I still taste smoke and salt on my tongue as the black silhouette vanishes—gone in the same instant it had materialized. One moment the arena thrummed with victory; the next, a hollow echo remains, as though the creature had never been. My pulse simmers where it refuses to calm, and I stagger forward, heart still strung tight.
Beside me, Rowan's chest heaves; his eyes flick from the sealed gates to where the shadow dissolved. Caelen moves quicker than I expect—he grips both our wrists in a single motion, lifting our arms as if we're trophies on display. Heat floods my cheeks. I'm not used to being touched, especially not like this. My wrist tingles from his firm hold; I'm grateful he steadies me, but I squirm anyway.
"Look alive, champions," Caelen calls, voice warm beneath the lingering adrenaline. His free hand pats my head—gently, almost affectionately. My braid swings, and I reflexively duck.
"My head isn't for patting," I snap, yanking my arm free. The braid tangles through my fingers, and I flick it over my shoulder, cheeks burning. Rowan smirks; Caelen's grin flashes.
"Fair enough," he says, hands sliding off my wrist. "But you deserve this moment."
The arena roars back to life as Caelen releases us. Students and nobles clap and cheer—some for our Relay victory, others out of relief that the dark thing didn't reappear. My stomach twists at the thought of what might have happened if we'd failed. Still, Caelen strides to Rowan's side, claps him on the shoulder, and gestures to me.
Rowan clears his throat, voice a little shaky but bright. "How about a celebratory dinner?" He casts me an imploring look. "My treat. The best tavern in the district—roasted pheasant, spiced pies… and they serve that berry–mint elixir you love."
I glance at Caelen. He shrugs, fingers brushing his own braid. "I'm in. We all earned a break."
Heat flares in my chest. I'm exhausted in every way—physically drained, emotionally frayed—but the promise of something simple and warm is too tempting to refuse. I give Rowan a tight nod. "Fine. Just don't expect me to sing your praises all night."
He beams like a street vendor with fresh buns. "Deal."
The tavern's lanterns glow like captured suns against the dusk. We slip inside, leaving the arena's roar behind. The proprietor, a stout woman with silver hair and a knowing look, guides us to a table draped in deep green. Candles flicker, warded against gusts, their light steady on the worn wood.
Rowan sets a menu before me. "Everything's on the house," he says plainly. "Except the elixir—Caelen insisted on that."
I nod once. "Understood."
Caelen orders pheasant, roasted vegetables with thyme, and three berry-mint elixirs. The tavern's usual chatter hums around us, but our table feels insulated—safe, smelling of woodsmoke and herbs.
I fold the menu shut. "I nearly went back to my dorm to review wards alone."
Rowan's gaze meets mine. "You sulk. Tonight's for celebrating."
I raise an eyebrow. "Acknowledged."
Steam curls from the pheasant's golden skin when it arrives. The meat looks rich, herbs promising. I pick at my water glass.
Rowan leans forward—still five feet away, though he doesn't seem to notice. Candlelight trembles in his eyes.
"They say wards reflect the soul," he begins. "Your wards… they're precise, layered, artful. I could watch you weave them all night."
I keep my expression neutral, unclenching my fingers around the glass. "That would be unproductive."
He smiles, unconvinced. "Unproductive for you, perhaps. But I find it fascinating. There's a calm in your focus I've never seen anywhere else."
I study the rough-hewn beam overhead. "Is this a celebration or an examination?"
Rowan's smile softens. "Both. You deserve the praise, even if you deny it."
Caelen clears his throat. "Rowan's compliments are free tonight—feel free to stock up."
Rowan turns back to me. "One more, then I'll stop." He tilts his head, voice low. "You have a cute and adorable face, and a perfectly snuggle-able body."
Time seems to pause. My cheeks ignite—heat blooming behind my eyes, rushing into every nerve ending. I force myself to look away and pretend to smooth the folds of my cloak, hiding the crimson flush I cannot erase. Why did I blush?
Caelen stands, sliding on his cloak. "I'd best get going, I'm unbelievably tired after the relay." he says with a grin. He nods at Rowan and departs into the lantern-lit street.
Rowan watches him go, then clears his throat. "Hey, can I still do lessons with you at the beach? Even after you… well, after you freaked out at me? Which was entirely warranted. I do admit I am bad at reading the room." Reading the room... Yeah, I told you to stop like 50 times....
My posture remains unchanged, tone steady. "Yes. Tomorrow afternoon, at the shore. Normal spot, you know where to find me."
He exhales, relief brightening his features. I step back exactly five feet—respecting my own rule—and fold my arms.
Rowan offers a small, hopeful smile. I nod once and turn toward the door. "Good night."
I step from the tavern's warm glow into the hush of the academy grounds. Lanterns hanging from iron posts line the cobblestone path, their warded flames steady against the night breeze. My cloak settles around my shoulders, its weight both familiar and necessary. I breathe in cold air scented faintly of dew and lavender from nearby hedges. Each footstep echoes on stone, slow and deliberate, as I make my way toward the dormitory. My pulse still thrums with the relay's strain. I force my shoulders down, reminding myself that this walk should be uncomplicated: from the tavern to my dorm door, through each warded threshold, and then into bed. No more obligations tonight. Just the ritual of securing my space and resting.
Halfway along the arching oak walkway, I notice two familiar figures approaching. Even before I reach five feet, I recognize Selene's dark braid swinging over a deep blue cloak and Jori's loose brown curls catching the lantern light. They pause precisely five paces from me—a mutual courtesy born from years of respecting one another's space. I stop, too, and incline my head once in greeting.
"Good evening," I say, voice measured.
"Feyri!" Selene replies, a soft smile brightening her features. "Perfect timing. Jori and I were just—well, we were on our way back and thought we might run into you."
Jori nods, arms folded across her chest. "We planned to study tonight, but we know you head back earlier. Will you join us?"
I consider. My plan was solitary review, ensuring tomorrow's lesson with Rowan stays flawless in my mind. But Selene and Jori are my oldest friends, and I owe them this courtesy. "I have arranged my evening already," I respond. "But we can speak here." I gesture with my free hand, then focus my attention on them. "What do you need?"
Selene steps forward a pace, respectful of the space I maintain. "The syllabus for Elemental Convergence is due tomorrow," she begins. "We're consolidating our notes and realized we're missing the section on wind-runic overlays. Would you be willing to clarify?"
I nod once. "Wind-runic overlays require a precise gauge of air-density fluctuation. Have you both calculated barometric constants for this season?" I wait until Selene and Jori both produce scrap parchments with numbers jotted in black ink.
"Here," Jori says, passing her sheet forward. "I measured at dawn and again at midday." Selene slides her notes next to Jori's, the two documents forming a neat column of numbers.
I study them. My braid drapes over one shoulder. Absently, I press my free palm to the outer edge of my cloak, steadying myself against the night's chill. "Your constants are accurate," I confirm. "Now, to overlay runes onto the wind currents, you must trace the primary swirl at a thirty-two-degree vector to the wind's bearing. Then anchor with a minor circular rune at each cardinal offset." I draw the pattern in the air—five-foot radius, all shapes sharp and symmetrical. A faint glow lingers at my fingertips where the rune burned into the air for an instant.
Selene's eyes widen. "That makes sense. In my trial, my ward collapsed because I misaligned by five degrees."
I nod. "A five-degree error amplifies turbulence within the lattice, causing tear points at hinge runes. You correct by rotating the anchor rune's axis until resonance calms."
Jori bows her head. "Understood. Thank you. This will solidify our section."
I tuck the mental pattern into place. "Ensure you document both the vector line and the hinge-runic anchor positions. And test with gust fragments before field deployment."
Selene closes her notebook. "We will. Next, theory question: how does water-infused empathy weaving differ from pure tide-ward structures?"
I cross my arms, pausing as though weighing my words. "Water-infused empathy weaving draws on emotional resonance—compassion, sorrow, determination—embedded within each water rune. The tide-ward structure depends solely on hydrodynamic thresholds. Empathy weaving requires calibration of heart-resonance to water-flux frequency. Without that calibration, the empathy weaves collapse."
Jori jots down the term "heart-resonance calibration" in tidy script. "We've read about that, but not seen a demonstration."
"I'll schedule a private demonstration tomorrow," I say, keeping my tone impartial. "At the tide-kissed beach after midday labs. You know the spot. I'll provide a demonstration on anchoring emotional frequency."
Selene and Jori exchange glances of gratitude. "Thank you, Feyri," Selene says. "We'll be ready."
I incline my head. "Good. Anything else?"
They confer quietly for a moment. Then Selene shakes her head. "That covers our scheduled concerns. We'll take our leave." She steps back, maintaining five paces. Jori does the same.
I nod once more. "Study diligently. Good night."
They share a brief smile, then depart down the lantern-lit walkway—Selene with measured steps and Jori hurrying to keep pace with her. I stand alone, the lantern light drawing faint runic patterns on the ground around me. The hush returns, punctuated only by the distant rustle of leaves. I take a deep breath, reminding myself of the path ahead: dorm, wards, rest.
My boots click on the stones as I resume my pace. Ten steps bring me to the base of the dormitory's iron-and-oak door. The heavy portal bears three ward sigils: one for entry control, one for noise suppression, one for unauthorized-ward detection. I halt at five feet.
I push open the door and step into the foyer.
Inside, the corridor widens—walls lined with braided tapestries, each depicting geometric runes interwoven with ward glyphs. The air is warmer here, scented with cedar from the floorboards. I move to the chamber door—my final threshold. The stylus emerges again. Rune one: stabilization chord, ensuring the door won't swing under external pressure. Rune two: suppression loop, muting stray sounds. Rune three: dwelling seal, anchoring friendly wards to the room's lattice.
The door locks with a warded click.
My dorm room lies beyond: modest in size, functional in every detail. A single bed with crisp, white linens sits against the far wall. A writing desk near the window holds open parchments and half-inked charts. A wardrobe stands against the wall opposite the door. I place my satchel on the desk and set my stylus beside it.
Boots come off first—pressed leather folded neatly side by side. My uniform tunic and vest follow, sliding from my shoulders and dropping without sound. I fold each garment along its seams and deposit them on the bench at the foot of the bed. My trousers unlace, and I fold them precisely before adding them to the pile. The practice robes go last—dark fabric that once bore the smudges of street dust and magical residue. I clean them tomorrow.
Now I stand in undergarments—simple linen layers that fit snugly but allow ease of movement. I pause, arms at my sides, spine straight. No mirror stares back. I do not need to see myself. Care is purely functional.
The bed's edge offers a glimmer of comfort. I approach and kneel, sliding beneath the bottom sheet. The linen is cool against my knees. I lie back onto the mattress, shoulders sinking into the pillow.
I close my eyes. The warded ceiling above responds in kind—faint runes glowing in concert with the crystals. The nerve hum of the night quiets, the academy's distant lanterns softened to a low glow through the window.
Sleep calls. My last thoughts drift to tomorrow's lesson by the beach. How to calibrate emotional frequency. The thought brings a final, measured calm to my mind.
In the quiet dark, I rest—safe behind warded doors—or so I thought.