Page 42

Even the Quiet Burn Bright

T he aroma of fresh waffles wafted through the dining hall that morning, golden stacks piled high on silver platters.

Bowls of glistening berries—deep purple blackberries, ruby raspberries, and plump blueberries—sat alongside crystal dishes of whipped cream and pitchers of maple syrup the color of amber.

The tables, usually lined with simple fare, now groaned under the weight of this unexpected breakfast feast. I was halfway through drizzling honey over my waffle when Headmistress Grimrose glided to the central podium, her silver hair catching the light from the enchanted candles floating above.

The hall fell silent without her having to utter a word.

“Students of Drakestone,” she began, her voice clear and commanding, “I am pleased to announce that our annual Winter Solstice Ball will take place two weeks from today.”

A ripple of excitement passed through the hall. Lydia, seated beside me, straightened her glasses with trembling fingers.

“In light of recent events,” Headmistress continued, her steely gaze sweeping across the room, “we had considered cancellation. However, tradition must endure, especially in dark times.”

She paused, and I noticed how the shadows beneath her eyes seemed deeper that day, etched like fine lines in a grimoire.

“The curfew will be lifted for that evening only. The Drakestone Soldiers will be stationed throughout the hall and surrounding corridors to ensure your safety.” Her lips curved into what might have been a smile on anyone else’s face. “Consider it a reprieve, not an abandonment of caution.”

Whispers erupted around us like tiny sparks. Across the hall, Vivienne tossed her soft curls and whispered something to Julian that made him smirk.

“Furthermore,” Headmistress Grimrose continued, raising a hand for silence, “you will be permitted a day’s excursion to Mistholm to acquire appropriate attire. Professor Blackwood and Professor Thornbriar will accompany those who wish to go.”

As she stepped away from the podium, the hall erupted with chatter. The Winter Solstice Ball—the one night when Drakestone shed its gloomy exterior and transformed into something out of a dark fairy tale.

“Two weeks from today,” Bethany said, her eyes lighting up with mischief and anticipation. “That gives us plenty of time to plan—if only we could convince the academy to loosen its grip for one enchanted evening.”

Lydia leaned in, her voice dropping to a dreamy whisper. “A ball , Elvana. Just picture it—you, twirling under moonlight, lace catching the starlight, the music soft and strange and perfect. For one night… no secrets, no shadows. Just magic.”

Her words made me smile. Leave it to Lydia to believe that a single evening could outshine the weight of everything we carried. Still, part of me wondered if tradition could really cast that kind of spell—or if it would only remind me of everything I didn’t belong to.

Behind her, Leander said nothing. But the way his gaze followed Lydia’s every movement—eyes soft, lips curled in a quiet smile—said more than words ever could. He was gone already, lost in some fairytale of her making.

I nudged Bethany, dropping my voice. “What about Mistholm ? I heard it’s like stepping into another realm—shops glowing with enchanted fabric, seamstresses who whisper charms into every stitch.”

Bethany’s grin bloomed like firelight. “Yes! All of us. A proper outing.”

She clasped her hands, eyes shining. “Mistholm’s famous for its gowns—and the accessories are even better. I bet we’ll find something with a bit of mystery in it too. A charm, a curse, maybe even a little glamour spell for good luck.”

Lydia clasped her hands together, her eyes alight with delight. “Oh, you have no idea,” she breathed. “A ball lets a girl become anyone —just for one night.”

She laughed softly, her voice full of wonder.

“Imagine gliding through the candlelit corridors, music echoing from the walls, everyone turning to look as you pass. It’s like stepping into a story where, for a few stolen hours, you get to be the magic.”

I laughed, the sound mingling with the low hum of conversation around us. “I’m not so sure I’m cut out for the spotlight, Lydia, though maybe a new dress could change that.” I cast a playful glance toward Leander, whose quiet smile told me he found my reticence charming.

Leander stepped forward, his voice quiet but sincere.

“Elvana… I—I think you’d look stunning. ”

His words hung there, unforced, honest.

“The way you carry yourself—it already speaks of strength. Of grace, even if you don’t always see it.”

Warmth bloomed in my chest, quiet and unexpected—even as the familiar stir of self-consciousness crept in, curling at the edges of his compliment.

Lydia grinned, eyes gleaming.

“Oh, look at you, Leander,” she teased. “Turning into a knight in shining armor again. I knew a ball would bring out your soft side.”

Bethany gave an exaggerated wink.

“Maybe we should all make a pact—dress to dazzle, let our true selves shine through. Even if it’s just for one enchanted night.”

The ancient clock tower chimed, warning of our first class of the day.

The clock’s final chime sent us into motion, a flurry of activity as we gathered books and notebooks. Leander fumbled with his Potions textbook, nearly dropping it twice before securing it in his weathered leather satchel.

“Ancient Enchantments was already enough of a nightmare yesterday,” Bethany groaned, her copper curls slipping across her cheek as she ducked to retrieve a quill that had escaped under the table. “And now Magical Combat? Professor Coldwell mentioned dueling practice, and you know how I feel about…”

She glanced around, then lowered her voice to a whisper.

“…public failure.”

“You’ll be brilliant,” I said, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve been practicing that Blink incantation like your life depends on it.”

Bethany gave a weak laugh, the sound a little too brittle to be convincing.

“Spying on me now, are you?”

We exited the dining hall, stepping into the crisp morning air of the courtyard.

Frost traced delicate patterns across the ancient cobblestones, and our breath emerged in plumes of white mist. Above us, the sky was a canvas of pale lavender, the sun struggling to pierce through the perpetual haze that shrouded Drakestone.

“I could help you with your visualizations,” Leander offered to Bethany as we walked. “It’s all about intent, really. My uncle used to—”

He stopped short, the words catching mid-sentence. I saw the way his shoulders stiffened, how the easy warmth in his voice faltered. Leander rarely spoke about his family, and when he did, it always came with edges.

Lydia, quick as ever, pivoted smoothly.

“Well,” she said, tone light but pointed, “the real question is who’s asking whom to this ball.”

Her amber eyes flicked toward Leander—barely a glance—before returning to the path ahead.

“I already heard Julian bragging that he’s planning to ask ‘the most beautiful girl he knows.’” Her eye roll was subtle but sharp.

I let out a scoff as I adjusted my grip on my books.

“His ego is so inflated I’m surprised he doesn’t float down the corridors.”

As we emerged onto the path beyond the dorms, Bethany waved a quiet goodbye before heading toward the arena. The three of us continued on toward the frostbitten fields of the Herbology garden and Potions greenhouse.

We rounded the final bend, and the Herbology garden gave way to the glass-and-stone entrance of the Potions greenhouse, its frosted panes glowing in the weak morning light. Inside, the room was already alive with murmurs and the clink of glass vials.

I settled at one of the long, scarred wooden tables where clusters of students were rapidly forming pairs. To my relief—and a hint of surprise—Leander joined me.

Across the room, Lydia found herself paired with Julian, whose confident, cocky smile challenged the aged stoicism of the surroundings.

Professor Thornbriar glided to the front like a vision in flowing robes, her every word dripping like liquid honey.

“Today, we embark on the creation of Nocturne’s Shroud ,” she announced, her voice both mellifluous and imbued with quiet authority.

“This potion, my dear students, is designed to conjure a thick, concealing cloud of magical smoke—a veil of mystery for swift escapes and subtle diversions in times of peril.”

With a graceful sweep of her hand, she unveiled the intricate recipe: powdered brimstone ash for a pungent, robust base; charred petals of black lotus to infuse darkness; distilled fog water to evoke an ethereal mist; extract of firefly luminescence to cast a shifting, ghostly glow; and, finally, a precise pinch of powdered onyx dust to weave it all together.

Leander leaned over, his voice low. “This one’s going to be tricky,” he whispered. I could sense a tension in his tone—not just the nerves of learning a new potion, but something else.

I glanced toward Lydia and Julian; Lydia’s amber eyes were bright with anticipation as she worked with Julian, who casually adjusted his tie with an air of superiority.

Leander’s gaze darkened whenever Lydia laughed at one of Julian’s remarks, and I felt a pang of sympathy—and mischief—stir within me.

“Leander,” I murmured, placing a hand lightly on his arm as we measured out the powdered brimstone ash. “You really shouldn’t let him get in the way of what actually matters.”

My voice was soft, but there was steel beneath it. I saw the subtle twitch in his jaw, the way his hands paused mid-scoop—like the words had hit closer than he’d expected.

I cast a glance toward Lydia, who was fully absorbed in her mixture, Julian chattering beside her with far too much enthusiasm.

“Maybe,” I said, my tone shifting just enough to tease, “you should ask her to the ball.”

Leander arched a brow.