A Lesson in Submission
"Welcome to Practical Sorcery."
The professor's voice echoed through the open-air dueling hall, cool and dispassionate as the wind threading between stone arches. Her robes were sharp, her expression sharper.
Elira stood among the other students, eyes fixed on the ground.
She hated this already.
Not the magic.
That part… strangely, it felt familiar.
But the stares?
The whispers?
The lingering gazes of noble heirs and spellborn prodigies who wondered why a frail-looking girl from a disgraced noble house was standing among them?
That, she could do without.
"We'll begin with a simple exercise," the professor said. "Defense against a direct hex. Pairs of two. One cast, one defends."
Simple.
Not when magic was more than just power.
Not when every spell was a performance.
A declaration.
And in this place, declarations were everything.
Elira didn't raise her hand.
Didn't make a sound.
Didn't want to be noticed.
So, of course—
"Veremelle."
She looked up.
"Pair with Lady Raventelle."
A murmur rippled through the students.
Celestienne was already walking forward.
Calm. Controlled. Impeccable.
Her eyes, silver and knowing, met Elira's with something that was not a question.
Of course it wasn't.
Elira stood opposite her now, a thin arc of magic already glowing between them on the dueling floor.
The professor gave no further instructions.
None were needed.
Celestienne lifted her hand. Deliberate. Graceful.
"Elira," she said softly, "defend yourself."
And then she attacked.
Not with cruelty.
But with precision.
A beam of binding magic, light-based and refined, split the air.
Elira barely raised her hand in time, murmuring a shield word she didn't remember learning—
And it worked.
Not just barely.
Perfectly.
Her shield shimmered like a mirror, reflecting the spell with a clarity that made the air sing.
Gasps echoed around them.
Even Celestienne raised an eyebrow.
But her smile—her smile—deepened.
"Impressive," she murmured.
Elira's breath caught.
She had meant to stay invisible.
She had just failed.
Spectacularly.
The professor called for the next pair, but no one was paying attention anymore.
They were watching her.
Staring at her.
Like they'd all just seen something wrong.
Like she wasn't supposed to be able to do what she just did.
And then—
Another voice.
Sharp.
Mocking.
"Oh? Lady Raventelle showing mercy already? Or did your little pet surprise you?"
Isolde.
Of course.
She stood at the edge of the floor, arms crossed, amusement written all over her perfect face.
"I wonder," she said, "how she'll fare without you holding back."
The professor frowned. "Lady Virellith—"
"Permission to test her defense," Isolde interrupted, eyes gleaming.
Elira's heart dropped.
"No," Celestienne said flatly.
"She's not yours to command," Isolde purred.
"She's mine to protect."
The two women locked eyes.
The tension was electric.
The professor opened her mouth—then thought better of it.
Too much power in the room.
Too many names.
"Enough," Elira said.
Her voice was quiet.
But clear.
Both turned to her.
And in that moment, Elira did something she hadn't planned.
She stepped forward.
Stood between them.
She didn't lift her hand. She didn't cast anything.
She just looked.
At Isolde.
At Celestienne.
And said:
"I'm not anyone's."
Later, she sat alone under the old ash tree behind the library.
Heart still pounding.
Palms still tingling.
"I'm not anyone's," she repeated under her breath.
Trying to believe it.
But even the wind didn't agree.
Because when she turned, there—on the bench beside her—lay a small black velvet box.
Unmarked.
Inside, a ring.
Silver.
Delicate.
Carved with runes of binding.
Elira didn't touch it.
But she felt the message.
Clearer than words.
We'll see about that.