I grab a piece of paper from my desk and jot my number on it with avery politerequest for Elethior to text me. Then I stand in front of his workstation—I think there’s still a desk under there—and consider about half a dozen places to put it. It’s going to get lost in his chaos no matter where it ends up. Unlikely he’ll see it, so I toss the thing onto the mound.
The moment it crosses a hand’s width above his desk, it incinerates.
I blink at the remnants of ash that drift down onto his textbooks, paper, and garbage.
Elethior put a protection ward around his desk.
For some reason, this blatant symbol of our divide is the last straw.
Explosion detonated.
A spell component is in my hand. I don’t remember pulling it out. But I’m holding what I need and I chant the spell between my teeth, chant it and chant it, intensity building, anger surging to the tips of my hair. I feel them lift as the arcane power swells, magic that I draw from the component.
The spell needs a chip of iron from a lock, and I’ve got a whole gods-damned padlock in my palm. Chalk to draw sigils, but I can’t dredge up the fortitude to scribble out anything right now.
I don’t understand Orok’s adherence to religion for many reasons, but especially in moments like this. How does he cast spells, then think he needs a god to give him strength?
The spell sucks like a vacuum, magic funneling through the component, into me, andout.
I fling one hand toward Elethior’s workstation as the spell releases.
His protection ward shatters.
It doesn’t just fall; it’sdecimated,the air alive with electrical currents so charged they could power the building.
I stand there, gasping, head pounding in the aftershocks. Prickles race up and down my arms and braid with my spine, making me shiver in the letdown.
But I look at my palm. The one that’d held the lock.
There’s a gray stain on my skin where the lock had been.
The spell to break a ward only needs a sliver of iron. But I let my rage get away from me, let my focus slip and liquefy, and the magic ate up the entire lock. Nearly a pound of iron. And I didn’t use any sigils, no way to focus the magic, to make sure it didn’t flare or rebound.
My hands go up into my hair, probably streaking it with the iron stain, but I don’t care.
I can’t lose control like this. Ican’tfuck up, not anymore.
But this is why I’m here, isn’t it? This is my research project. To develop a safeguard so stuff like this doesn’t happen. So stuffworsethan this doesn’t happen.
A plan. I had a plan. What was it?
I’ll find Elethior tomorrow. We’ll get to work. The committee won’t have any reason to take this opportunity away from me.
See? That’s solid. That’ssafe.
I lower my trembling hands, sweat sheeting my face, eyes tearing, burning.
At least Elethior’ll know I’m capable of breaking his wards now.
Semester’s off to a bangin’ start, lemme tell ya.
Chapter Five
The cocktail party’s on campus, in an old building where a wall of windows faces a brick walkway, the protruding bays showing iron crossbars and engraved marble borders. People mill within, warped by the aged glass.
Elethior didn’t come to the lab this morning. Or afternoon. And by the time I had to leave to get here, he still hadn’t shown, and it didn’t matter anyway; we wouldn’t have had enough time to pull anything together.
I’ve got to go into this party, paste a smile on my face, own my mistakes, and hope the committee gives me a second chance.
