The first thing you learn at Arcanum Academy is that magic isn't fair.
Some students are born with flames at their fingertips, while others can barely light a candle without burning their eyebrows off.
Unfortunately, I belonged to the second category.
"Hey, weakling," a low voice drawled behind me.
I froze halfway down the hallway, clutching my worn spellbook to my chest. I didn't need to turn around. That voice haunted me since day one of enrollment.
Ronan.
Six feet of trouble, with broad shoulders and a smile sharp enough to cut glass. He was the kind of student everyone either feared or adored. Flames obeyed him, shadows bent at his command—and apparently, tormenting me was his favorite extracurricular.
I turned slowly, already bracing myself.
Sure enough, Ronan was leaning against the golden-etched marble wall of the corridor, arms crossed over his chest. His uniform jacket hung loose, tie undone like he couldn't care less about rules. His crimson eyes gleamed with amusement.
And he was looking directly at me.
"I see you brought that pathetic spellbook again," he said, pushing off the wall. His boots clicked against the polished floor as he closed the distance between us in lazy, confident strides.
My grip tightened on the book. "Leave me alone, Ronan. I have class."
"Oh?" He tilted his head, smirk widening. "Then let me give you a hand."
Before I could react, his long fingers snatched the book from my arms.
"Ronan!" My voice cracked. Panic spiked in my chest as he flipped through the pages. That spellbook wasn't just school-issued—it was mine. Every scribbled note, every shaky rune I had drawn late at night… it held the pieces of me I didn't dare show anyone.
He whistled low. "Wow, your handwriting's even uglier than your magic."
Laughter rippled from a few students lingering nearby, drawn to the scene like moths to fire. My ears burned.
"Give it back!" I lunged, but he lifted the book easily out of reach. I hated how small I felt standing next to him.
His smile sharpened. "What if I don't?"
And then—before I could beg, threaten, or scream—Ronan snapped his fingers.
A spark leapt from his hand. My book went up in flames.
"No—!"
I swore I could hear my own heart shatter. Smoke curled upward as ashes rained down between us. My chest tightened, my throat ached, but the tears that stung my eyes only made him grin wider.
"There. Now you don't have to embarrass yourself with it anymore," he said smoothly.
I wanted to scream at him, to hate him, but all I could do was stare at the smoldering remains of my hard work. And the worst part?
Even through my anger, my humiliation, my grief… my heart still thudded faster whenever his crimson gaze pinned me down.
Why him? Why out of everyone at this academy, did it have to be Ronan—the boy who made my life hell—who also made my pulse race like a forbidden spell?
"See you in class, weakling," he said, brushing past me. His shoulder bumped mine hard enough to stagger me. The heat of his body lingered like fire against my skin.
I bit my lip, blinking fast, trying to chase away the wetness in my eyes.
I hated him.
I hated him.
So why couldn't I stop my heart from whispering the opposite?
Later that evening, as the setting sun bathed the academy towers in molten gold, I sat on the balcony of the dormitory, staring at the city below. The air hummed with magical wards, glowing faintly in the twilight. My chest still ached with the loss of my spellbook.
"You'll never beat him like that," a quiet voice said behind me.
I turned to find Elias, my only friend at the academy, holding a steaming mug of tea. His blond hair glowed against the dying light, his expression serious.
"He's stronger than everyone. And he knows it," Elias continued, sitting beside me. "But Ronan doesn't pick on people for no reason. He… notices things."
"Notices what? That I'm pathetic?" My voice cracked.
Elias shook his head slowly. His eyes narrowed as if he knew something I didn't. "No. That you're worth noticing."
My heart lurched.
I looked back toward the sunset, but in my mind, all I saw was Ronan's smirk, his crimson eyes, the way fire danced effortlessly at his fingertips.
If Elias was right, then my nightmare wasn't just a bully.
He was watching me.
And maybe… just maybe… I couldn't stop watching him back.