Chapter 7

Embers and Echoes

I woke curled at the base of the orchard’s oldest tree, the rough bark against my back grounding me in a way no pillow ever had. The branches above stretched like ancient arms, silver leaves shivering gently in the breeze. A hum of magic still pulsed beneath my palms, subtle but steady, as if the tree itself had watched over me while I slept.

My uniform was damp with dew, and my limbs ached, but I didn’t care. For the first time in what felt like forever, I hadn’t woken from a nightmare. No phantom screams. No echo of Alpha Dalton’s voice. No searing pain down my spine.

Just breath.

Just quiet.

I sat up slowly and rested my palm against the moss-covered roots. “Thank you,” I whispered, unsure if I was thanking the tree, the land, or something else entirely. Maybe all of it.

The orchard rustled in response. Maybe it was just wind.

Maybe it wasn’t.

I stood and stretched, feeling the strain of yesterday’s training settle deep in my bones. Every muscle throbbed, but beneath the soreness was something sharper, something alive. It wasn’t just physical exhaustion; it was like I’d peeled a layer off myself and what was underneath still stung in the open air.

As I trudged back toward the main building, morning light began to spill across the academy grounds. The spires of Duskmoor cut into the dawn sky, casting long shadows that moved like reaching fingers. Students began emerging from dormitories, their voices soft, their laughter low. A few passed me with curious glances. Some avoided looking at me altogether.

It didn’t matter. I wasn’t here for them.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

When I reached my dorm room, something was wedged beneath the door. I bent down and picked it up. A single sheet of parchment folded into thirds, sealed with an unfamiliar wax sigil—two wings crossed behind a crescent flame.

My stomach dropped.

Miss Bennett, the note read in precise, elegant script. You have been summoned to Headmistress Valeblade’s office at midday. Please arrive promptly.

My hands trembled slightly as I folded the note back into place.

Headmistress Valeblade.

I’d heard her name only in whispers, among older students and faculty. Part witch, part fae, and something more. The stories said she could see through walls. That she’d once silenced a rebellion with a single word. That if she looked into your soul, you’d never be the same again.

So why me?

Why now?

I tossed the parchment onto my desk and tried to shake the dread pooling in my chest. I still had classes to survive.

Spellcasting went better than the day before, which wasn’t saying much. At least this time I didn’t explode anything. Professor Idrien still watched me closely, though, as if waiting for a reason to hit the emergency sigils again.

In Magical Ethics, I could barely concentrate. The lesson was something about the role of enchantment law in cross-realm trade negotiations, but the words slid right through me. I kept feeling eyes on me, sharp, skeptical, suspicious. No one said anything. They didn’t have to. The silence spoke volumes.

Naomi found me outside the lecture hall, balancing a cup of something warm on her palm. Her eyes narrowed the moment she saw me.

“Okay,” she said. “You’ve got that face again.”

“What face?”

“The face that says you’ve either discovered a buried family secret or you’re two seconds from lighting something on fire.”

I sighed and held out the note.

She read it quickly, then whistled low. “Valeblade? That’s either very good or very, very bad.”

“Comforting.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. I think.”

She handed the note back. “Well, if she starts trying to peel your soul open, blink twice and I’ll find a distraction.”

I raised a brow. “You’d challenge the Headmistress?”

“No,” Naomi said, grinning. “But I’d definitely run in screaming about a magical rat in the greenhouse to give you time to bolt.”

I laughed, really laughed, for the first time in days.

We parted ways at the courtyard fountain. I didn’t tell her how my hands were shaking again. Or how my magic kept twitching beneath my skin, like it knew something was coming.

At exactly noon, I stood before a door that felt more like a threshold.

The entrance to Headmistress Valeblade’s office was carved from obsidian, veined with silver runes that shimmered when I stepped close. I raised a hand to knock, but before my fingers could reach the brass raven-shaped knocker, the door creaked open by itself.

Of course it did.

The room beyond was not what I expected.

Warm sunlight poured through a massive arched window, illuminating polished stone floors and walls lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves. Books pulsed with enchantments. Strange magical artifacts hovered in suspended glass orbits. A globe spun slowly in the center of the room, etched with constellations that shifted as I stared.

And at the far end of the room sat the Headmistress.

She was regal, draped in a flowing black coat embroidered with constellations that shimmered as if alive. Her hair, long and silver as moonlight, was braided down one shoulder. Her eyes were sharp, steel-gray, and so still they made my spine straighten.

“Miss Bennett,” she said. Her voice was velvet over stone. “Come in.”

I stepped forward, every nerve in my body alert.

“Please. Sit.”

The chair across from her molded to my form the moment I sat. Magic, of course.

“I trust your transition to Duskmoor has been… enlightening.”

I hesitated. “It’s been... a lot.”

She smiled, barely. “That is often the case with those who carry fire.”

My fingers curled in my lap. “Why did you summon me?”

Valeblade rose, gliding to a shelf and pulling free a thick tome wrapped in chains. With a whispered word, the chains uncoiled and the book opened midair.

“You’ve demonstrated uncontrolled elemental surges. An affinity for silver fire. A resistance to standard suppressive glyphs. All rare. All dangerous.”

I looked down. “I never meant to hurt anyone.”

“I know,” she said softly. “That’s why you’re here.”

She waved her hand. A scroll floated toward me, glowing faintly.

“This is an invitation to join the Initiates of the Hollow Flame. A specialized order within Duskmoor. Private training. Ancient research. And protection.”

My heart stuttered. “Why me?”

Valeblade’s gaze sharpened. “Because your fire doesn’t obey. It remembers.”

I stared at the scroll, then at her. “What does that mean?”

She returned to her chair. “There are magics older than the packs. Older than the realms. Bloodlines that were never meant to be broken and never meant to survive. You, Miss Bennett, are not just a hybrid. You are a relic. A spark of something the world tried to forget.”

A thousand questions rose in my throat, but I couldn’t voice any of them.

“I don’t want to be a weapon,” I whispered.

“Then become something stronger,” she said. “Become a story they cannot erase.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t reach for the scroll.

But I didn’t run either.

And when I stepped out into the hall, scroll in hand, the runes on the obsidian door pulsed once with silver light.

As if they knew me.

As if they always had.