Whispers Most Deadly emma m ac donald
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First published 2025 001
Copyright © Emma MacDonald, 2025
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To everyone who’s ever wondered who they would become if the world would simply let them be
1. Like a Tether
There was something gentle about the scent of death. Not the fetid stench of decay, nor the sterile aroma of embalming halls. No, this was earthy and somewhat sweet, lingering always at the edge of life. A promise of inevitability – like a knot coiled at the end of needle and thread, holding them ever steady.
Rose watched her life source weave through her outstretched fingers. It ebbed against her skin in glowing silver tendrils, pulling at her pulse like the moon on the tides. Soothing in some way.
But, at the moment, utterly useless.
She dropped her hand, eyes scanning the fleeting landscape beyond the compartment window of the cavalcade. The mountains surrounding Dunhollow crept ever closer in the distance, fog hanging low over the sloping pine-hemmed peaks. Her stomach sank as she leaned back against her plush seat.
Nine months. Nine whole months of travelling to the furthest reaches of the empire. To the grandest libraries of Tol Qilius, and archives far beyond their borders. To mountains that shattered the sky and seas that stretched out into the fading horizon.
And yet, here she was, right back where she’d started. For all those months that she’d left Dunhollow in her shadow, there was some broken part of her that would always reach for its rotten halls. A festering wound that refused to heal.
The cavalcade’s thin whistle pierced the air. They would reach the station all too soon. And then what?
Classes, curses and cut-throat smiles? How long would it take for the claws of this place to sink into her flesh once again – to tear away every defence she’d so carefully built? No. Rose gritted her teeth. Things would be different this time. She was different.
Though still not enough, an insidious voice whispered at the back of her mind.
Rose’s eyes flicked to the bag at her feet, then to the compartment door. Soren could return any minute, provided he hadn’t got caught by more students eager to welcome him back. Already, half a dozen had stopped by the compartment to confirm he really had returned. Though she could hardly blame them. He was Dunhollow’s most beloved professor, and she had stolen him away for the better part of a year.
Still, something gnawed away deep within her heart, drawing her back to her satchel. To the unsuspecting tome lying buried in its leather folds. Rose tugged at the edges of her pleated skirt, glancing once more at the door before she pulled the book from her bag.
Its spine was worn and frayed, the leather blackened with age. Rose stroked its faint gilded filigree. Bearath: Studis ab Mord ed Necromancie. Her breath hitched. Studies of Death and Necromancy.
It had been pure chance that she’d stumbled upon it at all, tucked away in the hollows of the Imperial Archive. She and Soren had found countless other books – tomes on the long history of necromancy, scroll after scroll on the dangers and abuses that had led to its prohibition. Terrible tales of its horrors and tragedies, even past the borders of Na Qis, where it was less reviled.
All were dull and aged, telling her hardly anything she
did not already know of her newfound power. Nothing on life source itself. Not a single lesson or legend to be found on healing or revivals. No mention at all of any good that necromancy could do.
But this one was different. It seemed more grimoire than anything else, its browning pages etched with dulled illustrations and spells. Yet there was only one Rose cared for, scrawled into the very end of the tome.
The Spell of True Revival.
Flipping to the last page, the images swirled beneath her fingers. A body rising out of ash, remade and unmarred. Alive. Tears pricked her eyes as memories of Fen’s corpse flashed through her mind.
Her fingers tightened around the grimoire. It wasn’t what she’d set out to do on her travels. She’d only wanted to learn more about her power – strengthen it, so that death could never again touch those she loved. She’d truly been content to let her friend rest in peace. His choice made, his sacrifice honoured.
But finding this had felt like fate, if she’d ever believed in such a thing. A glimmer of hope that held her like a tether. For this spell required no sickening alchemical solutions nor the blood of innocents, like the one that had torn Fen from her last year. Rose’s mouth grew dry as her thoughts swept back to that cold, dark basement. To Hollis’s twisted cruelty and Fen’s tearful goodbye as his life faded away before her.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she shook away the memory. This wasn’t the same. Hollis’s spell had traded three stolen lives as the price for one, but this one required nothing more than the very thing she now held in the palm of her hand. Silver tendrils pulsed against Rose’s skin almost eagerly. With such power now in her grasp, how could she not even try to restore what was lost? So she’d secreted the tome away from
Soren, quietly gathering ingredients for the spell along their travels.
Hair stolen from Fen’s bedroom at his mother’s villa. Amber from the scorched shores of Old Pelanghe, and pyrite from the markets outside the mines of Rhal. It had almost been a macabre form of motivation for her. An impossible dream dangling just out of reach, driving her to hone her power, fuelling her lessons with Soren. And yet, she still couldn’t say with any certainty that she was ready.
Rose rubbed the bare spot on her left forearm, the scars of her familiar’s tattoo a faint memory upon her pale skin. It was a strange thing to be free of it. For so many years, she’d craved one – to be like the rest of her peers, to have that proof of her casting etched into her flesh.
The familiar’s bond wasn’t true life, just a scrap of magic made manifest in the shape of the caster’s desire. But Rose had made it so. Imbuing her little crow with her source, setting her free from their bond and watching as she’d flown off to some far corner of the world. And never returned . . .
At least she’d been saved the fate of coming back here. The thought struck Rose with acridity as the cavalcade slowed, but she shook it away. She didn’t need to run any more. She could face Dunhollow, even with all its scheming and pretension. She could wade through whatever spells and incantations she needed to. And she would revive Fen. Soon.
Her throat tightened. What would it be like to see him again? To hold him in her arms and bask in the warm glow of his easy smile? It stirred something within her. Some shattered, desperate part of her heart that leached into her magic. Before she could stop it, source leapt from her fingers, silver tendrils swirling against the pages, bleeding into them. The tome bowed, groaning beneath her touch, as if she might draw life from the very depths of its dry, shrivelled pages.
But it was too much. Too soon. Her pulse skittered as she slammed the book shut. The gentle threads of her magic recoiled, rearing back with a searing heat as life morphed into flame.
‘Shit,’ Rose hissed, shaking the source away with a soft sizzle. Her heart pounded in her ears as she stared down at her singed hands. Life was a familiar form. Wrapped in the scent of amber and honey, it flowed out of her easily, utterly her own. But flame?
She didn’t quite understand how she’d stolen it from Fen. Perhaps it was the strange, untested magic of his orb that had fuelled her with his final breaths. Or maybe it was simply her connection to him as he’d threaded that line between life and death. Either way, it was his.
And yet, this power remained within her, volatile and unpredictable. So unlike him in that regard. But, in the haphazard moments that it flared out of her, she could swear the faintest hint of red wine and worn leather still held upon it. A last spark of him that refused to burn out.
‘Careful.’ Soren’s voice made her jump, and she glanced up with a start.
He leaned against the doorframe, a kind smile on his lips. She could almost hear his lecture forming, warning her of the dangers of source left untamed. Yet no remonstrance came, Soren’s gaze fixing instead on the tome in her lap.
Rose’s heart leapt, but she resisted the urge to hide the book. If she did, it would only sharpen his questions, force answers she wasn’t yet ready to give. Straightening, she cleared her throat.
‘I didn’t think you’d be back for a while yet.’ She raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Not with your gaggle of well-wishers.’
Soren ducked his head, a small smile pulling at his lips. Perfect. She forced herself to move slowly, tucking the book
back into her satchel at an almost leisurely pace. Soren said nothing, if he even noticed at all. Whatever questions he’d had seemed to have fled as his dark eyes strayed out the compartment window.
A pang of guilt twisted Rose’s stomach. It felt wrong, keeping the truth from him. But their travels had revived him as much as they had her, and she couldn’t be the one to steal that away.
Though his curse kept him ever young in appearance, the years Soren carried with him had almost fallen away the further they went from Dunhollow. Rose eyed his umber skin, sun-kissed and glowing, even bathed in the dim light of the academy’s perpetually pallid skies. There were no bags hanging beneath his eyes now, and his scars seemed lessened too, drawn in faint memories rather than etched in jagged lines. Even his hair was somewhat loosened from the tight thin braids he’d once worn, hanging now in long twists that glimmered with gold cuffs fastened throughout.
Watching him take to the grand libraries and archives like a fish to water hadn’t exactly been a shock in the early days of their journey. But seeing him come alive under starlit skies, dancing on beaches and charming locals with his truly staggering linguistic knowledge had been such an unexpected pleasure. She’d always thought of him as vibrant – a rare star amid Dunhollow’s bleak skies – but she’d never realized how much the place had dimmed his fire. Nearly as much as it had hers, as it turned out.
Yet his usual tweed jacket had already made its return, draped over an ochre cable-knit sweater and a pair of corduroy trousers. A crisp white blouse peeked out beneath his collar, and, though he’d stopped short of a full tie, there was a stiffness about him now that Rose hadn’t seen in many months. The effect of Dunhollow, she supposed.
‘This arrived for you,’ he said finally, tossing a letter on to her lap.
‘Who from?’
‘Your mother. Since you’re ignoring her letters, she’s decided I’m the next best thing.’
Rose snorted, handing back the letter, unopened. ‘You can burn it then.’
‘I tried already.’ His lips quirked. ‘Seems she’s charmed it against that.’
‘Wonderful.’
Soren tugged at his collar. ‘Perhaps you should read it. She’s not there any more, you know. It could be harmless.’
Rose turned to the window as the station drifted into view. She very much doubted that.
By some small mercy, the consequences of her mother’s negligence had finally caught up with her. In the wake of Fen and Aveline’s deaths, the board – or, rather, Imrys Elaegius – had stripped her of her position as Dunhollow’s chancellor and urged her to retire quietly. As far as Rose knew, she’d been relegated to living with some distant aunt in the Outer Isles of Ir Taril. Far too kind a fate, all things considered. Though it would torment her mother.
Cut off from the world she’d once carefully controlled and utterly forgotten? Rose almost grinned. It would eat her alive.
But, even from the tail end of nowhere, her mother would not retract her claws so easily. She would only sink them deeper, were she given even the slightest purchase. The desperation of having no other avenue of control driving her to fall back on old habits, and Rose had always been her favourite target.
Likely, it was only more complaints about her chosen degree field. She’d known her mother would hate that she’d selected a major from the School of Magical Theory; it had
almost been an added bonus, even. Until she started sending cursed letters. Rose shifted in her seat. It was all poison, in the end, distilled to keep her small and contained.
‘It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, I’m sure.’
Soren heaved a short sigh that sounded dangerously close to a scoff, before pushing himself off the doorframe. ‘Any news from Sylvie?’
Sylvie. Rose’s heart leapt. The only bright thing waiting for her at Dunhollow. Though Sylvie was hardly the sort to sit around, quietly pining for Rose’s return. If her letters were to be believed, she’d wasted no time reclaiming her spot as top student. Rose could only imagine that meant she once again had the entire school wrapped around her little finger.
Power had always suited Sylvie. And, after spending the best part of the last year lost in shadow and blood, she deserved to spill some of her own. Metaphorically, at least . . . Rose hoped.
But, gods, she couldn’t wait to see her. Sylvie was, perhaps, the only reason that she’d even resigned herself to returning and finishing her degree. The thought of seeing those warm amber eyes once more set alight a heat in Rose that even her flames could not match.
‘Not since last week,’ she said finally.
‘She knows you’re coming back today?’
‘I told her in my last letter.’ Rose glanced at the darkening sky outside the window as the cavalcade lurched to a stop. ‘Though I’m sure she expected us earlier.’
At this rate, they might miss the welcome feast entirely. Not that it would be the worst thing in the world.
Soren flashed her a sheepish grin and reached for his luggage. ‘Well, can’t help a few delays.’
Rose shook her head. ‘Delays’ was an interesting euphemism to describe his panicked shopping spree for last-minute
gifts. She’d never seen anyone quite so frantic over luxury Telemestran scarves and fine Arbelian perfumes. Soren grunted beneath the weight of his new satchel as he pulled it down from the rack above.
It took some time to gather all their luggage together – mostly Soren’s – before they finally trudged off the cavalcade and into the station. It wasn’t too busy this late in the evening, with only a few stragglers weaving past, charmed luggage bobbing over their heads.
Muttering a spell under his breath, Soren whisked all their bags up in a charm before leading Rose off towards the grand doors. The sun had almost set when they exited the station, fog hanging low between the lamp posts that dotted Dunhollow village in a hazy glow.
Rose’s breath hung on the air as she sighed deeply. There was a heaviness to being back. An ill- worn weight to the familiarity of slick cobblestones and leaning wood- slatted buildings. The gambling den and smokehouse still stood in lit anticipation of the first- night festivities. The river churned along as always, water gurgling faintly over the rocks, and starlight remained dimmed and hidden behind ever present clouds. Not a single thing had changed in her absence.
No. Rose’s eyes strayed to one building, dark and dour among the rest. One thing had changed. The pub stared innocently back at her, a dilapidated echo of the haven it had once been. The lights along the trim of its thatched roof sagged from its frame, burnt out and battered. Around its shuttered windows, gnarled tangles of dead flowers rustled in a light breeze, and the rickety wooden sign hung askew over the doorway, almost as if dejected by its downfall.
A large sign was plastered across the front door with neat bold letters. under new management, it read. Below that
was another word, this one in crimson lines that had been scorched into the wood.
MURDERER .
Rose’s throat tightened. Damp, musty stones clung to her memory. Listless forms sprawled out in a sickly green light, and Fen’s blood pouring between her fingers, not even slowed by the razing heat of her magic. Her breath came out in short, shallow gasps as she stumbled back.
‘Rose?’ Soren’s voice broke through her reeling thoughts. ‘Are you all right?’
She swallowed hard. But when she turned to face him, his eyes were fixed firmly on the pub behind her. His kind features twisted, flitting between pain and sorrow almost too fast for her to catch. Her heart sank, pricked by the keen sting of pity.
He’d lost just as much as she had in the depths of that place. His life, his friend, his love – all over again. Her nails bit into the skin of her palms. It held ghosts enough for them both.
She forced a thin smile. ‘Fine.’
Soren’s gaze lingered on the pub a moment longer before his eyes flicked to their luggage. With a frown, he pulled his watch from his pocket. ‘We should get going.’ He scratched at his neatly trimmed beard. ‘Mind bending the rules?’
Before Rose could answer, Soren mumbled an incantation with a twist of his hand. A shimmering pane sprang forth before them, almost as if he’d conjured a mirror. But its edges faded into smoky stardust, its surface carved from molten silver. A portal, she marvelled. Not usually something most would cast as an afterthought, but Soren was never one to be bogged down by convention.
Shaking her head, Rose took his hand as he led her through the glassy surface. It shifted and wavered around them with a soft pop before depositing them on the stone
steps of Dunhollow’s main hall. Rose’s head spun, and she swayed slightly as she straightened.
‘Sorry, been a while since I’ve cast that – might leave you a bit wobbly.’ Soren brushed off his jacket.
Rose shook her head, eyeing the bags at their feet. ‘What about our luggage?’
‘Ah, yes.’ He paused, casting another charm before their valises simply floated away. ‘Now, are you ready?’
Rose sucked in a sharp breath, glancing up at the clock tower looming above the grand doors of the main hall. Nearly seven o’clock. At least the open bar would be over by now. The start-of-term speeches too if the new chancellor were at all merciful. With any luck, her peers would just be tucking into the feast and they could slip in relatively unnoticed.
Yet Rose couldn’t force her feet to move. She stared up at the oaken doors before her, but the thought of shoving them open sent a shiver down her spine. With a sigh, she turned back to the courtyard.
Golden leaves rustled upon the breeze, caught in the dim glow flickering out of the halls that surrounded them. Ancient gargoyles glared down at her from the gutters, barely visible at this hour. But she knew they were there. As they always would be. Entirely unchanged, like everything else in this damned place.
All of a sudden, it felt stale and cloying. Like a cage crushing her behind its bars, locked tight and chained with the scars of aching memories. Rose wanted nothing more in that moment than to turn and flee back.
But she couldn’t. Not any more.
‘Yeah,’ she said finally. ‘Let’s get this over with.’ Straightening, she glared up at the doors and shoved them aside before she could think better of it, stepping into the hall.
Almost immediately, Rose stumbled to a stop.
She’d expected the boisterous din of a feast, platters whizzing about faster than gossip and her peers trading insipid tales of their summers. But the aged wooden walls held in utter silence, ensconced in the warm glow of flickering candlelight.
The new chancellor glowered down at Rose and Soren from the dais at the front of the room, and long tables stretched out across the hall between them, packed tight with students. Her peers’ plates were picked over, and their wine glasses full, but no idle chatter flowed between them. Instead, they all turned in unison to stare.
Rose’s heart sank into the pit of her stomach. Shit.
Her eyes flashed to Soren, who gave her a small shrug before slinking off to the professors’ table. Rose swallowed hard, gazing out over the ranks of her peers. Until she met a pair of familiar amber eyes across the room and the rest of the hall all but faded. Sylvie. For a moment, Rose was struck by the urge to race across the room and embrace her. Lose herself in the floral notes of orchid and musk and the soft curve of Sylvie’s lips.
But then those very same lips quirked in a sly smirk, jarring Rose from her thoughts. Heat crept up her cheeks and her heart pounded against her ribs. Straightening her shoulders, she schooled her features into a mask of condescending superiority that would make even Sylvie proud and marched over to the nearest table.
The students at the end of the bench parted as if she had the plague, and she settled between them with a wan smile. Glancing back at Sylvie, Rose winked, making her roll her eyes. But then the chancellor cleared his throat, drawing Rose’s attention back to the front of the room.
‘Welcome, Messere Thenlif.’ His dull eyes narrowed at her. ‘Thank you for joining us.’
Rose gave a curt nod, eyeing the chancellor. Woodstone, Sylvie had called him in her letters. Rumour was that he’d come straight from the ranks of the empress’s court to take over the position, though he didn’t really look the part. Most imperial courtiers dressed more like Ewan or their father. Features smoothed out or sharpened by glamours and the latest fashions enhanced by increasingly gaudy accessories. Dyed hair or eyes, jewels dripping off every bare bit of skin – that sort of thing.
Even now, Rose spotted Ewan’s gold-streaked hair catching in the candlelight from where they sat beside Sylvie. But Woodstone was rather plain in comparison. Dull brown hair lay slicked back behind his ears, streaked with grey, and his hazel eyes did not shimmer. Even his robes were a simple charcoal, covered with the aged sapphire chancellor’s shawl that her mother wouldn’t have been caught dead in, even if it was tradition.
By appearances alone, he seemed her mother’s complete opposite. Rose’s jaw tightened. He was willing to take over Dunhollow, though, so they must at least share in their corruption.
‘Thank you, Chancellor.’
A few whispers and snickers went up from around the room, but Rose ignored them. Instead, she plucked some sandwiches from the sparse platters passing by. Her mother never would’ve saved the speeches for after the feast. She would have had them all sit in her thrall until they starved before giving an inch.
‘As I was saying, now that you’re all here and mostly sated, we have a very special announcement to start off the term.’ Woodstone adjusted some papers on his pulpit. ‘Many of you already know, I’m sure, that Dunhollow will be hosting the decennial Ashwood Tournament this autumn semester,
and tonight we will be choosing three students to represent us against our rival academies, Maalstrum Institut and Savoissanta DeVoil.’
The Ashwood Tournament ? Rose blinked. The last time it was held, she’d been only twelve, and it had been hosted by DeVoil, far away on the Isle of Arbelis. Soren had taken a sabbatical that semester to advise, given that he was the only professor on the roster from the Isle. She remembered her tear-stained farewell to him, begging him not to leave her alone with her mother.
Rose gritted her teeth. That was a long time ago now.
Honestly, she’d never cared for the tournament, really. For the most part, it was only an excuse for the three academies to leverage their prestige against each other. With Dunhollow priding itself on moulding the empire’s next generation of pedigreed prats, it almost always won anyway.
‘Before you all get too excited, competitors must be twenty-one or older in order to qualify and will be selected only from the top ten students.’
With a wave of his unadorned hand, the candles dimmed and fluttering sheets of paper sprang forth from seemingly nowhere to dance around Woodstone’s head. Ten sheets for ten students. Top students.
Rose’s heart sank and her eyes flew to Sylvie. When she’d left, they’d both been at the head of their class. But, after everything, surely that didn’t still count? Gods, she hoped not. The tournament wasn’t usually deadly, but then she would’ve said the same of Dunhollow once.
‘Of those chosen, you will have the chance to accept or decline the opportunity. If the latter, then another name will be picked in your stead. Now, without further ado . . .’
Woodstone eyed the swirling names solemnly, as if this were some great burden he bore with the utmost care and
respect. Rose rolled her eyes. So he did have some love for theatrics then. Finally, he reached for a name, unfurling the sheet with agonizing leisure.
‘For our first competitor: congratulations to Arden Osiander!’ The room filled with tepid applause as the paper leapt from Woodstone’s hands and burst into sparkling letters that spelled Arden’s name above the chancellor’s head. ‘Do you accept or decline the honour?’
The boy’s flaming-red hair shone in the candlelight as he got to his feet, a smirk marring his sharp features. ‘I accept.’
The applause tapered as Arden sauntered to the front of the room, and Rose wrinkled her nose. Clearly, the selection wasn’t as impartial as Woodstone claimed. Arden hadn’t even met the qualifications to graduate last year; he could hardly be considered a top student.
The hall fell back to silence as Woodstone lifted a hand. The sheets scattered around him, and he made a great show of grasping for and failing to catch a few of them. Some gasps rang out as the students watched, but most seemed content to sip away at their wine, their eyes glazed and gazes drifting.
Rose glanced down at the empty plates beneath them. No wonder Woodstone decided to feed them first – they might have eaten him alive for wasting all this time otherwise.
Slowly, Woodstone unfurled the next name. ‘For our second competitor, congratulations to Sylven Belliaris!’
Rose froze as the hall broke into rapturous applause, the glimmering letters of Sylvie’s name hanging over Woodstone’s head like a curse. No. Her gaze locked on Sylvie again, who beamed widely as she stood. But her smile wavered, something dark dancing behind her eyes as they met Rose’s. Something she couldn’t quite place.
Her heart hammered so loudly in her ears she could barely hear Woodstone. ‘Do you accept or decline the honour?’
Rose stared at Sylvie as if they were the only two in the hall. She silently willed her to decline, to be safe and sound and not put herself in undue danger. But there was a fire in Sylvie’s eyes. A flame that could not be doused by fear. It was one of the reasons Rose loved her. But, in that moment, she’d never detested anything more as Sylvie’s gaze flicked up to Woodstone.
‘I accept.’
No. Rose’s breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t stop her mind reeling to the darkened, eerie corners of the pub basement. To Sylvie’s crumpled form on a stone slab, drained and depleted to mere inches from death. It was rare for the tournament to claim a life, but it wasn’t unheard of. She couldn’t lose her again.
Rose tried to meet Sylvie’s gaze, but she ducked her head as she took her place beside Arden. Why would she do this?
‘And now, for our final competitor . . .’ Woodstone’s voice broke through her thoughts as he reached for the third and final name. But he paused as he unfurled it, shock flashing across his features. ‘Rosera Thenlif.’
2. The More Things Changed
The entire hall fell into stunned silence, as if Woodstone had frozen them all with some spell. In fairness, he seemed more shocked than anyone, eyeing the paper he held as if sure he’d read it wrong. Perhaps he had.
But, as the paper slipped from his fingers and twisted itself into sparkling letters, Rose’s stomach sank. For it was her own name staring back at her, so bright and cheerful despite the dread coiling within her. Finally, the chancellor lifted his gaze to fix Rose with a hard stare.
‘Well, Messere Thenlif?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Do you accept or decline the honour?’
Rose’s heart pounded loudly in her ears. Just below Woodstone’s pulpit, she could feel Sylvie’s gaze nearly boring a hole through her flesh. Soren’s too, she imagined. But she refused to meet either of their eyes. Did they fear for her? Doubt her, perhaps?
After all, how could she ever hope to compete? Yet the thought of it burned at her. Some shred of spite that refused to be cowed by their judgement and buried beneath the weight of expectation. She couldn’t do it any more.
‘I accept.’
‘Very well.’ Woodstone’s lips thinned. ‘Then congratulations to our three competitors. I look forward to seeing you compete.’
A burst of rather muddled, unsure applause broke out over the hall, but Rose didn’t move to join the others at the front of the room. Somehow it felt wrong. Like a doorway
had been left open to her, yet she could not bring herself to cross the threshold.
‘As for the rest of you, please enjoy your evening, and I hope to see you all at the welcome breakfast tomorrow morning.’
With one last flick of his wrist, the papers zipped back into Woodstone’s pocket, and he swept out of the hall without another word. Rose stared after him, a hollow weight taking root in her chest. Somehow, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d already made an enemy of him, like she was a flaw in his otherwise immaculate performance, and there was nothing a showman hated more than having their spotlight stolen.
She let out a small sigh. Around her, the other students settled back to the remnants of the feast, the selection results already fuelling their gossip. Most eyed her over the rims of their goblets, hushed whispers hissing between their ranks. Others ambled out of the hall, snickering as they went. Rose’s throat tightened, her fists curling at her sides.
She couldn’t stand to be there a moment longer. And yet she was loath to give them the satisfaction of watching her flee. Not this time. Shifting her shoulders back, she straightened out the pleats of her skirt and turned primly on her heel, marching out of the hall. Which wasn’t all that much more dignified, she supposed, but it was something.
The cool night air hit her with an almost soothing chill as she stepped outside. But it didn’t stop the heat creeping up her skin, burgeoning into flame. Swallowing back tears, she hurried past huddled packs of her peers, coming to a stop behind one of the pillars of the colonnade lining the courtyard.
She sucked in shuddering breaths, trying and failing to douse her magic. What had she been thinking? For every
ounce of strength and skill she’d wrested for herself, this place stole it all in an instant. Rose gritted her teeth as fire licked at the soft hairs of her forearm. She never should have come back here.
‘Thenlif!’
Rose’s source cut off with a jolt, the cool breeze aching against her raw skin as she turned. A blur of dark plaid and gossamer hair stormed towards her, slamming into her soundly. Warm lips pressed against hers, familiar floral scents of orchid and musk swimming through her muddled mind. Sylvie.
Rose leaned into the kiss, her fingers tangling through Sylvie’s soft hair. All at once, every stray doubt, every fear simply vanished, like a flame snuffed out. Whatever poison these halls held, standing there, wrapped in the warmth of Sylvie’s arms, felt like home. A small smile tugged at her lips as Sylvie leaned back, brushing a curl from Rose’s forehead.
‘Gods, you’re a sight for sore eyes.’ The words fell softly from her tongue, yet anger lingered in her eyes – hot and piercing. ‘But what were you thinking?’
Rose’s heart leapt, words stuck on her tongue. Sylvie’s gaze held her as if in some spell. Her dark hair fell gently around her face like a curtain, tawny skin flushed. She hadn’t changed a bit. And for the first time that night, Rose was utterly glad of it.
She was still achingly beautiful. So fierce and fiery in her fury. Yet utterly reckless. Rose’s pulse faltered as the vibrant visage before her flickered, fading to Sylvie lying flat on the slab in the basement of the pub, skin pale and hair matted, her life slowly drained from her. Bile bit at the back of her throat.
‘Me?’ she spat. ‘What about you? You could have declined.’
Sylvie’s brow furrowed. ‘Why would I do that?’
Rose blanched. She couldn’t be serious. ‘Because it’s dangerous? If anything happened to you again, I—’
‘Is that what this is about?’ Sylvie’s eyes softened, but her tone lost none of its edge. ‘Thenlif, that was a year ago, and I’ll be fine. The Ashwood Tournament is rarely lethal.’
‘How reassuring!’ Rose scoffed, her eyes flicking away from Sylvie.
Even in the dim light, she caught their peers’ gazes sliding over to the pair of them, whispers and smirks running rampant through their vapid little cliques. Shameless, every last one of them. And yet, when she glanced back at Sylvie, there was a flash of something in her gaze as it flitted between Rose and the others. Humiliation. There and gone – almost imperceptible before it hardened into resolve.
Rose’s stomach sank. Was that why she’d done it? The judgement of their peers? No, Sylvie only kept herself on top so none of them would bother her. Yet maybe it wasn’t about what she wanted to prove to them, but rather to herself. That she was still strong; that even death could not quell her. Rose bit down hard on her tongue. That, at least, she could understand.
‘You don’t need to prove anything.’
Sylvie’s eyes flashed, then hardened. ‘Do you? You’re so worried that the tournament will be too much for me, but what about you? You can’t even—’
‘Can’t what?’ Rose snapped, the words burning against her tongue with a searing acridity. ‘Cast? Protect myself?’
‘I—’ Sylvie’s eyes widened just for a moment before her expression darkened. Crossing the space that had grown between them, she pulled Rose aside and lowered her voice. ‘Look, all you have to defend yourself is necromancy and fire source you can barely control. It’s too risky for you to compete.’
Rose recoiled. She was right, of course, but that didn’t make it sting any less. That Sylvie still saw her as helpless, unable to survive on her own merit.
‘And here I was thinking we might work together.’ She bit out the words through an empty smile. ‘But I suppose it’s too much to ask that Dunhollow’s star student share in her glory.’
Glaring up at Sylvie from beneath her lashes, Rose held her gaze a moment longer before turning on her heel. But Sylvie caught her sleeve, drawing her to a sharp halt.
‘Rose, wait—’
She whirled, words poised like poison against her tongue, when a black-clad figure stepped forth from the crowd behind them. Their gold-streaked hair caught in the light, their blue eyes dulled by boredom, even at this distance.
‘As entertaining as this is, perhaps you two could air your dirty laundry privately?’ Ewan sighed, waving a hand blithely at the students gathered round. ’You’re attracting flies.’
Rose almost rolled her eyes as they flashed her a crooked grin. As if she should have been graced by their presence. But she had no patience for it now.
‘Don’t worry.’ She yanked her arm away from Sylvie. ‘The show’s over anyway.’
Before either of them could utter another word, Rose turned and tore off down the colonnade. She brushed away tears as she darted past the library, heading for Crannaigh Hall. She wasn’t even sure her dorm was still there, but it would hardly surprise her. Nothing else in this damned place had changed, why should that?
She pushed through the dorm hall doors without slowing. Storming up the wooden staircase, Rose ignored the firstyears who practically dived out of her path. Dunhollow was nothing more than an ageing, festering rot, held on the edge of demise yet stubbornly refusing the inevitable fall into the
abyss. Anything that grew here did so from poisoned roots, even her and Sylvie.
Gritting her teeth, she blinked up at her dormitory door, still the plainest one in the hall. Shaking her head, Rose threw it open and then stilled.
She’d expected nothing more than dust and dark corners, yet the room looked almost untouched. Candles flickered gently beside her four-poster bed as she stepped inside, nearly tripping over her luggage. Straightening, she eyed the neatly stacked books within their shelves and the tidy desk across the way. Even her plethora of plants still hung, vibrant and ever growing in their baskets. As if some intrepid hand had wrapped it all in a preservation charm like some sort of shrine. Sylvie, probably. The thought brought fresh tears to her eyes.
Gently closing the door, Rose tossed her satchel down beside her dresser and sank into the warmth of her bed. Her sheets smelled of oakmoss and fresh linen, but they were soon sullied by the stain of her tears. Of all the people she’d expected to discredit her, Sylvie hadn’t been among them.
Once, she would’ve counted her as chief among her critics, but now? Rose sniffled. How quickly things fell back into familiar, rotten patterns. She’d travelled halfway around the world, and yet here she was, once again found wanting by her peers. Still weak, still strange. Still broken. Never enough.
Just like she wasn’t enough to save Fen.
Rose jumped as a tapping on her window jarred her from her reverie. For a brief, wild moment, she assumed it was Sylvie. But the thought fled as quickly as it came as she squinted at the feathered figure flapping beyond the panes.
‘Prea? ’ she gasped. It couldn’t be.
She should’ve been leagues away, released into the protected forests of northern Ir Taril. And yet, there she was,
staring back at Rose, head tilted as she watched her keenly. She darted over to the window and yanked it open. The little crow clicked her beak before hopping on to Rose’s outstretched arm and cawing loudly.
Rose flinched, but Prea’s form didn’t waver or sink into her skin now. She was solid and bright – altogether her own. And so alive.
Her mind spun as if she’d downed a bottle of wine. She’d done it. Her magic had actually been strong enough. Threads of source woven into life where none had been before. And it still had not faded.
Nor had any other life. Her heart leapt. She hadn’t stolen anyone’s life force, like Hollis had. She hadn’t even harmed anyone, besides maybe a slight headache on her part after the casting. And, if that was all it cost, then what else was she capable of?
The Spell of True Revival.
Setting Prea down on the windowsill, Rose scrambled over to her bag, wrenching the tome from its depths. The crow prattled from her perch as the book flipped open to the final page, almost of its own accord. But Rose didn’t slow at all, shuffling through the bag for her ingredients and settling them around her as the book instructed.
Amber on her right, to strengthen the bonds of life. Pyrite to her left, to ward away the cold grip of death. And Fen’s hair just before her, to bring him forth into this world. To bring him back. The only thing missing now was her.
Rose’s throat tightened painfully, her hands shaking as she reached for the tome. What if this didn’t work? Creating life like Prea’s was one thing, but what if she couldn’t return one? What if she wasn’t strong enough?
No. She shoved the thought away. She may not have been enough to save Fen then, but she could be now. She had to be.
Sitting back on her heels, Rose sucked in a steadying breath and sank fervently into the depths of her magic. It sprang to life almost instantly, silver light curling and coiling around her in shimmering strands. With one final glance at Prea, she placed her palm against the rough parchment of the tome, let her source seep into the pages, and cast the spell.
3. True Revival
A harsh pounding grated Rose’s ears. Distant and dull, it beat in tandem to the throbbing pulse at her temples. Her eyes fluttered open to dim daylight, and she found herself staring up at her mossy ceiling, her back pressed firmly against the cold stone floor.
Rose sat up with a jolt, blinking away stars as her head spun. She scanned the floor around her, littered with ash and scorch marks, her memory flickering dimly in recognition. The Spell of True Revival.
The incantation still sat heavy on her tongue, the stale stench of decay hanging over her like fog over a river at dawn. And yet, she was utterly alone. The bitter taste of bile soured at the back of her throat. Prea was gone, the window wide open, and Fen was nowhere to be seen.
Rose blinked down at the ritual circle beneath her. The lock of Fen’s hair still sat at its centre – singed and matted but nothing more than a lifeless remnant. Pushing herself on to her knees, she searched frantically for the grimoire. But all she could find in its place was a pile of ash. Her heart sank. The spell hadn’t worked. And any hope of recasting it lay shrivelled before her.
Rose ran her fingers numbly over the residue of amber, thick lines of soot crawling up her arms. The result of the spell backfiring, no doubt. Her throat tightened.
All that effort, all that time spent growing her power, and none of it had mattered. Tears pricked her eyes, but she
wiped them away with the coarse edge of her sleeve. The pounding echoed again, and her gaze flew to the door.
‘Rose?’ A muffled voice crept through it. Sylvie’s voice. ‘Are you in there?’
Shit.
Rose’s heart fluttered like a caged bird as she stood and brushed off her clothes. She couldn’t see Sylvie like this. Stepping back quietly, she cringed when her heel connected with the charred remains of her pyrite, sending it clattering across the stone floor.
‘Come on.’ Sylvie’s voice grew softer. ‘I know you’re still angry, but we need to talk.’
If only that was all it was. Rose groaned inwardly. She knew Sylvie wouldn’t be easily deterred; it simply wasn’t in her nature. And she was far too clever to be fooled by any paltry excuse Rose might give for her current state. An unfortunate side effect of their long-standing rivalry, she supposed. They knew each other’s patterns – every feature and every fracture of their facades. The truth could not be contained by any mask either of them wore. Not any more.
Cursing softly, Rose glanced down at her scorched travel clothes and then to her wardrobe. Rushing forth, she hastily grabbed a change of clothes and ducked into her washroom. Better to face the inevitable head on. She eyed her hiding place with a grimace. Somewhat, anyway.
‘Fine, come in,’ she called out. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’
Rose turned the tap of her sink with a squeak, running her soot-stained arms beneath the cool water. Vaguely, Rose heard Sylvie’s soft footfalls over the sound of the gushing tap as she entered the bedroom. A shiver skittered down Rose’s spine, and she scrubbed harder, until her pale skin was pink and mottled.
Risking a glance in the mirror, she grimaced. Her eyes were
a sunken mess, and her auburn curls lay flat against her head, frayed and frizzed at the ends. She’d meant to bathe last night. To wash off her travels and the strain of being back.
A snort slipped from her lips before she splashed water over her face. How naive she’d been, thinking all would go according to plan. Now all that remained of the previous night was little more than ash and blank memories. What had she done ?
Rose lifted her head, patting her face dry. She remembered Prea’s return, desperately casting the Spell of True Revival. But after that? Only flashes. The silvery light of her life source enveloping her, burning against her skin. Fen’s warm smile rising out of cool depths, and then nothing. Just shadows and smoke.
A wave of nausea rolled over her, and Rose steadied herself on shaky arms. She should never have cast it. Not like that anyway.
Ruining her only chance in a haze of anger and bruised pride. Fen’s only chance. She bit back tears, reaching instead for her comb. Though the pain of its teeth catching her curls did little to soothe her. She was lucky that the worst she’d done was seemingly knock herself out. Rose checked over her arms and legs as she removed her skirt.
Her hands and wrists were pink and raw, but by some miracle there were no scrapes or bruises to speak of. None visible, anyway. But her heart ached beneath the weight of old scars, wrenched open all over again.
Pressing her lips thin, she pulled on her blouse and trousers. There was little she could do about it now. Turning, she examined her reflection in the mirror, checking briefly for any fault or fracture that Sylvie’s keen eyes might find. Fissures that had been mended by her time away still lingered beneath the surface.
Rose’s skin was somewhat darker beneath the sun-kissed glow from the white-sand beaches of Belel, her nose and cheeks dusted with chestnut freckles. Her hair now fell just beneath her shoulders – a style that was all the rage in the salons of Tol Qilius. Even the blouse she wore was in the Salirellean fashion, a high collar that sat snugly against her neck, threads of silver weaving down the dangerously low neckline, almost to the high waist of her slim black trousers. It was a far cry from the oversized sweaters and gaunt visage she’d sported at the start of term last year.
But something sharp and shattered lingered in the whiskeybrown hue of her hazel eyes. Like a mirror that showed only dark reflections of the past. She sighed, brushing a curl from her forehead. It would have to do.
Bracing herself, she threw open the door. In spite of everything, her heart leapt, hammering erratically against the cage of her ribs as she caught sight of Sylvie. She sat upon the edge of the bed, staring out the window. Until she turned, and her amber eyes widened, rust-red lips parting in a small gasp.
Her ink-black gossamer hair coiled around a cream turtleneck, which cinched into a brown plaid skirt around her slim waist. Her tawny skin practically glowed in the dim morning light, making her look like some ethereal work of art. It was all Rose could do not to stare. For her part, Sylvie stared right back, her cheeks flushing as she looked Rose up and down.
‘Oh,’ she said finally. ‘Erm, hi.’
‘Hi.’
Rose ducked her head, staring down at the pointed silver toes of her black heels. How strange it was that for most of their years together being at Sylvie’s throat had been a familiar comfort. Yet now a few sharp words hung on the air between them like a sea of knives – cutting and impenetrable.
After a long moment of silence, Sylvie cleared her throat, her eyes darting to the floor. ‘Look, I – I wanted to apologize.’
Rose blinked in surprise but then sighed. ‘Me too.’
‘No, you were right.’ Sylvie sank back on to the bed. ‘I could’ve declined – should have, probably. The tournament doesn’t really matter to me, but when my name was called it felt like . . . I don’t know . . . a chance to prove myself, I guess?’
Rose bit the inside of her lip. That was something they had in common, she supposed. But Sylvie had never had anything to prove to anyone, save perhaps herself. And she could hardly judge her for that now.
Rose moved to her side, the mattress shifting beneath her. ‘You were right too. Accepting was impulsive, and I shouldn’t have.’
‘No.’ Sylvie tucked a curl behind Rose’s ear, the scent of her perfume lingering between them like a soft promise. ‘I think you should compete.’
Rose scoffed. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I am.’ Sylvie leaned back on her hands, staring up at the ceiling with a tired sigh. ‘This place has made us feel small for too long and always pitched us against each other. It would be nice to fight on the same side for once.’
Rose stared at her. How cruelly ironic it was that the moment Sylvie decided to agree with her, she realized the foolishness of her own stance. As if some petty deity conspired to keep them always at odds. But Sylvie had been right last night – competing would be more dangerous for Rose.
As much as she’d grown in her magic, any charge of necromancy would strip it all away. Besides, how could she hope to keep up with competitors who’d practised magic their whole lives when she had only a few paltry months under her belt?
She shook her head. ‘Don’t you mean “again”?’
‘Do I?’ Sylvie’s tongue caught between her teeth in a cheeky grin.
‘Regardless, I may not get a choice. I don’t think Woodstone meant to call my name last night – who knows if he’ll even let me.’
‘Yeah, he sent a summons.’ Sylvie held up a snarling slip of paper. ‘I found this chewing on your door.’
Rose’s stomach sank. ‘Oh.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Sylvie’s smile slid into a smirk as she leaned in closer, her eyes darkening. ‘Whatever nonsense he tries, I’m sure you can be suitably convincing.’
Rose’s pulse leapt as Sylvie caught her bottom lip between her own, as if her touch had lit a fire in her veins. She trailed kisses along Rose’s jawline, the tantalizing aroma of her perfume drawing her in like a fresh spring bloom.
She caught Sylvie’s earlobe between her teeth, eliciting a sharp gasp that sent heat pooling straight between her thighs. Her fingers tangled through Sylvie’s hair, and her lips dived ever lower, gently caressing the delicate flesh of Sylvie’s neck. And what a pretty neck it was. So soft and fragile. So easy to snap or slice.
Rose pulled away with a start. What was that ?
‘Rose?’ Sylvie’s eyes searched hers, her thumb grazing her bottom lip gently. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ She swallowed hard, pushing off the bed. ‘We should, er, go see Woodstone.’
Sylvie caught her hand. ‘Are you sure?’
No. The truth almost tumbled out, but she held it against her tongue like a bitter poison. ‘I’m fine – really.’
Sylvie stared at her for a long moment but said nothing, instead turning for the door. Yet, as Rose followed behind her, whispers of source reached out to her. Sylvie’s source. Those thin threads woven between life and death. How easy
it would be to snip right through them. Her pulse throbbed with an aching hunger. One clean cut was all it would take to silence those whispers for ever.
The ornate obsidian door of the chancellor’s office stared down at Rose – dark with jagged swirling edges carved along its surface, as if it had been pulled from the very depths of a volcano. She’d stood before it countless times, though it had always been her mother’s door then – as sharp and austere as she’d been: a towering threshold that hid behind it every dreadful memory her mother had left her with.
And yet, now it was nothing more than a relic. A reminder of what no longer was.
‘She’s not there any more,’ Sylvie said gently, as if she’d read Rose’s mind.
Rose startled, but then nodded. ‘I know.’
Though, somehow, there was a part of her that almost wished she was. That her mother still sat within, insidious and mesmerizing, her tongue poised with poison. How delicious it would be to tear it from her wretched mouth, leaving those vapid lips of hers painted red only with her own blood.
Rose’s pulse skittered beneath her skin, her breath catching in her throat as she bit back the brutal urge. It came from some dark part of her heart and crept out of her with startling acerbity. Some residual effect of her spell backfiring, perhaps?
She shuddered. At least, turned against her mother, it made a cruel sort of sense. But it did nothing to loosen the cold, hard dread coiling in the pit of her stomach.
Sylvie gave her a gentle nudge. ‘Ready?’
Rose squared her shoulders, shaking off her macabre thoughts. Whatever this strange urge was, she could do nothing about it now. ‘As I’ll ever be.’
Sucking in a sharp breath, she raised her fist, rapping her knuckles primly against the door. For a moment, there was nothing but silence, pricking the doubt taking root within her.
Then, finally, Woodstone’s voice rang out. ‘Enter!’
Steeling herself, Rose cautiously pushed the door open, then blinked at the brightly lit room. Gone was the dark panelling that had once held the space in an oppressive shroud, replaced instead by light maplewood, glimmering with a gilded glow in the dappled sunshine that flickered through the stained-glass windows. A charm, Rose was sure – even Woodstone couldn’t rid Dunhollow of its ever present clouds. Still, it made the space so warm. Open and welcoming, it was nothing like it had been under her mother’s tenure. No magical trinkets whirred overhead, no alarms and messages trilled from an overfilled calendar. Now the only sounds were the soothing lilt of flute music from somewhere overhead and the soft bubbling of a brook, as if one flowed directly beneath their feet.
It was utterly peaceful. And yet, just as false as her mother’s facades – nothing more than a harmless veneer covering sharp fangs. Rose wrinkled her nose at the sickly sweet aroma of caramel, a faint acrid stench lingering beneath. The signature of Woodstone’s magic, she assumed.
Her eyes flicked to the ornate desk at the centre of the room, where the man himself sat alongside Ewan and Soren. Rose faltered, drawing up short just over the threshold. Woodstone she’d expected, of course, but she couldn’t fathom what the other two were doing here. Soren flashed her a brief smile, but his eyes didn’t quite meet hers. Ewan did not even move from where they reclined in one of the chairs, a roll-up dangling between their fingers, a thin thread of smoke trailing up towards the arched ceilings.
‘Ah, Messeres Thenlif and Belliaris.’ Woodstone waved a
hand, calling forth two more chairs from the upper level of the office. ‘Thank you for joining us. Please, have a seat.’
Flashing a glance at Sylvie, they both sank slowly into the leather chairs. Rose’s jaw clenched as a platter of cloudy silver drinks swept in front of them. She took one politely but didn’t sip it. Whatever semblance of peace this place promised, she didn’t trust it for a moment. Yet Woodstone’s features betrayed nothing behind his amicable smile.
‘Well –’ Ewan’s bored drawl broke through her thoughts – ‘now that we’re all here, perhaps you’d care to explain why, Chancellor?’
‘Of course.’ His eyes shifted to Ewan before he leaned forward in his chair. ‘You’re here because last night, yours was the final name that should have been called.’
‘Should’ve been?’ Sylvie echoed, setting her untouched glass on the edge of Woodstone’s desk. ‘So you’re saying the selection was rigged?’
‘Calculated, Messere Belliaris – not rigged.’ A flash of annoyance danced across the chancellor’s features. ‘Messere Thenlif may meet the academic requirements to qualify, but her practical skill is still lacking. After consulting the tournament rules with Professor Sylverfir, we decided to begin by alerting all parties.’
Rose’s gaze slid towards Soren, but he avoided it. Was he actually working with Woodstone and his ‘calculations’? Why?
Ewan’s dark brows inched up their forehead. ‘So you’re still giving me the chance to accept or decline, even though my name was never called?’
‘It seemed only fair.’
‘And if I were interested, what then?’ Their gaze flicked to Rose. ‘The two of us would have to duel for the opportunity?’
‘No,’ Soren blurted out. ‘We were thinking a simple show of skill, should both parties be willing.’
Ewan’s blue eyes narrowed as they leaned forward, taking a deep draw from their roll-up. ‘Because the chancellor is hoping a little test of power will scare off Rose so he can quietly sweep his mistake under the rug, is that it?’
Rose almost snorted as Woodstone’s eyes widened. Clearly, he wasn’t familiar with Ewan at all, if their bluntness shocked him. More than likely, Ewan considered the tournament either a dreadful bore or a waste of time. Probably both. Besides, they already had power and prestige in spades; they hardly needed to fight for it, or the post-graduation opportunities that winning the tournament usually secured. All of that was surely beneath them.
Though that might not be entirely fair, Rose had to grudgingly admit. They had improved vastly after the events of last year if Sylvie’s letters were to be believed. Still a pretentious arse half the time, but an amusing one, at least.
Finally, Chancellor Woodstone frowned, tenting his fingers beneath his chin. ‘It is a matter of safety, Messere Elaegius. We cannot, in good conscience, send someone to represent Dunhollow unprepared for the trials of the Ashwood Tournament, and . . .’ He faltered, clearing his throat. ‘Well, your father made clear he wished to see you participate.’
Rose raised an eyebrow. So that’s what this was really about. Woodstone didn’t care about her safety – this was just a chance for the great Imrys Elaegius to ensure his heir still danced to his tune. Or to prove his own power over this place hadn’t waned. Why, she couldn’t fathom. It wasn’t like he’d lost any standing last year. Though the Order of Salix had been firmly dismantled after Hollis’s crimes became known, Imrys’s multitude of misdeeds had conveniently never seen the light of day.
‘I see.’ Ewan tapped their roll-up into the floating ashtray beside them, lips quirked in a wicked grin. ‘In that case, I’m
afraid I’ll have to decline the “honour”, Chancellor. The position is all yours, Rose.’
Shock rippled across her own face. ‘Er – thanks?’
‘But, Messere, you can’t—’
‘I think you’ll find I can, Chancellor.’ Ewan heaved themself out of the chair, tossing their coat over their shoulder. ‘Oh, and tell my father that he can choke on his wishes for all I care.’
Without another word, they swept out of the room, leaving a cloud of foul-smelling smoke and a thick silence in their wake. Rose blinked at the space they’d left behind, her mind reeling. She never thought she’d see the day they went against their father so blatantly. But then her eyes slid to Sylvie, who was beaming proudly, as if she’d been waiting for this moment.
‘So –’ Sylvie turned back to Woodstone, folding her arms over her chest – ‘does that mean Rose can compete then?’
Woodstone coughed, waving away the remnants of Ewan’s smoke. ‘I, well, that’s—’
Soren cut across him. ‘Are you sure you want to, Rose? You can still back out.’
Rose recoiled, sharp words dancing along her tongue. Did he truly doubt her so? His deep brown eyes met hers now, swimming only with concern, but she wanted none of it. What had been the point of him helping her cultivate her magic if he was so afraid of her using it?
‘Yes,’ said Woodstone, a wan smile pulling at his lips, ‘the professor mentioned that your casting has improved somewhat on your travels, but that your skill may still be . . . deficient for the Ashwood Tournament.’
‘Deficient?’ Rose’s voice inched up an octave as she rounded on Soren.
‘No, Rose. I didn’t—’
‘And the competitors from Maalstrum and DeVoil will be among the best.’ Woodstone got to his feet, gliding around the desk to lean against its edge. As if they were old friends having a chat, and he was not tearing apart her merit. ‘There would be no shame in retracting your acceptance.’
Rose’s skin prickled. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps he saw the truth she was content to ignore. That, for all the strength of her power, she was driven only by the need to prove a skill she did not possess. Like a child demanding praise for art that was nothing more than scribbled lines. Did she really think she could go up against the best the other academies had to offer? That she could contend with them when she had only paltry flames at her command and life source she couldn’t even use freely?
Yet there was a part of Rose that rankled at dismissing herself so easily. It was what she’d always done, after all. But she had survived without magic this long. Surrounded by those determined to keep her small and contained, she had scrounged and scraped for every ounce of power she now held. She had fought for it, every step of the way, and she wouldn’t let them cow her so easily this time.
Flames licked at the back of her mind, pulling heat from the air around her as they coiled at her fingers. Yet they did not burn her now. Did not sear or sizzle against her flesh. They were fierce, bright and altogether her own. Until the soft scent of red wine and worn leather washed over Rose, taking her back to stolen kisses and easy smiles. To the warmth of Fen’s embrace fading to listless limbs. To death. Her flames flared, hungry for every stray musing of grief, every ounce of rage her heart could bear. And they fled just as quickly, slamming into a nearby display case. It shattered with a great clatter, fire licking at its wooden frame and reaching all too quickly for the rug beneath. A cool blast of ice
doused them in an instant, but it did nothing to settle Rose, even wrapped in Sylvie’s signature of plum and lilac.
For a moment, the room was held in utter silence once more, broken only by the crackling of scorched wood and crumbling glass. Rose straightened, her eyes drifting slowly from the blaze she’d ignited. Sylvie’s face was almost unreadable, drawn somewhere between shock and pride, though the faintest stirrings of concern danced beneath. Soren’s, on the other hand, was crestfallen. But it wasn’t sorrow that filled his gaze – it was fear.
Rose’s chest tightened, her hands shaking as she tucked a curl behind her ear and turned back to Woodstone. ‘I think you’ll find, Chancellor, that I can manage just fine.’
Sparks danced within Woodstone’s gaze as it slid back to her, a twisted, insidious smile creeping across his lips. ‘Very well, Messere Thenlif.’ He stuck out a hand to Rose. ‘Welcome to the Ashwood Tournament.’
4. A Dunhollow Welcome
The arching heights of the assembly hall stretched out before Rose in a gaudy display. Elaborate chandeliers cascaded down from the ceiling, their dancing light flickering over the portraits and plaques upon the walls, paying tribute to Dunhollow’s most revered scholars, distinguished alumni and benefactors. A scoff burned at the back of her throat. It was little more than a vulgar show of pride.
A sea of her fellow fourth-years dotted about the hall, crowded together in haphazard clusters. Their excited chatter ran rampant, buzzing about as if the hall were full of bees. Laughter bounced off the soaring ceilings, but it felt empty and hollow to Rose’s ears. Still, it was rare to see her peers this excited about anything, and that it was due to something entirely outside their petty pedigreed cliques made it that much stranger.
They all waited with bated breath for the arrival of the other academies, preening like peacocks in their finest wear. Well, not full formal wear, perhaps, but their linen blouses were cleaned and crisp, waistcoats freshly pressed, and cravats artfully loosened. Rose rolled her eyes. It was all a game to them, she supposed. Maalstrum and DeVoil would only be bringing so many students, and any Dunhollow resident that managed to ensnare one in a romantic entanglement would likely get bragging rights for the rest of the year, if not for the remainder of their academic career.
Rose pressed a nail into the bed of her thumb. For all their
insipid gossip, there was a part of her that wished she was with them. Any other year, she would’ve been, jaded to the display and desperate to depart the charade. But now she was a part of it.
Doomed by her own reckless hand to play the role of proud Dunhollow attendee, Rose found herself trapped upon the grand stage at the front of the hall with Sylvie and Arden. The thought of it soured on her tongue. Sapphire velvet curtains flanked them, adorned with the academy’s crest, which was echoed in dancing patterns along the charmed stainedglass windows.
Beside her, Sylvie looked every bit the part – elegant and ornate with a dark starlit dress that skimmed her knees in shrouded wisps. A silver circlet crowned her head, dangling down in delicate jewelled threads atop the ink-black strands of her gossamer hair. Her full lips were painted a deeper red than usual and pulled in a strained smile, though her amber eyes were bright and alert as she watched the hall. She was beautiful and insidious, like a spider drawing its prey right into its web.
Her radiance was somewhat spoiled by Arden, however, who stood on Sylvie’s other side, looking like a walking advert for prospective attendees of the academy. He sported an extravagant silver vest that glinted in the warm light, but was marred by a garish blue-velvet sash across his chest, Dunhollow’s crest stitched into it. As if he’d elected to wear the curtains. A cruel smirk tugged at Rose’s lips. His orange hair stood inches above his freckled forehead, caked with foul-smelling pomade. Perhaps that was the reason for his pinched mouth and furrowed brow.
Rose fidgeted with the sleeves of her own sapphire dress. It was a remnant of the year before, but one she was loath to be rid of. Sylvie had always loved this colour on her, after all.