CHAPTER EIGHT

The platform shook again.

Wind whipped across the open space, snapping coats and hair around like loose flags. The flames hovering above my palm stretched higher, flickering wildly as if they couldn’t decide what shape they wanted to be.

“Prime.”

Professor Elijah stepped directly in front of me.

Not beside me. Not behind me. Directly in front.

His body blocked the view of the cliff entirely.

“Tell me what you had for breakfast.”

I blinked at him.

“What?”

“Breakfast.”

The word came out calm and steady, like he was asking about the weather instead of the fact that I was apparently cracking the mountain.

My brain scrambled. “Uh… eggs?” One of the flames sputtered out.

“And?” he asked.

“Toast.” Another flame flickered and died. “Fruit,” I said weakly, and the last two flames shrank. One more vanished leaving only one remaining. Small. Steady.

Professor Elijah nodded once.“Good.”

His eyes flicked to the flame, then back to me. “Again. One flame.”

Behind him, I heard a student whisper something that sounded suspiciously like “holy hell.”

I exhaled slowly and lifted my palm again.

The flame brightened.

For exactly forty seconds.

Then my mind betrayed me.

Jake’s hands on Emma’s waist, Emma laughing, my mother’s mascara streaked down her cheeks, my father sitting behind his newspaper like nothing had happened.

The flame doubled, then tripled. The wind surged again.

“Prime,” Elijah said sharply.

“I’m trying!” Three flames burst into existence. The platform trembled.

Elijah pinched the bridge of his nose. “Miss Winter.”

“Yes?”

“Your emotional regulation is… catastrophic.”

“Thank you,” I muttered.

One of the other students snorted.

The rest of the class passed in a blur of controlled demonstration with earth students lifting small stones from the platform floor, water students forming thin ribbons of liquid in the air, fire students holding steady flames, and air students balancing spinning currents between their hands. Every single one of them managed their assigned element.

Every single one.

I managed chaos. Every time I tried to hold a single flame, something else joined it.

A gust of wind.

A ripple in the stone.

Once the water in someone’s flask lifted clean out of the container and hovered in midair like it had forgotten gravity existed.

By the end of the session, Elijah watched me like a scientist observing a dangerous but fascinating experiment.

“Miss Winter,” he said finally.

“Yes.”

“You do not have a control problem.”

I perked up. “Oh good.”

“You have an emotion problem.”

My shoulders dropped. “Less good.”

He folded his arms. “You are allowing human stimuli to bleed directly into elemental output.”

“That sounds… bad.”

“It is inefficient.”

The class ended shortly after that.

The other students left quickly, some throwing curious glances over their shoulders.

I stayed behind long enough for the platform to stop vibrating beneath my feet.

Then I walked back toward the main campus. Alone.

The courtyard stretched wide and quiet in the afternoon light.

Students crossed in groups. Laughter drifted from the staircases. Somewhere nearby, someone argued loudly about spell theory.

I stopped in the middle of the stone path without meaning to.

My lungs pulled in a slow breath.

Then another. Jake’s voice tried to push its way back into my head. Emma’s laugh followed, my hands curled slightly, and the air around me began to stir. “No,” I muttered. “Not now.”

I closed my eyes. Inhale. Exhale.

Build the wall. Build the wall, but footsteps never came. Still, I felt it when someone stepped beside me.

A shift in the air.

A sudden drop in temperature.

I opened my eyes. Lucian stood a few feet away. Not touching me.

Not even close enough to brush my sleeve. But present.

His pale gaze rested on me with quiet attention.

“You separate yourself from it,” he said.

No greeting. No introduction, just the sentence.

I frowned slightly. “From what?”

“The emotion.” His voice was low and even.

“Not suppress. Separate.”

He glanced toward the courtyard buildings.

“The way you would move a dangerous object into another room.”

My brow lifted.

“Still in the house,” he continued calmly.

“But not in your hands.”

I let out a small breath.

“That’s easier said.”

His lips curved faintly.

“Everything worth doing is.”

I studied him up close, the coldness around him wasn’t empty.

It had layers.

Like ice forming slowly over something that had once been warm.

“I’ve spent two hundred and forty seven years learning to move things to different rooms,” he added lightly. “I have some expertise.”

I blinked.

“You’re two hundred and forty seven?”

“Yes.”

“And you still look twenty five.”

“Benefits of poor life choices.”

A laugh slipped out before I could stop it. His gaze shifted slightly. Not warmer. But… aware.

“Why are you helping me?” I asked.

Silence stretched, and for a moment, I thought he might walk away, but instead he tilted his head slightly.

“I find your chaos architecturally interesting.”

I stared at him.

“That is a deeply weird reason.”

“It’s honest.”

I considered pushing for more.

Then decided not to.

Sometimes half answers were the only ones people were willing to give.

Lucian glanced toward the far courtyard exit.

Then back at me.

“Separate the rooms,” he said quietly. “And stop feeding the storm.” He turned.

Three steps later he was already halfway across the courtyard.

By the time I blinked, he was gone.

By evening, exhaustion hit like a falling brick.

I had just kicked off my shoes when someone knocked on my door.

Twice.

Then again.

“Prime!” a voice called.

“Open up before Imara eats all the food.”

I opened the door.

Sage stood there with a sketchpad tucked under one arm.

Imara stood beside her holding two overflowing trays from the dining hall.

“We decided you looked like someone who needed feeding,” Imara announced.

“Also gossip.”

“Also that,” Sage agreed.

They walked in without waiting for permission.

Imara set the trays down on my desk.

“You missed dinner.”

“I was busy failing at basic fire control.”

“Fun,” Sage said, already sitting cross-legged on the floor and flipping open her pad.

Imara handed me a sandwich.

“Eat.”

I took a bite.

My stomach immediately reminded me I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

“Better?” she asked.

“Much.”

Sage’s pencil started moving across the page.

“What happened in class?” Imara asked.

“I accidentally tried to demolish the mountain.”

She paused mid-bite.

“…You what.”

“It’s apparently an emotional regulation issue.”

“Shocking,” Sage murmured without looking up.

Imara laughed.

“What were you thinking about?”

I hesitated.

Then shrugged.

“Stuff.”

She didn’t press.

Instead she leaned back in the chair, kicking her boots up on the desk.

“You’ll get it,” she said casually.

“Everyone looks stupid in Control Dynamics at first.”

“Did you accidentally start earthquakes?”

“Only small ones.”

I laughed.

A real laugh.

The sound surprised me.

Sage glanced up briefly.

“Your room temperature hasn’t changed once since we got here.”

I blinked.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Her pencil scratched across the page again.

“Your elements calm down when you're actually comfortable.”

Imara pointed at the sandwich.

“Step one: food.”

Sage added another line to her drawing.

“Step two: people you like.”

I leaned back against the wall.

Blaze’s room flashed briefly through my mind.

The steady amber glow.

The quiet warmth.

I swallowed the thought.

“Good to know,” I said lightly.

We talked for another hour.

Imara did most of the talking.

Sage mostly drew.

At one point she turned the pad around.

A quick sketch of the platform from earlier stared back at me.

Twelve students.

A small professor.

And me standing in the center surrounded by wild spiraling flames.

“Dramatic,” I said.

“You are dramatic,” Sage replied.

Eventually they stood to leave.

“Sleep,” Imara ordered.

“Yes, boss.”

The door shut behind them.

The room fell quiet.

For the first time since arriving at Aethermoor, I fell asleep almost instantly.

---

The sky in the dream was wrong.

Yellow-green.

Sickly.

The field stretched wide and empty under it.

Grass bent in slow waves like something breathing beneath the soil.

A girl stood at the center.

Her back faced me.

Long dark hair moved softly in the wind.

Something about the shape of her shoulders made my chest tighten.

I tried to step forward.

My body didn’t move.

My feet stayed planted.

“Hey,” I called.

No response.

She stood completely still.

Then I saw it.

The scar on her palm.

The same one I had.

My throat went dry.

“Turn around,” I said.

Her shoulders tensed.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Like someone who had been waiting a very long time.

She began to turn—

I snapped awake.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

The room was dark.

Cold.

Too cold.

Water rushed loudly somewhere nearby.

I sat up.

Every faucet in my bathroom was running.

Full pressure.

The sound filled the entire room.

I stumbled toward the door.

The moment I pushed it open, icy air rushed out.

The mirror had frosted over.

So had the window.

Thin white patterns spread across the glass.

I stepped closer slowly.

The frost wasn’t random.

It formed a shape.

A hand.

A woman’s hand.

Pressed against the inside of the window like someone on the other side had tried to reach in.