Page 49

The doors swung open with a dramatic groan, and Professor Maximort emerged, his silver-streaked beard immaculate disarray, his eyes sharp beneath bushy brows. He surveyed us with his customary look of mild disappointment.

"Inside," he commanded, his voice reverberating against the stone walls without him raising it. "And do try not to disgrace yourselves today."

I made my way to my usual spot beside Bethany, my gaze instinctively drifting to where Samael typically sat, Julian and Edric already engaged in quiet conversation. He wasn’t there.

"Looking for your guardian angel?" Bethany murmured, arching an eyebrow.

I was saved from answering when the door creaked open once more. Samael strode in, his dark hair still damp, his expression guarded. The whispers that followed him were immediate—subtle but unmistakable, like wind through dried leaves.

Professor Maximort loudly cleared his throat, and the room fell silent.

"Today," he began, pacing between the tables with deliberate grace, "we'll be practicing the art of Mental Shielding. To test your defenses, we’ll be using a sleep-inducing incantation—technically classified as a jinx."

A collective murmur rippled through the classroom. Jinxes were notoriously difficult, often requiring precise pronunciation and emotional control. If said incorrectly, they could have unintended effects.

"But first," Maximort continued, his gaze sweeping across the room before landing directly on me, "let us address the incident from yesterday evening."

"It has come to my attention," Professor Maximort paused, letting the silence hang heavily before resuming, "that certain students have been experimenting with incantations beyond the typical skill level of first-year students.

" His voice was level but carried a razor-sharp edge, each word cutting through the silence like a blade.

"Such recklessness endangers not only the caster but everyone in proximity. "

A wave of whispers crashed through the room but receded quickly as another glare from Maximort reminded us of our place. In the tense silence that followed, I felt the weight of stares pressing against me, burning like a brand.

Beside me, Bethany gave a tiny shake of her head, as if warning me not to react, not to invite more scrutiny. Yet Professor Maximort was already taking heavy, deliberate steps in my direction. Each footfall echoed like a countdown.

"Luckily for Miss Vale," he said, allowing the words to linger ominously, "Mr. Norwood appears to be quite skilled, not only in noticing a hex but removing it with precision.

Eximere Malum —a hex extraction incantation—is an effective but dangerous procedure.

If said incorrectly, or without proper intent, the consequences could be dire.

I expect such behavior from daring but misguided souls.

" His eyes flicked to where Julian sat, seemingly unconcerned.

"There is no room for error at this school, and we do not practice mediocrity. "

The intensity of his stare made me shrink back, but I forced myself to hold his gaze, digging crescent moons into the palms of my hands.

Samael shifted slightly, drawing attention away from the interrogation I had become.

Professor Maximort moved to stand behind Samael at his desk, looming like a dark specter.

He rested a hand on Samael’s shoulder, the gesture both supportive and suffocating.

“Tell me, boy,” Maximort said, his voice a low rumble, “how does someone your age come to wield Eximere Malum ?”

A murmur stirred across the room. Samael didn’t flinch, but the way his jaw tightened said enough. He stood still beneath Maximort’s gaze, the weight of expectation pressing down like a second cloak.

His eyes flicked to mine for a moment—something unreadable passing between us.

“I’m a Norwood,” Samael replied evenly. “My father made a few enemies over the years. He believed in preparation. Taught me to defend him before I could even cast a basic ward.”

Maximort studied him, long and hard. Then, slowly, his expression shifted—just enough to unnerve.

“Good,” he said at last. “That’s exactly the kind of thinking Mystral needs. Quick. Ruthless. Effective.”

He turned to the class, voice rising like a blade drawn from a sheath.

“Take note. Mr. Norwood didn’t hesitate. That’s leadership.”

A murmur of surprise and confusion rippled through the gathered students. The harsh reprimands of moments before seemed to vanish, replaced by a bewildered curiosity.

Whispers darted like restless shadows among the desks. Even Julian, who had appeared so blasé only moments ago, now stared at Samael with a mixture of envy and confusion over Maximort’s words.

My pulse quickened as I watched the tension melt from Samael’s face, giving way to a quiet, almost imperceptible relief. His eyes found mine again—not just gratitude, but something more vulnerable, a silent plea for understanding that struck deeper than any accusation.

The oppressive weight of interrogation seemed to fall away, replaced by the disarming glow of unexpected approval.

Professor Maximort straightened with a crack that echoed like a falling tree, then swept toward the front of the classroom, his velvet robes billowing behind him like a storm cloud that had somewhere very dramatic to be.

Just as he turned with a flourish, his rather generous midsection collided with the back of Edric Ashford’s head.

Edric, hunched dutifully over his notes, let out a startled yelp—sharp, undignified, and loud enough to bounce off every stone wall in the room.

The class burst into laughter. A few students snorted. Others ducked behind textbooks, shoulders shaking as they tried to hide their grins.

Maximort froze mid-stride, eyes flaring wide for a single heartbeat before he recovered, as if nothing unusual had happened. His voice, smooth as ever, broke the tension.

“Mr. Ashford,” he intoned, lips twitching toward something dangerously close to a smile. “Do try not to get underfoot.”

Edric rubbed the back of his head, clearly torn between shame and smugness. “Entirely my fault, Professor. I’ll try to keep my head down—literally.”

That earned another ripple of laughter. Even Maximort let out a quiet huff, more amused than he’d admit.

The mood in the room hung somewhere between reverence and total disarray. Some students shifted uncomfortably, trying to decide if they were still in trouble. Others exchanged glances that said what everyone was thinking:

What the hell just happened?

Turning his attention to the rest of the class, Maximort resumed his lecture with renewed fervor.

"Now, let us continue with today's lesson on Mental Shields and Sleep Jinxes," he announced, his tone laced with both authority and a gentle warmth.

"Remember," he said, "the strength of your mental shields will determine your resistance to the dark arts, as much as your ability to focus your will.

" His gaze swept across the class as he analyzed each student individually.

I glanced at Bethany, who giggled softly, "This is just another day at Drakestone." I stifled a laugh, but the knot of tension in my chest had loosened. Whatever had happened yesterday—whatever dark forces had tried to claim me—today felt almost normal. Almost.

Professor Maximort clapped his hands twice, the sound echoing like thunder through the vaulted classroom. "Partner up!" he commanded. "One of you will cast, one will shield."

The familiar chaos of chair-scraping and murmured negotiations filled the room. Before I could even look around, Samael was standing beside my desk, his presence both comforting and unsettling.

“Partners?” Samael asked, his voice low and rough at the edges.

Up close, the shadows under his eyes were more obvious—faint, but telling. There was a pale cast to his skin, the kind that came from a night traded for silence and vigilance instead of rest.

“You look terrible,” I said—blurted, really—before I could stop myself.

The corner of his mouth curved. “Always the charmer, Vale.”

Heat bloomed across my cheeks. I gestured to the empty chair beside me, trying for casual. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just... you didn’t sleep. You stayed outside my door.”

He slid into the seat, every movement too smooth for someone who looked half-dead.

“Would you rather I left, after someone tried to poison you?”

“I’d rather you got some rest,” I muttered, eyes locked on the desk as if its grain held the secrets of the universe.

“Sleep is overrated,” he murmured, but the weight in his voice said otherwise.

Across the room, Bethany caught my eye and raised a brow before conveniently pairing herself with Edric, who seemed deeply focused on tapping his emerald-ringed fingers against the table like a bored aristocrat waiting to be crowned.

“Miss Vale and Mr. Norwood,” Professor Maximort’s voice cut through the room like a blade, making us both flinch. “Since you’ve already demonstrated such... compatibility with complex spellwork, perhaps you’d like to go first.”

Samael leaned in slightly, his breath warm against my ear.

“Still think I look terrible?” he asked, voice low enough that only I could hear.

I didn’t answer—not out loud, anyway.

The classroom fell silent, anticipation hanging thick in the air. Samael's jaw tightened, but he nodded, gesturing for me to follow him to the open space at the front of the room.

"Remember," Maximort intoned, circling us like a vulture, "mental shields require three elements: focus, intention, and emotional control. Miss Vale will shield; Mr. Norwood will cast. Begin when ready."

As the silence in the classroom deepened, I felt a subtle vibration at the base of my neck—the familiar pulse of my amulet.

For days it had remained quiet, a silent observer to my trials and triumphs.

Yet now, as Professor Maximort’s words faded into a reverent hush, it stirred, its soft, insistent whisper threading through my thoughts.