I riffle through my papers, checking.
Professor Xanillir is supposed to be an Elf. A white-haired Elf.
The professor swoops around his desk and podium, turns to face us and the entire hall lets out a collective gasp.
He has the long hair and sharp features of an Elf. The gracefully pointed ears and silver eyes.
But he’s scaled. Completely covered in small, emerald scales that catch the lamplight and reflect back every shade of green, his hair a slightly deeper green than his shimmering skin. And the Elfin-styled tunic that peeks out from under his robe is forest green, covered with sweeping rune-marks that glow as if lit up from behind.
He’s one of the Smaragdalfar. A Snake Elf.
I look to Curran with confusion, but he’s busy gaping at our professor.
Snake Elves are mine Elves. Deep-earth Elves. Dangerous Elves locked in their underground cities by the Alfsigr, controlled with mine demons and pit dragons.
And I’ve never seen one. Ever.
How did this one get out? How did a Snake Elf come to stand in front of a lecture hall? In professorial robes?
I reach back and pull my cloak from the back of my chair, over my shoulders. It’s so cold in here.
“I am Professor Fyon Hawkkyn,” the Smaragdalfar says, his voice elegantly accented, his star eyes full of hard, searing light, a row of golden hoops pierced through each ear. “Professor Xanillir has resigned in protest of my appointment by Vice Chancellor Quillen. If any of you wishes to move to another section of this lecture, you may speak with the registrar.”
The Elves rise in one gleaming white motion and silently glide out of the hall, the entire left side now emptied.
The Snake Elf’s expression remains unflinchingly hard.
The Gardnerians murmur uneasily amongst themselves, shifting about before settling back down to attention.
Professor Hawkkyn’s star eyes sweep coldly over our side of the room. They catch on me and bore in. Recognition lights, like Bornial flint catching fire.
“It seems we have a celebrity amongst us,” he marvels, his mouth tilting with incredulity, his eyes tight on me with unnerving intensity. “The granddaughter of the Black Witch.”
An amorphous dread washes over me, pooling, and I’m overcome by the sense of real danger—something silent, waiting to bare its teeth. I pull my cloak tighter around myself and stare back at the Snake Elf.
“There will be no preferential treatment here, Mage Elloren Gardner.” The words are matter-of-fact, but etched in stone.
“I wouldn’t expect it,” I reply, my voice reedy from the hollowing cold. I glance at the stove closest to me, its red coals glowing hot. I can barely feel its heat.
The feeling of dread grows, like I’m being watched, even after the Snake Elf takes his eyes off me.
“We’ll begin with Section Four, gold alloys,” he says with efficient grace, opening the text before him as we all follow suit. “Beginning next class, I’ll group you according to Guild apprenticeship and tailor your Metallurgie study accordingly. We’ve groupings of weapons-makers, smiths, jewelers and a single apothecary.” His eyes flit coldly to me. “Mage Gardner, you’ll work directly with me.”
“Yes, Professor Hawkkyn,” I say, repressing a shiver, the cold and the dread growing.
He begins to write out a listing of gold alloys on the chalkboard behind him, and I ready myself to take notes, dipping my pen into its inkwell.
My pen clinks hard, the inkwell almost tipping over from the force, like I’m tapping on solid glass instead of thin black ink. Confused, I pull the inkwell toward me then rapidly let go of it, the glass so cold it burns to touch it. Alarm building, I lean forward and tap my pen back into the ink, a subtle rise of cold fogging up from the container in a small, white puff.
Frozen solid.
Curran’s watching me sidelong, his head tilted in question. “What’s wrong with your—”
The realization hits us both at the same time, Curran’s skin visibly paling.
Stomach dropping, going light-headed, I glance around, immediately focusing in on the young woman two rows back with the wide, vicious smile, a patient hatred burning in her stunning eyes.
Fallon Bane.
I quickly turn back to the front, heart racing, as Professor Hawkkyn’s chalk taps out a broken rhythm, a new thread of icy cold gently winding its way around my throat.
After class I leave quickly, giving Fallon and her ever-present military guard a wide berth. I notice Curran does the same, the two of us avoiding eye contact with her, treating her as one would treat a rabid animal. I’m uncomfortably aware of her ring of cold still encircling my throat, the icy chill not dissipating until I’m clear out of the Scientifica Wing.
Every step to the Mathematics lecture hall is filled with frustrated, trembling alarm that slowly gives way to a mounting anger.
My first lecture, and already Fallon Bane’s set me behind—no notes to study from, only what’s in the text and my memory.
Fine, you evil witch, freeze my ink, I seethe. Chill my throat. I will not cower before you again.
She can’t actually hurt me, I reason with myself. She’d be thrown right out of the University, and out of the military and promptly sent to prison. Using magic against a fellow Gardnerian is a major, major crime.
I grit my teeth and resolve to never slink out of class like a beaten dog ever again.
I’m still fuming as I take a seat in Mathematics, relieved Fallon is nowhere to be seen in the sea of young Gardnerian men, all of them blessedly civilian.
I breathe out a long sigh of relief when no one pays much attention to my arrival. My eyes light on the sole Kelt in the room, a young man two rows in front of me, his brown shirt in sharp contrast to our Gardnerian black.
He turns, and we both flinch as our eyes meet. His posture goes rigid with tight offense as he narrows his green eyes at me with fiery venom.
Oh, wonderful. The icing on the cake.
Yvan turns away and I drop my forehead into my hands, railing against my snowballing bad luck.
First Fallon in Metallurgie, now Yvan Guriel in Mathematics. What next?
I look back up and glower at his strong back, his hand grasping the side of his desk so hard, his tendons stand out in rigid cords.
I can almost feel the simmering heat of his hatred, and it sears through me like a fresh wound, cutting me to the core. Tears sting at my eyes.
Why do I let him rattle me so? I don’t care what he thinks of me.
An angry heat rises along my neck, and I silently curse him for his ability to upset me so thoroughly.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Gardnerian History
After Mathematics I doggedly avoid Yvan Guriel’s hurtful, scathing looks and scurry away to get to my History class on time, tired of being in class with people who openly despise me.
At least History is clear away from the White Hall complex. It’s a relief to be briefly walking outside, the sunlight warming my face.
I’m braced for more hatred when I enter the sunlit lecture hall built just off the Gardnerian Athenaeum—braced for ice magic and eviscerating stares and yet another well that Fallon has preemptively poisoned.
Instead, I’m immediately enveloped by goodwill—solitary scholars and convivial groupings slowly realizing who I am, blinking, murmuring and then blessedly smiling warmly at me.
It’s all Gardnerians here, no hateful Kelts. And no Gardnerian military apprentices.
And best of all, no Fallon Bane.
Every muscle in my body relaxes in relief.
The scholars are a mix of male and female, every set of hands marked with swirling fasting lines, most holding steaming cups of tea and snacks on small napkins, a long sidetable overflowing with refreshments interspersed with potted orchids.
It’s like I’ve stumbled off the battlefield and into a genteel party.