"Greatness is not given, only taken — and those who cannot seize it will be trampled beneath those who can."— Inscription above the Academy's Hall of Advancement
Melinda fussed over me until the basin water ran gray, until my hair lay in tidy strands against my shoulders, until the coarse prison-itch of my rags was replaced with linen soft as breath. She moved with an efficiency that made it clear this was her duty, but there was kindness in the way she tucked the blanket at my sides, in the small smile she offered before snuffing the lamp.
When the dark settled, exhaustion dragged at me, but sleep did not come at once. The strangeness of the room pressed in: a bed too soft, sheets that smelled faintly of lavender, silence without dripping stone or rattling chains.
That was when I felt it.
The spark.
It stirred low in my chest, unfurling like a cat stretching in sun. Not words—never words—but touch. A feather-drag along my ribs, a warmth that pulsed when my breath grew quick. My fingers clenched the blanket, and the thing inside me answered, steadying. Not command, not question. Only presence.
It stayed with me until the heaviness of sleep finally won.
Morning came with the clang of a distant bell. I startled upright, tangled in sheets that still felt foreign. The spark flickered faintly, as if amused, then stilled again, folding itself deeper into me.
Melinda entered with practiced briskness, balancing a tray of bread and steaming broth. "Up, Sephanie," she said, voice warm but firm. "The Academy waits for no one."
Her words jolted me more awake than the food. The day before already felt like a dream: the circle, the naming, the taste of sugar melting on my tongue. But the name was real. Sephanie. Mine to carry.
I dressed in the simple gray uniform laid out on the chair, Melinda's watchful eyes ensuring every tie was neat, every button closed. She braided my hair with quick fingers, then stepped back to appraise me with a small, satisfied nod.
"There," she said, smoothing my shoulder. "Fit to face the day."
I wasn't sure about that. My stomach was tight, my hands restless. But I followed her from the room anyway, into corridors alive with footsteps and voices, toward whatever waited in those classrooms beyond.
The classroom was a long chamber of stone, its arched windows spilling pale light across rows of desks. We filed in, Advanced students alone, the air thrumming with nerves that no one wanted to show.
At the front waited Professor Staples. He was tall, severe in his posture, with lines etched deep into his face. His black robe seemed to drink the light. He held no wand, no tool, no ornament—only a book, its pages worn with use.
"You are here," he began, voice like iron striking flint, "because you survived." His eyes raked over us, sharp as blades. "That does not mean you will remain here. Survival earns you a seat, nothing more. The Academy keeps only what it can shape."
He opened the book and traced a finger down the page.
"Today, you will speak power."
The words sank into me like stones into water. My throat tightened.
Staples raised his hand, and a faint shimmer stirred in the air above his palm, nothing more than a ripple of heat. "Magic is repetition. Discipline. Not wildness, not whim. You will repeat what I say until your body remembers. Until the sound itself clings to your bones."
He enunciated slowly: "Luxen." The ripple grew, brightening into a pearl of light.
One by one, students tried, most producing only flickers or nothing at all.
When my turn came, Staples' eyes fixed on me. "Speak," he commanded.
I opened my mouth. Air shuddered in my chest, but no sound came. Panic clawed up my throat, the familiar barrier that had locked me in silence for as long as I could remember. My hands balled in my lap.
Luxen. The word vibrated inside my skull, muffled, trapped. The spark in my chest stirred restlessly, like a cat pacing its cage.
I tried again. Nothing. My throat seized, breath scraping raw against it.
Staples' gaze sharpened, but his voice remained level. "Again."
I closed my eyes. The spark pressed harder, insistent. I dragged air deep into my lungs, tasting iron. My lips shaped the syllable once more—
"Lux—en!"
The word ripped out of me, cracked and jagged, but real.
Light burst from my palm, brilliant and trembling, hovering in the air like a newborn star.
My chest heaved. My throat burned. But the glow remained, fragile, perfect.
For a heartbeat, I couldn't breathe. Then—pride bloomed, fierce and hot, filling every hollow place inside me.
Inside, the spark unfurled and purred, curling closer, content.
Staples inclined his head, the barest flicker of acknowledgment, then turned to the next student.
But I knew.
He had seen.
And so had she.
The glow lingered in my palms, fragile and steady. Pride swelled in my chest, small but fierce, like a secret I didn't yet know how to share. Staples' gaze held me a moment longer than the others, and for the briefest instant, his stern mask seemed to soften.
"Good," he said simply, before stepping back. "You may sit."
I did, pulse still thrumming, Linette's warmth curling inside me like a pleased hum.
Staples strode toward the front of the room again, his boots echoing against the stone floor. With a flick of his hand, a new object appeared upon the central pedestal—a block of iron etched with faint runes. Its weight made the wood beneath it creak.
"You have shown me sparks," Staples said, his voice carrying with calm authority. "Now we will test your reach. Levitation. The measure is not how high, but how much."
Murmurs rippled through the class, uneasy, excited.
"You will work in pairs," Staples continued. "The spell demands harmony. If you cannot control yourselves—or each other—you will fail. And failure teaches as much as success."
His eyes swept over the rows of students. "Sephanie. Kris. Step forward."
A boy with pale hair and a guarded expression rose from the bench across from me. His gaze flicked to mine—curt, unreadable—before he moved to stand at the pedestal. I followed, pulse rising again.
Staples nodded once. "You may begin."
I glanced at Kris, unsure if we should speak, but he only extended his hand toward the block, fingers taut with focus. I mirrored him, palms raised.
The runes pulsed faintly, as though mocking us.
I closed my eyes, searching for the warmth within me—the spark I had only just dared to touch. Linette stirred, restless and eager. The connection felt sharper this time, guided not by words but by instinct.
When I exhaled, the block shifted. A scrape against wood. A breath caught around the room.
Kris gritted his teeth, pushing harder, and the iron lifted higher. My chest tightened, strain burning down my arms, but I clung to the thread between us. For a heartbeat, our magic moved as one.
The block rose until it hovered at head height, trembling but steady.
Staples' eyes narrowed, watching closely. Then, with the smallest flick of his hand, he motioned. "Enough."
We lowered it together, the weight settling with a thud. Sweat prickled down my neck.
Kris met my gaze—just for a moment. No words passed, but a flicker of something like respect stirred there, quiet and unspoken.
Staples inclined his head. "Efficient." That was all. But in his tone, I caught the faintest bud of approval, and it made the effort worth every drop of strain.
By the time the lesson ended, the whole class was buzzing—some from triumph, others from frustration. We were dismissed to the dining hall, our voices echoing off stone as we filed into rows.
I sat at the table, my stomach gnawing, when Melissa's laugh carried over the clatter of plates.
"Well," she said, her voice lilting like a blade slipping free of its sheath, "I suppose even the quiet ones can be useful. As long as someone else does the real work."
Her friends tittered, their eyes darting toward me. I kept my head down, though heat crawled across my cheeks.
Linette stirred faintly in my chest, a low, simmering presence. Not angry—protective.
I kept my eyes on my food, pretending Melissa's barb hadn't touched me. The sweetness of a sugared roll dulled the sting, if only a little. Across the table, Kris ate in silence, expression unreadable. He did not speak up for me, but neither did he laugh. Somehow, that felt like its own kind of shield.
The meal ended, and the doors to the hall thundered open. The Warden entered. His boots struck the stone like hammer blows, each step commanding silence.
"Advanced class," he barked. "On your feet. Outside."
No one dared question. We rose, trays clattering as we filed into the open courtyard.
The air there was sharp and cool, the flagstones wide and unforgiving beneath the sun. Guards lined the edges, arms folded, eyes unyielding. The Warden strode to the center and turned on us like a hawk sighting prey.
"You are not here to be coddled. Power without endurance is weakness. You will be forged to withstand pain, hunger, exhaustion—until only steel remains."
His gaze swept across us, hard and contemptuous. "Form rows. Run."
At first it seemed simple enough. My legs carried me forward, breath catching in my chest. But the pace the Warden demanded was merciless. Around me, children stumbled, gasping for air. The Warden's whip cracked against stone whenever he thought one of us slowed.
Sweat stung my eyes. My lungs burned. Each step was a battle.
Linette stirred. Not just warmth this time, but something sharper. Her presence pressed against me, restless, urging me onward. A pulse of stubborn fire seeped into my limbs.
I bit down hard and pushed. My feet struck the stones again and again, faster, harder. The world blurred around me, but I ran.
"Faster!" the Warden roared.
Linette's emotion surged—anger, not mine but hers. A fierce refusal to bow. I felt it blaze through me, flooding into my chest and legs. For the first time, I understood: she was not just spark. She was will.
When my body screamed to stop, I carried her fire. And somehow, it carried me.
At last, the Warden called a halt. Children collapsed to the ground, gasping. My own body trembled on the edge of breaking, but I stayed upright, swaying, chest heaving.
The Warden's eyes fell on me. A shadow of something unreadable flickered across his face. Then it was gone, replaced by the same cold disdain.
"You'll need more than grit," he said flatly, before turning his back.
As we were dismissed, Linette's presence settled inside me again—softer, quieter, but humming with pride.
For the first time, I felt it too.
Melinda was waiting by the gate when we were dismissed from the courtyard. She dipped into a curtsy as I approached, though her eyes softened when she saw the state of me—sweat-streaked, trembling, half-dragging one foot after the other.
Before she could reach for me, the Warden's shadow fell across us.
His gaze flicked from me to her, lingering too long. Then he smiled. Not warmth, not kindness—something thin and sharp that made my stomach twist.
"Ah," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The maid with the bright eyes. Be sure you keep her in line. She looks like the type to spoil her charge."
Melinda froze, curtsy deepening, her lips pressed tight. She murmured a soft, "Yes, my lord," but her hand brushed mine—quick, almost hidden—as if to steady me.
The Warden's smile did not reach his eyes. After a beat too long, he moved on.
Melinda exhaled only when his boots had faded. Then she looped her arm gently through mine, guiding me step by step back toward my quarters.
"You did well today," she whispered as we walked, careful that no one else could hear. "Now rest, little one. Tomorrow will come too soon."
By the time she laid me down, pulling the blankets up tight and smoothing my hair back, my body had already surrendered. Exhaustion dragged me into sleep before I could even thank her.
The last thing I remembered was her voice, soft and steady in the dark.
And then—nothing.