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Chapter 14 Lessons of the Veil
Zamira's POV
The sound of chalk scraping across slate was the only thing keeping me awake.
Professor Miren's voice was steady and low, like she was speaking from the bottom of a well. "The Veil is the thinnest during winter solstice," she said, turning to the class. "Which is why any attempt to summon a spirit between worlds during this season must be… controlled."
I could tell half the class wasn't listening. The rest were pretending to take notes while quietly enchanting scraps of parchment under their desks.
Rosalith, of course, was the only one still paying full attention. She sat straight-backed beside me, sunlight catching in her auburn hair like Auttum. Her quill glided smoothly across the page — perfectly neat handwriting, each word careful.
I, on the other hand, was doodling in the margin of my notes — little spirals that turned into faces without meaning to.
"Zamira," Professor Miren called.
I froze.
Her pale eyes flicked to me. "Would you care to explain the significance of the Veil's breach during the last recorded eclipse?"
My throat tightened. I'd read about that once — or maybe dreamed it.
"It… caused a tear between the realms," I said carefully. "Half the academy lost their memories for a week."
A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Correct. And why?"
"Because the Veil doesn't just separate us from spirits," I murmured. "It separates us from… ourselves."
The professor tilted her head, studying me for a moment too long. "Good. But next time, try not to drift so far before finding the answer."
A few students laughed under their breath.
Rosalith leaned toward me, whispering, "You handled that perfectly."
"Barely," I whispered back.
She grinned. "Barely is better than not at all."
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After class, the bells rang — soft chimes echoing through the marble corridors. Students poured out into the courtyards, cloaks swaying, chatter rising like birdsong.
Qasratul Jinnan looked almost beautiful in the light. The glass towers gleamed with enchantments, silver runes running down their sides like rivers. But under that beauty, there was always something off — something too quiet, too controlled.
We had four lessons a day:
Theory of Barriers and Wards with Professor Miren.
Magical Ethics (which everyone hated).
Combat Application — though Rosalith and I were excused from the physical drills "for health reasons."
And History of the Veiled Realms, which was mostly just reading dusty scrolls and trying not to fall asleep.
By the second lesson, I could already feel a headache pressing behind my ears. My hearing aid hummed faintly, like static — which only happened when something magical interfered nearby.
"Zamira," Rosalith whispered as we walked between classes, "you're pale. Do you need to rest?"
I shook my head. "No. I just… feel like something's off."
"Off how?"
I hesitated. "Like the air is watching."
She laughed softly, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You say things like that too calmly."
"I've had practice."
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That afternoon, during History, something did happen.
The windows began to fog from the inside. Students started rubbing the glass with their sleeves, whispering. At first, I thought it was the cold. But when I looked closer…
Someone had written something on the other side.
"The envoy never reached Kvartor."
The letters were smeared, as if written by a finger pressed to the mist.
Rosalith's hand brushed mine under the table. "Did you see that too?"
I nodded slowly.
The professor droned on, oblivious.
But I couldn't look away from the window — because the longer I stared, the more I realized the reflection staring back wasn't mine.
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