~Florence

  The class I’m most excited for, my first mage class, is the last one of the day. It’s a challenge to sit through all the other classes, where I am the oldest by far, but somehow I finally find myself outside an odd-looking door with symbols carved in it on the third floor of the modest Mage Tower on campus. Modest meaning, only seven floors instead of the usual thirteen. My teacher, Professor Elwyn Windemere, looks as if he should be enjoying retirement, not forced to teach a single student the basics of magic.

  He’s a small man—shorter than Elaine—with a large head of frizzy gray-white hair, casually tied back with a leather strip, dressed simply in a wine-colored tunic and dark gray robes. His long, frizzy beard is gathered in a carved metal bead that sits a few inches below his chin.

  He looks exactly how I would expect a professor of magic to look.

  “LaVelle, hm?” he asks as I walk in the door. “Not a big family for mages these days, are you?”

  The room is dark due to the lack of windows. There is a large area in the front of the room between the professor’s desk and the students’ desks, which are arranged in an ascending semi-circle.

  “What do you mean, sir?” I only know of the aunt my brother mentioned. Ursula Feiknagandr, living in Kirva and married to a "prince" of sorts there named Hágan Feiknagandr.

  “I mean, according to this—” he heaves an ancient tome up on top of his desk “—the LaVelle family used to produce several mages a generation. I don’t suppose you know what happened, do you?”

  “Sorry, I don’t.” But now I wish I did. I had never wondered about anyone other than my parents and two siblings, but there should have been grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins…unless father is an only child. And I don't know if he is or not. Looking back, it is rather odd that no extended family was ever brought up.

  “Ah, no matter.” He puts the book away with a whoosh and it disappears. “Now, put your things down and we’ll test your aptitude.”

  My stomach sinks—already? My heart starts thudding away at a rapid pace.

  “Right away? But, I don’t know anything, sir!” That wasn’t quite true—I had learned a few tricks from the books, but probably not near what I should know for someone my age.

  “That part doesn’t matter,” he waves away my protests with a wrinkled hand. “Especially in your case.”

  In my case?

  “What does that mean, sir?” I place my books, The Path of the Mage and Theorems for Beginning Mages, on the nearest student desk and stand before him, arms clasped in front of me. I get the feeling I might ask this question a lot in the future.

  “I mean,” he heaves himself up so he’s sitting on the front of his desk, “those twin clerics the king has stopped by and talked to me, told me about that mana-binding you had on you in the hellscape. Nasty business, that. Now, to begin with, you wouldn’t have needed a mana-binding if you didn’t have any mana, right? Right! Most mages manifest around adolescence—er, puberty, to be precise. However, you were…"

  “Cursed,” I provide.

  “Cursed,” he agrees, “and trapped in the hellscape, and whoever or whatever did that likely sensed your mana developing. They put the binding on you to prevent you from breaking the curse and getting yourself out of the hellscape.”

  “So this is why I had no idea I was a mage.” I narrow my eyes, frustrated at my ignorance. I might’ve been able to free myself—saving myself from years of agony! “The clerics could have mentioned something about it after they had freed me.”

  “They thought you already knew,” the professor tells me, his kind, sage green eyes softening the anger I feel. “To be fair, most child mages exhibit at least some signs before manifestation, but not all do. Now, shall we see what you’re capable of?”

  Professor Windemere raises his hands and I immediately break out into familiar pins and needles down my arms, all the way to my fingertips. The debut!

  “Sir!" I shout, "I think I ought to mention that I accidentally, I think it’s called teleported, at my debut…in case it happens again." Dread starts to creep into my stomach.

  “Oh.” He lowers his hands and cocks his head to the side. “I don’t get one of you very often...hmm...hmmm!”

  My hands buzz briefly, then stop.

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  He hops off the desk and stands before me, only a few inches taller. Bringing up one hand to his face, he begins to stroke his beard as he looks at me, critically, then slowly walks a circle around me. Then, I feel a gentle tingle surrounding me, like the charged air of an electrical storm. A hum of static instead of the swarm of angry, buzzing bees.

  “Ah. Yes,” he finally says, standing in front of me once more. “You’ll have to forgive me, child—I was already keen to teach someone as interesting as you, but to find out you’re also Battle Class potential…hm, this is exciting.” He continues to stroke his beard as he looks at me. “Exciting, indeed…!”

  “Battle…Class?” I ask. Battle Class? Me!? I hope it doesn't mean what I think it means.

  “Ho ho ho,” Professor Windemere grabs my shoulders and gently rocks me back and forth. This time, I do feel a buzz where his hands touch me. “Child, you should be excited, too! What say you to throwing out the curriculum and focusing on what’s really important? Hm?”

  Throw out the curriculum!? But…

  “But won’t I be tested on the curriculum?” Isn’t that why I’m here? To learn what I can in class and then pass the exams as quickly as possible?

  “My dear child, who do you think will be the one testing you?” his eyes twinkle. “That would be me. You pass! Ho ho, this is so exciting. Ah! Ah… We’ll need a different classroom…hmm…”

  Parchment and a pen pop out of the air and Professor Windemere begins writing a letter.

  Battle Class.

  My mind wanders as the scritch of the quill continues, as the professor mutters to himself about “practice dummies” and “levitation” and “containment”...

  Did the king know this about me? Did the mages tell him?

  Anger flares within me, followed by a deeper wound of betrayal. Why would they keep such a thing from me if they knew? And if the king knows…he probably wants to use me. But he doesn’t know I already have a contract in place with another person. Then again, that probably doesn’t matter—I’m guessing any Order of the King would supersede the agreement I have with Sir Thorne.

  I sigh and bury my head in my arms on the desk. It has been a long day and it feels like…it feels like I am drifting helplessly along a powerful current. I knew things would change quickly, especially once my own plans were put into motion, but now they are drifting out of my control.

  The name “Battle Mage” obviously makes it sound like they would be sent into battle. Will I be sent off to war, too? Will I be made to kill the king’s enemies?

  I shiver.

  I’ve only ever wanted to learn how to defend myself. Learning how to kill others for the sake of winning a battle…that isn’t at all why I’m here.

  Please, I beg, squeezing my eyes shut, please let me live my life in peace.

  I don’t know to whom I’m begging—Saint Dora, the King, or even my enthusiastic professor—I have only just started getting my life back. The very last thing I want is to see it wrested out of my control again.

  Professor Windemere seems kind enough. Perhaps he will take my wishes into account.

  And…maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to learn how to fight with my mana while learning to fight with my fists.

  With the frustrating realization that I will have to tread just as carefully here as every other area of my life, my first day of classes comes to an end.

  ????

  ~Lady Charlotte Liptoff

  “I have the best idea, Lady Charlotte!” Lady Ruby contributed excitedly in their parlor. They were planning the same tea party that they had asked Lady Florence LaVelle to attend. “We should invite Sir Vester Tyrell!”

  The two other ladies present, Lady Charlotte and Lady Pearl, gasped—Pearl because she was shocked at the suggestion and Charlotte because she couldn't believe she hadn't thought of that herself.

  “Why, Ruby,” her sister Pearl admonished playfully, “that’s awfully…considerate of you to propose providing him an opportunity to apologize to Lady Florence. I’m surprised we didn’t think of it sooner! What do you say, Lady Charlotte?”

  Lady Charlotte Liptoff made a point of looking thoughtful, as if she were actually considering the implications, when in reality she’d immediately decided it was an excellent idea, as if it were her own. The potential for drama was high...and everybody loved a little drama. It was practically expected as part of the entertainment, honestly.

  “I agree,” she said, taking a sip of tea. “It’s only right we provide an opportunity for them to reconcile.”

  And what better way than with the love and support of all their dear friends?

  Her mind wandered back to the scene at Lady Florence's debut that had been all anyone could talk about for weeks—a drunk Sir Vester Tyrell (as if he were ever anything but drunk at the parties he attended...) shamelessly walking up to Lady Florence, a lady to whom he had never formally been introduced, and ripping off her wig with all the vulgarity of a rogue. It had happened right in front of Lady Charlotte.

  She'd screamed, obviously, mostly from it being completely unexpected. But after recovering from the initial shock, she'd seen everything else unfold.

  Needless to say, if anyone had needed details of what had happened that night, they knew who to turn to—discreetly, of course. Duke LaVelle's threat was not without merit, but she doubted very much that he could actually prove any rumors might have originated from her, specifically.

  It would be terribly unfortunate if some new scandal were to erupt at her tea party, especially when she was putting so much thought into the atmosphere and guest list. Alas, there is only so much a lady can do.

  Oh, dear, not the drama! Anything but that!