The chandelier hums above, light flickering like it’s nervous. Or maybe it knows what’s coming. Even the walls here remember. Stone soaked in spells, polished with centuries of power. Briarwood Academy doesn’t just breathe magic—it judges with it.

I’m seated at the edge of the Grand Atrium, boots up on the bench like I don’t care. Dorian’s somewhere behind me, probably flirting with someone’s familiar or getting caught in another glitter bomb spell. Typical. The headmaster—my father—had the courtesy to send a notice this morning: New student arrives today. Under your supervision.

Translation: babysitting duty.

Another legacy brat? Another half-trained elemental with control issues? I’ve seen them all. Hell, I’ve buried a few of their egos in the dueling ring.

But something’s… different this time.

The Academy’s wards have been twitching since sunrise. Low magic static that buzzes at the base of my skull like a warning. Even my ring—dormant for weeks—has started pulsing again. Subtle. But hot.

I glance at the tall oak doors across the atrium. Sealed with layered runes, reinforced with enchantments strong enough to hold back a minor god. They never creak. They groan—like the school itself resists change.

And right now? They’re groaning.

The doors begin to shift. A sliver of golden light spills through as they part, slow and deliberate. The air changes with it—pressure tightening. Something old wakes up. Watches. Waits.

Dorian’s beside me now. I didn’t even hear him walk up.

“They’re here,” he murmurs, eyes glued to the entrance. “No shit,” I mutter back, jaw tight.

I stand.

Every student lounging in the Atrium suddenly finds a reason to be quiet. Even the first years can feel it—that shift. A disturbance. A thread of something not quite woven into the pattern.

And then… they step through.

I don’t look away. I never look away.

Whoever she is, whatever she has been before this moment—it ends now. Because Briarwood doesn’t let anyone stay the same. Especially not when they’re placed under my wing.

“So that’s new student?” Dorian mutters, eyes scanning like he’s trying to read smoke. ”Her?”

“Seems so,” I answer, low and certain. My ring burns hot against my glove. And I know one thing for sure.

She doesn’t belong here. But the school—my father—wants her here anyway. Which means she’s trouble. And unfortunately for her?

I don’t mind trouble. I train it.

”Welcome to Briarwood Academy.”