Rose hadn't been this nervous since the time she accidentally enchanted her neighbor's cat to recite opera. As she stepped out of the Trial Chamber, her boots squeaked on the polished obsidian floor—each step echoing like a secret trying not to be overheard.
"Did you see the judge's face?" Nimbus zipped beside her, electricity dancing at the corners of its puff. "That look of stunned horror? That's how you know it went well."
"Pretty sure that's not the rubric," Rose muttered, still clutching her journal like a lifeline.
She hadn't expected to pass. Sure, her spell had been dramatic—but drama and danger were usually frowned upon unless you were a licensed Archmage or a reality-bending aristocrat. Yet here she was, escorted by a multi-eyed robed assistant to her next destination: The Department of Minor Mishaps.
"Sounds like a wizard hospital," she whispered.
"It is," Nimbus replied, "but for spells that went sideways. Not people. The people are just unfortunate collateral."
The assistant opened a creaking door and gestured inside. "Orientation."
Rose stepped in cautiously. The room looked deceptively normal—until the teacups began insulting her shoes.
"Please sit," croaked a voice from behind a desk made of writhing vines. At it sat a woman in a high-collared coat made of stitched shadow and faintly whispering runes. Her nameplate read: Mistress Tilda Grimhatch, Director of Controlled Catastrophes.
"You're Rose," Tilda said, without looking up. "The girl who made the judges feel things. Dangerous habit."
Rose sat stiffly. "It was a harmless emotional transmutation."
"Which summoned the laughter of a dead goblin choir and bent three walls into interpretive shapes," Tilda replied dryly. "We like that around here. Controlled chaos is still control."
She pushed a parchment across the desk. "This is your placement. You'll train here for six moons. If you survive, you graduate to Probationary Grand Apprentice."
"Survive?" Rose asked, her voice cracking slightly.
"Figure of speech," Tilda said, though her eye twitched suspiciously. "Mostly."
Rose looked at the parchment. Apprentice of Unstable Conjurations. It sounded like a fancy way to say "walking magical hazard." She could live with that.
"You'll begin with wand discipline, magical etiquette, and how not to accidentally summon things with teeth," Tilda said briskly. "Report to Professor Glimwort's tower at dawn. He's allergic to optimism and students, so do try to be forgettable."
Nimbus made a thunderous snort. "Too late."
Tilda stood. "Welcome to the Department, Wynthrope. And… keep the emotional spells to a minimum, unless you want to unearth the faculty's deepest regrets again. Took us weeks to mop that up."
Rose nodded, heart pounding with a strange mix of dread and excitement. This wasn't just another school. This was it—the road to something greater.
As she and Nimbus left the office, the teacups hissed something unrepeatable.
Rose grinned. "I think we're going to fit right in."