I awoke to Storm's claws pricking my shoulder. Pale dawn light filtered through the shutters—first bell hadn't rung yet. I sat up, scrubbing sleep from my eyes. Storm chirped impatiently from the windowsill, tail lashing like an emerald metronome.
"Alright, I'm moving." I wrestled on the stiff new academy tunic—dark blue wool with ivory trim. I laced my boots, tossed Storm a scrap of dried meat, and grabbed the cloth-wrapped lunch left on the worn kitchen table.
The academy courtyard buzzed when we arrived. Students clustered like nervous sparrows beneath ancient stone arches. I paused at the base of wide steps leading to towering oak doors, adjusting Storm's perch. The drake's scales shimmered, drawing whispers:
"…from the Whispering Woods, Thorn found him…"
"…doesn't look dangerous…"
The doors flew open.
"You're the drake boy!"
A whirlwind of copper hair and freckles blocked my path. The girl—tall and wiry, maybe sixteen—wore her tunic streaked with charcoal and fresh burns. Heavy leather gauntlets swallowed her hands, etched with silver runes that pulsed faintly. A chipped front tooth flashed in her grin.
"Lira Wordin," she announced, seizing my wrist. "Master Elara sent me. Said you'd probably—"
Storm hissed, wings snapping half-open as Lira's gauntlet brushed near his snout.
"—tripped over your own shadow." She leaned in, unnerving amber eyes fixed on Storm. "Stars, he's tiny. Barely a handful."
I pulled my arm free. "He's growing."
Lira's grin widened. "Hope he does it fast. First-years vanish." She winked. "Keep up, new blood."
The Hall of Elements swallowed us. Vaulted stone ceilings vanished into shadow. Colored light fractured across worn flagstones. The air hummed—ozone, parchment, cold stone.
Lira strode ahead, her gauntleted fingertips skimming the wall. Faint blue sigils flared briefly where she touched. "Feel that?" she called. "Sneeze wrong near the Archmage's study and you'll croak in a pond. Allegedly."
Past classrooms echoing with droning lectures and one muffled bang ("Finch!" Lira snorted), we stopped before an oak door. A crisp voice sliced through the wood: "...fundamental energy currents. Stillness precedes control."
Lira pushed the door open.
Thirty pairs of eyes snapped toward us.
Master Elara stood at the lectern like a statue carved from stormclouds. Iron-gray hair scraped into a severe knot, a hawkish nose tilted as if scenting incompetence. Her gaze—sharp and dark as obsidian—locked onto me.
"You're late," she stated. Her voice silenced the room.
I opened my mouth, but Lira stepped forward. "Minor library incident, ma'am. Finch's firebell powder redecorated the floor. Took a bit."
Elara's eyes narrowed. "A tale as believable as your respect for curfew, Wordin." She turned to me. "Sit. And contain that drake." Her pointer tapped the lectern. "Now."
I slid into the only empty desk near the back. Storm coiled beneath the bench, warm against my boots. Whispers rustled:
"...feral one Thorn dragged in..."
"...choked a shadow-wolf bare-handed..."
"...eyes like inkwells..."
I gripped my note pad, the stiff cover cool under my fingers. The air smelled of chalk dust and sweat. Sunlight laid precise golden rectangles across scarred wood.
And suddenly I wasn't there.
*The scratch of chalk. The stifled giggle. My friend's boot nudging my ankle beneath our shared desk. I glanced sideways. Freckles stark against pale skin, a face twisted in false innocence. A folded note sailed toward me—*
*Thwack!*
*The switch across my knuckles. White-hot pain.*
*"Distracted, boy?" Master Borin's voice dripped venom. "Recite the First Principle of Focus. Now."*
*Behind the master's back, my friend mouthed "Sorry!"…*
"Focus!"
Master Elara's pointer cracked against the lectern. I jolted back. Storm pressed against my leg, growling softly.
"Energy manipulation," Elara announced, "begins with stillness." She raised her bare hand, palm up. A tiny sphere of pure blue light coalesced above it, humming faintly. "This is *lumen*—raw potential given form. Your task: summon it. Hold it. Nothing more." The sphere pulsed, steady as a heartbeat. "Control is born of disciplined focus. Any lapse—" the sphere flickered violently "—and the energy becomes unstable. Dangerous."
I lifted my note pad, not to write, but to watch. Elara's demonstration felt distant. Abstract.
Lira leaned over. "See how still her hand is? Like stone. That's the trick. Don't twitch." She concentrated, a bead of sweat forming on her temple. A flicker of light sputtered above her own gauntleted palm, then died. "Blast it."
I stared at my own empty hand. The concept felt strangely simple. Too simple. I closed my eyes briefly, not seeking stillness, but the feel of the energy Elara held. It wasn't quiet. It was… singing. A low thrum beneath my skin, waiting.
I opened my eyes. Without ceremony, I lifted my hand, palm up.
A sphere of light bloomed instantly. Not blue, but a deep, clear violet. It didn't pulse. It shimmered, holding its shape with effortless stability, radiating a soft, resonant hum.
Lira gasped. "How did you—"
Cold shadow fell across my desk.
Silence choked the room.
Master Elara stood over me, her pointer hovering like a poised viper. Her own blue sphere vanished. "Explain," she said, the word brittle, "this deviation."
My throat tightened. Storm's growl deepened. "I… I just felt it should be… clearer? Less strained?"
A stifled snicker came from the front. Elara's gaze didn't waver. She raised her hand again. This time, violet light coalesced—identical to mine—shimmering steadily above her palm. The resonant hum filled the silent room.
She held it for three long breaths, then extinguished it. Her stern face was unreadable. "Correct," she stated, clipped. "The violet resonance indicates purer focus. Less wasted effort." Her obsidian eyes pinned me. "It is also significantly harder to sustain at higher intensities. Never," she paused, letting the razor-edged warning sink in, "attempt what you do not fully comprehend. Raw power without discipline is catastrophe."
As she turned back to the lectern, the room exhaled. Lira stared at me, her amber eyes wide with disbelief.
"How in the hells—"
I didn't hear her. I stared at my empty hand, fingertips tingling.
A sudden flash: *A dusty attic hideout. The smell of old wood. An unknown voice, whispering fiercely: "Don't fight it, feel it. Like this..." A grimy hand lifted. Violet light bloomed, steady and clear, illuminating stolen parchments covered in angry red scribbles... "See? Smoother, yeah?" A shared, secretive grin…*
Storm nudged my ankle hard, pulling me back. I blinked. Sunlight glinted off distant towers. My heart hammered—not fear, but cold, dawning certainty.
This wasn't luck.
It wasn't instinct.
It was a memory.
And somewhere in the shattered vault of my mind, I knew the memory wasn't fake. I had known this power.