I sat across from Aria at one of the smaller tables near the eastern wall, staring at the plate I’d selected. Roasted vegetables in some kind of glaze. Grain that might’ve been rice. A cut of meat that looked suspiciously like chicken, though I doubted anything here came from Earth.

  Safe. Normal. The kind of meal I might’ve ordered at a pub back in London.

  Aria’s plate, meanwhile, was still moving.

  Something long and segmented twisted across her dish, its translucent body revealing organs that pulsed with bioluminescence. She stabbed it with her fork, and the thing curled around the tines before she bit down with obvious relish.

  “You’re so boring,” she said around the mouthful, tail swaying behind her chair. “Look at all this.” She gestured broadly at the serving stations lining the western wall. “Half this stuff you’ll never get to eat again once we graduate. Not unless you’ve got serious power or currency.”

  I cut into the meat. “This is fine.”

  “‘Fine.’” She rolled her eyes. “We’re in Hell’s most prestigious academy, and you pick something that looks like it came from a mortal tavern.”

  “Maybe I like mortal tavern food.”

  “You were mortal like two years ago. Aren’t you even curious?” She speared another piece of the writhing thing. “This is Abyssal eel. They only spawn once every fifty years in the deepest parts of the Fourth Circle. The chef probably paid a fortune for it.”

  I took a bite of the vegetables. The glaze had a sweet, almost caramelized quality that my tongue registered as delicious in a way that made my stomach twist. Too rich. Too satisfying in a manner I couldn’t quite place.

  Aria’s face twisted in obvious pleasure as she chewed, her eyes half-closing. “Oh, that’s amazing. Lily, seriously, you’re missing out.”

  “I’m happy with what I got.”

  She opened her mouth to respond, but her expression shifted. Soured like she’d tasted something rotten.

  I didn’t need to turn around to know who’d arrived.

  “Well, well.” Valentina’s voice carried across the cafeteria, sharp and cold. “If it isn’t the mouthy commoner and her pet.”

  I set my fork down and looked up.

  Valentina stood at the end of our table, flanked by three other students I vaguely recognized from Seduction Theory. Her platinum hair caught the crimson light from the windows, and her wings were folded tight against her back in a way that suggested restraint rather than relaxation.

  “Valentina,” I said evenly. “Can we help you?”

  “Help me?” Her crimson eyes fixed on mine. “You think after this morning’s little performance, I’m just going to let it go? You humiliated me in front of the entire corridor.”

  “You humiliated yourself,” I replied. “You demanded I follow you. I declined. That’s not humiliation—that’s a ‘no.’”

  “You—” She stopped, jaw tightening. Her tail lashed once behind her, spade tip cutting through empty air. When she spoke again, her voice had dropped to something more controlled. Colder. “I’m going to show you what a mistake you made. By the time I’m done, you’ll understand exactly what happens to commoners who forget their place.”

  “The Headmistress was quite clear about fights on Academy grounds.”

  “Oh, I’m not here to fight.” Valentina’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m here to make acquaintances. Isn’t that right?” She glanced back at her entourage.

  “Of course, Valentina.”

  “You’re so gracious to even speak with them.”

  “Such kindness to lower yourself like this.”

  The voices overlapped in practiced synchronization.

  Valentina’s gaze shifted to Aria, and her expression sharpened. “Though I do wonder why you’d bother associating with… this.” She gestured vaguely in Aria’s direction. “Surely even a commoner has standards.”

  Aria’s knuckles went white around her fork.

  “However,” Valentina continued, turning back to me, “I’m feeling generous. I’ll give you one more chance to correct your mistake. Leave this common filth and come with me. We’ll have a conversation about proper behaviour in civilized company.” She tilted her head slightly. “Think carefully. I rarely offer second chances.”

  The cafeteria had gone quiet. I could feel eyes on us from every direction.

  Aria leaned closer, her voice barely audible. “Don’t antagonize her anymore. Just… just do what she says. It’ll be easier for us in the long run.”

  “What was that?” Valentina’s voice cut across the space between us. “What are you whispering about, pet? Sharing secrets?” Her smile turned cruel. “Or perhaps reminding your betters that you’re not even worth the air you breathe?”

  Something cold settled in my chest.

  “If you’re just here to insult my friend,” I said, “then go back to your table.”

  Valentina’s expression froze.

  Then she moved.

  Her hand shot out, grabbing Aria’s drink—one of those crystalline glasses filled with something that shimmered purple and gold. “Friend? This thing?” She lifted the glass, angling it toward Aria’s head. “Let me show you what your ‘friend’ is actually—”

  My hand closed around her wrist.

  I didn’t think about it. Didn’t plan it. One second Valentina was moving, and the next I’d caught her mid-motion, fingers locked around bone and tendon with enough force to stop her completely.

  How dare she?

  The thought burned white-hot through my mind. I’d dealt with people like this as Liam. Entitled brats who thought their family name meant they could do whatever they wanted. Office politics writ large and cruel.

  Valentina tried to pull free. Her arm twisted, muscles straining.

  My grip didn’t budge.

  Her eyes widened slightly. “Let. Go.”

  I released her.

  She stumbled backward, overcorrected, and the drink splashed across her chest in a cascade of purple-gold liquid that immediately began staining her pristine white blouse.

  Valentina looked down at herself. Back up at me.

  Her face flushed deep red—anger and something else I couldn’t identify. “You—both of you are going to pay for this. You’ll see. You’ll fucking see what happens when you—”

  She spun on her heel and stormed toward the exit, movements jerky and uncoordinated. “Come on!” she snapped at her entourage, who scrambled to follow.

  The cafeteria remained silent for another three seconds.

  Then conversation resumed in a rush of whispers and poorly concealed laughter.

  I sat back down.

  Why did I do that?

  The question echoed in my skull as I stared at my plate. Why defend Aria? We’d known each other for two days. She was a demon—a creature who thought tormenting humans was entertainment.

  Did I actually think of her as a friend?

  Maybe it was Stockholm syndrome. Some psychological defence mechanism my brain had erected to cope with being trapped in Hell among monsters.

  Yet when I looked across the table at Aria—at her wide purple eyes and the shock still written across her face—I couldn’t bring myself to hate her.

  The bubbly succubus who filled silence with chatter and dragged me to clubs and had been genuinely excited about helping me through my first feeding.

  “She’s obsessed with you,” Aria said finally.

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “So you say.” Aria’s tail swished nervously. “But purebloods like Valentina don’t stop until they get what they want. And she clearly views me as an obstacle.” She sighed, picking up her fork and poking at the remains of her eel. “It’s already too late anyway.”

  “Too late for what?”

  “To avoid making an enemy.” She looked up at me, and something softened in her expression. “But… thank you. That was amazing.”

  “For what?”

  “Not many commoners would stand up to a pureblood. Even one from a half-fallen house like Morgenstern.” She grinned suddenly. “Did you see her face when she couldn’t pull free? I thought she was going to explode.”

  I picked up my fork again, though my appetite had completely vanished.

  The glaze on my vegetables caught the light, and I noticed for the first time how it glistened.

  I set the fork back down.

  * * *

  I pushed my plate away, the half-finished meal suddenly unbearable to look at. Better not to think about what the glaze actually was. Or wasn’t. I didn’t know anymore.

  “We should probably head to Magic Theory,” I said.

  Aria nodded, gathering her things. “Yeah, don’t want to be—”

  “That was quite the show.”

  The voice came from behind me. I turned.

  The white-haired student from Mathematics stood there, close enough that I had to tilt my head slightly to meet her eyes. Ice-blue, analytical. The kind of gaze that catalogued details and filed them for later use.

  Up close, my earlier assessment solidified into certainty. Pureblood. Everything about her screamed it—the perfect posture, the tailored uniform that actually fit properly, the way she occupied space like she owned it.

  “Is that a problem?” I asked.

  She laughed, a short, genuine sound. “Not at all. I’m impressed, actually. Not many commoners have what it takes to stand up to a pureblood.” A slight pause. “Even one from a declining house like Morgenstern.”

  She pulled out a chair and sat without asking. Aria’s tail twitched nervously beside me.

  “Isabella Lilitu,” she said. “And please, don’t bother with formal language. I hate it.”

  Lilitu. Even without actively searching, I’d stumbled across references to that house in the palace library. One of the most powerful families in the First Circle. And she’d just sat down at our table like we were equals.

  “Lily,” I said. Then, because the silence stretched: “Lily Nightstar.”

  “Ariasielle Nova,” Aria added, her usual enthusiasm dampened to something more cautious. “But everyone calls me Aria.”

  Isabella’s gaze settled on me with uncomfortable intensity. “Though I have to ask—is that your natural hair colour? White is quite unusual for…” She gestured vaguely. “Well. For commoners.”

  My stomach dropped.

  What happens if they find out? The question burned through my mind. Not that I cared about the deception—fuck, half my existence here was lies stacked on lies—but Lilith had specifically wanted this disguise maintained. If it fell apart because I couldn’t even keep my hair colour story straight—

  “What do you mean?” I kept my voice level.

  Isabella leaned forward slightly. “You’re not perhaps trying to pose as a pureblood, are you?” Her tone remained conversational, almost friendly. “It would be a serious crime if you were.”

  Would it? I didn’t actually know. The reading I’d done focused on magical theory and planar mechanics, not Hell’s legal codes regarding identity fraud.

  “I never tried to pose as anything,” I said. “This is my natural colour.”

  She studied me for another three seconds. Four. Five.

  Then her expression softened. “Relax. I was joking.” A slight smile. “Besides, white hair isn’t that uncommon among commoners. Rare, but it happens.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The tension in my shoulders eased fractionally.

  “Ooh, but Lily could always be some secret heir of a noble house,” Aria chimed in, apparently recovered from her earlier nervousness. “Or maybe even a Lilim. You know, daughter of Queen Lilith herself.”

  I nearly choked.

  Isabella actually smiled at that, entertaining the absurdity. “It’s possible, I suppose. Shame the Queen’s youngest daughter was born forty-eight years ago. Bit of a timing issue.” She tilted her head. “As for secret heirs—well, they exist. But I doubt any would escape my family’s intelligence network.”

  “Right.” I coughed. “So what does another pureblood want from us?”

  The deflection was clumsy, but Isabella either didn’t notice or chose not to comment.

  “Nothing sinister,” she said. “I thought getting acquainted with people like you could be beneficial. For all of us.”

  There it was. Politics.

  Of course a Lilitu wouldn’t approach random commoners out of altruism. This was Hell. Everything was transaction and leverage.

  “I prefer people who can voice their own opinions,” Isabella continued, “as opposed to Valentina, who surrounds herself with sycophants that can only nod and praise her.” She paused. “Besides, befriending me could be useful for you as well. Lilitu carries significantly more weight than Morgenstern. Even if Valentina wanted to cause trouble after graduation, there would be limits to what she could do.”

  Protection. She was offering protection in exchange for… what? Loyalty? Information? Future favours when we all graduated and took positions in Hell’s hierarchy?

  I glanced at Aria. She’d gone very still, tail motionless.

  This felt like a test. Though whether I was supposed to pass or fail, I couldn’t tell.

  Not that I particularly cared either way. This body had more power than the entire Lilitu household combined—I just couldn’t access it while maintaining my cover. And I wouldn’t be staying in this form anyway. Eventually I’d find a way back.

  Eventually.

  “We appreciate the offer,” I said carefully. “But we’ll need time to think about it.”

  Isabella’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but something shifted in her expression. Approval, maybe. Or satisfaction that we hadn’t immediately latched onto her offer like desperate supplicants.

  “Of course,” she said, standing. “You have four years to decide. Though I should mention—that also means I have four years to change my mind.” She nodded to each of us. “It was a pleasure meeting you both.”

  She walked away, movements controlled and economical.

  I waited until she’d cleared earshot before turning to Aria. “What do you think about her?”

  “I don’t know, honestly.” Aria’s tail had stopped moving. “Lilitu’s reputation is much better than Morgenstern’s. But she could be speaking the truth or looking for pawns.” She shrugged. “Probably both?”

  “Probably,” I agreed, filing the encounter away to analyse later. Right now we needed to focus on surviving our first magic theory class.

  * * *

  The Lecture Hall was already half-filled when we arrived, tiered benches curving upward toward the back wall. Basalt construction absorbed the volcanic light filtering through high windows, making the space feel darker than it was.

  Valentina sat three rows down with her entourage, spine rigid. When she noticed us, her expression could’ve curdled milk.

  We climbed the steps toward the upper tiers.

  “Think she’ll try anything?” Aria asked.

  “Too many witnesses.” I gestured at the scattered students filling seats. “She’s not stupid enough to start something in front of a professor.”

  “Fair point.”

  We claimed spots in the fifth row—close enough to hear clearly, far enough to avoid the front-row sycophants. I reached into my spatial ring and pulled out parchment, quill, and ink reservoir. The movements came automatically now, fingers finding the items without conscious thought.

  Magic Theory. Introduction to Magic Theory, specifically.

  This was the class I’d actually been waiting for.

  If anything in this godforsaken academy could help me return to my body—my real body—it would be understanding how magic worked at a fundamental level. Planar mechanics, dimensional barriers, whatever governed the rules that let consciousness transfer between worlds.

  Assuming magic followed rules at all.

  Aria set her own supplies on the bench. “Did you learn any magic before coming here?”

  “No.” How could I? Two weeks ago I didn’t even know it existed. “You?”

  “Nope.” She shrugged. “Mother said mathematics was more important for first-years. Magic could wait until I had the Academy’s resources.” Her tail flicked. “Hopefully this won’t be as boring as Vox’s class, but everyone says math is necessary for spellcasting, so…” She trailed off with a grimace.

  “We’ll see.”

  More students filtered in. The hall filled to maybe sixty percent capacity—far from packed, but enough to create a low murmur of conversation.

  Then the side door opened.

  Professor Morrigan entered with the kind of presence that didn’t require announcement. Black hair fell past her shoulders. Yellow eyes swept across the tiered seating, cataloguing faces.

  Conversations died.

  She reached the central podium and set down a leather-bound tome, then turned to face us fully.

  “Good afternoon.” Her voice carried without strain, the hall’s acoustics amplifying it naturally. “I am Professor Morrigan Tenebris. This is Introduction to Magic Theory.” A pause. “Some of you may have already discovered you can cast spells through pure instinct. Glamour. Charm. Perhaps a few others if you’ve been experimenting.”

  Several students nodded.

  “That ends now.”

  The words hung in the air like a threat.

  “This is not a third-rate institution where you’ll be permitted to flail about with raw talent, hoping instinct carries you through.” Morrigan’s gaze moved across the rows. “Instinct has a ceiling. A low one. Any moderately skilled opponent will dismantle you the moment you encounter magic that doesn’t bow to your demonic nature.”

  She let that sink in.

  “Learning to wield magic properly—with precision, with understanding, with deliberate intent—has no upper ceiling.” Her expression didn’t change, but something in her tone sharpened. “You will learn the theory. You will learn the structure. And you will learn why your spells work before you learn to improve them.”

  My quill was already moving, taking notes.

  Finally. Something worth paying attention to.

  Morrigan’s fingers traced the air, and golden light followed the movement—geometric patterns appearing suspended above the podium. Circles within circles, angles intersecting at precise points.

  “Let us establish what magecraft actually is.” She didn’t look at the diagram, attention fixed on us. “I prefer that term, incidentally, to the colloquial ‘magic.’ Magic implies whimsy. Chaos. Magecraft follows logic as rigorous as any mathematical proof.”

  The diagram rotated, each component moving independently.

  “Magecraft is the act of overwriting reality itself.” She paused, letting the words settle. “You impose your truth upon the universe and compel acceptance of that truth. When you cast a spell, you are not manipulating what exists—you are declaring what should exist.”

  She raised her palm. A fireball materialized above it, flames curling inward.

  “This fire exists not because I heated the air to combustion temperature, but because I insisted to the universe that fire should occupy this space.” The flames danced, casting orange light across her features. “The distinction matters.”

  A student three rows down raised her hand. Dark-haired, average horns—commoner. “How is that different from just… making fire the normal way?”

  “Excellent question.” Morrigan extinguished the flame with a gesture. “I could indeed transmute the existing air molecules, accelerate their motion until combustion occurs. It would consume less mana—the change to reality would be smaller, merely rearranging what already exists.” She drew a new diagram, this one showing branching paths. “However. Fire created through transmutation follows thermodynamic principles. It spreads, dissipates, requires fuel. Without a secondary control spell, I have created a phenomenon I no longer command.”

  The diagram shifted, one path highlighted in crimson.

  “Fire created through reality enforcement obeys only me. It burns where I will it, extinguishes when I will it, exists in defiance of physics because I have declared physics irrelevant to this particular truth.”

  I copied the diagram into my notes. The distinction was… significant. Fundamental, even.

  “Speaking of mana.” Morrigan dismissed the golden construct. “Can anyone define it?”

  Several hands rose.

  She pointed at a blonde student in the second row. Pureblood, based on the larger horns.

  “It’s the energy source for spells. Fuel for magecraft.”

  “Partially correct.” Morrigan turned to the blackboard behind her, chalk rising from the tray to write on its own. Words appeared in precise script. “Mana is the energy of possibility. It is the substrate of existence itself, permeating all reality. There are no regions devoid of mana, because without mana there would be no existence to measure.”

  The chalk drew what looked like a map—layers upon layers of interconnected space.

  “At the universe’s beginning, this ambient mana was accessible. Fewer wills had marked it, fewer voices had imprinted their truths upon it. A sufficiently determined consciousness could simply reach out and impose their reality directly.” She tapped the board. “That age ended millennia ago. Ambient mana is now tainted—saturated with conflicting intentions, contradictory truths, the psychic residue of countless beings enforcing their realities simultaneously.”

  “Then why can’t we just filter it?” A different student, higher up. “If we know it’s dangerous, why not purify it?”

  “Your body already performs that function.” Morrigan set the chalk down, facing us again. “What you call Vital Essence—your life force—is ambient mana filtered through the lens of your existence. Your physical form processes raw possibility into something aligned solely with you. The excess converts into usable mana that carries only your imprint.”

  Aria leaned closer. “So we’re just… constantly making mana?”

  “Every living being does.” Morrigan drew another diagram, this one depicting a humanoid figure with energy flowing through it. “In untrained mortals, this excess evaporates back into the ambient field, feeding the cosmic cycle. They produce it, but cannot retain it for intentional use.”

  She added wings and horns to the figure.

  “Succubi possess a biological advantage. Your bodies naturally retain mana rather than releasing it. You can accumulate reserves, store them, deploy them at will. Furthermore…” The chalk added a second figure linked to the first. “When you feed on another’s Vital Essence, you absorb their filtered mana as well. This supplements your natural production, allowing temporary capacity beyond your baseline.”

  A pureblood student in the front row sighed audibly. “This is review material. We learned this years ago.”

  Morrigan’s yellow eyes fixed on her. “Then treat it as review. You are also free to leave if you feel confident in your knowledge.”

  The student’s tail went rigid.

  Silence.

  “As I was saying.” Morrigan turned back to the board. “Succubi are, in technical terms, what mortals classify as beings for whom magecraft is instinctive rather than learned. You already operate at what mortal practitioners call the Nebula stage of cultivation—your mana diffuses throughout your entire physiology rather than requiring manual circulation through constructed channels.”

  The chalk sketched a starburst pattern, then a cloud-like diffusion.

  “Many of you will require decades, if not centuries, to advance beyond that baseline state. For now, we will focus on practical application rather than theoretical progression through stages most of you will never reach.”

  My quill scratched across parchment, copying the diagrams as quickly as I could manage.

  If mana was filtered possibility… if reality itself could be overwritten…

  “Now then.” Morrigan’s chalk rose again. “Let us discuss the three disciplines of magecraft—the philosophical frameworks through which you will learn to impose your truth upon existence.”

  * * *

  Three words appeared on the board in sharp, angular script.

  Arcane. Divine. Occult.

  “The three disciplines of magecraft represent fundamentally different approaches to reality manipulation.” Morrigan gestured at each in turn. “Arcane magic imposes will directly. Divine magic operates through conviction—either internal certainty or external worship. Occult magic borrows authority from entities greater than oneself.”

  She turned back to face us.

  “As succubi, your primary discipline will be Arcane. This is not merely tradition—it is biological compatibility. Your natural mana retention and generation align perfectly with the demands of wilful reality enforcement.”

  A pureblood near the front shifted in her seat. “What about the other disciplines?”

  “Divine magic exists for demons, yes.” Morrigan’s tail flicked once. “Those aligned with Pride occasionally develop sufficient internal conviction to manifest it. Some Circle Lords accumulate enough worship from lesser demons or mortal cults to channel belief into tangible power. For the rest of you…” She shrugged. “Statistically irrelevant. You would need either unshakable faith in your own divinity or a devoted following numbering in the thousands.”

  Made sense. Hard to believe yourself a god when you’re sitting in a lecture hall taking notes.

  “As for Occult magic.” Morrigan’s expression suggested faint amusement. “You are far more likely to be summoned than to do the summoning. Mortal practitioners contact you to borrow your power and authority. The reverse…” She waved dismissively. “Spirits and natural forces rarely negotiate with demons. Our nature repels them, and when they do agree to bargain, the cost typically exceeds the benefit.”

  Aria whispered, “So we’re the monsters other people summon.”

  “Precisely.” Morrigan must have heard her. “You will learn pact-making and contract law in your Occultism course—how to negotiate when mortals call upon you, how to structure deals that benefit you long-term. But actual Occult casting? Largely irrelevant to your practical skillset.”

  The chalk moved again, sketching a figure with radiating lines.

  “Which brings us to Arcane magic—the discipline of pure will.” She tapped the board. “This is where you will focus your efforts. Arcane casting requires three elements: sufficient mana reserves, clarity of intent, and the structural framework to safely channel power without destroying yourself in the process.”

  I leaned forward.

  “Your bodies already provide the first element. You generate and store mana naturally. The second—clarity of intent—separates competent mages from corpses. If your will wavers, if doubt creeps in, if you cannot maintain absolute certainty in the reality you’re enforcing…” She snapped her fingers. The sound cracked through the hall like breaking bone. “Backlash. The spell collapses inward, and the energy has to go somewhere.”

  Several students had gone very still.

  “The third element is what this course exists to teach you.”

  * * *

  “The structural framework.” Morrigan’s hand moved, and geometric shapes materialized in the air beside her—circles within circles, glowing lines connecting points in complex arrays. “The method by which you safely channel intent and mana into a coherent effect. There are four primary approaches.”

  The symbols rotated slowly, casting shifting light across the tiered seats.

  “First: Visual casting. Magic circles.” She gestured at the hovering geometry. “You project mana outward to construct visible arrays. The circle acts as a stabilizing architecture—the more complex your desired effect, the more intricate the geometric requirements. The advantage is power and precision. The disadvantage…” She flicked her fingers. The arrays blazed bright enough to hurt. “Extremely conspicuous. Your enemies know exactly what you’re preparing.”

  The light faded.

  “Second: Somatic casting. Hand signs, gestures, body positioning.” Morrigan’s fingers moved through a rapid sequence—too fast for me to track individual shapes. A pulse of force rippled outward from her position, ruffling papers across the front rows. “You circulate mana through internal pathways, effectively constructing the array within your own physiology. Silent execution. Useful for stealth. Limited by the fact that it requires freedom of movement and generally produces weaker effects than external projection.”

  She lowered her hands.

  “Third: Verbal casting. The World Song.” Her voice shifted—the words became something else entirely, syllables that resonated in my chest cavity like struck bells. The air between her and the board shimmered, then crystallized into geometric frost that held its shape without support. “Sound as structure. Highly effective for encoding complex parameters. The barrier to entry is lower than the other methods—which is why we begin here.”

  The frost shattered, dissolving into nothing.

  “And fourth.” Morrigan paused. “Cognitive projection. Thought casting.”

  She didn’t demonstrate.

  The silence stretched until someone near the middle tier raised her hand. “Will we learn that one?”

  “No.”

  The flat certainty in Morrigan’s voice killed any follow-up questions.

  “In four years of instruction, you will never attempt cognitive projection in this institution. Not in controlled conditions, not with supervision, not under any circumstances.” Her tail had gone still. “That method is reserved for moments of absolute necessity—when you have no other option and death is already guaranteed. The margin for error is nonexistent. A single intrusive thought, one instant of uncertainty, and the spell doesn’t simply fail. It rewrites reality based on whatever random neural firing happened to cross your mind at the critical moment.”

  She let that sink in.

  “Mages who survive cognitive casting gone wrong are rare. Mages who survive it unchanged are rarer still. You will master the first three methods to ensure you never need the fourth.”

  Made sense. Mental discipline was hard enough without betting your existence on maintaining perfect focus under pressure.

  “Most practical casting combines visual, somatic, and verbal elements—we call this composite casting. A circle inscribed with verbal parameters. Gestures that trace incantations in space rather than speaking them aloud. Methods merge and reinforce each other.” Morrigan’s chalk returned to the board, listing titles. “Before our next session, I expect you to have read Fundamentals of Arcane Architecture by Therion and The Resonance Principle: An Introduction to Verbal Frameworks. Both are available in the library.”

  She set the chalk down.

  “Dismissed.”

  The hall erupted into motion—shuffling papers, scraping chairs, wings stretching after an hour of stillness. I pulled my notes toward me and triggered the spatial ring, watching the leather journal vanish into the dimensional pocket.

  Aria groaned as we stood. “How was that somehow boring and interesting at the same time?”

  “Everything that involves thinking is boring to you.”

  “Facts.” She grinned, shouldering her bag. “You get me.”

  “That wasn’t a compliment.”

  “Still true though.”

  We joined the flow of students moving toward the exits. Valentina’s group had already left—probably to plot whatever revenge looked like when you’d been publicly humiliated twice in one day.