Amberine stared at the complex magic circle on the board, her pen still in her hand. The other students were busy, their quills scratching across the paper as they took furious notes. Her fingers drummed against the pages of her notebook, trying to focus on the intricate strokes of the circle Draven had drawn. She could feel the tension in the air, the pressure to understand, to get it right. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in her ears, each second that passed gnawing at her concentration.
Five minutes had passed, and she had barely made any progress.
Her notebook was filled with scribbles, rough copies of the magic circle. She had written it out perfectly, stroke for stroke, but that wasn't enough. It wasn't about copying; it was about adapting it to her own magic. And that was where Amberine felt stuck. No matter how hard she tried to manipulate the formula, it didn't feel right. The fire inside her resisted every attempt to shape the circle to her will.
