In another class, a woman elf with long brown hair—tied just enough to let a lock fall gracefully across her face—spoke up.

  “Hello! Please, everyone, take a seat.”

  Her voice carried the patience of a saint. Young, charismatic, never tipping into cloying sweetness. The classroom itself was wider, stripped of steps or desks, only chairs arranged in a rounded circle.

  “I imagine you’re all coming here half-asleep from Professor Bernt’s lecture.” She chuckled softly. “He’s a bit bitter, yes—but a kind man nonetheless.” She said it like she’d known him all her life.

  The students trickled in and found their places. Feralynn and Annya didn’t need to think—they sat side by side. Miria, meanwhile, chose the group of girls who had called her over earlier.

  Their heads still throbbed from theory on catalysts and Etherium crystals. Annya had already shaken Feralynn awake twice, wiping drool from her notebook.

  The woman let them settle, let the little social clusters take shape. Then she stepped into the center, lifted a hand, and began.

  “I am Romina Dove, and I’ll be teaching you the foundations of Emotive Channeling.”

  She started pacing, circling the group as she spoke. “In the past century, scholars have studied the influence of emotion in spellcasting. How what we feel bleeds into the weave of magic itself.”

  Fer buried her face in her palm.

  “Oh no. Not this kind of crap…”

  Romina’s tone softened, weighty. “Long ago, it was believed that in battle, the more rage a mage felt, the stronger the spell became. But things aren’t always as they seem—”

  “Yes, they are. Get angry. Kill them. Done.” Fer thought, jaw tightening.

  Romina lifted her right hand. A glove studded with a crystal caught the light, and from her palm unfurled a trail of pale blue ether—gentle as silk. Shapes began to emerge: animals, bounding with impossible grace, drifting on the air.

  Gasps broke the silence. Rabbits, deer, foxes—the glowing creatures ran in circles along the walls, their translucent bodies trailing blue light that shimmered, then dissolved.

  Annya’s eyes lit. She stretched out her hand with a delighted smile, and a rabbit paused, padding toward her. A soft chorus of awe followed as it pressed its head into her palm. Its spectral ears flicked happily as she stroked it.

  “It feels like bread dough!” she laughed, the sound warm and contagious.

  Miria, curious, tried the same. A pup leapt from the glowing herd, and she startled, bracing for collision. But it landed neatly into her hands. She blinked, dumbstruck, as it licked her face, leaving faint streaks of blue that quickly faded. Miria laughed—really laughed—and the girls beside her joined in. For the first time, her chest loosened.

  Feralynn remained slouched in her chair, legs sprawled, hands stuffed in her pockets. She watched with deadpan eyes, though her stomach was already calculating how long until lunch.

  Romina’s expression softened with quiet nostalgia as she took in their wonder.

  “In this class, you’ll learn to harness emotion in your conjuring. This isn’t just group therapy in disguise. Mana is energy—and energy always divides into two poles.”

  She drew the animals back into her palms, condensing them into a single blue orb. With practiced grace, she split it in two. One glowed with a dark crimson light. The other, golden-white.

  “These are emotion given form: positive, and negative.”

  The spheres pulsed in her hands, like molten fire folding and unfolding itself.

  “Every soul carries both. Think of them as light and shadow—each bound to what we feel. For centuries, mages leaned into fury, resentment, grief—anything that sharpened destruction. But that power burned through reserves and left scars in many ways.”

  Feralynn’s eyes locked on the crimson sphere. Something in it mirrored her own. Her jaw tightened when she noticed Annya beaming at the teacher, radiating pure warmth. Fer looked away, sadness hidden under her usual bored smirk.

  “Followers of the luminous faiths,” Romina continued, “discovered that love, kindness, joy—these made their miracles flourish.”

  Annya’s hand shot up.

  “Like the Followers of the Goddess Elerya!”

  Romina laughed, pleased.

  “Exactly! Magic is not only for breaking, but for creating, altering, and healing.”

  The two orbs collided in her hands, bursting into a harmless flash that forced the class to shield their eyes. She lowered her arm to her hip with pride.

  “A good mage learns to wield both as the moment demands. Here, you’ll have the time and space to practice. Though—don’t come crying when your first duels knock you down.”

  Annya laughed nervously.

  “I don’t think I wanna duel anyone…” She glanced at Fer, who was still staring where the red orb had been. Gently, she tapped her cheek. “Don’t go burning them too badly, fire girl.”

  Fer’s throat tightened. She met Annya’s eyes, cheeks flushed. A crooked grin split across her face.

  “I’ll give them nightmares.”

  Miria, however, barely heard the laughter. Her gaze had fallen, her fists curling tight against her skirt.

  “So…a good mage controls their feelings?” The words seethed in her head. “Then what does that make me?...”

  Her nails dug crescents into the fabric as she forced the thought down her throat, swallowing the knot before raising her chin again.

  Romina clapped once. Another sphere appeared above her palm, calm and steady.

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  “All right! Gloves on, everyone. Let’s practice.”

  The orb expanded until it was the size of a desk, perfectly round, glowing.

  “Your first task: draw from this sphere. Keep your fragment floating. Go on—don’t be shy.”

  Zippers and buckles rattled as students pulled on their gloves. Those who forgot were handed spares from the back. Annya tugged on hers, smiling at the little pink flowers she’d stitched onto them.

  She rose and approached the orb, watching as her classmates pressed their hands to its surface. The Etherium shimmered, splitting pieces of itself into smaller glowing pearls that hovered in their palms.

  But when she turned, Feralynn hadn’t moved. She sat with her gloves clutched tight, staring at them in silence.

  Annya walked back and crouched beside her.

  “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she said kindly.

  Fer gripped the gloves harder.

  “But…what about them?” She glanced at her classmates, ashamed of the power she could wield without aid. “I don’t want to stand out that much...”

  Annya smiled, sitting close.

  “When you showed me that little flame on your fingertip, I knew you were different. Special.” She laughed softly. “Don’t hide it just because you’re scared.”

  “I’m not scared,” Fer snapped, too fast.

  Annya tilted her head, still smiling.

  “Then something’s holding you back.”

  “...”

  Annya slipped off a glove and caught Feralynn’s hand.

  “Come on, no one’s going to laugh. And if they do…” She clenched her fist with her free hand. “We’ll kick their asses.”

  Feralynn blinked, surprised. It was the first time she’d ever heard Annya curse. Her soft hand lingered over hers, and Fer couldn’t help but smile.

  “…Heh. Okay. Let’s go.”

  They nodded in unison, standing side by side as they approached the glowing sphere. Annya touched it first. The orb quivered, bubbling as the mana within shifted state.

  Her breath caught.

  “It turned into…water?”

  Romina moved among her students as their orbs changed—colors shifting, sparks of electricity, some even crystallizing into metal.

  “What you’re holding is pure mana. It adapts to you—your emotions. Don’t force it. Let it shape itself to your body, to your soul.”

  Her eyes lingered on Annya’s shimmering sphere.

  “It seems hydromancy comes naturally to you.”

  She used her as an example.

  “Some will find themselves better attuned to certain elements. Magic and music are the same. A good musician might play both guitar and drums, yes—but one instrument will always feel like home.”

  Miria stepped forward. She cupped her orb with practiced poise, and in seconds it froze solid, sculpting itself into a flawless diamond of ice. Her new-formed group of friends clapped softly as she raised it high, smiling with proud elegance. With a flick of her hand, the crystal shattered. Glittering flakes rained down, veiling her like glass. Gasps filled the room. She tossed her hair back, basking in it.

  Feralynn rolled her eyes.

  “Show-off.”

  Annya, dazzled, clapped as well—only for her watery orb to collapse, splashing to the ground. She groaned and scrambled for another.

  Romina, though, was delighted. “But just as some are masters of one instrument, others shine brightest in one art—like our Miss Frostweaver here.” She turned to the rest, whose attention had stalled on Miria’s display. “Don’t stop. You’re beginners—don’t be discouraged!”

  Her gaze caught Feralynn, tilting her head in a silent dare.

  Fer swallowed, nodded, and took a slow breath. Romina’s smile faltered when she noticed her bare hands.

  “Wait—where are your—”

  The words died in her throat.

  With no catalyst, Feralynn pressed her palm into the orb. Its surface reflected her distorted face, wavering in blue light.

  “Uh…okay?” Fer muttered, raising a brow. “This is…weird.”

  The room shifted. Whispers spread like sparks.

  “She’s doing it without gloves—”

  “No way.”

  “She’s cheating—has to be.”

  Miria’s eyes went wide, as if personally insulted.

  “What…?”

  That arrogant, insolent girl—the one who’d shoved past her earlier—was now being whispered about with the word prodigy.

  The orb in Fer’s hands bubbled violently. Steam hissed. Then, with a roar like fuel catching fire, it ignited. The sphere blazed orange, snarling like a newborn sun. Fer flinched back.

  “Shit, shit, ?shit!—” Her teeth clenched. “Calm down, ?calm down!—” But the stares, the weight of every gaze, Annya’s worried eyes—it all pressed in.

  The sphere ballooned into a ravenous flame. Students recoiled, panic rustling through the room.

  Romina’s hand shot forward—she gripped the fire with invisible force, crushed it inward until it guttered out.

  What remained hit the ground with a heavy thud: a cracked ball of scorched stone.

  Silence.

  Feralynn’s forehead beaded with sweat—not from the effort, but from the eyes on her. Red irises glared back at them, daring them to blink, to breathe, to judge.

  “Don’t look at me… Don’t look at me!” her mind screamed.

  Her chest clamped shut. Her heart hammered like it wanted out of her ribs. Annya reached for her shoulder, soft and steady—

  “Fer. It’s me. You’re okay. Breathe.”

  But Fer jerked away, raw reflex. Her ears rang. She couldn’t hear. Couldn’t stay. Her eyes darted: Annya, the door, Romina, the door again. Her lungs seized. The door. The door!

  BAM!

  The door slammed in her wake. The silence she left behind was even louder.

  Romina’s voice cut cold.

  “Continue. I’ll be back. No one leaves this room until class is over.”

  She strode after her, steps sharp. She’d seen prodigies lose control before—but not like this. Not so young. Not so violently.

  The class was frozen until whispers broke free, buzzing like flies.

  “Did you see that?”

  “She didn’t even need gloves.”

  “She’s dangerous…”

  “Her eyes…blood red.”

  “Creepy.”

  Annya pressed her hands against her chest. Tears stung her eyes.

  “This is my fault,” she whispered. Her watery orb sagged into a droplet that splashed onto the floor—joined by real ones spilling down her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have pushed her…”

  Miria never blinked. She stared at the scorched husk of stone lying on the floor, her frown hardening.

  “...”

  It seemed she had competition now.

  …

  …

  …

  ?