The wind shifts like this:

  Like a human without illusions,

  Who still feels irrational things within her.

  See Saphienne upon a threshold, the inspired girl, seventeen years old. Her unbound hair was yet the earthen brown of spring though summer was arisen, and her eyes held the lushness of grass weighed down neath rainfall after wintertime. But for her impaired hand, hers at last was full elven grace, her lengthened stride outpacing the strained proportions of her childhood — and so I need no longer qualify her tall height, for she was the match of her tutor and mentor both, soon to surpass them.

  Not yet a woman, she was not wholly a girl, and few were those who would dare treat her as a child in her burgeoning mastery. Habitually she wove wonders that distinguished her from her peers in black, trusted now with sigils once kept in reserve, her faculty for spellcraft expanded to the fashioning of her own spells… though what she wrought was yet constrained for want of the second secret, for which she quested most diligently.

  Behold her again, bent to that pursuit, seated within the same stone chamber where last we left her: legs crossed, brow furrowed, grimoire open on her lap. No lamp glow lit her reading, conjured illumination shed narrowly over her from above, making of Saphienne an island in the dark. Day had turned to night, and the summery twilight threatened dawn as she scrutinised the challenge before her.

  Innovating, she studied two sigils of the Second Degree. Beside the enigmatic swirls of hallucinatory blue another spell had been added, Transmutation awaiting her with bold, splendorous curves of veridian. The ciphers sat on opposite pages, stitched so by Saphienne that she might regard them both with the same critical eye — seeking after true asymmetries in the disciplines she chose.

  What did she make of them?

  “…Equally confusing…”

  More than two thirds of a year had not progressed her comprehension, the structure of the magical script incomprehensible. Whereas spells of the First Degree encircled a gap into which the magician could place herself, spells of the Second Degree contained no such space, their centres dense with ink as though in exclusion of the magician. Stranger still, the grammar was reversed, with physical and verbal symbols placed innermost, ringed by the mental and emotional.

  She’d previously tried many exercises: correcting the patterns, inferring their extension, contemplating the world as their completion… all had brought her naught but frustrated headaches. Whatever the key that opened the way, for the present she was at an impasse with the mystery.

  Tired, Saphienne closed her spellbook, dismissing the conjuration that lit the chamber as she rose and departed. Above the garden the sky was deep indigo, the stars in retreat from daytime, the solstice only a few weeks hence…

  …Laelansa wouldn’t be visiting. She was headed to the Vale of Rushes, there to learn how elves and spirits were to be paired so that, next year, when she was of age, she could officiate during the solstice festival.

  While Saphienne was glad her girlfriend was advancing as a novice priest, she was saddened to be apart from her without a certain reunion. They had exchanged more letters during the past year than in any prior, still close for all they were far apart; she missed her touch, her laugh.

  Would Laewyn think that romantic? Saphienne imagined so. She barely saw Laewyn anymore — hadn’t since Faylar ended their relationship, swept off his feet by an unknown lover whom Saphienne was convinced must be another young man. Whyever else would the apprentice librarian be bashful?

  No matter. Let Faylar have privacy with his latest paramour: she wouldn’t stoop to using Divination spells to violate his – or any other – trust.

  …But she wondered how well he was sleeping, and so too Laewyn.

  Saphienne stood in solitude in the tamed garden, thinking of her friendships as she drank in the fading starlight.

  She seldom spoke to Celaena and Iolas. For a while, she’d made a renewed effort to see them, attending dinner at their home… yet despite her warm welcome, their lives were ruled by wizardry, as was her own, and no overlap was permitted, leaving their conversation stilted. Thessa assured her it wasn’t all in her head — that Iolas and Celaena had complained about the same, no one able to ford the widening river.

  On the other hand, she and Thessa were closer now that the artist and Taerelle had parted ways. To hear Thessa tell it, the young women had stopped because they were becoming contentedly domestic, which could only lead to heartache while the years between them were proportionally so large — especially since the apprentice wizard was bound for the Luminary Vale. They’d mutually agreed that, in a hundred years or so, once Taerelle had been confirmed as a diviner and undertaken advanced studies, perhaps they could see if an ember smouldered.

  Thessa still frequently visited for tea, and for yearning.

  Saphienne snorted. Laewyn would find that romantic.

  …It was romantic: all life lived against tragedy was romantic.

  Did that make her a romantic hero? Perhaps a protagonist — but wasn’t everyone the protagonist of their own story? Sundamar insisted she was his villain, and there were many in the village who resented her as though she truly were one. Maybe she was, in their tales.

  “Saphienne of the Eastern Vale: most romantic of fools.”

  She’d become more sentimental than when she was younger. Loneliness, she supposed, had gentled her in the absence of wrath–

  Saphienne caught herself being poignantly morose, shook sense into herself as she tore her gaze from the heavens and back to the ground. “Go to bed: your friends will still be there to fail in the morning… or to fail you… whichever way you look…”

  She started into the house–

  And halted, blinking, in the doorway.

  Saphienne opened her book to its back, studying in the dawning.

  “…Whichever way…”

  Reflected in her pupils, the sibling sigils curved upon her widening eyes.

  * * *

  Saphienne knocked once, then opened the single, most forbidden of doors. “Taerelle.”

  Unconscious on her back, the senior apprentice kept her eyes shut as she was woken, black sheets half drawn across her face. Her sigh made the sheer silk draping her bed flutter as she emerged from her dreams. “…Saphienne, unless something’s on fire, or you’re mortally wounded, I promise: you’re about to be both.”

  “Taerelle, sit up.”

  Gathering together her ire, and then herself, Taerelle swung upright and let the covers fall away, clothed in modest silvery nightwear that Saphienne absently remembered as having belonged to Thessa; her summery locks hung unbound and limp. “Tell me what couldn’t wait until morning, or pick out a scenic spot for your remains to be buried.”

  Saphienne sat on the edge of the bed and gestured to her long braid. “What colour is my hair?”

  “Blonde,” said Taerelle, still waking up. “Congratulations on finally turning; I’m going to murder you now.”

  Rotating the coin where it was clasped within her left hand, Saphienne envisioned herself in another season. “Now?”

  “Yes, right n–” Taerelle hesitated. “…Red, but I didn’t see you casting…”

  Again she traversed the year. “And now?”

  Taerelle choked, having roused enough to sense what was unfolding.

  “Taerelle, what colour?”

  “White.” As was her housemate’s face in the dim sunrise haloing the curtains. “That spell… which discipline?”

  “Transmutation.” Even though Saphienne was more grounded than ever before, she felt tremendously unsteady. “Permanent, superficial change — once I end the spell.”

  “Under ongoing control?”

  “Yes.”

  Taerelle breathed very shallowly. “…With varying effect?”

  “Yes…” Her hair grew as she spun the coin, falling out of its plait as it thinned, volume sacrificed for length. “…I have it…” She reversed the spin, returning each strand to its ordinary thickness as she drove on through brunette into sun-kissed blonde. “…I have it.”

  Overwhelmed, Taerelle burst into keening tears — and an astounded Saphienne abandoned her spellcasting, pulled into an embrace by the sobbing young woman.

  Then her shocked numbness shattered as the full implications struck her, and the magician joined her former tutor in unrestrained, ambiguous weeping, for her life was to be upended once more:

  Saphienne had grasped the secret of the Second Degree.

  * * *

  When their tears were spent, Taerelle dragged herself and her bedding downstairs, Saphienne going ahead to make reviving tea. The soon-to-be-confirmed wizard – and sorcerer – pressed a cup of warm black into her hands as she sat and sipped the same brew, rewarded by an offer to share the blanket.

  They huddled together on the couch.

  “…‘Master’ Saphienne…” Taerelle tasted the word. “…Fuck my entire life…”

  Saphienne shared that sentiment. “I still need to be examined… but I’ll pass.”

  “More than pass.” The aloofness Taerelle ordinarily pretended was lost, her fright cold and radiant in the early dawn. “Saphienne, you’re about to be the youngest wizard in the history of the woodlands.”

  “No, before me there was–”

  “You’re mistaken.” Taerelle anxiously reached for her usual braid, too distracted to remember her hair was loose. “Our master wrote to the Luminary Vale for information on High Master Elduin; I’d asked how quickly you were likely to progress. The High Master was twenty-one when he decided to study wizardry, and he presented his… arcana… within two months.” She gave up groping for her absent ponytail. “But he didn’t conclude his studies until he was in his thirties.”

  “…Oh.” Saphienne blinked. “Shit.”

  Neither of them could immediately think of anything to say, dread crowding their words out of the sitting room.

  “Perhaps,” Saphienne eventually hazarded, “I could delay telling–”

  Taerelle shook her head. “No; absolutely not. Concealing magical attainment from the Luminary Vale is a crime.” She gulped the hot tea she held — then clutched Saphienne’s wrist. “You know that, Saphienne! You know I’ll have to report your success, if you don’t go to our master.”

  “Master Vestaele,” Saphienne unthinkingly corrected her. “Master Vestaele is responsible for teaching me spellcraft.”

  Taerelle frowned. “…Tell Master Almon first.”

  “He’s not–”

  “That doesn’t matter.” She tapped the rim of her teacup. “He’ll pretend ignorance when she informs him. If you don’t tell him in advance, you’ll be doing both him and yourself a disservice. Given your history, he has a right to be told before Master Vestaele.”

  Did he? Saphienne pondered her first master in the Great Art — soon to become her ‘old friend.’ They still didn’t like each other, Almon believing Saphienne too quick to dismiss the wisdom of orthodoxy, Saphienne considering Almon pompous and conceited without justification. While less abrasive and oppositional than he’d once been, the wizard still possessed a fierce temper, though he reserved his cruelty for games of chess in which he held the advantage; Peacock had become more sarcastic as a consequence of his master’s newfound restraint.

  But, as much as they quarrelled whenever their patience wore thin, there existed an uneasy and unspoken respect between them. Almon had, unerringly, recognised her every achievement with the Great Art — and he always acknowledged his errors, when she convinced him he was wrong. He’d never once admitted it, nor would he ever, but Saphienne could tell he regarded her as his greatest – though far from favourite – student.

  Didn’t that count for something? If she owed her teacher little else, didn’t she owe him this single loyalty?

  Taerelle didn’t press the point. “Do you have a plan for your thesis? I assume you’ll apply immediately.”

  Saphienne nodded, gaze on her tea as she made up her mind. “I do; I didn’t anticipate I’d need it so soon, but I have an outline prepared. I won’t be going right away.”

  “Of course not; you’ll need to be examined, and to ready your application.”

  How softly she smiled as she looked up at her former tutor. “Not because of that. I decided last year: I won’t apply to the Luminary Vale until you do.”

  Beside her, the woman who had tutored Saphienne was thrown; her icy eyes glimmered, but she held her calm with a shuddering breath. “…You’re tragic, prodigy. I won’t let you curtail your–”

  “Apprentice Taerelle,” Saphienne announced, mischief rousing as she sat up and crossed her arms, “I hereby advise you to reconcile yourself to no longer having say over how I choose to pursue the Great Art. Once I am confirmed as a master of wizardry and sorcery, my progress will not be your concern — and I expect excellence from you, apprentice, as I will not abide your keeping me waiting.”

  Taerelle’s brows couldn’t have risen any higher. “…Really?”

  “You may anticipate further grievances, apprentice.” She grinned. “And don’t call me ‘prodigy’ around anyone else: it won’t do to be condescended to by my junior–”

  “Junior?” Incensed, Taerelle downed her tea then tossed the cup on the floor, uncaring if it broke as she leapt to her feet. “We’ll see about that! I’m not going to be lectured by a precocious little shit who suddenly thinks she’s–”

  “Good.” Saphienne languidly stretched, then stood. “And, if you don’t want to be stuck with all the cleaning? Catch up quickly, for I’ve much more important things to be doing than tidying up after you.”

  Despite her indignity, Taerelle matched Saphienne’s grin. “…You’re going to be insufferable. You were arrogant before, but with this?”

  “Arrogant? Hardly.” Saphienne headed for the stairs. “Just sure of myself.”

  “Full of yourself, you mean.”

  “You’ll excuse me,” she nonchalantly replied, “but before I upend over six thousand years of assumption about the timeline for mastering the Great Art, I’d better rest. Goodnight, Apprentice Taerelle.”

  “…I’m not calling you a master, Saphienne — not until forced to.”

  She smothered her fears with wry humour as she ascended. “Shan’t be long, I expect.”

  * * *

  Fraught though their relationship remained, time had worked one more change between Saphienne and Almon: whenever Saphienne made a claim about herself, the wizard now listened with absolute and unquestioning seriousness.

  “The Second Degree.” He slowly set the book he held back on its shelf, turning to place his hands atop his tall chair. “Already.”

  Saphienne bowed to him from across the classroom. “I haven’t told Master Vestaele. You’re the second person to know, after Taerelle.”

  He was dazzled where he clung to the high back. “Where? When? How?”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “In our garden, shortly before astronomical twilight this morning.” She managed a smile more confident than she felt. “You’ll excuse me, Master, but I’m not sure I’m permitted to repeat the secret of the Second Degree to anyone other than Master Vestaele.”

  “And you’ve cast a–” He rubbed his face. “Stupid question; ignore it.”

  “As you wish, Master.”

  Her quip cut through his daze, and he exhaled a shallow, unwilling laugh. “…Every other question I can think to ask is equally facile — and spare me your barbs, apprentice, while I recover my wits.”

  Saphienne indulged him. “It is a lot to take in.”

  He appraised her foremost as a marvel of the Great Art. “Did you cast first, as before? Or did you comprehend the secret intellectually, then apply it?”

  “Intellectually.” She would have shared more, but the rule against it was supreme.

  Yet Almon was dissatisfied as he drummed his fingers on the upholstery. “…By agreement, Master Vestaele should have been informed ahead of me…”

  “Am I to be censured, Master?”

  The wizard glowered. “I see sentimentality is a flaw you haven’t outgrown.”

  “Nor have you.” She smirked. “But, Taerelle did prompt this visit.”

  “A loyal apprentice.” He didn’t specify to whom he referred, his fingers hastening their tempo — until he slapped the back of his chair as he reached a decision. “Damn Vestaele! I don’t particularly like her, Saphienne, and I’m far too curious to leave this alone.”

  Never before had Almon afforded her such a candid admission, and Saphienne recognised this was the first occasion on which he was treating her as the peer she was to become. Slowly, she allowed herself to smile. “Finally, common ground: Master Vestaele is close to the opposite of what I believe a magician should be.”

  He inclined his head. “She sees the mystery, but not the wonder. It pains me that she’s my superior as a magician.”

  Approaching, she hazarded her own complaint. “Ever since our first lesson, she’s been steadfast in trying to groom me into taking an interest in politics. She asked what my magic would be for, as though pursuing the Great Art isn’t intrinsically worthwhile.”

  “That isn’t entirely unreasonable.” Almon leant his elbows on the chair. “Under the credible assumption that you are to join us in the Luminary Vale, I’ll warn that status is as persuasive as attainment to magicians below the High Masters. You will be approached through guile, by devious minds, who would use you as a stepping-stone to influence and prestige. Some, like Vestaele, thrive within those schemes; if she’s being direct enough for you to discern what she’s doing…”

  Saphienne faltered. “…I hadn’t considered that…”

  “She is very reserved.” He gazed up at the ceiling as though mulling over what awaited Saphienne. “You don’t have to engage in politics; you possess sufficient talent – in alarming quantity – that focusing on the Great Art will be enough. If you would heed the advice of a wizard who is ill-suited to politics’ machinations,” he offered, “I suggest reciprocating her frankness, and asking how to best position yourself to avoid being ensnared.”

  …High Master Lenitha had been thinking very far ahead, when she chose Vestaele to be her master in sorcery. “That might be some of the best advice you’ve given me, Master. My sincere thanks.”

  The wizard waved off her words as he squared his shoulders and forsook the prop of what Peacock had called his throne. “Recalling that a sorcerer is permitted to state the secret of the Second Degree to her master when commanded, and that while I am not a sorcerer, I am your master…”

  He solemnly paced toward her; despite having outgrown him by two inches, Saphienne beheld her master towering over her, as he had done on the night they first met.

  “…Apprentice Saphienne, I command you: explain to me the secret of the Second Degree, and how you attained it in such a brief time.”

  * * *

  Magic shifts in response to our thoughts and feelings.

  That was how Saphienne had phrased the secret of the First Degree to Taerelle and Vestaele. Prior to uncovering that truth, she had heard Arelyn say the secrets of the higher degrees built upon each other, arranged in sequence.

  What, then, was the secret of the Second Degree?

  Magic shifts in response to our perception.

  To observe was to change what was observed. Intuitively, Saphienne had tapped into this truth when memorising her proving sigil, having altered the way she saw the world so as to make herself more welcoming to its cerulean. And hadn’t the scholar Corytho implied perception was fundamental to spellcraft, with his supposition that all of magic was contingent on how one perceived the world unfolding?

  Whether a magician stood in the centre of her spell or surrounded it was all a matter of perspective, and so sigils of the Second Degree hinted the way forward — for those who had eyes to see.

  That Saphienne had figured it out thanks to a late night reverie on her failing relationships would probably have entertained Almon, were she to have told him. Instead, she wove together poetic nonsense about the changing of the sky around the constant stars, intending that the imagery ought please him enough to keep her troubles private.

  * * *

  Having a standing arrangement whereby she was free to call in on Vestaele unannounced from evening until midnight, Saphienne passed an hour walking in the forest, composing what she would say, anticipating possible reactions and rehearsing responses so that she wouldn’t be caught off guard. This was a frequent habit, adopted from the example often set by Almon as he’d prepared to deliver his lessons.

  Yet, owing to her recent meeting with the wizard, her attention strayed from the imminent future to the past — to what felt like her distant past. She dwelled on the earliest days of her apprenticeship, back when she first dreamt of wizardry, when her highest hope was to distinguish herself as a student, and justify the faith in her shown by Filaurel.

  Saphienne had once told herself she would become a wizard out of spite, but that hadn’t been what animated her. She’d been too young and wounded to recognise what really moved her, whether or not the compulsion had been contrived by her wyrd. Yes, she’d burned at the injustices she’d witnessed, and she still had made no peace with the woodlands… but her anger had been another mask. Under it, she’d been someone else.

  Love: love had been the reason. Lost love; yearned-for love; unrequited love. If Saphienne were to describe herself in a single word, then for all she knew it was a lie, that word would have been ‘unloved.’

  How surreal it was, to know she was loved… but never feel loveable.

  Rage had filled the outline of love’s absence, had blazed on, had formed a sigil that would have lashed out at everyone who cared for her — and her rage would have burned them to ash for their audacity, that they had dared to love the unlovable.

  Except for Filaurel. She, Saphienne had loved more than her pain, for Filaurel was the only one who loved her because of that pain.

  …But not enough. Not enough to overcome whatever haunted their relationship.

  What had her mentor seen, outside the woodlands? What could have been so awful, that it drove her back to this?

  “Useless talk.” She sniffed, swallowed. “Stop making yourself miserable.”

  But nostalgia is the subtlest of all poisons, and she returned to reminiscing on her days with Iolas and Celaena, and their master, when her only care had been striving for excellence against unjust adversities, supported by her charitable friends. And, as she imbibed, she was moved to reflect on what she never could, nor ever should, understand:

  Would she have been happier, without the Great Art?

  Her wyrd said no. There was no other way to be.

  * * *

  This was what Saphienne had set aside as she finished her rambling and went down the grove toward where her master in sorcery lodged, rendered tranquil by the well-embellished mask of confidence that had covered her resentment, worn in the present to cover over an emptiness–

  Which leapt at the sight that greeted her, coming out the gate.

  At nineteen, Celaena was forever to be shorter than average, but beneath her dark grey garb she had a figure that Saphienne envied, and she had grown comfortable with it, the robes she wore tailored to emphasise her narrow waist and prominent bosom. Her hair was gathered in more elaborate versions of the ostentatious, looping braids by which she’d first beheld herself as a wizard in the making, and her posture had relaxed with maturity, carrying her into the grove as though upon a breeze.

  And the most remarkable change? That, Saphienne read in her face, which was open in friendliness to the world, her gaze clear where once it had been clouded by obliged reservation or darkened by oppressive expectation. The mist that had surrounded Celaena had lifted, and now the sun shone for her.

  “Saphienne?”

  And showed in her smile.

  “Saphienne!” She strode over with unfeigned confidence, stopping to lightly bow in the middle of the grove. “Gods, how are you? I’ve not seen you in months!”

  Mirroring her bow, Saphienne squeezed her fingers behind her back. “It’s been a long while — and I’m doing very well, thank you.”

  That was a lie. Saphienne knew it was a lie.

  Celaena no longer did.

  “Good!” The junior apprentice’s smile broadened. “I was talking to Master Vestaele about you. She says you’re still impressing everyone — but I suppose you’ll know that.”

  “Very kind of you to tell me.” She peered beyond the terraced gardens to the house where she and Celaena had once lived together, momentarily lost in its shade. “…What brought you to see her?”

  Her old friend patted a satchel. “Borrowing the wholestone; Laewyn broke a cup this morning. My father said I can take whatever I need, as long as Master Vestaele isn’t inconvenienced.”

  Saphienne’s cheeks twitched. “How’s Laewyn been taking the breakup?”

  “Oh, she’s completely over it now.” Celaena bit her lip, Saphienne briefly glimpsing the girl who once had been. “I know this this is unworthy of me… but I wish it’d happened sooner. I missed her, when she was with Faylar. I felt like she never made time for us.”

  A genuine giggle slipped from Saphienne’s throat. “You know, she said that you were the one who was always busy.”

  Celaena rolled her eyes. “Yes, she would, wouldn’t she? But it’s alright.”

  “And you and Faylar–”

  “Best friends.” She had no doubt. “Laewyn’s forgiven him, too, seeing as he left her for the sake of love…” Her snort was mildly derisive. “…They’re both so fickle. Once Faylar gets tired of being bent over by his boyfriend, the two of them will be back together, pretending they were never apart.”

  Several different feelings ran together in Saphienne, who was jubilant she’d been right about Faylar, amused that he was so sensitive, relieved to hear everyone was on good terms, and dismayed that he’d shared his secret with someone else. “…He told you who?”

  “No, but Laewyn’s as bad as he is at keeping secrets.” Celaena checked the grove was clear, then drew closer, conspiratorial. “Want to know? I think you should. He’s being far too uptight — once his embarrassment passes, he’ll be glad for someone else to talk to.”

  She could resist… but she wanted to be swept along. “Who?”

  “Kelas.” Seeing that Saphienne didn’t recognise the name, Celaena slightly frowned. “Friend of Thessa? No? I’m sure you’ll have seen him before. Faylar’s besotted with him, in that swept-off-his-feet-by-an-older-boy way. First male lover; you understand.”

  Acting as though she did, Saphienne hummed. “…Is he nice?”

  “Goodhearted, but quiet. Faylar fell for him being strong and silent.” She grinned. “Faylar thinks he’s in love, but it’s really lust. Kelas is helping him explore himself, but they won’t last — they don’t have much in common.”

  “Thank you for filling me in.” When had Celaena grown so comfortable with herself? So insightful into the lives of others? Living with Mathileyn and Athidyn had transformed her. “How about yourself? How have you been?”

  She puffed out her cheeks. “Busy. You know.”

  With wizardry, and little else. “Dare I ask what you’re studying?”

  “Fundamentals of spellcraft.” Obliged to fill the ensuing lull, Celaena nervously offered more. “…We’re studying how the resonance of spells can be diagrammed, and–”

  “How to alter the expression of resonance,” Saphienne interjected, excited for her, “such as to fit with an occulted manifestation?”

  “Not yet.”

  “So masking it with Hallucination or Fascination, then?”

  Celaena’s smile showed bewilderment. “…Actually, we’re only just beginning to cover how to tell the spells of different magicians apart…”

  Saphienne froze; she made herself laugh. “I see. Sorry, I was–”

  “Enthusiastic?” Celaena forced a laugh as well. “Some things don’t change, do they?”

  She was too saddened to be embarrassed. “…Some things.”

  And there, again, was the gulf between them.

  “…I should be getting back home.” Celaena offered a hug.

  Accepting, Saphienne was keenly aware that what once had been shared tightly had become perfunctory. “It was lovely to see you.”

  “And you.” Celaena waved as she strolled away. “Look after yourself, odd bird.”

  * * *

  Knocking on the imposing doors to ring the bells within, Saphienne pushed one open, still on the guest list. She called out into the grand foyer as she stepped inside, her voice echoing from the black tiles to the white ceiling.

  “Master?”

  There was no answer.

  She didn’t react when the enchanted entrance closed at her back, only clasped her hand and waited to be received. Usually, Vestaele never delayed for more than a few minutes; her master was probably in the sanctum loaned by Illimun, reading one of the countless tomes she’d had portalled over from her home in–

  A rolling, threatening, monstrous growl filled the entire foyer.

  Sweeping her eyes down from the upper floor, Saphienne blinked, for creeping from the direction of the kitchen was a horned creature she had never set them on before — scaled from compact snout to short tail, with large, blunt, digitigrade claws clicking on the tiles as it advanced, fangs bared. Browns and reds shimmered as it stalked, edged in iridescence, its squat body angled in anticipation of violence, poised to leap, fixing her with reptilian, slit pupils amid fiery irises.

  This was a drake, a creature born under the influence of dragons, wingless and fireless but no less dangerous for the changes that dragonflare had wrought.

  Or at least, it would have been, were it not less than a foot in height from its foreclaws to its floppy, frilled ears.

  “Calamity!”

  Vestaele had appeared atop the staircase, and was hurrying down.

  “Calamity, no!”

  Indifferent to the sorcerer, the drake stopped a short distance from Saphienne, ears swept back, maw slavering as it strained with all its might to intimidate her, undermined by the stubbiness of its tail and horns and the slight bulging of its eyes.

  “Calamity, heel!” Vestaele was halfway down. “He’s not usually like this, Saphienne! He typically just ignores people–”

  Without taking her attention off the drake, Saphienne responded, “How did I never know you had a pet?”

  Calamity redoubled his efforts as she called out, skin bunching behind his neck where hackles would have risen.

  “He’s been slumbering!” Vestaele was arriving on the ground floor. “He threw a strop about ten years ago, went to bed, and refused to– Calamity, no!”

  Protective of his owner, the drake had snapped at Saphienne, now mere inches from her feet as his owner sprinted–

  Saphienne crouched down, and held out her hand.

  Another snap, just short of her fingers.

  Vestaele halted as Saphienne canted her head. The student let her master observe, her tone dispassionate yet forceful as she spoke to the drake — using the tongue of dragons. “You are brave, little wyrmling.”

  Calamity tried to roar, barking instead.

  “Do what you will.” She leant forward quickly, placing her fingertips atop his nose. “As befits your choice, so I will respond. Act as you must act.”

  The drake fell silent, and went very still, not daring to move, eyes swivelling as he tried in vain to focus on where she was touching him.

  “Choose!”

  All at once, Calamity sat, his tail scraping from side to side across the cold floor as he licked her wrist, followed instantly by his hide clattering on the tiles as he rolled onto his back, showing his belly as his forked tongue lolled.

  Saphienne switched back to Elfish as she patted his chest. “Good boy.”

  Speechless, Vestaele stared.

  * * *

  They sat in the kitchen, Calamity refusing his trinket-strewn basket so that he could curl up atop Saphienne’s feet, tilting his head uncomprehendingly at her every word.

  “He’s never warmed to someone so quickly,” Vestaele repeated, bemused by the drake. “You have a way with animals, apprentice.”

  “Not especially.” She ignored him as she tasted her tea, too honeyed. “Where did you get him? There aren’t many drakes or wyverns in the woodlands.”

  “A friend trades with humans,” her master explained. “She remembered me saying that I wished wolves lived longer…”

  Saphienne squinted at Calamity. “Not very wolf-like.”

  “He’s descended from a variety domesticated by humans — you’re familiar with dogs? But of course; you’ve seen the protectorates. His breed,” she said as she tried – and failed – to beckon him to her, “are popular for companionship in distant kingdoms, recently introduced to Hare?a. He was rejected from his litter.”

  Sympathetic, Saphienne reached down to scratch behind Calamity’s ear, listening to him panting.

  “…So, then.” Vestaele set down her cup. “What brings you here, apprentice?”

  “Two reasons.” Saphienne straightened. “I’ve come to realise that I have misjudged your intentions for me, Master. May I be blunt?”

  Intrigued, Vestaele assented.

  “Have you been encouraging me to take an interest in politics,” Saphienne asked, “in the hope of preparing me for admission to the Luminary Vale, and the culture among its magicians?”

  Nearly unreadable, Vestaele folded her hands. “…Primarily. My intentions for you are not wholly altruistic.”

  She wanted Saphienne’s future support. “Then you’ll be frustrated, because I’ve no desire to be that kind of magician…” Saphienne bowed to her master. “…But I would be grateful for whatever education you can give me, that I might avoid being drawn into political affairs.”

  “Is that all?” Vestaele was mirthful. “On one condition: I will introduce you to the political perspective in full. How you employ what I teach you will be your business.”

  “You’ll try to tempt me.”

  “Openly.”

  She respected that. “I accept.”

  Satisfied, the sorcerer lifted her teacup to drink, first asking, “And what was the second reason, Saphienne?”

  The magician wisely allowed her master to swallow before answering.

  * * *

  Just shy of two months later, Saphienne stood in the gravel circle amid Almon’s garden for what she intended to be the final time.

  She was alone before the six figures called to assess her: three wizards, and three sorcerers. When arranging her examination, her masters had offered her the choice of which trial to undertake — had argued against her as she insisted she be permitted to attempt both, argued all the more when she demanded each be held on the same day.

  Vestaele hadn’t understood why she forever made everything unnecessarily difficult for herself; opining so had won Almon around.

  What was funniest about the dispute, in retrospect? Saphienne really was that talented.

  Deciding the order, she’d tossed her coin, sorcery preceding wizardry. Her examiners were unknown to her, deliberately unintroduced, dour and exacting as they’d required she decipher sigils, explain magical phenomena, solve riddles, expound on the disciplines, and demonstrate her competence with the Great Art. Much was repeated between the two sections, which each took four hours.

  When she’d grown thirsty, she’d conjured water – with minerals – to drink.

  Saphienne was certain she’d succeeded in the trials, but the assembled masters would not tell her until all her demonstrations were concluded. Now, after a short adjournment, they had returned.

  “…We cannot dispute your mastery.” No hostility was intended by the ritual words. “Sorcerer, announce yourself: tell us your discipline, that we might know you.”

  She closed her eyes, savouring the moment. “I am Master Saphienne, Sorcerer of the Second Degree, Transmuter.”

  “Nor can we dispute your mastery,” added another voice. “Wizard, announce yourself: tell us your discipline, that we might know you.”

  Saphienne thought of Gaeleath; unbidden, her left hand tightened about her coin.

  “I am Master Saphienne, Wizard of the Second Degree, Hallucinator.”

  * * *

  The uproar lasted another two hours — until the High Masters wrote back, reiterating the rules as written.

  Technically, no one could fault her.

  * * *

  Exhausted, but triumphant in the end, Saphienne arrived back at her house draped in outer robes reluctantly divided between green and blue, enduring Taerelle’s ongoing celebrations until she could bear them no more, promising she’d be back with an insincere smile as she climbed the stairs to seek a moment of solace.

  She slumped against her bedroom door, hollowed, sliding down.

  “Hello, Saphienne. Those colours suit you.”

  See now a transformation — a rejuvenation through surprise.

  “…Hello Laelansa.” Her face raised, aglow. “Yes; yes, they do.”

  End of Chapter 106

  Enjoying the story? Want to read more? .

  Chapter 107 releases Tuesday the 20th of January.

  Thanks for reading!