Page 18

As Professor Blackwood’s gaze swept over the class, her expression both disappointed and unyielding, I knew the battle wasn’t over.

Professor Blackwood dismissed the class with a stern warning about the consequences of allowing personal grudges to interfere with academic pursuits.

I gathered my belongings with trembling hands, avoiding the stares and whispers that followed me as I left the classroom. Lydia walked silently beside me, her presence a small comfort in the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

“Don’t listen to her,” Lydia whispered at last, her voice barely rising above the sound of our footsteps echoing down the winding stone staircase. The corridor opened slowly toward the eastern edge of the courtyard, the light thinning as we descended.

“Vivienne wants you rattled,” she continued. “She clearly thinks there’s more between you and Samael than either of you are saying.”

I adjusted my satchel, gripping the strap tighter until the worn leather bit into my shoulder.

“It’s not just what she said,” I murmured. “It’s how easily everyone else seemed to believe it.”

My voice trailed off beneath the distant murmur of students switching classes, but the weight of it lingered between us—quiet, undeniable.

The corridor ahead filled with students moving between classes, their voices a rising tide of murmurs.

As we approached, several conversations abruptly halted, eyes darting toward me before quickly looking away.

One group of first-years actually pressed themselves against the wall as we passed, as if afraid to brush against me.

"They're staring," I whispered to Lydia, keeping my gaze fixed on the worn stone floor beneath our feet.

"Let them," she replied with uncharacteristic fierceness. "Half of them couldn’t perform a basic protection spell if their lives depended on it."

We rounded the corner into the northern courtyard, where tendrils of mist clung to ancient statues of forgotten mages.

The greenhouse that housed Professor Thornbriar’s classroom loomed ahead, its glass panels clouded with condensation and vines that twisted around the iron framework.

Even from a distance, I could see the warm golden light spilling from within, a stark contrast to the grey gloom descending around us.

As we crossed the damp flagstones, a group of students huddled near the fountain fell silent at our approach.

One of them, a tall boy with ashen hair whose name I couldn’t recall, leaned toward his companion and whispered something that made the others glance nervously in my direction.

"—Vale family has always been secretive—"

"—heard they were directly involved in the Shadow War—"

"—explains why two students have vanished since she arrived—"

The fragments of conversation drifted to me like poisoned arrows, each one finding its mark with painful precision. The amulet seemed to grow colder against my skin, as if absorbing the malice directed at me.

"Ignore them," Lydia hissed, linking her arm through mine and quickening our pace. "Gossip spreads faster than a fire spell in this place."

We reached the greenhouse door, where the humid air rushed out to greet us, carrying the complex aromas of earth, exotic blooms, and simmering potions. The scent was instantly soothing, a balm to my frayed nerves.

Leander was already seated at the table at the back of the room, saving us two spots with his satchel. The greenhouse was always a sanctuary—a place where plants from all corners of Mystral thrived under Professor Thornbriar’s attentive care.

Massive ferns arched overhead, their fronds casting dappled shadows across wooden workbenches. Luminous orchids with petals that changed color with the hour bloomed alongside more mundane herbs used in basic potions.

“You look like you’ve been through the Saturnine Woods and back,” Leander murmured as we joined him.

His copper hair caught the golden light pouring through the greenhouse’s arched glass ceiling, turning it almost bronze.

“Word travels fast. I’ve already heard three different versions of what happened in Ancient Enchantments—and I only got here five minutes ago. ”

“And I’m sure each version made me more of a villain than the last,” I muttered, dropping my satchel beside the bench with more force than intended. A thornless rose in a nearby pot shivered, its pale petals fluttering open as though startled by my mood.

“Actually,” Leander said, leaning in with a grin, “the third version claimed you summoned a barrier so powerful it reversed time inside the classroom. I was almost impressed.”

Despite everything, a reluctant smile tugged at my lips. Leander’s ability to coax light into even the darkest moments was something I’d always quietly admired.

“What’s strange,” Lydia cut in, her brow furrowed as she scanned the greenhouse, “is that Professor Thornbriar isn’t here yet. She’s usually arranging specimens long before anyone else arrives.”

She was right. The professor’s wooden podium at the front of the greenhouse stood empty, her collection of pruning shears and enchanted gardening tools untouched on the shelf behind it. The absence of her soothing voice and gentle presence was suddenly glaring.

"Perhaps she’s gathering fresh ingredients from the eastern gardens," Leander suggested, though his furrowed brow betrayed his uncertainty.

As the minutes ticked by, the greenhouse filled with students, their excited chatter creating a buzz that mingled with the low hum of magical plants responding to human presence. Whispers snaked between tables, and I caught snippets of conversation that made my stomach tighten.

“I don’t even want to know what the other versions said,” I muttered, sinking onto the worn stool beside Leander. The scent of damp soil and exotic blossoms wrapped around me, warm and green and alive. For a moment, it dulled the ache of the whispers still clinging to me from the corridor.

“At this rate, I’ll be accused of opening a portal to the Void by dinnertime.”

Lydia unpacked her Potions journal, its spine cracked and pages smudged with old ink and dried lavender. “What matters is the truth,” she said, though her voice carried more resolve than certainty. “Vivienne wanted a reaction. And she got one.”

“The truth is, I lost control.”

I ran my fingers along the workbench, tracing the faded initials etched deep into the wood by long-forgotten hands. “Whatever game Vivienne’s playing, I gave her exactly what she wanted.”

Before either of my friends could respond, the rear door of the greenhouse swung open, and Professor Thornbriar swept in.

Her honey-colored hair was adorned with tiny star-shaped blossoms that pulsed with their own inner light.

She moved with the fluid grace of someone perfectly at home in her verdant domain, her robes the color of fresh moss trailing slightly behind her.

Small smudges of soil marked her hands and forearms—evidence of a morning spent tending to her more demanding specimens.

"Good afternoon, everyone," she called, her warm voice carrying easily through the greenhouse despite its soft cadence.

Unlike many of Drakestone’s professors, Thornbriar never needed to raise her voice to command attention—there was something in her gentle authority that naturally drew all eyes to her.

"Good afternoon, Professor," the class chorused.

She moved to the front of the greenhouse, setting a terracotta pot on the demonstration table with careful reverence. The class gradually quieted, attention drawn to the seemingly empty container.

"Today, we will be studying three particularly potent magical ingredients," Professor Thornbriar said, her tone calm and authoritative.

She turned toward the table, carefully arranging the ingredients as she spoke.

"Foxglove, Merman’s Scale, and Blood of a Fae.

Each is incredibly powerful, but also fraught with danger if not handled correctly. "

She paused, looking out over the class. "These are not herbs or elements you can take lightly. Today’s lesson is not just about learning how to use them—it’s about understanding their risks."

Her hand hovered over a small cluster of foxglove flowers, their pale purple petals glowing faintly under the filtered sunlight.

“Foxglove,” she began, holding up a small, violet-tipped bloom between two gloved fingers. “Delicate. Potent. Deceptive.”

She paced slowly as she spoke, letting the words settle over the class like a veil.

“It’s used in love magic, transformation spells, and subtle enchantments. It enhances psychic sight, opens the mind to the unseen.”

Her voice dropped slightly.

“But beauty hides danger. Always.”

She returned the bloom to its container with care. “Foxglove is highly toxic when mishandled. Even the faintest touch to bare skin can cause irritation. Ingest the wrong dose?” She gave a thin smile. “Heart failure. Hallucinations. A very poetic death.”

Several students shifted uncomfortably.

“The smallest mistake can kill you,” she said simply. “Only a fool would handle it without knowing exactly what they’re doing.”

Without waiting for a reaction, she turned to the next item—a shimmering scale housed in a clear glass vial.

“Merman’s Scale,” she said, holding it up. “Rare. Expensive. Dangerous.”

She paused long enough to let the ripple of fascination pass through the room.

“Used in potions for water-breathing, communicating with sea creatures, and elemental control.”

Then, a slight tilt of her head she continued. “But it’s fragile. Mishandle it, and you lose everything—the enchantment, the stability, the usefulness. Worse?”

She set the vial back down, eyes flicking toward the students.

“It still remembers the sea. Mishandling it can summon things that don’t belong in this realm. Creatures that answer to no one. Or worse—lose control of the element itself.”

A breath passed before she reached for the final item—a vial of faintly glowing, nearly translucent liquid.