Applied Magical Theory class was torture for Phantsin Dawnfire—worse than any beating he had ever received from Commander Brynja in the Crucible.
Unlike physical training, rough canvas clothing wasn't worn here. Everyone wore the elegant standard uniform of Arcanum Bellator: gray trousers or skirts, impeccable white shirts, and heavy black boots. Over this, they wore the black jackets that distinguished them. Phantsin's had fine red lines embroidered on the lapels and a tie of the same crimson color, marking him as an Ignis cadet.
The tiered classroom smelled of chalk, old parchment, and melted wax. At the front, Magister Selena Vyshan, the High Elf Head of Arcane Studies, paced back and forth.
"Magic is not a hammer," Magister Selena said, her expression icy. "It is a scalpel. The amount of mana is irrelevant if you cannot channel it with precision. Today, you will light the wick of the candle in front of you. Without melting the wax. Without burning the wick itself. Just the flame. Something very basic."
Phantsin looked at the small white candle on his desk. He slightly loosened his red tie, feeling as though it were suffocating him.
For the other students, it was an exercise in basic containment. For Phantsin, it was excruciatingly difficult.
His fire wasn't normal. It was the Void itself in disguise. It required all his mental willpower to create the "filter" so that the magic would come out red and hot instead of purple and destructive. If maintaining that filter already consumed all his concentration, asking him to also be delicate with it was nearly impossible.
Focus, he whispered to himself.
He extended his right hand. He felt the dark energy writhing inside him, eager to get out. Then he forced the filter, feeling sweat bead on his forehead.
Just a spark, please. Just the color red.
A drop of energy passed through the filter.
But the pressure built up in his mind was too much; he couldn't control it, and it erupted.
It was a kinetic burst of hyper-concentrated fire.
The candle didn't just ignite; it vaporized. And it didn't end there. The fire also blasted downward, piercing the solid wood of the desk and leaving a smoking hole the size of a fist.
Several students screamed, recoiling.
Magister Selena stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes locked onto Phantsin, cold as knives.
"Aspirant Dawnfire," she said, walking slowly down the aisle to his seat. "I asked you to light a candle. Not to destroy the Academy's furniture."
"Magister, I... it's just... the flow slipped," Phantsin tried to excuse himself, hiding his trembling hand.
"Magic does not 'slip', Dawnfire. It is the mage who loses control." Selena pointed at the door with a long, slender finger. "You are a danger in this controlled environment. Get out of my classroom. Do not return until you have learned to breathe before conjuring. Out!"
The laughter of the nobles echoed as he gathered his things. He felt his ears burning with shame. He left the classroom with his head bowed.
The hallway was empty. Phantsin leaned his forehead against the cold stone wall.
He was failing. It was too hard. The monster inside him was too difficult to control.
He needed a place to practice—a place where no one could get hurt if he lost control.
He started walking, moving away from the main towers until he reached The Grove, the domain of the Terra faction. Built into the cliffs, the immense glass greenhouse was a sanctuary of greenery and humidity.
The air inside was thick, smelling of rich soil and exotic flowers.
Phantsin entered, seeking out the farthest corner. However, he soon realized he wasn't alone.
Kneeling in the dirt in front of a bed of withered lilies was a girl about his age.
But she wasn't just any girl.
She was an Elf. The second elf he had seen today. This was highly unusual.
It was the first time Phantsin had seen her. The girl was an elf from Sylvanya, the Elven Kingdom. Her hair was a luminous silver, like moonlight, cascading in loose waves down her back.
She wore the standard uniform. Her black jacket, as well as her bowtie, featured details in a vibrant forest green—the colors of Resilience and Growth. She had dirtied her gray skirt kneeling in the earth, and a small yellow flower was tucked behind her pointed ear.
The elf was cupping a dying lily with her hands, channeling a soft, golden magic. The lily straightened, its petals regaining their color.
She noticed Phantsin's presence. Her emerald eyes landed on him, and her serene expression shifted into one of concern.
Phantsin was hyperventilating. His fists were clenched, and the air around him shimmered from the repressed heat.
"You smell like contained smoke," the elf said. Her voice was a soft melody, like a flowing stream of water.
She stood up, wiping her hands on her skirt, and approached him without hesitation.
"Don't come any closer!" Phantsin warned, stepping back and bumping into a potting table. "My magic... it's unstable. I could burn you."
But she didn't stop.
She walked until she was mere inches from him. She raised her hands—small but strong—and took Phantsin's tense hands in hers.
He froze. He expected her to scream in pain, for the heat of his suppression to burn her. But the elf's hands were cool. A lifeforce energy, pure and rooted, flowed from her skin into his.
Surprisingly, it was the perfect antidote to the Void. It was pure Life confronting the Nothingness.
"Your fire is fighting you because you're trying to lock it in a very small box," she murmured, looking him in the eyes. "Don't lock it up. Root it."
She tugged him gently until he sat on a wooden bench beneath an old oak tree growing inside the glass. She sat beside him, never letting go of his hands.
"Close your eyes," she ordered.
Phantsin obeyed without arguing, overwhelmed by the scent of jasmine and rain that emanated from her.
"Breathe with me. Inhale." She took a deep, slow breath. Phantsin followed suit. "Imagine you are a tree. Your magic is the sap. Don't let it pool in the branches. Push it downward. Into the earth. Let the soil absorb the excess."
Phantsin focused. Instead of pushing the purple fire behind his mental wall, he imagined it traveling down his legs and his heavy boots, flowing into the damp soil of The Grove.
The ground was immense. It could absorb it all.
Slowly, the trembling in his muscles faded. The constant buzzing in his ears quieted. For the first time in a long time, he felt peace.
He opened his eyes.
She was watching him, their faces only a few spans apart. She smiled—a small, comforting smile.
"Better, right?" she whispered.
"Much better," he replied, his voice hoarse, unable to tear his gaze from her green eyes. They were still holding hands.
However, they were not alone.
Above them, in the iron rafters of the greenhouse, hidden among the foliage of a giant vine, someone was holding back a laugh.
It was a boy, mostly human.
He was a Beastkin. A fox demi-human belonging to the Caelum faction, the faction of Mobility and Freedom. His messy orange hair partially hid two long, pointed fox ears that twitched at every sound, and a tail that betrayed his emotions. He wore his black jacket open, proudly displaying the black tie and dark accents of his faction. He had a sharp human face and orange eyes that always seemed to be calculating the value of a secret.
The fox boy had used his wind affinity to nimbly climb the rafters and ditch his own scouting class.
But this... this turned out to be much better than just taking a nap.
From his vantage point, the Ignis "Incendiary" and the gentle Terra elf were sitting together, whispering to each other, holding hands, and staring into each other's eyes with ridiculous intensity.
Oh, this is gold, the fox boy thought, a wicked grin revealing his sharp canines. He slipped silently along the rafters toward the exit, eager to sow the seeds of chaos.
Two hours later, in the Great Hall, Phantsin walked toward an empty table with his food tray, feeling lighter and more centered than he had in a long time.
The elf's breathing techniques really worked.
However, he noticed that something was wrong.
People were looking at him. More than usual, of course. Some students muttered among themselves and giggled as he passed by.
The girls at the Aether table, unmistakable with their blue bowties, covered their mouths, whispering as they pointed at him.
Phantsin frowned in confusion.
Barely had he sat down at the table when Korbin Ironfoot appeared, dropping his own tray onto it and sitting across from him. Korb's jacket looked ready to burst at the seams on his back, and he had loosened his green Terra tie in a scruffy manner.
The dwarf wore a smile so wide that his braided beard split in two.
"You didn't waste any time, huh, Fire Boy?" Korb blurted out, giving him an imaginary nudge in the air.
Phantsin blinked, bewildered.
"What are you talking about, Korb?"
"Oh, come on! Don't play dumb with me. The whole dining hall is talking about it. Rumor has it you were in The Grove making out with Lyla Moonshadow." Korb let out a hoarse laugh. "Some even say you were reciting poetry to her. Poetry! I thought all you knew how to do was grunt."
Phantsin felt all his blood rush to his face, lighting up his cheeks and ears like torches, rivaling the color of his own tie.
"What? No! I didn't... she didn't...! We weren't doing anything like that!" he stammered, his voice jumping an octave and shattering his stoic facade.
Korb leaned forward over the table, immensely enjoying the spectacle.
"Oh, no? Silas Vane swears by his fox ears and by all the wind in The Nest that he saw you two holding hands, breathing the exact same air, completely lost in each other's eyes."
"We were breathing!" Phantsin exclaimed, slamming a fist on the table in horror. "She was teaching me how to breathe! I had a magical panic attack!"
"Sure, sure. 'Breathing.' That's a new one." Korb gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder. "Relax, buddy. An elf from Sylvanya is a great catch. Elves are so unusual that you rarely ever see one. You've got good taste, brother. Though I didn't figure you for having those kinds of moves, Romeo."
Phantsin covered his face with his hands, wishing the stone floor of the dining hall would open up and swallow him whole.
Phantsin was a boy who had spent the last few years isolated, training to hide a demon, raising his little sister, and reading dusty books. He knew absolutely nothing about girls, rumors, or romances of this sort.
He peeked out from between his fingers.
On the other side of the dining hall, Lyla was sitting at the Terra table. Her friends seemed to be interrogating her, and her normally pale elven ears were tinged with a bright red that clashed with the green of her uniform.
She looked up, and her eyes met his across the room.
Phantsin looked away so fast he made himself dizzy, focusing intently on his mashed potatoes as if they were the most fascinating object in all of Aethoria.
"I'm dead," Phantsin muttered. "Magister Selena didn't kill me with her ice stare, but the embarrassment is going to finish me off."
Korb laughed out loud, toasting with his water mug.
The Academy's forge didn't just test the magic and strength of the factions. It also tested hearts.
And Phantsin's heart had just discovered that it had absolutely no defense against this.