A bolt of fire hurtles toward my face. I shout, "HLÍF!" A shimmering blue barrier erupts between me and the flames, absorbing them in a dazzling display. The crowd's anticipation hums in the air, their eyes fixed on the duel.
Before I can savor the moment, another flame streaks toward me, veering harmlessly off course. Amateur mistake. I respond swiftly, commanding, "SKÍNA!" A burst of light erupts as the spell takes effect. I squint through the afterimage; my opponent—a fellow scholar I hardly know..
Covered in sand from a nasty fall earlier in the match, I am determined to finish this swiftly, I chant, "JǪKULL!" A chill spreads from my hands, forming a crude icicle. With dueling rules prohibiting lethal force, I round my icicle out. The ice flies and strikes him squarely in the face. The audience winces collectively.
Having hit him twice previously, I've won the match, as evidenced by his singed standardized dueling attire: a mildly uncomfortable leather tunic, pants, and hide shoes. The clothes are enchanted to shield the wearer from significant harm and prevent damage. This attire is intended to "truly respect the ancient tradition of runic duels," though I find it demeaning.
I raise my fists and whisper an incantation my aunt taught me to send fireworks launching from my palms. Bálljόss. The crowd roars. I exit the grǫf and head back to the prep room without glancing at my opponent. I receive a few nods and good job's from a distance. Benches and lockers line the wall as other scholars change in and out of their training attire.
Ignoring them, I strip off my dueling gear and head to the showers. The stalls are separate, so I take a stall and quickly wash. The water in the prep room is always freezing cold, even with a functioning water heater, so there's no enjoyment to be had. Scrubbing off the grime and sand from the grǫf, I wrap a towel around my waist, and check myself in the mirror. Mighty fine, if I do say so myself.
As I trace the dark circles under my eyes with my fingers, I overhear some scholars chatting in the background.
"Did you catch Jace's match?" one of them asks, sounding excited.
"Yeah, it was amazing," the other responds. I can't help but notice their enthusiasm, and my caramel skin warms slightly at the mention of my name.
Their conversation shifts to another topic, and I focus on getting dressed. I peel off my towels and start pulling on my clothes: a white undershirt, a black hoodie, sweatpants, and white sneakers from my gym bag. My locket hangs outside my hoodie, catching the light as I move.
As I exit the locker room with my gym bag slung over my shoulder, one of my ellri, my teacher, extends his hand to congratulate me. I glance at his calloused hand, with bones jutting out and skin stretched taut. Hesitating, I shake his hand out of respect for my elder. I look up into his weathered emerald-green eyes—eyes I might mine if I were greedy. His thinning gray hair and bushy, scraggly beard give him a rugged appearance.
"Good job out there, Jace." He nods approvingly.
I nod in return. "Thank you, Professor Morgan."
"Keep it up. You're making quite the name for yourself." He puts his hand on my shoulder in a friendly manner. "Continue this and you may end up like your father."
"That's the plan," I say, frowning slightly.
He smiles with his thin lips and walks away. Despite his slender frame, he carries himself with remarkable confidence. I head in the opposite direction down the hall, familiar with the layout of Mimfrœði.
The school's name, derived from Mimir, the god of knowledge, and frœði, meaning history, every student must descend from a lineage of accomplished Runic Mages. I, however, descend from a very powerful line of Runic Mages on both sides of my family.
I've attended Mimfrœði since I was twelve. Before that, I was at an elite academy designed to prepare students for even more prestigious institutions. My admission to both was based on lineage, I was never administered tests to examine my potential.
My thoughts are interrupted by a commotion ahead. A crowd surrounds something—or someone—blocking my path. I shove through the students, who turn around with an irritation on their face, however, it softens when they see who pushed them.
To my shock, two students are fighting without using Magic. One has a black eye, the other a split lip.
"ENOUGH!" A commanding voice slices through the chaos, halting the din of the crowd. Some students scatter, others watch, while a few stand rooted in place, eyes wide. The crowd parts as if by magic, not from physical hands but from the influence of powerful runes, revealing a figure whose presence demands immediate respect.
He stands a few inches short of six and a half feet, his long black hair slicked back with precision and his attire immaculate. Despite his imposing stature, he moves with an almost ethereal grace, as though he's gliding rather than walking.
"What is going on here?" he growls. The kids freeze, their faces a mix of terror and disbelief.
Their only response is a stammered, "Uhhh."
"It appears," he says menacingly, "that two of my pupils are behaving in an uncivilized manner. Is. That. Correct?" He emphasizes the last words chillingly. The boys nod vigorously, hoping for a lenient punishment.
"You have been instructed repeatedly: Settle arguments in the grǫf!" His hands are clasped behind his back as he paces slowly. The students stand frozen in fear, resembling statues of the Old Gods. "But no!" He slams a fist into a wall, causing the kids to flinch, a painting falls down across the hall. "You are too insolent to follow the simplest commands! I should expel you immediately. But I am a gracious Dean, and I will not. Yet. You two, to my office. Everyone else, leave!"
The crowd disperses quickly like insects scattering. I hurry away as well—while I'm not afraid of much, the Dean's wrath is one exception.
The two miscreants follow the Dean with their heads bowed. I brush past them, avoiding eye contact although I can feel the Dean's gaze boring into me from behind.
After a short walk, I reach the male heima, the dorm. Unfortunately, my room is shared with three others. Thankfully, the Old Norse theme of the school doesn't include the rooms; I'd have given up if I had to sleep on a straw bed. The rooms feature two bunk beds and four chests. There is no room for desks—write on a book or head to the library. Bathrooms and showers are public.
Each chest has a key to prevent theft, though one of my roommates, Harry, left his trunk open again. I retrieve my key from its hiding spot, taped to a family photo on my chest.
Temporarily placing the photo on the floor, I unlock my trunk, toss in my gym bag, close it, lock it and return the key to its place. Just as I'm about to climb to the top bunk (which I claimed through dueling), someone crashes through the door and slams it shut behind them. I glance over to see it's George, the epitome of a nerdy teen. He wears a silky red polo with a crooked collar and jeans that aren't meant to be skinny, but that's how everything fits him.
Panting, his bag clutched under one arm and his round glasses askew on his slim face, he sees me and immediately pleads for help with his expression. I narrow my eyes.
"I'll help you if you agree to do my homework for the next month."
Normally, he'd consider the offer, but with little time, he agrees immediately.
Chuckling, I step toward the door and open it, spotting three boys charging down the hall. One is a chubby ginger, another a short black kid, and the third—standing out as a linebacker—an imposing figure of at least 280 pounds and several inches above six and a half feet. George lurks behind me like my shadow.
I whisper œpa to project my voice.
"Stop," I say simply, but to them, it resonates with intense volume. They freeze. "Leave him alone." They shift their attention to me, growing less intimidated. I see smirks creep onto their faces clearly confident due to their numbers. They begin walking towards me. I sigh. "Fine then. Let's do this the hard way."
When I battle, I prefer not to yell, though many cast Runes this way. You don't have to speak at all, it's just incredibly difficult not to.
"HRINDA!" I shout, and his two goons are knocked to the floor. Linebacker stumbles backwards, but remains standing. He surveys his fallen henchmen and, undeterred, advances.
He yells, "BINDA," launching an almost invisible, purple string at me. I duck just in time, but it ensnares George, pulling his arms and legs together as if bound by invisible shackles.
I glance back at Linebacker and see him grin. So, there is some fight in him after all.
Casting Runes in rapid succession is incredibly challenging and dangerous. Through years of practice, I've learned that a 3 to 4-second interval between spells is generally safe.
"KOMA!" I yell, sending a red bolt from my fingertips that strikes him directly in the chest. He grabs at the pain and drops to his knees, wheezing. Koma inflicts pain akin to a powerful punch.
I allow myself a brief smile, but it fades quickly as I see the Dean rounding the corner.