The Great Hall was a cathedral of soaring hammerbeam ceilings and stained glass that fractured the midday sun into muted shards of sapphire, gold, ruby, and emerald. Beneath the weight of two dozen floating candelabra, the student body sat in a state of self-segregation that Gwen usually found comforting. Today, however, she was forced to cross the invisible border.
She moved away from the Circle-dominated table—a sea of starched collars and family signets—and navigated the aisle toward the far West wall. This was the Vapor-only territory, where the air felt less like crisply ironed fabrics and expensive sandalwood and more like the dampness of mildew and department store body wash.
Gwen felt the eyes of her peers like needles in her back. Her charcoal blazer was buttoned tight, her silver hair pulled into a knot so precise it looked sculpted. Every step into this section of the hall felt like gum on her sole. Rumours would follow her wherever she stepped next.
“Don’t look now, but the O’Dorchaidhe Princess is coming for you, Will,” an unmistakably Scot-accented voice called out, low and rough.
Gwen stopped at the end of the table. Cal Whitley sat there in a pilled wool sweater that had seen better decades. He didn’t look cowed by her presence; he looked weary, the way a person looks at a storm they know they can’t avoid.
“Cal, take it easy,” Will muttered. He sat between Cal and Bryn, and a few Newbloods she recognized as second and third years. They were hunched over a Fen-Ball playbook and a regulations guide, likely in the middle of explaining the game to Holloway. Will had a notebook open with scratched notes, his tortoiseshell glasses sliding down his nose. He looked up at Gwen, and for a second, that sheepish smile of his threatened to soften her expression.
She crushed the feeling instantly. Isolde’s voice echoed in her head: Ensuring the Circle’s legacy comes before charity.
“Holloway,” Gwen said, her voice a cool, clinical chime. “We’re moving today’s session to the library. Charms Section. Your serious lack of foundational knowledge needs to be fixed.”
“We were just finishing up, Gwen,” Bryn said softly. She looked at Gwen with wide, earnest eyes, clutching a notebook that was already half-full of scribbled observations. “Will was telling us about the Sol-Fortan Bind—that amazing spell you did in class? It’s fascinating. I was thinking… Would you mind if Cal and I sat in on a session? Just to observe? We’d be quiet.”
Gwen felt a cold spike of horror. She could see the eavesdroppers at the neighbouring tables—non-Inks with glowing screens and desperate expressions—all leaning in. If she said yes, the narrative would shift in an hour. Gwenhwyfar O’Dorchaidhe: Charity Worker. Free tutor to the rootless. She could already see the line of needy students forming outside her dorm, expecting her to hand out centuries of O’Dorchaidhe secrets for nothing. Her father’s reprimanding letter would come swiftly.
“Absolutely not,” Gwen snapped. The bite in her voice was sharper than she intended, a reflex of her hardening armour.
Will flinched. “Gwen, they’re just asking for a few tips. They’re struggling with the same resonance issues I am. And Cal isn’t as good a teacher as you are.” He smirked at Cal Whitley, who rolled his eyes at the critique, but his lips pressed into a thin frown in chastened agreement.
“They can consult the general library,” Gwen said, her gaze sweeping over Bryn and the prying Vapours and Newbloods seated with them, whose expression shifted from hopeful to disappointed. “Will gets special treatment because he is the Chosen One. It’s a mandate from the Chancellor to ensure the prophecy doesn’t end because its vessel is incompetent. I am here to serve the school’s interests, not to run a remedial clinic for wild Vapors.”
She leaned down, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper that nonetheless carried. “I wouldn’t be helping Will if he were anyone else. I have no interest in wasting my time on people who won’t be here in two years.”
The table went silent. Will’s face drained of colour, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, jagged hurt. He looked at Bryn, who had withered under Gwen’s gaze, and then at Cal, whose jaw was set in a hard, resentful line.
“Right,” Will said, his voice dangerously low. He stood up, the chair scraping against the stone floor with a sound like a scream. “The ‘special treatment’ talk. I forgot. I’m just a project to you, aren’t I? A way to earn a pat on the head from that Circle-cult.”
“You are a responsibility,” Gwen corrected, her heart hammering against her ribs. Stay rigid. Stay O’Dorchaidhe. “One I am fulfilling at great cost to my own schedule.”
“Well, here’s the thing, Princess,” Will said, stepping closer until he was looming over her, the scent of him—coffee, cedar, and rain—annoyingly distracting. She didn’t even like coffee. “Whatever you teach me? I’m going to share it. Every chant, every hand position, every ‘O’Dorchaidhe secret.’ I’ll spend every night in the common room teaching Bryn, Cal, and anyone else who wants to learn.”
Gwen’s breath hitched. “You wouldn’t. That is a violation of—”
“Of what? Your ego?” Will interrupted. He looked at her with a profound, aching disappointment that stung worse than any insult. He had the look of someone speaking to a ghost, knowing the person he wanted to reach wasn’t really there. “You talk about legacy and how your uncle deserves respect for ‘defending people who don’t know he existed,’ but you won’t even let my friends sit in a corner and watch? You’re a hypocrite, Gwen. You’re just a gold-plated statue with nothing inside.”
Gwen felt the pressure of the room closing in—the watching eyes, the weight of her silver ring, the legacy she was supposed to uphold. She felt like she was being crushed between the person she was raised to be and the person Will Holloway wanted her to be.
She chose the armour.
“Respect is clearly a concept you’ve yet to grasp,” she said, her voice trembling with a cocktail of fury and mounting isolation. “Bring your notebook, Holloway. Or don’t. But if you aren’t in that library in five minutes, I’ll report your lack of cooperation to Eddow.”
She turned on her heel and strode away with deliberate, even steps, ignoring the prickles of irritation riding up her spine with each angry whisper and mocking laugh aimed at her back.
***
The Charms Section of the library felt like a clenched fist. Rows of towering, dark-stained oak shelves climbed toward a vaulted ceiling, where decades-outdated electric fixtures cast down yellowed light that couldn’t fully dispel the shadowed cavities of the alcoves within. The sparse touches of the relatively modern were lost in the overflow of leather-binding, dust, and indiscernible hum of protective charms, pages flipping, and shallow breaths.
Gwen sat at an antique gate-leg table, the green glass of the banker’s lamp casting a jaundiced glow over her face. She was meticulously outlining a diagram about the flow of ice-magic resonance and point-form examples of its many forms, but she struggled to concentrate.
The confrontation in the Great Hall had left a stone in her stomach—a heavy, cold weight she refused to name.
Across from her, Will was slumped in a leather chair that looked older than the British monarchy. He looked on edge, his gaze darting between her and the rolling ladders that vanished into the gloom.
“‘Semitam glacialem cape’ requires more energy channelled into the initial sigil,” Gwen advised, her voice tight. “A more direct spell like ‘fragmenta glaciei’ requires less energy, but more focus. You lack the latter.”
Will’s eyes snapped to hers. “Bryn has gotten really good at focus,” he said, his voice dripping with pointed intent. “I’ll be sure to tell her the difference when we practice tonight.”
Gwen’s jaw set. Every instruction was being weaponized. “If you’re going to hit a moving target, you can make the spell aim for you with ‘Sioc, faigh a chroí.’”
Will paused, his brow furrowing. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the switch from Latin to… whatever that is. Guess that’s one of those O’Dorchaidhe secrets? The kind you don’t want the ‘wild Vapours’ to hear?”
Gwen closed her eyes for a heartbeat. It wasn’t a secret—it was Gaelic, the tongue of her ancestors, sure—but to Will, everything she possessed was a hoard she was guarding. She felt a sudden, sharp impulse to bridge the distance, not out of kindness, but to stop the bleeding of her own conscience.
“I don’t care, Will,” she said suddenly, her voice dropping, her posture crumbling under the pressure.
He blinked, taken aback by the use of his first name. “You don’t care about what?”
“If you want to practice with your friends,” she said dryly. “If you want to teach them these ‘secrets’—which are mostly just basic foundations any Ink child learns by ten—then do it. You’ll get further faster if you have people to practice with.” She leaned in, her eyes dull as smudged smoke turned from the lamplight. “But under no circumstances can you imply that I am interested in teaching Vapours. You tell no one I said it was fine. Do you understand?”
Will leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking. He studied her, looking for the lie. “Why do you care so much, Gwen? Why does it matter if people think you’re being decent to someone who isn’t wearing a signet ring?”
“Because decency isn’t the metric of this world, Holloway,” she said. “Renown is. Legacy is.”
She pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward her and began to write, her pen scratching a frantic, rhythmic tempo against the wood. “You want to know why I am the way I am? You want to understand what it’s like being a Circle member?” She shoved the parchment toward him. On it, she had inscribed three Aurelian Circle laws and their interpreted meanings in a precise, elegant hand.
The Second Law: Magic is a heavy burden; only those with the strongest constitutions shall lead the rites. Those born without lineage are leaky vessels. Their magic is prone to corruption or dangerous instability.
The Third Law: We guard our magic. The secrets of the High Arts must never pass the lips of those who walk among the ungifted. If the normies learn how we spell-weave, they learn how to unweave us. Silence is our only shield against another Inquisition.
The Fourth Law: In times of persecution, a sorcerer’s first loyalty is to their own kind. Simply, a no-fraternization policy. Associating with those outside Ink lineages is a precursor to betrayal.
“These aren’t just Circle rules, Will,” Gwen whispered, the flickering lamp on the oak gate-leg table casting long shadows across the thin, lined paper between them. “These are the laws created by the founders of Cairn-Gait—the walls of the fortress that protect magic from corruption. If I start pulling out bricks just to be ‘nice’ to your friends, the structure collapses. And it collapses on me first.”
Will looked at the rules she’d meticulously outlined, then back at her. The usual fire of his defiance was there, but it was tempered by something worse: a sudden, fathomless pity.
“You’re smart, Gwen,” he said, his voice low and vibrating with a challenging frequency. “But you’re using all that brilliant brainpower to justify a cage. What if the Circle’s interpretation is wrong? What if the world has moved on in the last thousand years? Your Circle people are obsessed with holding the front door shut when the back has been wide open for decades.”
“History doesn’t change, Holloway. It just repeats, usually with more blood the second time around,” she countered. She tried to maintain her icy indifference, but her right-hand fingers were already pinched around her left pinkie, spinning her signet ring in slow, anxious circles.
“Then be the one who breaks the cycle,” Will said. He leaned forward, closing the space between them until Gwen could practically smell the black coffee and rebellion clinging to his plaid flannel. He didn’t touch her, but the raw heat radiating from him was a siren call to the untapped power she’d felt during their sparring sessions. “You told me you wanted to be better than everyone. Better than Gawain, right?”
He smiled—a small, lopsided thing that felt dangerously like an invitation to join him in the wreckage of her own world. “We both know being the best isn’t just about casting the perfect shield, Princess. Tell me I’m wrong, but I don’t think Gawain worried about what a bunch of McMansion wankstablishment highbrows thought of him. If you want people to think you’re the best, you have to be brave enough to decide which laws are worth keeping and should go to hell.”
Gwen stared at him, her heart thumping a hard, traitorous rhythm. She wanted to bite back, to remind this months-old sorcerer that he was lecturing someone whose lineage was written in the very stone of this school. But the hunter in her—the part of her that craved a challenge more than she craved safety—was listening.
She saw the logic in his chaos. If the world was going to change because of his prophecy, she didn’t want to be the relic left behind in the ruins. She wanted to be the victor standing at the centre of the new era. If that meant being flexible with tradition to ensure her own relevance… It was a tempting, dangerous thought.
But she wasn’t about to risk her standing for an impulsive decision.
“Our hour is up,” she said, her voice shaking slightly as she shoved her books into her bag. The screech of her chair against the library floor sounded like a scream in the silence. She needed to breathe; she needed distance from the way his eyes made her feel like she was the one being hunted.
She paused, looking at his lanky, uncoordinated frame. “I noticed the Fen-Ball playbook,” she said. “It’s a barbaric sport, but a good start. It requires quick thinking and even quicker casting.” She stood, her posture as rigid as a marble statue, desperate to salvage her reputation before it melted in his heat. “You need to learn some moves, Holloway. You’re a precision nightmare because you’ve wasted too much time holding back instead of learning control. Your magic is wild because you are wild.”
Gwen gathered her things, crumbling her torn page of Circle rules into a tight ball in her fist. “And keep your ‘theories’ about my ancestors to yourself. I have a legacy to protect, even if you’re hell-bent on setting it on fire.”
She hurried toward the heavy oak doors, loafers tapping a hollow beat, intent on seeming unaffected. That didn’t stop his words from replaying in her head. She couldn’t deny his annoyingly accurate conclusion. Being the best often meant changing the rules. History repeated, yes, but it could change when someone was strong enough to force a revolution. She had always thought being a dutiful daughter was the path to power. But looking at Will, she realized that being a victor in the new world might require more rebellion than she’d planned.
She wouldn’t be cast aside. If the laws were going to bend around the Chosen One, she would be the one to decide where that new path led.
***
The slate-grey sky hung low over Cairn-Gait, threatening a downpour that would turn the already sodden athletic grounds into a quagmire. Gwen stood on the North Spire balcony, wind whipping her silver-blonde hair. But she remained a perched bird of prey overlooking the field below, a sharp silhouette of royal blue and charcoal against the ancient stone.
Beside her, her companions were in full judgmental attendance. Sloan leaned over the gothic balustrade, looking like a gargoyle in an oversized vintage wool coat. Estelle was a vision of preppy perfection in a tailored indigo blazer and a knotted silk scarf. Charlotte hovered a pace behind them, a sour shadow in layered black-and-blue argyle, her brown eyes fixed on a sketchpad, preparing for her next Fashion Society meeting, rather than the mud-pit below.
“Oh, look at the returning line-up,” Sloan purred, nodding toward the field. “Julian Vane is looking particularly… sturdy today. Twenty pounds says he makes Captain again.”
“His posture is acceptable,” Estelle added, her eyes locked on Vane’s shoulders. Her pink-shimmered lips curled deviously as she raised an admiring brow.“He has such…traditional lines. It’s a shame he has to ruin the aesthetic by rolling in the dirt.”
“It’s a riot for the unrefined,” Charlotte drawled. She didn’t look up from her sketches. “I don’t know why we’re here. This sport was invented by mixed-bloods who couldn’t be bothered to learn standard duelling. Watching people sweat is grotesque, especially when half the field is populated by Vapours who look like they’ve never seen a hex. It’s pointless charity to let them try out. Having a team of losers makes Cairn-Gait look ridiculous.”
“Don’t be such a buzzkill, Charlotte,” Estelle teased, casting a side-eye at a dark-haired girl on the opposing scrimmage line. “There’s more than muddy boys to look at. There’s also muddy girls. Have you seen that third–year girl? Very… Flexible. Very you.”
Charlotte didn’t even blink. “Ogling is for those who lack a hobby. I know Gwen has free time now, but—Sloan, Estelle—we’re supposed to be headed to our Fashion Society meeting.”
“Vane is limited,” Gwen remarked, her voice cutting through their chatter like dry kindling. “He relies on drawn-out strategies because his resonance reserve is shallow. In a real duel, he’d be on his back in seconds.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing Vane on his back,” Estelle teased smugly.
Charlotte exhaled sharply, annoyed that her complaints were ignored.
Below them, the Fen-Ball field was a chaotic theatre of mud and magic. The ball—a heavy, cold-iron sphere that resisted all magic—sat dead centre, repelling the flickering arcs of magic that danced near it. The players moved in a blur of mist-damp windcheaters and muck-stained trousers, their sneakers and cleats churning the earth. It was an ancient game of keep-away that Vapours favoured, but even athletically-inclined Inks couldn’t resist.
Gwen’s gaze immediately locked onto a familiar figure in a battered grey sweatshirt. Will Holloway looked like he was vibrating. He was surrounded by Inks and Newbloods who had been trained for this since they could walk, yet there was a desperate, electric energy to him. He wasn’t looking for the Chosen One spotlight; he was looking for a way to move without breaking things.
“Is that your project?” Sloan asked, aiming a glitter-painted fingernail at Will. “The American looks like a startled deer. Though,” she paused, tilting her head, “he does have a certain… Rustic appeal when he’s blowing things up.”
“He’s a mess,” Gwen said, biting her lip.
Suddenly, the play exploded. A third-year Ink sent a rolling mound of earth toward Will to trip him. Without a second of hesitation—no elaborate movements, no anchor objects exploding—Will speed-casted a hex that froze the tremor with a crackling frost. The earth flattened under his feet as he sprinted forward, already launching his own eruption of mud at the iron. He missed the ball by an inch, but the sheer velocity of his reaction made the upperclassmen blink.
“He’s fast,” Estelle admitted, “but his form is… Nonexistent. It’s embarrassing to watch someone with that much power move like a commoner.”
“It’s offensive,” Charlotte muttered, finally glancing down.
“I thought you weren’t watching?” Gwen asked, her eyes not leaving the field.
“I’m not,” Charlotte grumbled.
“Look at Whitley,” Sloan said, her playfulness sharpening into genuine interest.
Callum Whitley was moving through the fray like a force of nature. While the first-years and second-years around him fumbled with basic elemental transformations, Cal’s manipulations were fluid, seamless things. His sinkholes swallowed opponents faster than anyone could dodge. He froze the mist to create invisible slides, gliding past opponents with a blunt, boorish efficiency that made Gwen’s skin prickle with begrudging admiration.
“He’s disgusting,” Sloan whispered with a smile.
“Look at how he tripped Julian,” Estelle said sharply, scowling at the Scot. “Any closer to the end zone and that’d be a foul.”
“He’s an Ink,” Gwen said, her voice tight with a strange mix of resentment and recognition. Cal’s proficiency at influencing physical matter was better than most their age—even without the advantages most Inks their age had. It stung that, at least in this aspect of sorcery, he might be her match. “Blacklisted or not, Whitley blood knows how to command the environment; he’s rewriting the field.”
On the sidelines, Gwen spotted a flash of bright, unfashionable yellow. Bryn Hall was jumping up and down, her coiled curls a bouncing halo as she cheered for Will and Cal. The sight of her—so unburdened, so loud—made Gwen’s stomach churn with an unwelcome, heavy envy. For a pitiful, ungracious moment, Gwen pictured herself down there in the damp stands as if she couldn’t care less what the people up here thought.
Down on the field, Cal stopped near Will during a break, clapping a muddy hand onto Will’s shoulder and gesturing toward the iron ball. He was giving him pointers. Clearly, she wasn’t the only Ink aiding his improvement.
Gwen watched Will nod, his chest heaving, his face smeared with dirt. He looked exhausted, the weight of expectations surely sitting on his lungs, yet he was smiling. He was competing. He was finally using his body as a weapon rather than a cage.
“I’ll take that bet, Sloan,” Gwen said suddenly.
Sloan blinked. “On Vane?”
“No. On Holloway.” Gwen’s thumb spun her signet ring around her pinkie, her ambition and anxiety warring. “He’ll make the team. He’s sloppy, he’s unrefined, and he has the grace of a falling chimney. But he’s faster than anyone down there.”
“Our very own Ice Princess betting on the Vapour?” Sloan laughed, a bright, melodic sound that was lost to the wind. “Careful, Gwen. People might think you’re starting to like the boy.”
“I don’t like him,” Gwen snapped, turning away from the balcony so they wouldn’t see the blotchy flush that was surely from the moor’s wind and mist. “I just refuse to mentor a failure. If he’s going to be a hero, he might as well be an athletic one. It makes me look better.”
“If he makes the team, I’m resigning from your Social Committee, Sloan,” Estelle whispered, looking horrified. “Imagine the team photos. Imagine me having to take photos of that.”
“That’s why I volunteer with the Fundraising Committee,” Charlotte said, closing her sketchbook with a final, decisive snap. “At least Catriona Sinclair isn’t afraid to be selective.”
As Gwen walked away, the image of Will—covered in mud, breathing hard, and looking for once like he belonged—stayed with her, a violet spark in the grey gloom of the afternoon.
***
Monday morning arrived at Cairn-Gait with a buzzing, infectious excitement as, at least, the first grueling month of the year had come to a close. There were fewer faces—the annual, anticipated dropouts of first-years who had either overestimated their potential or underestimated how demanding a curriculum designed to train the best sorcerers in the world would be. Gwen could count the number of Inks and Newbloods who had quietly bowed out on one hand, while she needed both to count the Vapour dropouts.
The Great Hall was no less lively after the one-month culling, no less stuffed with chatter, damp wool, and scorched toast. A restless crowd gathered around the massive oak notice board near the high-arched entrance, a snaking line-up eager to get their turn to peek at postings.
Gwen stood at the periphery, her hands tucked into the pockets of her long, midnight-blue wool coat. She looked the part of the perfect O’Dorchaidhe: her hair was pinned back with silver clips, and her leather satchel hung perfectly at her side. She told herself she was simply checking the rotating special lectures schedule, but her gaze was a traitor, drifting toward a familiar, messy head of dark hair in the centre of the throng.
Will looked like he hadn’t slept. The few buttons of the weathered flannel he’d chosen to do up were off by one hole—an amusing contrast to the perfectly knotted ties and pristinely pressed collars of the Ink students. He kept adjusting his glasses, too often to need it. Gwen could see the tension in his shoulders—the quiet fear that failing to make a sports team would be just one more piece of evidence that he wasn’t meeting the expectations of his Chosen One role.
Suddenly, a roar erupted from the front of the board.
“We’re in! Will, look! We’re both in the first lineup!”
Callum Whitley’s voice boomed over the crowd as he slammed a heavy hand onto Will’s back. Will stared at the list for a heartbeat, his face splitting into a wide, boyish grin that seemed to illuminate the shadowed hall. He laughed, a bright, relieved sound that echoed through the gothic arches, and returned the shove to Cal’s shoulder. The two cheered with an unbridled, unpolished joy that Gwen’s circles usually considered gauche, yet she found herself unable to look away.
Gwen felt a sudden, sharp flutter in her chest—a surge of pride so intense it actually startled her. She quickly averted her eyes, focusing on the polished brass inside a nearby trophy case. It’s simply because a failure on his part would reflect poorly on my instruction, she reasoned, her internal auditor working overtime to categorize the feeling. He needs this outlet to stabilize his casting. My job just became five percent easier.
Nearby, however, the atmosphere was far more poisonous.
Gwen’s eyes caught the rigid, simmering figure of Oliver Anderson standing just a few feet from the notice board. Oliver possessed the polished pedigree the school demanded, yet he’d been sorted into Cairngorm, and now he was staring at his name on the ‘Second String’ list. His expression curdled with resentment, his knuckles white as they gripped the strap of his expensive satchel. To Oliver, being relegated to the backup squad while two Vapours claimed first-string spots wasn’t just a sporting disappointment; it was a cosmic insult to his bloodline.
Gwen noted his bitterness with a flicker of disdain—if he wanted the spot, he should have cast with more conviction—but she didn’t dwell on him.
She turned to leave, intending to slip away before she was spotted, but the crowd was a shifting sea of bodies following individual currents.
“Gwen! Hey, Gwen!”
She froze. Will was cutting through the crowd like a knife, his face still flushed with excitement. He caught up to her near a gothic pillar.
“I made it,” he said, his voice breathless and proud. “Cal and I both made the first line.”
Gwen adjusted the strap of her bag, forcing her expression into one of bored, porcelain indifference. “I’m aware, Holloway. Your friend’s vocal cords are quite effective at broadcasting news to the entire castle. Congratulations. I assume you’ll use the opportunity to actually learn how to move.”
Will’s grin didn’t falter. He leaned against the stone pillar, looking down at her with those green eyes that were far too bright for seven in the morning. “Does this mean you’ll come to games? Rumour is that Aurelius box has the best view—if, uh, you’re fine being seen cheering for a Fen-Baller…?”
Gwen rolled her eyes, a sharp, dismissive motion. “Hardly. I have an essay on Futhorc runes to outline and Circle business to attend to. I don’t have time to spend my afternoons standing in the cold watching people push a rock around in the mud.”
“It’s not just a rock,” Will protested, his voice dropping into that persistent, teasing drawl. “It’s about magic under pressure. That’s your whole thing, right? So… Come to the first practice this afternoon? Imagine all the things you can see me do badly. Prime opportunity to give me pointers.”
Gwen hesitated. The thought of standing on the damp sidelines was loathsome, yet the idea of watching him—of seeing that raw power finally find a direction—tugged at her. “I suppose,” she said, her voice dripping with mock reluctance, “if I happen to find myself with a surplus of free time between my actual goals, I might observe for a few minutes. Purely for pedagogical reasons.”
Will’s eyes sparkled. “Thrilled to be a part of your ‘pedagogy,’ Princess.”
“There she is,” Cal Whitley grumbled, joining them with his worn boots squeaking on the muggy stone floor. He looked at Gwen with his usual blend of suspicion and bluntness. “Come to tell us Fen-Ball is a peasant’s game, O’Dorchaidhe? Not enough mythical mounts or silk ribbons for your taste?”
Gwen straightened her coat, her silver-blonde hair catching the morning light. “My taste runs toward sports that require more than just the ability to survive a collision, Whitley. My riding competitions require a level of synchronization that would likely make your head explode.”
She looked from Cal to Will, her gaze sharpening with the weight of her family’s legendary expectations. “However, as you both are now representing Cairn-Gait on the field, I expect you to do so with some modicum of dignity. You are to be precise, you are to be relentless, and—above all—you are to win.”
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, icy command. “If the ‘Chosen One’ loses to a team from a second-rate school like Helston or Rame University, your next tutoring session will take place in the flooded dungeons.”
Cal looked surprised, but Will just laughed—a short, real laugh that made Gwen’s stomach flip.
“Threat noted,” Will said.
Gwen nodded once, turned on her heel, and marched toward Advanced Arcanum. She didn’t look back, but as she walked, she found herself mentally rearranging her afternoon schedule to ensure she had exactly one hour of free time near the athletic fields.