all. They're so precise."
I don't respond immediately. The breeze has shifted. Tide pulling in. Wards around us hum faintly.
We work silently for fifteen minutes—drawing, layering, syncing glyphs until the sand shines with pale light. Rowan's focus sharpens the longer we stay quiet. When he finishes the last line, his eyes lift.
"Did I… get it right?"
I inspect his grid. It's uneven in spacing but stable in intention. "Mostly."
His grin breaks across his face like wind catching a sail. "Mostly," he repeats. "That's… better than I thought."
"Only if you continue."
He nods eagerly. "I will."
I brush sand from my knee, turn back toward the water. We stand shoulder to shoulder now, the ward between us like a low pulse. Rowan stares—not creepily, but openly. At my profile. At my braid. At the slope of my shoulder and the way the light skims along the rune at my hip.
"I wish I understood you better," he says, voice low. "Not your magic. Just… you."
I meet his gaze. "That's not part of today's lesson."
He flushes, then nods. "Right. Sorry."
"Graves," I say, sighing faintly. "If you're going to watch me work, at least do something with the knowledge."
He straightens. "Like practice?"
"Exactly."
"I will." He nudges his satchel. "I brought my sketchbook—been diagramming your formations."
I raise an eyebrow. "You diagram my formations?"
His blush deepens. "Only the runes."
I step forward and press my stylus into the center of the tri-spoke anchor. The ward circle flares once—brief, strong. Then settles into a resonance hum that matches the tide.
Rowan watches it, hands clasped behind his back. "It's beautiful," he says again, more reverently than before.
This time, I let the compliment sit.
We kneel once more, sketching stabilizers and cross-weaves. The tide rises. Light dims. Every shape we draw fits into the next like thought becoming form.
We're nearly finished when he speaks again—quieter this time.
"I—don't want to mess this up," he says. "Any of it. Not the lesson. Not what you're giving me."
I glance sideways.
"I mean," he adds quickly, "you're giving me… knowledge. Time. I don't want to waste that."
"You haven't," I reply.
He exhales.
We pack in silence. He folds his towel neatly, I reset my stylus case. Then we turn from the shore.
As we walk toward the path—side by side but at distance—the wind picks up again. Not sharply. Just enough to make the outer dunes hum. One of the wards overhead flickers.
Rowan looks up. "Is that…"
I pause. "Minor fluctuation."
"I feel it too. Like… maybe someone adjusted the perimeter anchors."
I scan the dune ridge. Nothing visible. Just movement in the distance—a figure walking alone along the far shore.
"We should go," I say.
Rowan nods and shifts his satchel. "Tomorrow again?"
I hesitate. "Yes. But we recalibrate."
"To what?"
I glance at the horizon, where the wardlines shimmer faintly. "To whatever comes next."
He laughs nervously. "You sound dramatic."
I don't smile, but something eases behind my ribs. "Maybe."
We step onto the boardwalk, the tide behind us echoing everything unsaid. Somewhere in the dunes, wards continue humming. The silhouette is gone.
But the light doesn't quite settle.
I push open my door and step inside, letting the torchlight spill in behind me. Rowan pauses in the hallway, watching me tidy my pack on the bench. My swimsuit and towel go on the top shelf, the stylus slips into its case, and my sandals click softly as I set them aside.
"Thanks for today," he says, crossing his arms loosely. "I've never worked so hard—and felt… so capable."
I fold my towel, not looking at him. "You did the work. Magic isn't a gift, it's effort shaped by intention."
He exhales, stepping forward. "Still, I couldn't have done it without you." His voice drops, almost shy. "I—hope I didn't push too hard."
I meet his gaze, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "You asked good questions. That's not pushing."
He shifts his weight, uneasy. "Can I ask you something… personal?"
I set the towel aside and lean against the wall between the door and the armoire. "Go ahead."
Rowan runs a hand through his hair. "What do you… dream about? Not runes or wards—what occupies your mind when no one's watching?"
The question lands in the hush of the room. I press my palm against the cool wood of the door. "I dream of the tide—its rhythm, its patience. It doesn't rush. It knows its own strength."
A slow smile tugs at his lips. "That's kind of beautiful." He takes a small step closer. "I guess I'm… farther from that kind of calm."
I uncross my arms. "Patience isn't innate. You practice it, just like you practiced those tide steps today."
His smile falters, warmth flooding his cheeks. "I'll practice until I catch up." He glances at the armoire. "Do you… want to ever stop teaching me?"
I lift my shoulder in a shrug. "I'll stop when you tell me to."
He laughs softly, and there's relief in the sound. "I wouldn't dream of it."
I pick up my stylus case and open it, turning the elegant tool in my hand. "I'm going to bed soon," I say, tucking the stylus away. "I have an early start tomorrow."
Rowan nods, voice quiet. "Mind if I… wait out here? Talk or just—exist for a moment?"
I hesitate only an instant before nodding. "Fine."
He settles into the hallway's muted glow, and I slip into the chemise hanging in my closet—light linen warded for rest—then brush out my braid until it falls in soft waves. From the bedside table I trace the sleep-seal rune on my wrist, the glyph flickering in response.
I close the distance to the door and lean my shoulder against its frame. "Good night, Rowan," I say.
He stands, watching me with an expression somewhere between hope and deference. "Good night, Feyri."
I slip inside and let the door click shut. In the quiet that follows, I can still feel the echo of his presence in the corridor's soft lamplight—an unspoken promise lingering just beyond the wards.