Page 22 of Heir of Shadows

His silver and violet robes shimmered with illusion magic, like moonlight turned into fabric. Every fold and flare seemed calculated to catch the light at the perfect angle.

But it was his familiar that drew my eye—a crystalline chameleon coiled around his shoulder clasp like a living brooch. Its scales shimmered with too-bright hues—acid greens, oil-slick purples, sapphire blue veined with white-gold. Its twin eyes rotated slowly, independently, like it saw everything from every angle and wasn’t impressed. It flicked its tongue once. The air around it rippled.

Even his pet was unnerving.

Next to him, Cyrus radiated heat like a hearth on the verge of becoming a wildfire. His formal robes were black and ember-red, embroidered with living flames that danced across his sleeves in flickering patterns.

On his shoulder perched a phoenix, still as stone, its feathers layered in reds, golds, and molten copper that shimmered like smoldering coals. Each breath it took stirred heat in the air, and when it blinked, a faint flare sparked at the corner of its eye. Its long tail feathers drifted behind him in a slow curl, leaving behind ember trails that vanished before they touched the ground.

He looked like a weapon wrapped in velvet.

Keane stood slightly apart, as always—half-shadow, half-regal detachment. His navy and white robes were deceptively simple, but the white seemed to absorb shadow instead of reflect it.

His familiar—the spectral fox—moved like fog laced with moonlight. Its body shifted with every breath, part translucent, part solid, its bones glowing faintly beneath its silvery fur like a ghost halfway through materializing. It circled Keane in tight, deliberate loops, pausing only to fix its galaxy-bright eyes on the space ahead. Its tail split and rejoined as it moved. Two, then one. Then two again.

None of them spoke. They didn’t have to.

Together, they looked like something out of a legend: heir, flame, illusion, shadow—and the familiars that matched them in power and precision.

And then there was me.

I tugged at the edge of my newly pressed green-and-black robes, which felt stiff and too formal, like I was wearing someone else’s future. I didn’t have a familiar perched on my shoulder, glowing or gleaming or trailing sparks. Didn’t have a centuries-old family crest. Didn’t have control.

But I could feel the wellspring beneath my feet now. The air here buzzed with it, thick with power—ancient, alive, and waiting.

And for the first time, I didn’t feel it pulling away from me. I felt it leaning in.

President Sprig took center stage.

“Distinguished colleagues and learners,” he said with a bow toward the front row, where the Councilors sat backed by their Shroud Guard detail. “Today we gather to celebrate the opening of another year under unprecedented circumstances. The presence of our full Council honors us, even as it reminds us of the challenges our magical community faces beyond these walls.”

Then he turned to the students. “Wickem Academy is more than an institution—it is a bastion of magical excellence, where ancient traditions meet modern scholarship. To our new students: You represent the finest magical talent of your generation, chosen to uphold centuries of mystical learning. To our returning scholars: Your dedication honors the legacy of those who came before, while blazing new paths in magical discovery.”

“You may notice additional Shroud Guard presence today,” he continued, gesturing to the guards stationed along the back walls of the auditorium. Their tattoos glowed on their necks just like Ms. Parker’s. “While Wickem’s wards remain strong, we take no chances with the safety of our students and the security of our wellspring. The Guard’s vigilance allows us to maintain our focus on education and excellence.”

His staff struck the stage with a resonant boom. The floating orbs dimmed. Shapes carved into the stage’s surface began to glow with blue-white light, and my power surged in response. I gripped my ring tighter, trying to maintain control as the dead things stirred excitedly in the walls.

The four of us glided down the center aisle as our names were called. My eyes scanned over the audience and the four seats filled with the Councilors. Lord Raynoff I recognized, his face a mask of careful neutrality. Beside him sat two people with Elio’s blond hair and perfectly polished image. The fourth chair held a dark-haired man whose blue eyes held nothing of Keane’s intensity. Was that his dad?

When we arrived at the stage steps. One. Two. The third step—the dead things in the walls were practically shrieking about the trap. I deliberately stepped over it, grateful both for Keane’s warning note and my spirits’ confirmation. I don’t know if I would have trusted him, if they hadn’t agreed.

The step creaked ominously as my robes brushed it. A ripple of magic shivered through the air, though its exact nature remained hidden from me. I caught Elio’s perfect mask crack just slightly, showing real surprise at my evasion. His familiar’s scales shifted rapidly through shades of warning crimson and violet. But when I glanced at Keane, the relief in his eyes was sincere.

“As is tradition, we begin with the Heirs’ Offering.” President Sprig struck again, and the stage split open, revealing a swirling pool of raw magic that made my breath catch in my throat.

The surge of power was like nothing I’d felt before—even stronger than crossing the school’s wards. Every dead thing in the building responded at once, from the mice in the walls to birds that had died on window ledges centuries ago. My awareness exploded outward as they all tried to manifest, drawn to that ancient energy. Only my silver ring, cool and steady against my skin, helped me maintain some semblance of control.

Cyrus stepped forward first. Fire erupted from his hands, but this wasn’t like his usual aggressive flames. Dragons of pure light danced over the raw magic, each scale perfectly rendered in shades of gold and crimson. For just a moment, I glimpsed real joy on his face as he commanded such beauty. His phoenix spread its wings wider, trilling a note that seemed to make the very air vibrate with power.

Elio’s display was pure artistry. His illusions transformed the air into living history—ancient witches raising the school buildings, battles against darkness, triumph and sacrifice flowing like water. Each image was crafted with such precision that I found myself leaning forward, wanting to step into those remembered moments. His familiar’s scales shifted through dozens of colors, matching each scene’s emotional resonance.

Then Keane’s portals opened like windows into impossibility. They cascaded around the stage like a waterfall of starlight, each one offering glimpses of wonders—distant mountains, strange skies, places that shouldn’t exist. But the portal’s edges seemed to fight against themselves— wanting to flow clean and silver like starlight, but something forced them into jagged, dark lines. The wrongness made my dead things recoil especially in the overwhelmingly pure power of the wellspring itself.

After he finished, I took a breath then stepped forward for my turn. As I moved closer, raw magic erupted from below the stage in a sudden geyser of pure energy that made the air crackle and shimmer. The ceremonial wellspring ripped open like a wound in reality, its power surging upward in ribbons of iridescent force. Ancient magic reached for me with invisible fingers, sending electric tingles across my skin and making my hair stand on end.

My necromancy exploded outward before I could stop it, the force of it nearly driving me to my knees. Every spirit in the building tried to manifest at once, drawn to that ancient energy like moths to an irresistible flame. The very stones seemed to exhale centuries of accumulated death magic, releasing echoes of everyone who had ever died within Wickem’s walls. My silver ring burned cold against my skin as I fought for control, its protective magic straining against the overwhelming surge of power.

Past necromancers stirred in the stones, their long-dormant energies awakening to join the deafening chorus of the dead. Their voices whispered ancient secrets and half-forgotten spells, a symphony of shadow magic that threatened to drown out my own thoughts. The wellspring’s power called to something deep in my blood, something that recognized this magic as its birthright, even as it threatened to overwhelm me completely.

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