I wanted to try to save Halven as soon as possible, but I was soon to learn that we weren’t prepared, at least not according to Isa and Veyn. Instead we found ourselves back in the Council Chambers just days later. For training.

The Council Chambers took on a new kind of heat during training. Not from the fire in the hearths or the torches burning in sconces, but from the presence of so many of us, every day, pushing our limits, testing the strength of our magic against something ancient and unseen.

Several days after our first meeting in these chambers, Professor Veyn had recovered enough to announce we’d be learning about his special Binding spell, practicing for several weeks first before attempting to save Halven. Apparently we needed the fundamentals of this Binding, anchoring our magic to nature, which didn’t make much sense to me. All of our magic came from nature—the natural elements.

Veyn ran the daily sessions like he was building a new world out of theory and pressure. He stood in front of us each evening, after all of our normal classes were done, chalk and charcoal smudged along his sleeves, a different map or diagram always half-formed behind him on a black piece of slate. The rest of us sat in the rising benches, fidgeting or scowling depending on how late it was.

He explained the core of Binding to nature in a way that almost made sense. You couldn’t just force your element into something. You had to listen to it, ask it, coax it. Nature responded to invitation, not command. But it worked better if one had a partner or others of a separate elemental magic.

Then with shared intent, the magic could bind better to nature.

Neir was also there. He spoke little, but when he did, it landed like stone in a still pool. Sometimes I caught him watching Rielle while she helped Veyn demonstrate a Binding pattern across the map etched onto the black slate. And sometimes, when he thought no one noticed, he looked tired in a way that magic couldn’t fix.

I stayed back the first two days, absorbing. Fire didn’t bind easily to many other elements. Now knowing what I did about my father God, I wonder if the other elements didn’t play nice because of Ignis’s history with his brothers and sisters, especially with the Sun God and Water Goddess, and those who sided against him after he destroyed Sygilla.

I said as much to Professor Veyn after five days of training when I made less progress than everyone else.

The professor responded with a slight smile. “Fire takes on the qualities of its master. Like Ignis, fire consumes, transforms, and rages. But under the right conditions, it could also sustain.”

He folded his arms, almost like he didn’t especially enjoy speaking ill of any of the gods. “Start by finding where fire lives in nature without destroying it.”

I tried coaxing my flame toward an old pile of iron scraps from a collapsed brazier. It flickered, touched it, and hissed out. Nothing else. I could melt all the metal, but I knew that wasn’t Binding either.

But then, I found something better.

There was a cracked line in the stone floor where moss had grown in from beneath the building. I fed my flame into that crack and felt it take. Just a flicker at first. Then Shara joined me, her copper aura joining mine.

“We need shared intent. Let’s light the moss with your flame but keep it from burning it.”

I nodded.

After that, we whispered our shared intent, and I let Shara guide me.

I nearly whooped for joy when the moss didn’t burn. It shimmered. Glowed. Held the heat in the green veins of its creeping reach. It was like my flame had found a way to live in the quiet part of the earth, not in dominance, but in balance.

I hadn’t even realized how wide I was grinning until Elio clapped loudly behind me.

Then Aster neared to glance at my work. And just like that, everything in me twisted.

She didn’t even look at me. Just drew the water from the air, from the veins of a vine curling near the back wall and wrapped it in motion so elegant it made the others fall silent. Her magic didn’t push or pull. It asked. And the world answered.

The confidence I’d felt just moments before turned brittle.

Veyn praised her. Briefly. She nodded, gave nothing away, and returned to the edge of the chamber without a glance in my direction.

I could still feel the heat alive in the moss, but now it felt like it didn’t belong to me.

The rest of the days passed in blur. More sessions. More practice. More watching Aster be the version of perfect that I didn’t know how to reach.

When Veyn called an end to the training session on Nonis 9th, he reminded us that tomorrow was Deveil’s Night, and we wouldn’t have any training. We were all expected in the ceremonial field to begin the Mourning of the Mists at twilight. “We walk through the mists, so the wraiths pass us by on Deveil’s Night as we begin the Descent of the Veil.”

Deveil, short for the Descent of the Veil. It was my favorite holiday because it reminded me that fire could grieve without losing its shape as told in the story, “The Descent of Brihiva and Acratius.” The lovers were both born of Ignis, doomed from the start, and still, they chose love over wrath. They made something lasting in a world that wanted to tear them apart.

I didn’t know if Aster and I could ever be that. We weren’t gods. We weren’t even whole most days. But the part of me that stayed lit even when she froze me out still wanted to try.

The night before the ritual walk, I couldn’t sleep.

I lay awake, thinking about the fire that clung to moss. About the way Aster moved like water had always known her. About Halven, frozen in magic and myth.

And about the spirits said to whisper through the mists on the night when the veil grew thin enough to break.

When twilight fell on Deveil’s Night, we gathered in silence at the edge of the ceremonial field. The sky wore its bruises in pale lavender and burnt orange. The mists had already begun to rise. Thick, enchanted, rolling in from the old stones that marked the border of the field, curling along the ground like the wraiths themselves.

Everyone wore dark cloaks and light feet, veils drawn over our faces in translucent gray, as was tradition. The air was damp. Somewhere behind us, a lone flute played a mournful tune. It was said that Brihiva and Acratius’s son, Ashar was the most accomplished flute player, who could move any audience to tears or laughter.

It was for Ashar that Brihiva first, then Acratius, descended into the eight hells to save their slain son, the God of Battle. However, not all of them could leave the hells. Acratius had to stay behind while his wife and son returned to the living, but on that day every year, the veil thinned between the living and the dead. The Descent of the Veil.

The night before the holiday, we celebrated with the Mourning of the Mists. On Deveil’s Night, we found ourselves with all our classmates and the faculty. We walked barefoot, as instructed, over the cold grass toward the ceremonial tree. Its bark was slick with moisture, and its branches reached like arms across the thinning veil. Supposedly, if we prayed hard enough, we could hear and see the spirits. We might even get to see our lost loved ones.

I walked alone. I didn’t look for Aster. I didn’t expect her to look for me.

But in the fog, every sound softened. Every shape blurred. I thought I caught a glimpse of her form across the field, water-laced magic barely contained in the air around her, but I didn’t follow. I stayed with the stillness.

And in that stillness, I thought of Acratius.

He was the god no one believed in. The weak one. The forgotten one. And still, he went into the depths of the eight hells for the ones he loved, to recover his wife and slain son. Not because he was chosen. But because he chose.

I wanted to be that kind of fire.

I wanted to be more than the kind of fire that burned bright when it was noticed or flared when things were easy. But also the kind that stayed warm in the cold. The kind that returned, even when the path was dark.

I knelt near the tree as the mists moved around my knees and fingers. And I made a promise, not to the gods, not to the veil, but to myself.

I would chase her until she said she didn’t need me.

I closed my eyes and let the mist pass over me. And in that moment, I swear I felt a hand on my shoulder. A warm hand, nearly inconsequential.

Maybe it was nothing.

Or maybe Acratius was listening, and he was rooting for me.