"No." Prismari's other senior mage taps a dark finger against their chin. "Do you make it a habit to lurk in candle flames during student critiques?" "Hello, Dean," I say dully, glancing over my shoulder. "Oh, cool down," says a voice that crackles at the edges. Nassari, Dean of Expression | Art by: Jason Rainville I'm unsurprised when, as soon as I clear the threshold of Uvilda's office, there is a whoosh and a flare of red light, followed by a squawk of annoyance. All except for one, which continues to dance. I knew something like this was coming, there's no reason for me to lose control. Or I'm afraid I can no longer guarantee a place for you at Prismari college." "You said yourself you have finished work. " Tomorrow?" The candles flare with my temper. "Bring me a completed project by tomorrow-" A side effect of growing up with no friends your own age is you have a tendency to address authority figures as if they're peers. "And out of respect for your mother and in deference to the talent I know you possess, I'll allow you a chance to redeem yourself." I sink into the movement, letting Uvilda's chattering about my family wash over me. The candle flames shudder again, dancing in the breeze. I'm the fifth."Ī Squallheart mage, unable to even finish a project. I want to tear it apart with my bare hands. My mother made it her first month in Prismari. A perfect replica of a snowflake, down to its delicate crystalline structure. My eyes are drawn irresistibly to one of the art pieces on display in the office. what, the third generation of Prismari students in your family?" "Your mother was an incredibly talented and delicate caster." Either Uvilda hasn't noticed my anger, or she doesn't care. "Things on your mind, emotional disturbances? Problems at home?" All the candles on her desk flicker with the displacement of the air, except for one. Her expression doesn't change, but her fins ruffle with annoyance. "Is there anything you'd like to discuss, Rootha?" Uvilda adopts a grandmotherly countenance. I'm expecting anger what I get is fathoms worse. "I don't have anything prepared for a critique, and I don't have a good excuse. Strixhaven campus is drenched with the taste of magic, but this building is especially pungent. "Miss Squallheart?" She gives me a thin smile. It's behaving oddly, flickering slightly out of time with the others. Beside Uvilda on the desk, one of the candle flames catches my eye. I want to tell her that I already know exactly what she'd criticize, but I know she'd find that impertinent. "Shouldn't you let me be the judge of that? That's what a critique is for." She looks pointedly at my jingling bracelets, and I force myself to let them go. "It's been almost a month since term began, Miss Squallheart." "You are the only student who hasn't yet applied for a critique, and my professors tell me that it's because you have, so far, failed to finish anything." She pauses, waiting for me to make an excuse. I want to enable you to do the best work you can here at Prismari College." "I'm not here to discourage you, Miss Squallheart. The dean just has a tendency to talk to people like they are complex magical computations that can be unraveled with the correct trigger phrase. As senior mages go, I've met much worse, sitting through parties full of my mother's friends and admirers, enduring hours of gossip and backstabbing and social climbing. I mostly wear them to stop myself from biting my claws. I fidget with the bangles on my other arm. "Indeed? Memory seems to be an issue this semester, doesn't it?" Just a single line of melody, repeating since I woke up this morning. "I don't think so." It's soft-a distant lilt I can't quite catch hold of.
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