Genevieve's POV
Golden light streamed through the massive stained glass windows that stretched from the wooden floor all the way to the vaulted ceiling. The training hall always smelled like cedar wood and cold stone, with just a hint of something burned lingering in the air from all the failed spells cast by students who weren't me.
I stood barefoot on the chalk circle drawn into the polished floor. I was eight years old.
My grandmother occupied her usual high-backed chair at the opposite end of the room. Her ankles were crossed elegantly, hands folded in her lap as she observed me with that knowing look she always wore. Like she could see the future unfolding exactly as she expected it to. Like she was simply waiting for reality to align with her vision.
The other children were failing miserably.
