Page 42

Marigold

The faint scent of burning herbs drifted through the classroom as I slipped into my seat, the smoke curling from warding braziers placed near the walls. A soft hum of layered magic, subtle but steady, pressed gently against my senses.

But beneath it, I could still feel him—the ghost of Keane’s touch lingering on my skin, the warmth of his hands, the way he had looked at me like I was the only thing anchoring him.

It had felt real. He had felt real.

For once, he hadn’t been distant or held back by others’ demands. And yet, that image kept colliding with another—the dark edges of his portals, pulsing with something unnatural.

I hadn’t imagined it. His magic was deteriorating.

I tightened my grip on my notebook. Forced channeling. That was what my father’s journal had called it. Trying to redirect magic in unnatural ways, compressing it into controlled structures.

I had spent hours last night tracing the ciphered notes, recognizing my father’s frustration as he detailed how Project Cornerstone tried to reshape natural wellspring currents—forcing them through artificial constraints.

Like trying to reroute a river through pipes too small, he had written.

That was what Keane’s magic felt like now—straining, unnatural, like it was being forced into a shape it was never meant to take.

Scout clicked softly, sensing my unease as I opened my notebook. Beside me, Raven glanced over, her eyebrows quirking in concern.

“You alright?” she whispered.

“Yeah, just… distracted.” I forced a weak smile.

She didn’t look convinced, but before she could push further, Professor Esteban entered the room. His arrival was marked by the steady clink of enchanted medallions on his coat—restoration sigils designed to amplify healing magic.

“Today’s lesson will focus on maintaining magical balance,” he announced. “Specifically, how different types of magic interact to protect and sustain wellsprings.”

I straightened, glancing at Raven. The wellspring. I had felt its pulse beneath Wickem’s foundations, the steady current of power running through the ley lines.

“Wellsprings serve as anchors for ley lines, fueling the magical ecosystem around them,” Esteban continued.

“When properly nurtured and protected, they enhance all forms of magic. However, they are not indestructible. Historical accounts have shown that in times of magical strain, wellsprings have destabilized—sometimes with catastrophic results.”

I tightened my grip on my pen. My father had written about this, too.

“Contrary to popular belief, protecting wellsprings isn’t solely the job of combat witches or the Shroud Guard. Collaboration between magical disciplines has always been crucial. Necromancers, healers, and evokers each play a role in ensuring stability.”

A boy near the back scoffed. “Yeah, I’m sure necromancers are just great for keeping things stable.”

Laughter rippled through the room, low and biting. My shoulders tensed.

“Necromancers understand patterns better than anyone,” Esteban countered coolly. “Death energy, when properly managed, reveals imbalances long before they become visible to other magic users.”

The whispers died down.

“Miss Raynoff, would you assist in today’s demonstration?”

Aurora stood, flicking back her copper hair. “Sure, Professor. You want me to keep it warm and friendly?”

Esteban nodded. “Precisely. Fire, while often seen as destructive, has historically played a vital role in both protection and restoration. Please demonstrate controlled life-energy infusion.”

Aurora held out her hands, and flames bloomed, steady and warm—not destructive, but sustaining.

“Observe how the flame stabilizes the magical field,” Esteban said. “Evokers have traditionally used fire to purify ley lines and sustain energy flows.”

The way Aurora’s fire pulsed in rhythm with the room’s magic made something in my chest tighten.

Keane’s magic didn’t pulse. It jolted. It stuttered. It fought against itself.

Because it wasn’t flowing naturally anymore.

“Miss Grimley,” Esteban called. “Would you care to assist in demonstrating how death traces interact with restorative magic?”

I hesitated, but Scout nudged me forward.

I walked to the front, slowly reaching for my magic. The dead things stirred at the edge of my senses—curious, but not disruptive.

I extended my awareness to meet the warmth of Aurora’s fire. Instead of clashing, our magic balanced. Death energy rooted the flame, stabilizing it.

“It’s… balanced,” I murmured. “The death traces aren’t disrupting the energy. They’re reinforcing it.”

“Precisely,” Esteban said. “This is how wellsprings have been safeguarded throughout history.”

The room fell silent. The tension had shifted. No longer hostile—curious.

As I returned to my seat, Aurora leaned over. “See? You’re a natural. Let them talk all they want.”

I smiled faintly, but my mind was elsewhere.

The diary had said the same thing.

Magic was meant to flow freely. Not forced. Not controlled.

And yet, Keane’s portals weren’t free-flowing anymore.

His magic was being caged. Compressed.

Like the Council was trying to reshape him—the same way they had tried to reshape wellsprings.

The thought sent a chill through me.

I hadn’t applied to Wickem. The school had sent for me.

The wellspring had called me.

Not just for me.

For what I could see. For what I could do.

I swallowed hard, glancing down at my notes. Keane’s magic wasn’t breaking on its own.

It was being broken.

And the Council knew exactly how.