Rose had never stood in front of a classroom before, let alone one packed with over a hundred students, faculty, and even a few Council observers tucked in the shadows like moldy vultures. The air hummed with nerves and skepticism—she could smell it.
She wasn't used to this kind of attention. Chaos? Yes. Fireballs? Absolutely. But controlled presentation? Not exactly her thing.
Nimbus perched on her shoulder, whispering, "You've got this. Just don't accidentally summon an elder flame spirit. Again."
"Helpful as always," she muttered.
Belladoma stood near the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, her usual sternness softened by a faint nod of support. That alone gave Rose courage.
She clapped her hands, letting a controlled spark arc between her palms. "Alright, witches, warlocks, and whatever-that-is in the back—today's lesson is on Brimstone magic. Otherwise known as how not to explode while wielding a volatile storm forged in hell."
A few students giggled nervously.
Rose grinned. "Step one: Don't be afraid of your own power. If you flinch, it'll eat you alive. Trust me. I've been there. Recently."
She traced a sigil in the air, slow and deliberate. A swirl of crimson lightning crackled into a small sphere between her hands.
"Brimstone is emotional magic. It feeds on intent. Fear fuels chaos. Focus fuels control. Watch."
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The sphere calmed, turning from jagged red to a soft, steady glow like molten glass.
One of the older students raised a hand. "But isn't it dangerous to teach unstable magic in a school full of hormonal disasters?"
"Excellent question," Rose said, releasing the sphere—it hovered, harmless. "Which brings us to step two: Know your limits. Don't try to impress anyone. The magic doesn't care about your ego."
A younger student near the front raised a hand timidly. "What if… what if you don't think you're strong enough?"
Rose knelt, meeting her gaze. "You don't need to be strong to have power. You just need to own it. The storm is loud, but your voice can be louder."
There was a murmur of agreement around the room. Even the skeptics looked a little less skeptical.
Then, as if summoned by narrative cruelty, the back door slammed open.
Enter: Basil Thornridge.
Tall, smug, and annoyingly handsome. His family was legacy nobility—big on tradition, short on charm. Rose had barely interacted with him, but she could already smell trouble.
"Teaching, Rose?" he said, voice dripping with mockery. "Didn't realize surviving a lightning bolt made you an authority."
"Didn't realize being a sentient wine stain made you an academic," Rose shot back.
The room tittered.
Basil's smile thinned. "Careful. You wouldn't want to lose control in front of your admirers."
Rose took a step forward, her voice steady. "I haven't lost anything. But if you'd like a demonstration of what I've gained, I'd be happy to oblige."
A crackle of power danced through the air. Not threat—promise.
Basil backed off, lips curled. "This isn't over."
Rose smiled sweetly. "Oh, I hope not."
The lesson ended in awe, not ash.
Progress.