Series: Lords of Rathe Series by Meagan Brandy
Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
It’s the perfect time to assess the competition while everyone adjusts to their new surroundings. Frankly, they’re unimpressive. A boy whose skin is an unusual gray color, nearly the exact color of rocks. Long, shimmering green hair then draws my attention to the girl next to me. Tiny sparks pop off her braid every few seconds.
I do a double-take when I catch the silver-haired girl from earlier locked on to me with such focus it’s like she’s waiting to see if I’ll combust.
Guess she’s checking out the competition, too.
I smirk at the thought, because if this outfit change tells me anything, it’s that I’m about to get to use my hands.
Professor Asshole is long gone. In his place stands a beast with bright eyes and green scales along his temple. A shifter for sure, but what kind?
He lifts his chin, attention shifting across the room as he takes slow steps toward us.
“Welcome to Mastery of Warcraft. My name is Orrith, but you will call me professor,” he announces, voice booming throughout the room. “This class will test and refine your mind, your command of magic, and your ability to act with precision under pressure.”
“Here, you will learn to blend weapon craft with your inherent gifts. To anticipate and counter not just a strike, but an opponent’s strategy. We study the battle arts of all magic, from the disciplined forms of the Stygian guard to the elemental fury of the Argent war mages. You will be broken down to your most basic abilities and rebuilt into warriors capable of defending your name, your realm, and your life. This is not sport. This is survival.”
Oh, hell yes.
“We’ll begin with basic warm-ups.” He steps back and the floor opens up, lofting him into the air on a dais. He moves in a circular motion above us, having the perfect viewpoint to keep an eye on us all. “Foundational work. If you can’t manage these with ease, you will find the rest of your training…difficult. And do not forget for a moment that today is assessment day. So don’t slack off. It will only hurt you in the end.”
He lifts his hand and a rack of throwing daggers appears at the center of the circle. Each one gleams with its own faint aura: storm blue, molten gold, or rich violet. “Summoning,” he says simply.
One by one, the students take turns. Rock Boy doesn’t move a muscle—just narrows his eyes, and a dagger launches from the rack straight into his palm. Spark-Hair flicks her braid and a blade spirals toward her in a neat corkscrew. A dragon-blood girl with bronze scales along her cheekbone exhales a thin ribbon of smoke, and a dagger drifts to her hand like it’s afraid to keep her waiting.
Then it’s my turn.
I lift my chin at the rack, trying to imagine the dagger flying to me.
Nothing happens.
I lean forward a little, glaring at it harder. Still nothing.
“Focus, Miss Haide,” the professor says in that tone adults use right before they decide you’re hopeless.
“Oh, I’m focusing,” I say. “Maybe it’s shy.”
A ripple of laughter runs through the room. Someone coughs “giftless” into their sleeve.
I lean back in my chair, folding my arms. “Next.”
The professor’s mouth pinches, but he moves on. The rest of the warm-up is more of the same: light a practice torch with a spark; shift a pebble with telekinesis; balance a rune in your palm without frying it. All the little tricks they’ve clearly been doing since they could toddle around in mage diapers.
I fail every single one, because hello—born on exile fucking island where magic literally goes to die.
Finally, the professor claps his hands once, sharp. “Form up. Now we fight and you will give it your all.”
Now we’re talking.
Pairs are called. Students slide down to the central ring, the floor’s runes flaring faintly to life under their boots. The magic here is thick, like the air is holding its breath, waiting to see who bleeds first.
When my name is called, my opponent is a tall, narrow-shouldered boy with pale hair and the kind of smug face that makes you want to break it just to see if he can still smirk afterward.
“No magic for you either, Caelum,” Professor Orrith says, his voice like gravel ground against steel.
Caelum smirks and rolls his shoulders as if limbering up for a workout he’s already bored of. “Guess I’ll keep it light, then. Wouldn’t want to break her on her first day.”
My mouth curls slowly. “Aw, that’s adorable.”
The second the professor calls “begin,” he starts circling me. His posture loose, like this is a warm-up for him and a lesson for me. His eyes flicker over my hands, my boots, my stance, judging everything he sees.
I move before he finishes that little assessment.
One step inside his guard, my hand catches his wrist and twists. Not enough to snap it, just enough to lock him in place.