The dining hall stretched wide beneath arched beams of dark oak, the air heavy with roasted meats, fresh bread, and voices tumbling over one another. Torchlight flickering across rows of long tables, which ran the length of the chamber, already crowded with apprentices in their plain uniforms. Cutlery clattered against wooden platters, laughter rising and falling like waves.
Sparks crackled at one table where a boy nervously twisted flame between his fingers, letting it gutter out before a steward's keen glance. At another, droplets hovered above a cup, trembling in midair before splashing back down. Further down the row, a girl pressed her palm flat against the wood, making ivy creep faintly along the bench before it shriveled at a hissed rebuke. Overhead, a draft of wind stirred when an air apprentice sneezed, scattering crumbs and candleflame alike.
The air itself seemed restless, humming with magic not yet mastered. Heat and damp and whispers of wind, all colliding with the raw nerves of a hundred apprentices too new to hold their power steady. The feast smelled of meat and bread, but beneath it was the faint ozone tang of spellwork straining to be contained.
I slowed at the threshold, breath catching. It was dazzling and overwhelming all at once. The flare of magic everywhere, the noise, the sheer crush of bodies. It should have been wondrous, but my chest only tightened. If even a festival back home had left me dizzy, this felt like stepping into the heart of a storm.
I wanted to shrink smaller, to slip unseen between the benches. Beside me, Rosalind only seemed to grow steadier. When she slowed at the crush of bodies, the torchlight seemed to sharpen around her, her shadow bending longer across the stone than it should have. I wondered if it was her unease, or if the fire had already decided to follow her.
Even in the Academy's plain uniforms, the divide was impossible to miss. Nobles wore silk that caught the torchlight, velvet trim stitched at their cuffs, while the rest of us sat in rougher cloth, hems already fraying. The room itself seemed to tilt with the difference, velvet gleaming against wool, polished voices ringing sharper than ours. The mix was awkward, jarring, as if we had been forced together but never meant to belong at the same table.
"Come," she murmured, brushing her fingers against my sleeve. A touch so fleeting, I might have missed it if I hadn't been waiting for it.
We found a space near the middle of the hall. I hesitated, shrinking from the heat of curious eyes, but Rosalind slid onto the bench without hesitation and patted the spot beside her. When I sat, she reached across the table, plucked a small bowl of sugared almonds from the spread, and placed it in front of me with the faintest smile.
Her fingers nudged the bowl closer. "You always liked these." Her voice softened at the edges, carrying something unspoken between us. Her smile was real, gentle and warm.
The words caught me off guard.
Warmth rushed up my chest, almost painful, because I remembered. Back home, when the harvest festival lit the streets, she used to press them into my palm before I could protest. Never taking one until she saw me eat first. It was her way. Quiet, stubborn care tucked into small gestures.
For a moment, the laughter dimmed to a distant hum, and suddenly another night rose in its place.
✧
Tap—tap—tap. Rosalind's knock against my windowframe, careful but urgent in the dark.
"Flora?" she whispered, grinning up at me through the glass. "Come on."
We slipped barefoot across the fields, muffling our laughter behind our hands until the lantern glow of the festival rose before us. The air shimmered with music and cider-sweet smoke. Dancers spun in the square, skirts flying like sparks, and we darted between them, giddy with the thrill of not belonging and not caring.
"Look!" Rosalind tugged at my hand, pulling me toward a musician bowing his fiddle so fast his fingers blurred. "Doesn't it sound like the stars are singing?"
I laughed, breathless, dizzy with the noise and light. At a stall, the woman selling almonds pressed an extra sugared handful into our palms.
"Go on, girls," she said kindly. "A festival's for sweetness."
We ate with sticky fingers, giggling when the sugar clung to our lips.
"Don't eat them all," Rosalind whispered fiercely, shoving half into my pocket. "You'll want them later. Trust me."
We raced through the crowd again, cheeks aching from laughter, ducking under tables, daring each other to steal apples from baskets left too close to the square. For that one night, the world had been ours.
Until we returned home.
Our parents waiting in the doorway, their smiles so warm, so perfectly gentle, anyone else might have believed them. They would have seemed merely concerned, their words soft, polite. But we knew the truth under the sweetness: Rosalind's mother's sharp eyes, already hard with disappointment; my father's silence, stone-heavy, his presence made worse by the absence of the mother who had left me long ago.
The punishments followed, as we knew they would. Rosalind's soft sobs muffled by a closed door as her mother's discipline left her marked and bruised. My own cries swallowed by the dark when I was locked in the basement, no windows, only the cold stone and the sound of my breath catching in the dust.
The next day, when my father was gone, I had curled against the steps, hiccupping apologies into the silence, whispering that I was sorry, that I was scared, that I would be good—
"Flora?" The whisper startled me. My head jerked up toward the slit under the door where light barely seeped through.
"You can't..." My voice cracked, raw from crying.
"Shh." I heard the soft rustle of fabric as she eased down onto the floor, her breath close on the other side of the wood. "It's me."
I pressed my face against the cold stone, tears burning my cheeks. "I'm so scared..."
"I know." Her voice dropped lower, steady, certain. "But I'll stay. You hear me? I'll stay right here."
There was a pause, then her whisper became softer, like she was spinning something only for me. "Do you remember what the old women said about the Circle?" Her whisper quickened, like she was sharing the best secret in the world. "They said its fire came from a star the gods dropped into the world." She gasped softly, as though the image amazed her too. "And it doesn't care about names or crowns. It only listens if you're strong enough. Even the lowliest could be chosen, if their magic burned bright enough."
I swallowed hard, wiping my face the back of my hands. "They don't mean us."
"They do!" she whispered certainly, as if daring me not to believe it. "You're just not dreaming it right, Flora. One day, we'll be chosen. We'll walk into the Circle together. We'll be mages too. And when we go to the Academy, no one will ever lock us away again. No one will ever make us scared again."
I closed my eyes, clinging to the sound of her voice. The basement walls still pressed tight, but for a moment, I could almost see what she saw. A hall full of light, our names spoken with respect, the world bent wide open before us.
"Don't cry, Flora..." she whispered. "Remember that... One day, we'll never really be sad again. We'll always be together okay?..."
And she stayed. Until her shadow blurred into mine, and the dark didn't feel so large.
✧
I blinked, the memory dissolving back into the present. Rosalind nudged the bowl closer. "Don't just stare at them," she teased gently. "Eat."
I smiled, my throat tight. Maybe she hadn't noticed the way my eyes watered, or maybe she had and chose not to say. It felt like her. Always giving me something to hold onto when I couldn't find it myself. It felt so much like the way things had always been.
The almond's sweetness still lingered on my tongue when the moment cracked, a voice slicing through the hum of the hall.
"They should really seat us apart."
The words slid through the hall like oil on water, spreading, catching light. My head lifted in spite of myself, just enough to glimpse the boy lounging in his silks, his velvet sleeve brushing coarse cloth as though the contact itself might stain him. Perfume clung thick in the air around him, his practiced smile sharp enough to cut.
"Nobles don't belong pressed in beside—" his gaze snagged on us, lingered with slow disdain, "them."
The silence broke on snickers. A girl with gold-threaded braids lifted her chin and added, "The Academy ought to remember station. Some of us have trained our whole lives. And then there are… peasants who only got here because the Circle pitied them."
The words weren't knives, not yet. But they felt like it. Gleaming, waiting to draw blood.
Heat flared across my cheeks. I lowered my gaze to my plate, hands tightening around the edge. Around us, other commoners shifted uncomfortably, some glaring, some staring down at their plates. The words weren't only meant for me, but they hurt just the same.
I tightened my fist around the almond, its sugared shell cutting into my palm, the sweetness curdling to bitterness on my tongue.
A few seats down, Liana shifted uneasily, her yellow eyes fixed on her plate. Her hand toyed nervously with a crust of bread, shoulders hunched, as though willing herself invisible. I caught the way her hand tightened when the nobles sneered. She looked how I felt: small, shrinking, pressed thin by the weight of eyes and words we couldn't push back against. She said nothing.
None of us did.
The hush thickened, suffocating. Magic trembled at the edges of it. Heat prickling from the torches, the faint stir of air rattling plates, the tension of a storm waiting for lightning. My own pulse drummed against my palm where the almond cut into my skin.
And then, at last, Rosalind moved.
She set her fork down with deliberate care, the faint scrape cutting through the hall like steel drawn from its sheath. The air pressed heavier in my chest, the torches flickering as though holding their breath, waiting. The noise around us faltered, laughter stilled—and for an instant, I swore the torches leaned toward her, their flames bowing ever so slightly with her words. Heat pulsed faintly under the table, as though her temper might kindle the very wood.
She tilted her head, a faint smile touching her lips, almost puzzled, as though she were the thought had only just occurred to her. "How strange," she said softly, her tone laced with feigned confusion. "For all your noble breeding, you sound afraid... Afraid that sitting at the same table might make you less than what you claim to be."
The boy stiffened, his smirk faltering as murmurs swept the hall.
His lips curled, fury sparking—"What did you—" His hand twitched against the table, sparks flaring briefly at his fingertips before his companion seized his wrist.
"Don't," one of his companions muttered sharply. The words died bitter in his throat, though his eyes promised they wouldn't stay buried for long.
The silenece spread outward in waves, swallowing laughter, swallowing whispers. Forks hovered in midair, conversations strangled in half-breaths. For a moment, it was as if the entire hall tilted toward her, pulled into the gravity of her words.
Rosalind's gaze did not waver. Though she wore no jewels, no crest, she sat as if the room already belonged to her. The silence bent toward her voice, and when it came, it cut clean through the air. Measured, steady, impossible to dismiss.
I pressed my palm hard against my knee under the table, trying to keep my body still. Part of me ached with worry at the target she painted on herself. But another part brimmed with pride.
I also knew the danger. Words like hers would not be forgotten. The stone beneath my boots seemed to hum softly, a steady thrum urging me to be calm. But my chest was tight, my worry fixed not on myself, but on Rosalind. I knew nobles carried grudges as easily as they carried their crests, and one wrong moment could haunt us for years. Still, she had spoken them aloud, and I loved her all the more for it.
Then the spell broke. The silence fractured, splintering into voices. Admiration from some, resentment from others. The sound rose and fell like sparks catching tinder: brief flares of agreement, quick snuffs of hostility.
A boy across the bench muttered a shaky, "She's right," only to duck his head when his noble neighbor shot him a glare. He didn't mean the words themselves so much as the audacity of them, the way Rosalind had voiced what others only whispered. At the far end of the table, a common-born girl gave a small, grateful nod, her shoulders straightening as though Rosalind's defiance had lent her strength. But other faces hardened, resentment smoldering in narrowed eyes.
Further down the bench, I noticed the girl from training. She hadn't gasped or whispered like the others. Her chin rested against her hand, her eyes gleaming with quiet amusement, as though she'd been waiting for this.
When Rosalind spoke again, the girl's lips curved, faint and knowing, like she had just seen confirmation of something she suspected all along.
"Besides," she added, her eyes wide and guileless, her smile soft as though she couldn't imagine she was saying anything dangerous at all. "I thought the Academy was meant to be neutral ground. If you claim otherwise, are you saying its legacy is worth less than your titles? That centuries of history bow to the likes of you?"
The silence that followed was heavier than any insult. It pressed against my chest.
Then—
The steward's hands cracked together, thunderous, breaking the spell. The sound unnaturally sharp, too loud. The air bending sharp around it until the sound boomed between the beams. Conversations snapped shut as though struck down.
"Enough!" his voice rang, layered with the echo of wind. "The dining hall is for unity, not division. If you would prove yourselves, do it by skill, not quarrels."
But the murmur didn't fade. It only fractured into whispers, some admiring, others venomous. I felt the weight of it pressing in, as if invisible lines had been carved into the stone itself.
And through it all, Rosalind reached for another almond. She placed it quietly in my hand, the same way she once pressed sweetness into my palm through the dark. A small gesture, almost invisible among the noise.
I curled my fingers around the almond, swallowing past the tightness in my throat.
She hadn't only defended me. She'd reminded me who we had always been, her voice through the dark, her hand at my side. Together, against the weight of the world.
Though I already feared how heavy that weight would become.
When the murmur returned, it carried her with it. The girl who had been watching Rosalind further down the bench rose with unhurried grace, as though the hall itself had been waiting for her to cross it. She slipped between apprentices with an ease that drew eyes without asking for them, gathering attention the way others gathered cloaks.
Where nobles swaddled themselves in jewels and perfume, she wore her wealth like a shadow: silk sleeves plain, cut clean, a single clasp at her collar. Enough to mark her as one of them, but not like them.
She stopped at our side, leaning lightly against the table, the other hand rested lightly on her hip. Her smile was small, amused, her voice smooth with interest. "Quite the display. Most people wouldn't dare to say half of what you just did."
Rosalind's smile curving faintly as she brushed a crumb from her sleeve. Her fork hovered lazily above her food, as though she hadn't been startled at all. "I only said what anyone here might have said," she replied, her voice light, almost clueless, as though she couldn't imagine her words carried any weight at all. Though the spark in her eyes suggested she knew exactly what she'd done. Her eyes lifted briefly to meet the girl's, a flicker of acknowledgment passing there.
The girl laughed, low and delighted, a sound that drew sidelong stares. "Anyone? No. You're something else entirely. Careful, though. Nobles don't forgive slights easily."
Rosalind's gaze shifted, briefly, to the clasp at her collar. "And aren't you one yourself?"
The girl's smile curved, slow, though her eyes gleamed like glass catching torchlight. "By birth. Not by choice." The words landed not as defiance, but as dismissal, as though she had no patience for being grouped with the rest of them.
My chest tightened. The way her eyes stayed fixed on Rosalind, bright and measuring, made me feel like I had slipped out of the moment. The almond still pressed in my palm suddenly felt childish, forgotten. Who was this girl, addressing Rosalind with such ease, as though some unseen thread already bound them? Was she ally, rival, or something in between? The uncertainty unsettled me, sharp enough to make my fingers curl tighter around the nut.
At last, her attention shifted to me. She must have noticed the way I stared, searching her face for answers. Her smile softened, almost knowing, before she extended her hand across the table, unhurried, fingers pale in the torchlight.
"Amara Fenwick," she said, the syllables drawn out like she was testing how the name sounded in my ears. Not boastful, not dismissive. An introduction heavy with intent.
Heat crept into my cheeks. I hesitated, glancing at Rosalind first, as though seeking her permission, before I tentatively reached out and brushed my fingers against hers. My hand felt small, awkward.
Rosalind's voice filled the pause, casual but gentle, her gaze shifted toward me as if to ground me. "We met in training," she said, her tone calm, but with a touch of quiet reassurance meant only for me. "Amara's a fire apprentice."
I nodded quickly, drawing my hand back to my lap. "Flora," I murmured, the word soft, almost tripping over itself.
Amara tilted her head slightly, as though turning the name over in her mind. Her smile lingered, a curve both amused and curious. Not dismissive, not knowing, only interested. Then her eyes slipped back to Rosalind, as if the two of them shared a conversation I couldn't quite hear.
For the first time, I wondered if Rosalind had found someone who could stand beside her without me. The almond in my palm felt small, its sweetness long gone, its shell biting into my skin until it hurt.
I held on anyway, the way I once clung to her whisper through the dark.