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I hesitated, my fingers instinctively finding the raven pendant beneath my blouse. The cool stone betrayed nothing of its earlier behavior. "Something strange happened before I bumped into him. My pendant... it spoke to me."

Lydia's eyes widened, but before she could respond, the clocktower chimed through the hall, signaling ten minutes until our first class.

"We'll have to discuss this later," she whispered, gathering her books. “We’ve got Potions with Professor Thornbriar next. She’s supposed to be lovely—brilliant, but a stickler for punctuality. I’d rather not risk disappointing her.”

The greenhouse doors swung open, releasing a fragrant wave of damp earth, crushed herbs, and something faintly sweet, like overripe fruit warmed by the sun.

Sunlight filtered through the massive glass panes, casting shifting patterns across the tiled floor as creeping vines clung to the beams above.

Rows of workstations, each equipped with an aged cauldron and neatly labeled vials of ingredients, lined the space.

Overhead, plants curled toward the light, their leaves rustling softly despite the absence of wind.

Lydia and I stepped inside, our boots clicking against the stone floor as we took in the space. This wasn’t the dark, musty dungeon I had imagined for Potions. It was alive—vibrant, humming with an energy that felt more welcoming than anything I’d encountered since arriving at Drakestone.

At the far end of the greenhouse stood Professor Thornbriar, her soil-dusted robes blending seamlessly with the foliage around her.

A few delicate, dried flowers were tucked into her honey-colored hair, a wreath of nature’s favor.

As she turned to greet us, her warm brown eyes shone with quiet excitement.

“Welcome, my young alchemists,” she said, her voice flowing like golden honey.

“Here, you will learn that potions are not merely about measurements and recipes, but about balance—between elements, between intention and execution. Every plant, every ingredient has a story to tell, and I will teach you how to listen.”

A murmur of interest rippled through the students as we settled into place. I stole a glance at Lydia, who beamed with excitement.

Professor Thornbriar clapped her hands together, sending up a small puff of fine herb dust.

“Today, we begin with a simple pairing exercise. You will work with a partner to create a tincture of Wraith’s Kiss—a potion that allows the drinker to become temporarily invisible, but only while remaining motionless.”

A list of names materialized midair in golden script, arranging us into pairs. I skimmed the list quickly, my stomach dropping slightly when I saw Lydia’s name paired with Leander.

“Elvana, you’ll be working with Julian Hallow,” Professor Thornbriar announced.

I turned my head sharply, my gaze locking onto the same striking figure I had seen beside Samael during the ceremony.

Julian Hallow. He stood at the opposite end of the room, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching the pairings unfold with an amused smirk.

His dark skin gleamed in the warm greenhouse light, his short coils perfectly in place despite the humidity.

Unlike the rest of us still buttoned up in regulation formality, Julian looked like he'd already bent the rules just enough to make them his. His charcoal coat was open at the collar, the ruby-red tie knotted loose and lopsided. Two gold rings gleamed on his fingers as he lazily twisted them together. His sleeves were rolled just high enough to suggest he didn’t care, but precisely enough to show that he did.

As I approached, he uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “Looks like I pulled the interesting one.”

I arched a brow. “If ‘interesting’ means I know how to follow basic instructions, then yes. Lucky you.”

He chuckled, low and unbothered. “I follow instructions, Elvana. I just prefer the ones with room for interpretation.”

Before I could respond, Professor Thornbriar spoke again. “Alchemy is a dance, a conversation between the brewer and the ingredients. Communication with your partner is just as important as precision in your craft. Now, let’s begin.”

I turned back to Julian, who was already inspecting the ingredients on our station. “You ever made this potion before?” he asked, eyeing the dried frostcap mushroom with casual interest.

I lifted my chin. “No, but I’ve read about it.”

His grin widened. “Of course, you have.” He plucked up a vial of spectral eel ink and swirled it thoughtfully. “Let’s see if you can keep up, then.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Let’s see if you can.”

To my surprise, Julian worked with a fluid confidence that bordered on artistry.

His movements were precise yet instinctive as he measured the spectral eel ink, adding exactly three drops to our simmering cauldron.

The liquid inside shifted from murky green to a shimmering silver that caught the greenhouse light.

"Not bad," I admitted, carefully crushing the frostcap mushroom with a marble pestle. The fungus released a soft, bluish mist that smelled of winter storms.

Julian's eyes flickered to mine, a hint of genuine interest replacing his earlier smugness. "You've got a steady hand. Most people pulverize the frostcap too quickly and lose half the essence."

I felt a small surge of pride at the unexpected compliment. "My mother taught me to respect the ingredients. She said they remember how you treat them."

Something shifted in Julian's expression—a flicker of recognition, perhaps curiosity—before his casual mask slipped back into place. "Wise woman, your mother. The frostcap now, before the silver fades."

I sprinkled the crushed powder into our cauldron, watching as it dissolved into the mixture, creating delicate, frost-like patterns that danced across the surface before disappearing.

"Now we need to add the moonstone dust," I said, reaching for the small vial.

“So,” Julian said casually, not bothering to look up as he measured out powdered aqualeaf. “You’re the one who’s got Sam all distracted.”

I nearly dropped the mortar I was using to grind the moonstone dust. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His laugh was low and unmistakably amused. “Please. He’s been watching you since the welcome ceremony. And Sam doesn’t watch anyone.”

Heat crept up the back of my neck. I kept my gaze locked on the mortar, focusing on the careful rhythm of the grind, trying to reach the fine, silvery consistency Professor Thornbriar had described. “We’ve barely spoken.”

“Quality over quantity,” he murmured, finally glancing over. His eyes flicked to mine, dancing with amusement. “He mentioned your little courtyard run-in this morning.”

My grip tightened around the pestle. “Did he now?”

“Relax. He was maddeningly vague—classic Sam.” Julian leaned across the workbench to grab a strip of whisperwood bark, his arm brushing lightly against mine in the process. “But I know him. And something about you is… under his skin.”

The cauldron bubbled gently as Julian added the bark, the mixture turning a deep, midnight blue. I carefully tipped in my moonstone powder, watching as silver streaks swirled through the darkness like stars cutting through night sky.

“Three clockwise stirs, and then we are ready to pour into the vial.” Julian scoffed at my obvious deflection and grabbed the spoon to stir the Wraith’s Kiss as instructed, and then carefully measured it into the vial.

Professor Thornbriar moved through the rows of students, checking cauldrons and offering gentle corrections as she went.

Around us, others muttered in frustration as their mixtures bubbled the wrong color or released acrid smoke.

Lydia shot me a look from across the room, her expression pleading as Leander knocked over a vial of whisperwood bark, sending it scattering across the station. I bit back a smile.

Julian corked our finished vial with a flick of his wrist, holding it up to the light. The potion shimmered a deep, glassy blue, thin wisps of silver swirling within like captured breath.

“Not bad for a first attempt,” he said, voice edged with self-satisfaction.

“Not an attempt,” I corrected, wiping my hands on a cloth. “A success.”

Professor Thornbriar paused by our station just as Julian set the vial down.

She peered inside, her warm brown eyes sparkling with approval.

“A perfect batch,” she murmured, turning the vial slowly in her fingers.

“Impeccable balance of ingredients, and not a single scorch mark on your station.” She glanced at Julian, lips curving. “I take it Elvana kept you in line?”

Julian held up his hands in mock innocence. “I was an excellent partner.”

“Mhmm.” She gave him a knowing look before turning to the rest of the class. “Who among you would like to test the effects?”

The room fell into a murmur of hesitant whispers. Even among magical students, drinking an experimental potion in front of an audience was a risky proposition.

Leander, however, grinned and stepped forward. “I’ll do it.”

Lydia made a sound of protest, but Leander was already rolling up his sleeves. Professor Thornbriar handed him the vial, and with one last cocky glance toward Lydia, he tipped it back and swallowed the contents in one smooth gulp.

A moment passed. Then another.

Leander blinked. “I don’t feel any—”

And then he was gone.

A collective gasp swept through the greenhouse. The air where Leander had stood shimmered faintly, but he was completely invisible.

“Remarkable,” Professor Thornbriar said, voice full of delight. “Now, remain perfectly still.”

The class hushed, everyone watching with wide eyes. Seconds stretched.

Then, as suddenly as he vanished, Leander reappeared—eyes wide, hair slightly askew, looking both dazed and utterly delighted.

“That was wicked,” he breathed, shaking out his arms like he half-expected to find feathers. “Did you see that? I disintegrated. That was amazing. ”

Professor Thornbriar beamed. “An excellent demonstration. Well done, Elvana and Julian. Your potion performed exactly as it should. Well brewed potions could have an effect that last anywhere from five to thirty minutes, always plan according”

A few students murmured in appreciation; others scowled at their own failed attempts. Lydia shot me a thumbs-up behind Leander’s back, and Julian leaned in slightly, voice low.

“Told you we’d pull it off,” he murmured.

I tilted my head toward him. “I believe the phrase was, ‘let’s see if you can keep up.’”

Julian smirked. “Fine. You win this round.”

As the class began to clean up, I couldn’t help but steal a glance across the room, feeling as if something was watching me. I shook off the unease and continued packing away my things, but the sensation lingered, prickling the back of my neck.

Just as I was about to leave, a chilling scream pierced the air from somewhere in the distance. Everyone froze, eyes wide with shock, as the echo of terror hung heavy in the silence.