The rhythmic murmur of incantations faded as Dallas pushed open the heavy oak door to the old granary which was a teaching hall. Sunlight sliced through the high windows. A dozen young witches sat on rough wooden benches, their gazes fixed on Lydia.
She stood at the far end. Her dark hair was swept back, her posture straight and poised as she demonstrated a complex sigil in the air with flicks of her wrist. "The key," she instructed, her voice clear and carrying, "is not force, but intent. Feel the weave of the world, then nudge it. Like this."
As the final line connected, the sigil flared brightly, captivating the room in cool light before dissolving into shimmering motes. A collective sigh of awe rippled through the students.
That's when Dallas stepped fully into the room, his boots faint on the flagstones. The shift was immediate. The focused energy broke, immediately replaced by wary curiosity and hushed whispers. Heads turned. Eyes widened.
