"It is not the fire that terrifies them, but the moment when it goes out." — fragment from the Archives of the Circle
The morning air carried the bite of steel. Instead of filing into Staples' classroom, we were marched across the stone walk to a wide sparring ring, its boundaries marked by charred lines on the ground. Students whispered uneasily, feet shuffling, until Staples raised a hand for silence.
"Today," he said evenly, "we test not theory, but practice. Reflexes. Restraint. Precision under pressure." His gaze swept across the assembled rows. "You'll face each other directly. No one will be coddled. Advanced against Normal, to measure the gap."
The murmurs swelled. Advanced students straightened proudly; the rest of us just tried to keep our faces still.
My name was called first. A boy I barely knew stepped into the ring opposite me, shifting nervously from foot to foot.
The whistle blew.
His spell came fast, a jagged arc of light. I raised my palm and caught it on a shield of flame, the ember in me flaring to life—then flickering, my mind wandering back to yesterday. To Linette. To the collar.
My shield wavered, the boy's second strike searing too close.
I forced the wall higher, absorbing each blast. I was blocking, but slower than I should have been. Slower than they expected.
By the time Staples called an end, my chest was heaving. The boy bowed awkwardly and backed away.
That was when Gerard's laugh cut across the silence.
"Advanced Class." He spit the words like a joke. "She can barely swat down a novice's sparks. That's your prodigy?"
Heat rose in my face as heads turned toward me. Staples frowned, but Gerard pressed on, voice sharp with something more than mockery.
"She doesn't belong here. Admit it."
I stood at the edge of the ring as pair after pair was called. The crowd pressed close, the smell of char and sweat thick in the air.
Kris's name came next. I caught his eye as he stepped onto the sparring floor, wincing with each movement, the lingering injuries from yesterday still written in the lines of his body. Guilt clawed at me, sharper than any spell.
But when the match began, Kris moved with steady precision. His opponent's blasts struck against his shield one after another, each one neatly countered, until Kris drove forward with a clean strike that sent the boy sprawling.
The whistle blew. Victory.
Kris turned his head immediately, his chest rising and falling with effort, but his eyes found mine. He smiled—thin, tired, but steady. A reassurance. A forgiveness I wasn't sure I deserved.
Melissa fought next. Her magic crackled through the air, sharp and ruthless, and her opponent barely had time to raise a shield before being driven to the ground. The crowd applauded as she stepped down, her chin held high.
She brushed past me, her shoulder nearly clipping mine. Her voice was a hiss of contempt, low enough for only me to hear.
"That's what you're supposed to be showing them."
Her spit hit the dirt at my feet.
My hands clenched. I tried to ignore her, to keep my face blank, but the ember inside me guttered dangerously.
Staples called another name. Another match. The ring burned brighter with each display of power.
Later, leaving for meal break, I caught sight of Melinda moving quickly down one of the back corridors. She looked pale, shoulders tight. Something about her pace tugged at me, and before I could think, my steps followed.
The corridor stretched narrow and dim. I slowed as I saw where she was heading.
The Warden.
He stood waiting, expression shadowed. His hand lingered on Melinda's chin, thumb grazing her jaw with a mockery of tenderness. "Do what you know you have to," he murmured. "Or I tell Sephanie your dirty little secret."
Melinda's shoulders stiffened. She didn't move, didn't breathe.
The ember inside me cracked open, searing white. Before I realized it, I was already moving.
The Warden turned, surprised at the sudden rush of air, at the way the corridor itself seemed to heat under my fury. His brows knit as though I were an unruly child. "Back to your class, girl," he growled.
But I didn't stop.
His hand shot out, thick fingers reaching for my arm, expecting me to flinch. I didn't. Flame bloomed from my palm, searing across his wrist. He jerked back with a curse, stumbling a step.
His face twisted, not in pain but in rage. "You dare?"
He lunged. For his belt, for something at his side. Finding nothing. His hand came up empty.
That flicker of hesitation ignited me. The ember swelled into an inferno, Linette's presence rising inside me until I couldn't tell where I ended and she began. My body moved without thought, without fear—strikes wild and desperate, fire spilling with each motion.
The Warden barreled forward, trying to pin me against the wall. His grip clamped my shoulders, crushing, suffocating. I felt bone strain under his weight. His breath was hot and foul in my ear.
But then Linette surged. A scream tore through me—not sound, not words, but pure force. Fire exploded from my chest, throwing him back. Stone cracked. The air filled with smoke.
He coughed, dragging himself upright, eyes bloodshot, spittle foaming at his lips. No discipline now. No authority. Just brute strength as he charged.
I met him.
We collided in the center of the corridor, his fist slamming against my ribs, my fire clawing at his chest. I felt the skin on my knuckles split, the heat eating into him, but I didn't stop. Couldn't.
The world narrowed to his face twisted in rage, my fire blazing higher, Linette's voice chanting wordless fury in my mind.
Then, all at once—silence.
The Warden crumpled. Smoke curled from the edges of his coat, skin blistered where my fire had torn through. His eyes rolled back.
I stood over him, chest heaving, the ember inside me finally quiet.
Dead.
The silence didn't last.
Footsteps thundered down the hall. Students and instructors crowded the doorway, their gasps sharp against the thick air. Faces—Kris pale, Melissa sneering, Melinda white with terror—stared at the body on the ground.
"She killed him," someone whispered.
And then Gerard pushed through the crowd. His eyes burned with something I couldn't name—anger, jealousy, triumph. He pointed at me, voice ringing with condemnation.
"She killed him."
Gasps rippled again. No one moved to help me. No one defended me.
Gerard strode forward, his boots heavy against the stone. "This is your Advanced Class?" he called to the instructors behind him. "A murderer. A fraud."
He reached me before I could move. His hand clamped onto my arm like iron, jerking me forward so fast I nearly fell. Cold metal pressed against my throat.
He leaned close, his breath hot against my ear.
"All that training, all that praise, wasted on someone who can't even control herself. Do you know how many of us would've killed for that seat in the Advanced class?"
The collar locked with a sharp, final click.
The ember in me guttered. Linette's presence—always there, always a whisper in the corner of my mind—went dark.
The world was silent.
For the first time since I had found her, I was truly alone.