Chapter 4

NICHOLAS

Everyone’s eyes followed my pointed finger.

“Seriously?” Christian hissed beside me. “Of all the people you could’ve chosen, you chose that weirdo? Why not go for a fourth-year?”

“A third-year challenging a first-year?” someone behind me said. “Should that even be allowed?”

I ignored everyone, my attention fixed on the guy I’d just challenged. I couldn’t see his expression clearly behind his hoodie, but he stood in place, not reacting to the murmurs and looks around him.

Professor Thornfield cleared her throat. “Mr. Ashbourne, I don’t think it’s right to—”

“Why? He’s not complaining, is he?”

The strange guy said nothing. He seemed unfazed even though everyone’s attention was on him. Slowly, he started moving through the crowd until he reached where I stood with Professor Thornfield.

“It’s okay, Professor. I have no problem with it,” he said, those eerie, translucent eyes fixed on me.

I tensed at the way his cold, monotone voice flowed through me.

For some reason, he sounded just like…

I shook my head. No. Now was not the time to think about that bastard.

I glanced at Professor Thornfield as if to say, ‘See?’

She sighed and waved a hand. “Go ahead, then.”

I rolled my shoulders as water circled around my wrists lazily. The rest of the class gathered around us, eager to watch us fight.

I stared at my opponent. His hands were tucked into the front pocket, his posture loose and almost offensively relaxed.

He hadn’t even bothered to take the hood off.

I tilted my head. “What’s your name?”

There was no response. He merely stared at me from beneath the hood.

Then he said, in a flat, monotonous voice, “Does it matter?”

A few people snickered.

I smiled. Oh, this was going to be fun.

“It matters when you’re about to get your ass handed to you.”

“Okay.”

I blinked. That was it? No nervous laughter. No attempt to save face. Not even the usual foolish bravado first-years seemed to possess.

I glanced toward the edge of the hall where Professor Thornfield stood with her arms folded across her chest.

“Begin.” she announced.

I didn’t need to be told twice. Water rose from the channels carved into the floor, winding round my forearms before spiraling upward.

A murmur traveled through the room.

I was a third-year. My control was considerably better than that of the average student, and I had spent the last two years refining my combat techniques. Water was a versatile element. It could soothe, sustain, and heal, but in the right hands, it could be a weapon every bit as lethal as fire.

And I had very good hands.

I snapped my fingers. The first ribbon of water shot toward my opponent. Before it could reach him, I twisted my palm, and it froze in midair, forming hundreds of tiny beads.

I closed my fist and the droplets shot forward. They struck his chest and shoulders, the force powerful enough to make him stagger.

I expected him to fight back, but he merely regained his footing and went back to staring at me. Like he was asking, “What else have you got?”

I was Nicholas Ashbourne, heir to one of the oldest water-mage families in the kingdom. I'd spent years mastering my element, and this little nobody thought he could stand in front of me and act all arrogant?

Fine. We’d see how long that attitude lasted.

I spread my arms. Every puddle, every droplet on the ground, every thin stream winding through the carved channels lifted, until hundreds of shimmering fragments converged around me, gathering into a broad, twisting column that rose several feet above my head.

I could feel the water responding to the smallest movements of my fingers, every droplet connected to me as though it were an extension of my own body.

I drove my right hand forward. At the last moment, I split it into three separate currents. One swept low toward his legs, another lashed toward his torso, and the third arced over his head, poised to strike from behind.

A proper opponent would have reacted. An air mage, especially, should have been able to deflect the currents with a well-placed gust or create a pocket of compressed air to redirect their trajectory.

Instead, he stood there. The water wrapped around his ankles. The second current slammed into his chest. The third crashed down over his shoulders. He swayed under the combined impact, but that was the extent of it.

There was no counterattack, no defensive spell. Not even the barest attempt to evade.

My jaw tightened. “What the hell is wrong with you? Fight!”

He blinked but said nothing.

I stared at him. Was he stupid? Did he not understand the point of the Crucible?

Students came here to test their abilities against one another. To learn what worked, what didn't, and how to survive when someone was genuinely trying to hurt them.

He was doing none of those things. He was just standing there, taking everything I threw at him.

It was insulting.

I raised both hands.

The water on the arena floor surged upward, forming a spiraling mass that towered over us. I pulled the moisture from the air, drawing it into the torrent until it thickened and darkened, its surface churning with restless power.

Several people gasped. I heard someone mutter my name in awe.

Good. Let them watch.

I brought my hands down. The torrent crashed toward him.

This time, I aimed above his shoulders. The force of the water struck him like a battering ram, throwing him backward several steps. His boots scraped against the stone, and his arms lifted slightly as he struggled to keep his balance.

His hood slipped. Not entirely, but enough for me to glimpse a lock of pale hair.

I stopped the water just short of sending him sprawling.

He straightened slowly, and then he reached up and adjusted his hood.

He stared at me blankly. There was nothing in his eyes. It was as if he was looking through me rather than at me.

I hated it.

“Take that ridiculous hood off,” I snapped.

“I don’t want to.”

My fingers curled. I could have strangled him.

Instead, I lifted my hand.

A sharp current of water whipped through the air, striking the edge of his hood. The black fabric tore free from his head and flew across the arena.

It landed several feet away.

The silence that fell was almost deafening.

I stared at him and I forgot what I was going to say or do. Long, impossibly white strands of hair were gathered into a loose bun at the back of his head, though several locks had escaped to frame his face. Against his dark clothes, the contrast was almost unnatural.

Then there were those eyes. Translucent, icy blue. So pale they seemed to have no color at all until the light caught them.

I had seen plenty of strange things at the academy. Mages with unusual markings, children whose elements manifested in bizarre ways, even a fire mage whose flames burned an unnatural shade of violet.

But there was something about this boy that made the hairs on my arms rise.

“Why aren’t you defending yourself?” I shouted.

He regarded me with that same blank expression. “Why should I?”