The sky was deceptively serene—clouds trailing lazily across a blue canvas, the academy grounds quiet with the hush of a rare free day.
Most students took the opportunity to relax. Some played spellball near the south fields, others gossiped in the garden courts. But Aria wasn't "most students."
She stood at the edge of the eastern ridge—where the land dipped into a wild, untamed glade behind the main tower—facing down a circle of ancient trees long abandoned by staff surveillance spells.
"Seclusion," she muttered, rolling back her sleeves. "Check."
Nyra had groaned at the idea of "voluntary physical exertion," so Aria had come alone. Which suited her fine. The magic coiled beneath her skin had been restless all week—whispering of deeper wells, untouched layers. It was time to test them.
She began with a pulse.
Gold flared from her palm, flaring outward like a ripple in reality. The birds overhead scattered.
"Still too explosive…" she whispered, narrowing her focus. "Let's try precision."
She conjured a small orb—pure, condensed force—and flung it toward a nearby boulder.
The rock shattered.
Aria's brow twitched. "Okay. That's not exactly less destructive."
She shifted her stance and tried something she hadn't attempted before. Instead of launching energy, she bent her fingers, cupping the golden light inward—folding it, compressing it, layering thought and will like threads of silk.
A soft hum vibrated through her teeth.
The result: a floating sigil above her hand, not static but alive—swirling like a storm in miniature.
Her heart pounded. "That's… new."
Then the sigil detonated without warning—knocking her flat on her back.
A nearby bush burst into flame.
She groaned, coughing. "Okay. Note to self: compressed sigils need limits."
Still on the ground, she tried something smaller—a flare to see through trees, like a sonar. She visualized the terrain through the magic and let it flow out in a ring.
The forest revealed itself in golden silhouettes—deer bounding far off, insects glowing like tiny stars. A hawk turned mid-flight, startled by the pulse.
Aria sat up, staring at her hand. "That was… incredible."
She tried to laugh, but it came out half-choked. "And terrifying."
Then, a voice behind her. "Impressive."
She nearly jumped—until she recognized him.
Riven leaned against a tree trunk, arms folded, expression unreadable. He didn't say how long he'd been watching. She suspected it was from the beginning.
"I thought I was alone," she said.
"You were. Until your magic rattled half the wards along the eastern border."
She winced. "Oops."
He stepped forward, picking up a scorched twig and inspecting it. "You're experimenting."
"Isn't that how progress happens?"
He gave a half-smirk. "Sometimes. Other times, it leads to charred limbs and academy-wide explosions."
Aria stood, brushing soot from her trousers. "I'm fine. I just need… more control."
Riven studied her, then nodded. "Your magic is reactive—like a mirror. It bends, adapts, turns the world around it back on itself. You're not just casting spells, Aria. You're rewriting them."
That gave her pause.
"I felt it," she said slowly. "Like I could change the rules mid-cast. Reshape the magic even as it left my hand."
"That's a gift most people never touch," Riven said. "And it makes you very dangerous."
He walked past her, then stopped. "You'll need a sparring partner soon. Someone who can push you."
She raised a brow. "You volunteering?"
"I was thinking of someone less breakable," he said over his shoulder.
She snorted. "Coward."
He paused, grinned faintly. "Enjoy your explosions, golden girl. Just don't melt the trees."
When he was gone, Aria looked at her hands again. The gold light flickered at her fingertips, bright and volatile.
She breathed in deep.
Control would come. It had to.
For now, she'd settle for not blowing up the forest.