Chapter 68: Lessons Written in Power
{IRIS}
"Could it be that..." Her voice dropped. "You healed me?"
"Huh?"
"You touched me earlier," she said. "I remember feeling warm—refreshed. Then the pain was gone. I thought I was just dazed, but... was that your arcane? Can you heal other like Doctor Vivienne?"
I looked down at my hands as though seeing them for the first time. I could heal myself faster than most, but that was instinctive, almost animal. I’d never even considered—
"I... I don’t know," I said honestly.
"It’s the only explanation I can think of," Caroline murmured. "But arcane shouldn’t work here. Even the staff can barely use theirs inside the academy. Students aren’t supposed to be able to use arcane at all."
"R-right..."
Silence fell between us as we walked. My mind raced, grasping answers. But none of them fit what had just happened.
"Then what was it?" Caroline asked quietly, more to herself than to me.
"Does it matter?" I said at last. "Isn’t it good that you’re healed? That you won’t suffer? It must be the many wonders of this school that we don’t know."
She glanced at me, then nodded slowly. "You’re probably right. There’s no use thinking about it now."
She grimaced, tugging at her soaked skirt. "Besides, this wet dress is killing me."
I managed a weak smile, but unease coiled in my chest as we reached the dormitory doors.
By the time we finished changing out of our formal uniforms and returned to the academy grounds, the afternoon sun had already begun its slow descent, casting long shadows across the stone corridors.
The warmth of the day lingered stubbornly in the air, clinging to skin and fabric alike, but it did nothing to soothe the knot coiling in my chest.
Afternoon classes were reserved for practical lessons—hands-on instruction meant to test not theory, but control. Discipline. Mastery.
Arcane control.
Yesterday, I hadn’t minded it. Feeling one’s arcane—learning how to sense its presence beneath the skin, how to recognize its pulse and temperament—had been a quiet, introspective lesson.
Though, I still couldn’t feel it.
Today, however, was different.
Today meant demonstration.
Today meant standing in the training dome and proving—before professors, before peers, before rivals—that you were not weak.
The realization settled heavily as we approached the structure looming at the heart of the academy grounds.
The training dome was massive, its arched ceiling crafted from reinforced crystalstone veined with runes that shimmered faintly even in daylight.
Designed specifically for arcane practice, it allowed magic to be unleashed freely without fear of structural collapse—or accidental death, as the instructors liked to remind us with grim humor.
Worst of all, all first-year students were congregated there this afternoon.
All of them.
Which meant only one thing.
Morgana was here.
The air inside the dome buzzed with energy even before any arcane had been released.
Students clustered together in loose groups, whispers weaving through the space like invisible threads. Some looked eager, shoulders squared and chins lifted in confidence.
Others fidgeted, eyes darting toward the instructors’ platform as though hoping to be forgotten.
I stood somewhere between.
The stone beneath my boots was cool, etched with ancient sigils meant to absorb excess arcane overflow. The walls curved upward, disappearing into shadow near the ceiling where faintly glowing orbs hovered, providing light without direct sunlight.
It felt less like a classroom and more like a proving ground.
"Alright. Listen up."
Professor Maelis Thornwick’s voice cut cleanly through the murmurs, sharp and commanding without the need for amplification. The room quieted almost instantly.
Thornwick stood at the center dais, tall and severe, his dark academic robes trimmed with silver thread that glinted subtly as he moved. His hair, streaked with iron-gray, was tied back neatly, and his sharp eyes swept over us with scrutiny—missing nothing, forgiving little.
"You’ve all spent the morning pretending that understanding arcane theory is the same as mastering it," he continued coolly. "This afternoon, we correct that misconception."
A few nervous chuckles rippled through the students.
Thornwick did not smile.
"Arcane is not a trick you perform," he said. "It is not a tool you simply wield. It is an extension of will, intent, and emotional restraint. Those of you who treat it like a toy will discover very quickly how unforgiving it can be."
He lifted one gloved hand, palm open.
"Arcane exists within you as potential," he explained. "Raw, volatile, and deeply personal. It responds not only to discipline, but to fear, anger, arrogance, and desire. The stronger your emotions, the more unstable your control becomes—unless you are trained to anchor it."
With a slow motion, Thornwick closed his fingers into a fist.
A ripple of energy burst outward, visible as a distortion in the air. The sigils etched into the floor flared briefly, absorbing the force.
"This," he said calmly, "is control."
He released his hand, and the pressure vanished as though it had never existed.
"Today’s practical will focus on three things: manifestation, restraint, and recovery."
He gestured to the wide open space before him.
"You will each be called forward. You will manifest your arcane in its most basic form—nothing elaborate. No theatrics. Power without discipline is worthless here."
My fingers curled at my sides, nails biting into my palms as my heart hammered violently against my ribs. Each beat thundered louder than the last, drowning out the world around me.
I reached inward—instinctively, desperately—but there was nothing.
No pulse.
No warmth.
No familiar pressure beneath the skin.
I couldn’t feel my arcane—much less summon it. I didn’t even know how to unleash something I couldn’t sense at all. It was as if that part of me had gone numb, sealed behind an invisible wall. The harder I tried to reach for it, the more distant it became.
Panic crept in, cold and suffocating.
Maybe I could speak to the professor. Explain. Ask for time—anything. The thought formed shakily, fragile as glass.
I lifted my gaze toward Professor Thornwick.
Mid-sentence, he glanced my way.
I looked away immediately.
His presence alone was intimidating—unyielding, sharp, and utterly unforgiving. The fear that he might call me out, raise his voice, expose me in front of everyone, sent a fresh wave of dread through my chest.
I stayed silent, swallowing hard, hoping—irrationally—that if I didn’t move, didn’t breathe too loudly, I might disappear.
