Page 33

Marigold

The arena hummed with layered magic, old enchantments woven into the stone beneath my feet.

Protective sigils flared along the edges, marking boundaries that had existed for centuries.

Even the air felt different here—charged with expectation, thick with the weight of generations of witches who had stood in this exact spot, proving themselves.

And now it was my turn.

The observation box loomed above, high-backed chairs filled with the most powerful figures in our world.

I didn’t have to look to know they were watching—waiting.

Their scrutiny pressed against my skin like a second layer of cold.

Lord Raynoff sat among them, expression carved from stone.

Cyrus stood rigid beside him, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on me. He hadn’t looked away once.

I forced my shoulders back. I wasn’t here for them.

Scout pressed closer to my collar, sensing my resolve. The dead things beneath the trial grounds whispered encouragement, old voices who had watched too many students rise and fall here. I wouldn’t be one of the ones who fell.

Professor Rivera strode to the center of the field, his gaze sweeping over the gathered freshmen.

“Each of you will face an individual trial suited to your abilities,” he announced, his voice cutting through the morning chill.

“Step forward when your name is called.” He glanced down at his list. “Marigold Grimley.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Of course I would be first.

Cyrus tilted his head slightly, as if daring me to fail.

I ignored him and stepped into the trial circle.

Professor Undergrove’s voice echoed in my mind. Your father saw connections others missed. What had he meant? And why had it felt like a warning?

The challenge crystal flared to life in front of me. “Generate controlled flame.”

A test of magical adaptation. A challenge that should be impossible for someone like me.

Heat prickled at my skin as I raised my hands, summoning power the way Dr. Reyes had drilled into me. I reached for the flow of magic—not death, not summoning, but something lighter, something—

The fire flickered once, then died.

Murmurs from the crowd. A flicker of something amused in Lord Raynoff’s gaze. He wasn’t surprised. He was expecting this.

No. Not like this.

I closed my eyes, shutting out the whispers, the weight of expectation pressing down on me. Think. Magic follows intent. Magic follows purpose.

I wasn’t a fire witch. I wasn’t like Cyrus or the others. But I understood how magic moved, how it wove itself into the world.

Magic follows connections.

The dead things understood fire. They had watched it consume buildings, seen it flicker in hearths, danced in its embers.

I reached for that memory, for the way heat had felt against their long-gone bones. The wellspring’s energy rose to meet me, not fighting, not resisting—merging.

A flame flared to life in my palm, cold at first, then warming, twisting into something that wasn’t just fire, wasn’t just necromancy, but a harmony of both.

The murmurs in the crowd stopped.

Even the Council members sat forward slightly.

I turned my hand, letting the flame shift color—golden first, then edged with silver, then something deep and midnight-dark. Not the blue of Cyrus’s flames, not the illusions of Elio’s magic, but something entirely my own.

Cyrus’s smirk vanished.

The senior student hesitated, then nodded. “Trial complete.”

I exhaled slowly, the flame vanishing between my fingers. I had done it.

And I had seen the moment Lord Raynoff’s expression flickered—not in anger, but something colder. Calculation.

As I left the trial grounds, stepping past the line of waiting students, I let my gaze meet Cyrus’s for half a second. His fire had burned against mine in combat drills, had raged hotter when we fought, but in that moment, I saw something else in his eyes.

Not just anger. Something closer to fear.