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“The one where I keep detecting emotional traces instead of proper Raynoff power signatures.” Aurora demonstrated, her magic revealing pink-tinged echoes of past students’ feelings. “Family’s thrilled about that.”

I hesitated, glancing at Lucas and Raven, but they didn’t seem bothered by her presence. Maybe I shouldn’t be either.

Before I could respond, the sophomores at the next table weren’t even pretending not to watch.

“Did you see that? All the death magic she stirred up?”

“Why is Raynoff sitting with them?”

“I dunno. Maybe she’s got a thing for necromancers.”

They muttered as they packed up their things and moved to the other side of the room.

Aurora rolled her eyes. “Don’t mind them. My family’s reputation scares people into thinking we’re all like Cyrus.”

“And we both know that’s not true,” Raven added. “I mean, you’re at least thirty percent friendlier.”

Aurora snorted. “Cyrus would probably call me a disgrace to the bloodline. Can’t wait to hear the next lecture about ‘proper Raynoff discipline.’”

“Every family has its standards,” Lucas noted dryly. “Though some enforce them more rigorously than others.”

I could relate to that. My father’s legacy hung over me like a ghost no one would stop mentioning.

“Maybe we should take this somewhere with more space,” Aurora suggested. “The practice rooms on the first floor are usually empty this time of day.”

The practice rooms were smaller than regular classrooms but had the advantage of being warded specifically for magical accidents. Protective runes marked the walls, glowing faintly blue as we entered.

“Much better,” Raven declared, setting up her books again. “Now nobody cares if things get a little too… detailed.”

I tried the detection spell again, focusing harder on controlling the energy flow, on keeping my necromancy contained while reaching for magic traces…

The dead things surged without warning. Every trace of past magic in the room became visible—not just spells, but the lingering echoes of everyone who had ever practiced here. Scout pressed against my neck, his steady presence helping me filter through the overwhelming information.

“Fascinating,” Lucas muttered, already scribbling notes. “The necromantic energy isn’t just detecting magic, it’s revealing layers of magical history—”

“Look at this,” Aurora interrupted, examining a particularly old trace I’d revealed. “That’s from when they first built these practice rooms. You can see the original warding patterns.”

She was right. Unlike my failed attempts at light magic, this felt natural. The dead things weren’t interfering but enhancing, adding depth to what I could perceive. Through them, I could see how magic had shaped this space over generations.

“It’s because death magic understands patterns,” Aurora said matter-of-factly. When we all stared at her, she shrugged. “What? Everything leaves traces. You’re just seeing the ones most people forget to look for.”

“That… actually makes sense,” Lucas mused. “You’re not just detecting current magic, you’re reading the accumulated magical history. Rather brilliant, really.”

“But will it work for the trials?” I watched the layers of magical residue swirl through the air, Scout’s sharp instincts helping me tell one type from another—cool, ancient, chaotic. “They’re expecting standard detection spells.”

“Hey.” Raven’s charms clinked as she grabbed my hand. “The trials test magical awareness, not limitations. And this?” She gestured at the complex patterns I’d revealed. “This is definitely awareness.”

“Plus,” Aurora added with a grin, “imagine their faces when you find things no one else even knows to look for.”

We spent the next hour experimenting—learning to filter different types of magical traces, finding ways to focus on specific time periods, even discovering how to trace the path of active spells through the remnants they left behind.

By the end of the session, I could perform a detection spell that looked almost normal but revealed far more, guided by the dead things’ perfect memory of what had come before.

“Progress!” Raven declared as we packed up. “See? We’ll figure this out.”

A sharp chime cut through the room. Raven pulled out her phone, frowning at the screen. “It’s my mom…” Her protective charms clinked softly as she answered. “Hey, what’s—”

The color drained from her face. Boris, her skeletal beetle, skittered anxiously across her notes.