Spellbound

The Candles

My anger towards Adrian takes a backseat by my last class on Monday afternoon. I fiddle with the loose thread on the sleeve of my shirt, simultaneously, bouncing my leg up and down from outside the classroom of Datura—Blaise Datura. Professor of Practical Pyro Magic, or Elements for short.

"Would you please stop doing that." Avery says. She sits beside me, legs and arms crossed, looking perfectly bored. Of course she does. This is second nature to her. This is practically her home. But this is all new to me—I am so out of my element. Literally.

I don't know why I'm so nervous. I should be happy I've been deemed suitable—by all accounts, I've proven I belong here. I trained. I bruised—not only my flesh, but my pride, I studied, I endured, I failed and I overcame. But the fluttering doubt within me disguised as butterflies leaves the burning question on the tip of my tongue—is it enough?

"Aren't we supposed to train in the basement?" I say, halfway through chewing my thumb nail—stopping immediately once I realise what I'm doing.

"Yes." She says, "But we're not training like that today—Elements is more than just throwing fireballs at one another."

For a second the nervous energy leaves my body—"but that's literally all we've been doing in our lessons."

"Yes. That's because I enjoy throwing fireballs at you."

I glare at her, but she doesn't seem to notice. That, or she doesn't care—which is most likely.

I stare around at the rest of the people waiting, either curled up on the floor, or slumped against the wall—I recognise them all from my Elemental Theory class.

From Link Waylon, leaning statuesque against the wall, his flowy golden locks covering his vacant porcelain face—to Reid Gilbert, with his long freckly nose buried in a book about Pyromania, while he scratches his fiery red hair.

When my eyes land on Giselle, my heart stops for a fraction of a second. From her setting my books on fire, to threatening to set my hair on fire—she's proven, difficult.

There is no warning when the door to Datura's class finally swings open. Every shred of composure I had manage to gather, disappears. I watch as the students file in, silently—but can't bring myself to move.

"Get up," Avery says, towering above me.

I shake my head like a child, paralysed in my spot.

She rolls her eyes, and grabs my arm, pulling me up from my chair. I don't fight as she pushes me through the door.

We enter a small dark room that looks more like a prison than a classroom. Single desks in perfect lines take up a majority of the space, and the only natural light seeps in from tiny windows along the very tops of the walls—I can just barely make out a dark figure standing casually in front of a black board, who I assume to be my new teacher.

Avery deposits me in one of the only remaining desks, directly at the front of the classroom, before trailing off to an empty one in the back—I can only presume she's made clear that if anyone sits in her spot, she'll break their arm...or something of that nature.

When the noise of people finding their seats has finally faded, only then, does Datura take the few steps forward into the dull light, so that I can finally see him.

He stands intimidatingly tall, with his bulging muscles threatening to burst from his clothing. His features are dark, and there's an emptiness within his eyes that make him look fearsome—but even with the adrenaline pumping through my system, I'm at ease. I don't fear him, because I know I don't have to.