The Wand Selection Ceremony had come and gone, yet its echoes lingered in the halls of the school and in the recesses of my mind. The brittle Elyndra wand, its crack beneath the weight of my magic, haunted me. The stares, the whispers, the way the professors watched me as though I was a puzzle they weren’t sure they wanted to solve—it clung to me like a shroud. And though days had passed since that moment, the tension hadn’t left me. Instead, it simmered just beneath the surface, coiled tight like a spring.

  I had spent most of my time in the common room library, nestled among shelves that groaned under the weight of books both ancient and mundane. While others filled their afternoons testing their wands on the open fields or practicing spells with gleeful abandon, I had taken solace in pages of ink and parchment. The dorm’s library wasn’t vast but it was enough to keep my mind busy. Most of the books were dry, filled with rules, theories, or histories of the school, though there was little I didn’t already know. The Guidebook for First Years, as tedious as it was, had taken up most of my initial hours. It outlined rules both obvious and obscure, like those regarding prohibited artifacts, volatile potions, and restricted spells like curses and mind control.

  The weekend arrived in the blink of an eye. With it came a sense of release for the others, who were itching to step beyond the school grounds and into the bustling town below. For me, it was a chance to find something more—answers, clarity, control.

  We had gathered in the common room, all seven of us. The discussion was predictably loud and chaotic, each of them arguing about where we should go. The others reluctantly agreed, and so we made our way to the inn.

  Sera leaned forward, her voice calm but insistent. “There’s an elven tea shop in town. They serve brews imported directly from Lorien. I think it would be worth a visit.”

  Lyssa nodded in agreement. “It’s quiet, refined. Something we could all use after the chaos of this week.”

  Rowan scoffed, throwing himself into one of the worn armchairs with exaggerated theatrics. “Tea? Really? We’ve just survived wand selection, and you want tea? No offense, but I’d rather not sip leaves in hot water while contemplating my existence.”

  Sera raised an elegant eyebrow. “You might benefit from some contemplation, Rowan.”

  Rowan grinned, unfazed. “I’m more of an ale and stew kind of guy. Frosty Mead is where we should go. Good food, good drinks, and no judgmental elves sipping tea in the corner.”

  Lucas, seated by the window with his usual air of superiority, snorted. “Frosty Mead. Of course. Because nothing says celebration like eating slop in a run-down inn.” He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “I’ll leave you peasants to it. I have better places to be.” Without waiting for a reply, he strode out, his blonde hair catching the light from the nearby window.

  Rowan muttered under his breath, “Good riddance I would say.”

  It was Alina, as always, who found the middle ground. “Let’s just go to the Frosty Mead,” she said, her hazel eyes scanning the room. “It’s not fancy, but it’s not terrible either. And I, for one, wouldn’t mind something warm to eat.” Her tone left little room for argument, and after a few more grumbles, everyone reluctantly agreed.

  The Frosty Mead sat at the edge of the main street, its weathered wooden exterior illuminated by the warm glow of lanterns. Smoke curled from the chimney, carrying the faint scent of spiced stew and roasted meats. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of salt from the nearby sea, but the promise of warmth inside made us step forward.

  Sera hesitated at the door, her sharp eyes scanning the inn. “This is... quaint,” she said delicately.

  “Charming,” Lyssa added, though her tone suggested she wasn’t convinced.

  Rowan pushed the door open with exaggerated flair, grinning over his shoulder. “Just wait till you taste the ale.”

  Inside, the inn was alive with noise. The hum of conversation mingled with the crackling of the fireplace, and the faint strains of a lute played somewhere in the corner. Wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, worn smooth by time, and the stone walls bore the scars of countless years. At the counter stood Durin, the dwarf who owned the inn. His braided beard, streaked with gray, gave him a gruff appearance, but his sharp eyes softened when he saw us.

  “So, you survived,” he said, his voice a rumble. “Thought at least one of you two might’ve failed and run off crying.”

  Rowan, never one to miss a chance to boast, pulled out his ashwood wand and held it aloft. “Not only did I survive, I got this beauty. Told you it’d be a piece of cake!”

  Alina chuckled as she slid into a bench. “Piece of cake? If not for your countless prayers, you’d still be stuck on the written assessment.”

  The group laughed, even Valen cracking a faint smile. Rowan tried to argue back, but Durin cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Alright, what’ll it be? Got a new batch of Frostbrew Ale. Stronger than the last.”

  “I’ll take one,” I said, sliding into a seat beside Rowan. “And whatever stew you’ve got tonight.”

  The others quickly placed their orders, the table filling with idle chatter as Durin disappeared behind the counter. But my focus was elsewhere.

  “Where’s Sylvie?” I asked Durin before he vanished.

  He stopped mid-step, giving me a curious glance. “She’s around. I’ll get her.” His voice was gruff, but there was a hint of humor in his eyes.

  “Sylvie?” Rowan leaned toward me, his voice low and teasing. “What’s this, Einar? Got something to share?”

  I ignored him, though a small smirk tugged at the corner of my lips. “I just need to ask her something.”

  Before Rowan could press further, a shimmer caught my eye. It started as a faint ripple in the air, a distortion barely noticeable. Then, with a soft hum, the shimmer expanded into a tear, a portal that stretched like silk being unraveled.

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  And through it stepped Sylvie.

  She was small, no taller than a child, but her presence was anything but diminutive. Her emerald eyes sparkled like jewels, and her auburn hair fell in soft waves around her delicate features. Her wings, translucent and faintly glowing, moved with a gentle rhythm, catching the light as she floated gracefully toward us.

  Valen’s reaction was immediate. He leaned closer to Rowan, his blue eyes wide. “Is that… is she a fairy?”

  Rowan grinned. “She is. Told you this place was special.”

  Sylvie landed lightly beside Alina, her eyes sweeping over the group. When they landed on Rowan, they narrowed. “You didn’t fail, human?” she said, her tone carrying a note of mock surprise.

  Rowan flashed his best smile. “Not human. Rowan. You must’ve missed that.”

  Sylvie’s lips curled faintly. “I didn’t miss it. I just chose not to acknowledge it.”

  Before Rowan could respond, Sera leaned forward, her silver hair shimmering in the dim light. “A fairy,” she murmured. “I’ve seen your kind before, but never thought I’d meet one here.”

  Sylvie turned toward her, her emerald eyes sharp. “Ah, an elf. Didn’t see you there. And royal blood at that.”

  The words hung in the air for a moment, silencing the table. Rowan’s grin faded into surprise, and even Alina raised an eyebrow.

  Sera met Sylvie’s gaze calmly, though her light blue eyes betrayed a flicker of surprise. “How did you know?”

  “Your eyes,” Sylvie said simply. “Only royal blood of elves has those light blue eyes. They carry the blessing of an ancient beast. It still lingers in your bloodline.”

  Rowan’s mouth fell open. “Wait... She’s royalty?!”

  Sera sighed softly but smiled. “Yes. My father is the King of Lorien, and I’m the only daughter of House Evergreen.”

  I muttered. “You are a princess.”

  Lyssa smirked, adding quietly, “Not that she acts like one.”

  “Wait. You didn’t know?” Sylvie smirked at Rowan’s surprised face.

  Sera chuckled softly, her expression composed. “It’s not important. Titles don’t matter here.”

  Valen said in a concerned tone. “But, you’re a princess. Coming here without any guards, alone. What if someone attacks you.”

  Lyssa smiles, “Attack? Inside the school where one of the strongest sorcerers’ lives? Only fool would try something like that.”

  “Yes. The school itself is protection enough,” Sera said, brushing off the attention. “And besides, I have all of you, don’t I?”

  Durin had just brought the first round of stew and ale, his rough voice cutting through the noise. “That’s fresh, straight from the pot. If it doesn’t make you stronger, you’re probably already dead.” He gave a booming laugh, his thick hands brushing flour dust from his apron.

  Sera sipped her drink delicately, though her silver hair shimmered under the lantern light like liquid moonlight. “This is surprisingly… pleasant,” she said, glancing around the tavern. It was clear she had doubted Rowan’s choice of venue.

  “Pleasant?” Rowan leaned back in his chair, his brown eyes gleaming with mischief. “This place is paradise. What’s tea got that this doesn’t? Ale, stew, and good company. That’s all anyone needs.”

  Alina chuckled softly, her auburn hair catching the light as she swirled her tankard. “If you define ‘good company’ as someone who’s likely to get us banned from half the town, then yes, Rowan, you’re a perfect example.”

  Rowan feigned a wounded look. “I am a delight, thank you very much.”

  As the banter continued, my focus drifted. The bowl of stew in front of me remained untouched, the scent of the rich spices lost to the haze in my mind. The laughter and light-hearted conversation around me felt distant, like I was sitting in another room entirely. My thoughts, as they often did these days, wandered back to my magic. To the bolt of red lightning that had shattered the wand in the hall. To the way the professors had looked at me—not with pride, but with unease.

  Sylvie’s voice brought me back to the present. “You’ve barely touched your food, Einar.”

  I blinked, finally lifting the spoon to my mouth. The stew was good—better than good, really—but it did little to ground the storm in my chest. “Just thinking,” I said, my voice quieter than usual.

  Sylvie tilted her head, studying me. “Thinking rarely helps. Acting does.”

  Rowan leaned forward, grinning. “Oh, Sylvie’s giving advice now? Careful, Einar, she might charge you for it.”

  Sylvie’s gaze flicked to Rowan, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “You couldn’t afford me.”

  Laughter rippled across the table, but it faded quickly as Sylvie’s attention returned to me. Her voice dropped, quieter now, meant only for me. “If something’s troubling you, best to speak it. It’s easier to carry a burden when it’s shared.”

  I hesitated. “There’s something…” I admitted. “Can we talk in private?”

  She studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Let’s move to the other table.”

  Rowan frowned as I stood, but he didn’t say anything. Alina, however, gave me a knowing glance but remained silent.

  We moved to a quieter corner of the inn, away from the noise and laughter. Sylvie perched on the edge of her seat, her emerald eyes sharp and curious. “What’s on your mind?”

  I hesitated, then said, “It’s about my magic. It’s not like everyone else’s. Durin mentioned the lake near the forest. Said it might help me. But I need to know if there’s anything I should be wary of.”

  Sylvie’s expression grew thoughtful, her gaze turning distant. “The lake,” she repeated, as though weighing the word. “The energy surrounding it is powerful. Pure. It amplifies essence in a way few places can. But that kind of purity isn’t without risk.”

  I leaned closer, my voice low. “What do you mean?”

  She swirled the contents of her tankard absently, her eyes distant. “Your essence… it’s wild, isn’t it? Untamed like a newborn. The lake could help you control it, but if you’re not careful, it could just as easily break you. Places like that… they don’t care about balance. They amplify everything. The good, the bad, the dangerous.”

  “What would you do if you were me?” I asked.

  Sylvie met my gaze, her emerald eyes sharp. “I’d go,” she said simply. “But I’d go with caution. Your magic is rare like there is a part in you that is rejecting your other part. It’s not meant to follow the same rules as everyone else’s. But rare doesn’t mean invincible. If you go to the lake, don’t try to conquer it. Just don’t dive deep in it. And remember—power doesn’t come without cost.”

  I nodded, her words settling heavily on my shoulders. As she stood to leave, she glanced back, a faint smile playing on her lips. “You’ll figure it out, Einar. Just control the flow, don’t let it control you.”

  Her words followed me as I returned to the table, where the others were deep in conversation. The rest of the night passed in laughter and stories, but Sylvie’s warning echoed in my mind long after we left the Frosty Mead.