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)
Might also be the way the room changes with each class in a way that doesn’t necessarily reflect the outside world. Storming inside when the courtyard is clear. Or stars burning overhead in the middle of the day. Today, it smells like hot metal and rain, even though it’s bone-dry inside. Low clouds churn above us like someone tipped a cauldron of fog upside down and trapped it under glass.
Dozens of students are already seated when I enter. The sound of my boots hitting the stone floor instantly snatches their attention.
They don’t bother hiding it anymore.
Whispers stutter and die, eyes following me with open suspicion or even outright hate. I clock every stare, meet a couple dead-on until they flinch, and move toward my usual place at the back. For people who think I’m a murderer, they’re awfully fucking brave.
I drop my codex on the desk, the cover vibrating faintly once beneath my palm, like it’s happy to be here. Weird little book. I’m going to steal it and take it home with me when I leave.
The thought draws unease through my veins and I grit my teeth. Unease?
I am not uneasy. Nothing has changed. I know exactly what I want in the end.
I just want to do the dance here first. Get some powers and shit.
Rolling my eyes at myself, I throw my boots up on the desk, crossing one over the other and taking up the full space beside me—no one else will sit there anyway.
Professor Astra’s back is to us as she stands at the center. Her rolled-up sleeves reveal the silver ink curling over her forearms in intricate, living patterns that shift when she moves. The symbols she traces in the air are not the standard ones from her SpellChemy lessons. They’re looser, more fluid lines that look half script and half smoke that glow faintly.
When the bell tolls, she flicks her fingers. One at a time, the symbols grow several sizes, pulsing in the air as they spin in slow, steady circles.
“Today,” she says without turning, “we move beyond repetition.”
A hush settles over the room, the kind that says even the little noblelings know this is important.
Astra faces us, hair braided tight against her skull, eyes sharp as ever. “You all know how to cast a spell someone else designed for you.” Yeah, exactly one so far, but who’s fucking counting? “When casting, you reproduce the pattern someone else designed and let your magic flow through their structure. That is spellwork.”
Her gaze slides over the class, lingering on certain faces—the promising ones with ancient family lines humming in their veins. The ones whose names start with “Lord” or “Noble” or “Prince.” When her eyes reach me, they pause for a solid second that snaps my brows together.
“Creative magic,” she continues, looking up at the hovering symbols, “is the art of weaving something new.”
She snaps her fingers and the room shifts. Threads of light appear in midair, thin as spider silk as they move above us. Some gleam golden and ember red. Others are shadow-black with a blue so soft it almost looks like bottled moonlight. They drift lazily, waiting for her instruction.
“The simplest way to explain creative magic is to focus on the three ideologies,” Professor Astra says. “Essence. Emotion. Intention.”
She lifts a hand and a strand of pale flame drifts toward her fingers. “Essence is the material you’re working with. Fire, water, shadow, bone, blood, time—whatever your principle powers and the realm allow you to touch.”
She catches the thread between forefinger and thumb. It coils there obediently, like a tamed snake.
“Emotion is the current. It motivates and nourishes. Rage, fear, love, desperation. You cannot cast or create without feeling. It is the one and only way. A numb mind is a worthless mind.”
The thread shivers brighter, flaring white.
“And intention,” she adds quietly, “Intention is the force that emanates from within that completes and creates. It is the difference between a trickle and a flood. Between a healing warmth and a killing burn.”
Her earlier words echo in my head. Magic isn’t just about power, Haide. It’s about precision.
Something sparks low in my chest, pushing against my ribs like it doesn’t know this body isn’t meant for things like that.
If magic is just another kind of knife, I can learn to use it with precision and intent.
“Open your codex,” she instructs. “Today, you will attempt to design a spell rather than repeat one.” She flicks her fingers and dozens of glowing threads drift toward us, hovering at eye level. “Something small and harmless.” Her eyes harden. “Relatively.”
Nervous laughter trickles through the room. I don’t join. My thread is ember-red, warm even before it touches my skin. When I wrap my fingers around it, heat licks along my palm, not burning, but tasting. Like it’s testing whether I belong to it, or it belongs to me.