Wait. That's where I recognized the name. Why is Emma so uncoordinated then if her mother is the Tabitha Sterling? That doesn't make sense.
I snap back to reality, realizing the pressing matter at hand. Morgan nods, his gaze unwavering. "With these esteemed instructors behind us, we're bound to bring home the prize." The Dean's expectant stare falls on us. We comply, and the room erupts in applause, cheers, and hollers from the students.
"Jace, could you please stay after?" Professor Morgan's voice is calm yet firm. I nod in response. The students glance at me, and I catch Emma's mouth forming a silent yikes. I wait for everyone to exit, leaving just the three instructors and me in the room.
I turn to face the trio of instructors. Professor Sterling, with her faint English accent and an air of sophistication, she addresses me. "Jace," she purrs, her voice dripping with elegance. "We've found you to be," she hesitates, searching for the right word, "exceptional compared to the other students. Given your father's reputation, this comes as no surprise." Morgan casts a wary glance at Sterling.
The Dean clears his throat and speaks, his tone authoritative. "Indeed. We believe it would be beneficial to provide you with independent training beyond the standard curriculum." He doesn't ask; he asserts. "If you're agreeable, of course," Morgan adds hesitantly. The Dean's piercing glare makes Morgan flinch.
"But surely, you wouldn't pass up such an outstanding opportunity, would you?" Sterling's challenge is unmistakable as a smirk crawls onto her face.
I feign contemplation for a moment, as though their attempts at intimidation barely affect me. "I accept," I say, a confident smile spreading across my face.
"Delightful!" Sterling's demeanor shifts instantly, her enthusiasm palpable.
The Dean nods approvingly. Morgan's lips move, but I can't decipher his words.
An awkward silence ensues as they all fix their gaze on me. "Don't tarry," Professor Sterling advises, her accent slipping through with a subtle edge.
I keep my composure just enough to not scurry out of the room like a cockroach. George is waiting for me. I sigh internally, grit my teeth, and clench my fists.
"Hey there Jay!" George says with enthusiasm I could never match even if I tried.
"Don't call me that."
"Oh alright, my bad." He says with a light chuckle. I glance at him and his eyes are darting back and forth.
I walk forward assuming he'll be following me and I try to tune him out failing miserably.
"Are you going to participate in the tournament? Who am I kidding? I know you will, you're like, the best duelist in the school!"
"Thanks." He nods vigorously. "Soooo..." He says.
Already reading his mind I say, "Yes I'll help you train if you do my homework the whole time." I smirk.
"Fine," he sighs not even mulling it over. He rolls his eyes and walks off. I head to the dueling arena for my scheduled grǫf match. I go through the rituals of putting on my armor. I squeeze my locket, it's cool to the touch.
I step into the arena, immersing myself in the cacophony of sounds. The roar of the crowd, though not overwhelming, fuels me with a burst of energy. While most claim to feel the oppressive negative atferð—the dark, suffocating energy of the arena—I experience a different sensation. To me, it's an electrifying, positive force, invigorating rather than intimidating.
The weather, typically clear and sunny for these matches, is overcast today. The sky is a blanket of gray, casting a muted light over the sparse but fervent audience, who cheer with unwavering enthusiasm despite the smaller turnout.
My opponent, Olivia Spencer, is a scholar renowned for her exceptional prowess in the arena. I brace myself, prepared for whatever she might unleash.
"On one side, we have the undefeated up-and-comer, Jace Harding!" the announcer booms, his voice echoing through the arena. "And on the other side, a scholar blessed by the winds of Njord and the precision of Ullr—Olivia Spencer!" The crowd's cheer swells a raucous yet faint roar that ripples through the stands.
"This battle will be decided by the first to three hits. Let the dueling commence!"
As the signal is given, Olivia charges with a burst of speed. She leaps into the air, her voice ringing out with precision, "VINDR!" A gale of wind propels her forward, transforming her into a speeding projectile. "BUR!" she cries out, summoning a shimmering blue barrier that envelops her, not merely shielding her path but encasing her entirely. She hurtles toward me, her velocity making her a living missile.
Caught off guard by her aggressive strategy, I'm slammed into the wall, the impact like a sledgehammer striking every inch of my body simultaneously. Pain surges through me, a numbing shockwave.
Desperately, I manage to stammer, "ELDR!" Flames erupt from my hands, creating a wall of fire between us. Regaining my focus, I quickly conjure a protective shield, shouting, "HLÍF!" in an attempt to fortify my defenses.
Olivia, undeterred, counters with a fierce incantation. "Fjölkyngi ör!" she commands, unleashing a jagged bolt of blue energy. It tears through the air with crackling ferocity, a bolt of pure Runic Magic, and heads straight for me. Confident in the strength of my shield, I brace myself, but to my horror, the energy rips through it effortlessly.
Thunder rumbles ominously, resonating like a war drum. The bolt strikes me squarely in the chest. A collective gasp rises from the crowd. For a moment, I'm enveloped in a cold, disorienting void. Is this what death feels like?
I glance down, bewildered, to find myself unharmed. The crowd's murmurs swirl around me. Did the attack somehow miss? My hand instinctively touches my chest to feel for damage, but I brush against my locket which sears with heat, causing me to jerk back in pain.
I look up to find Olivia staring at me, her expression a mix of confusion and disbelief. Lightning bolts sizzle across the arena, turning patches of sand into shimmering black glass. Seizing the moment, I retaliate with a powerful "ELDR!" The flames slam into Olivia's chest, scoring a point. She staggers back, her eyes blazing with renewed resolve.
Before the duel can continue, the announcer's voice cuts through the air. "Due to unforeseen weather conditions and safety concerns, this match is officially canceled and will be rescheduled." There's no grumbling or discontent; the audience has already dispersed, fleeing from the lightning-struck field.
I nod curtly to Olivia before she can say anything and make my way out of the arena, shaken by the recent happenings. I strip my armor and clothes off, my locket having returned to normal. My locket weighing heavily on my mind I shower not minding the frigid temperatures and hurry off to the Seiðr room knowing Professor Frigg currently has a free period.
I head there early to see if I can ask about that dream I had. Her classroom is on the second floor, so I walk up those helix stairs, tediously I might add, due to the fact, that I had to walk against the flow of people. Eventually, I make it.
As I step into Professor Frigg's Seiðr classroom, I'm immediately enveloped by an atmosphere of ancient wisdom and mystical energy. The room is dimly lit, with only the soft, ethereal glow of floating orbs of light illuminating the space. These orbs, suspended in mid-air and gently pulsing with a spectrum of muted colors, cast a soothing, almost hypnotic light that dances across the room's rich textures.
The air is thick with the heady scent of rosemary and thyme mingling with the earthiness of sage and the subtle sweetness of dried lavender, creating a calming and invigorating olfactory experience.
The walls are adorned with intricately woven tapestries depicting scenes of Norse mythology and Seiðr rituals. Each tapestry is alive with vibrant hues and shimmering threads, weaving tales of gods and goddesses in deep blues, verdant greens, and fiery oranges.
At the center of the room stands a circular stone altar, its surface etched with runes and symbols that pulse faintly with a mystical energy.
Above the altar, a large, ornate mirror is framed with silver runes, reflecting the ambient light and adding an aura of enchantment to the room.
Hanging from the ceiling are woven dreamcatchers adorned with feathers, beads, and small crystals. They sway gently, creating a soft rustling sound that mingles with the faint hum of the magical energy in the room. Shelves line the walls, filled with ancient tomes, crystal vials, and intricately carved wooden staffs, each item meticulously arranged and imbued with its own subtle magic.
The floor is covered with a rich, dark blue carpet that feels like stepping onto a cloud. Embedded within it are small, glowing sigils that shift and change as you walk, providing a soft, calming light. In one corner, a large, open window lets in a gentle breeze, rustling the silky, sheer curtains that billow like the mist of an otherworldly realm.
Professor Frigg herself often sits behind a grand oak desk carved with Norse symbols, her presence as commanding as it is serene. The desk is cluttered with scrolls, a crystal ball, and various magical artifacts.
"Come in, child," calls an elderly female voice from the back, "I saw that you would come today." A shiver runs down my spine as I step inside, officially creeped out.
A black sheepskin is draped across her frail body like a blanket, with the head of the dead sheep resting atop hers. She wears a silk shawl beneath the sheepskin, and her garments appear to be made of wolf pelts.
Shivering from both the cold and unease, I ask, "How did you know I was coming?" Her beady black eyes lock onto mine.
"I knew because I was told."
"Who told you?" I question, feeling more uneasy.
"Not who, what!" she exclaims before cackling. "Come! Come!" She beckons me while hobbling over to her cauldron. "I have answers to questions you seek!" She grabs a ladle off a shelf and begins stirring the pot.
Hesitantly, I take a step toward her, my curiosity insatiable. As I peer into the pot, I'm met with a thwack on the head. She had hit me with her ladle! "Mind your manners! I take a deep breath, trying to remain calm. "So, you already know what I want to know?"
"Yes, I do!" She takes a wooden bowl and dunks it into her cauldron. Uh oh. "Drink it!" she exclaims, handing it to me. The green liquid sloshes in the bowl, dripping down the sides.
Warily, I ask, "What does it do?"
"Drink it and find out!" she snaps. She's a teacher, so she can't harm me, right? I clutch the bowl and bring it to my lips, plugging my nose as I pour the concoction down my throat. It's thick, like expired milk, and tastes just as bad. I nearly choke but manage to finish it.
I blink a few times, "How long does it... Woah!" Everything in the room suddenly melts away, including Professor Frigg. I find myself in a rainforest. Cicadas and birds chirp around me, and the air feels moist to the touch. The scent of fresh earth and herbs fills my nostrils.
I look around and see half a dozen Asian men and women wearing black robes, and riding horses. Behind them is a cage. I squint hard and recoil in disbelief. Brown curly hair, brown eyes that could calm a bull shark and brown skin. It's my father! I try to cast a Rune to help him, but the words can't escape my mouth.
I can't speak at all or interfere with anything happening. I take a deep breath, reminding myself it's just a vision. Suddenly, the cage explodes open, sending bamboo shards flying everywhere. A few hit my father but slide off his glimmering blue shield.
The robed people face him instantly, assuming combat positions. My father reacts quickly, pushing three of them away with a force wave and then blasting the other two with fire. The speed at which my father casts is unheard of.
Two of the kidnappers are reduced to charred corpses instantly, their skin bubbling and peeling away as flames consume them. The smell of burnt flesh fills the air, sickeningly sweet and metallic. Three men are blown so hard they crack tree trunks on contact, blood and bits of flesh splattering the ground.
I spectate horrified, yet amazed at his strength.
One woman stands between my father and freedom. He hops down from the cage and meets her at eye level. She stands a few inches shorter but makes up for it with her presence. Her aura feels like she could rip your spine out with a single glance.
My father discharges flames from his hands; she seizes them and redirects the fire towards him. I gasp. His blue shield protects him, but she follows up with a vicious kick to the side of the head, shattering his barrier on contact. I can hear a sickening crack. NO! I try to scream and run over to him, but I can't.
She captures his throat and lifts him with surprising strength for her stature. Blood pours from a wound above his left ear. The sky darkens, and thunder rumbles. Clawing at her hands, my father's finger glows a crimson color. He touches her, and blood spews from her mouth directly into his face. I cover my mouth in horror, wanting to scream but unable to.
She gasps for breath, but none comes. It doesn't stop spraying until the cart, her clothes, my father, and Mother Nature herself are covered in her blood. She begins to shrivel up into a withered form of herself. Her eyes bulging and her skin tightening over her bones, making a horrifying cracking noise as her body dehydrates in seconds.
A tear falls onto my hands as they cover my mouth. My father looks around stained red, steals a horse, and rides off into the distance as if nothing happened.
I blink a few times. The scene melts my face frozen in fear mimicking the corpses my father left on the field. That was fake, right? No way he did that.
I'm in the seiðr room again. Panting with beads of sweat dripping down my face I march over to Frigg and resist the urge to clutch her by her collar.
"WHY DID YOU SHOW ME THAT!" I practically scream in her face,
Unfazed she cackles, "You asked so I provided!"
"Ah, child, visions are but whispers of the universe's hidden truths. What you've seen is a shadow of the past, revealing the storm that brews within you and the legacy you carry. Remember, true power is not merely inherited."
My frustration reaches a boiling point. With a forceful shove, I tip over her cauldron, sending the murky, swamp-colored concoction spilling across the floor with a deafening clang. Slamming the door behind me, I storm out of the room, my anger propelling me down the hallway without any clear destination.
I've never skipped class before, but today, I decided to, I deserved it anyways after what i just witnessed.
In my blind rage, I almost collide with the two bullies from yesterday, now minus their hulking companion. The brown-haired kid shifts uncomfortably, his gaze darting away.
I try to brush past them but the Brown Hair catches my attention,
"Hey, have you seen Miles?" he finally asks, his voice tinged with unease.
"Who?" I reply, whipping around.
"That big guy we were with yesterday. Sorry about what happened—Miles threatened us, said he'd rough us up if we didn't help him, so we took it out on others instead," he explains, his words coming out in a hurried rush his eyes refusing to meet mine.
The ginger kid remains silent, the worry on his face evident. He picks at a scab on his arm.
"The Dean kicked us out of his office, but Miles was kept behind. We haven't seen him since," the brown-haired kid adds, a note of worry in his voice.
My stomach churns as the implications sink in. "You haven't seen him since yesterday?" He shakes his head somberly.
Leaning in closer I whisper, "Was he expelled?"
"I have no idea," He says shrugging his shoulders.
A raven's shrill screech interrupts us, turning around I see Huginn, the Dean's raven named after one of two of Odin's ravens. The raven drops a letter at my feet and darts off. I bend over to pick up the letter, it's sealed with a red stamp, and opening it up is a letter written in black ink.
Mr. Harding,
Your extended curriculum is in the grǫf every day at two-thirty sharp. Do not be late. This mustn't interfere with your regular schooling, however, this is just as important. You are exempt from homework during this training period, and the time the tournament takes place naturally.
Dean.
I fold the letter and sheathe it into my pocket. The other two boys gaze at me inquisitively. Shrugging them off I head to my next class.
Runic Theory 301, is a required course in the seventh year. It's a difficult class and usually, I am a diligent scholar, but I'm too focused on recent events.
Professor Lopez's voice drones on about how Runes theoretically work, and while that's never particularly interested me, I pay attention for the grade. I'm not listening, however when he says my name.
"Mr. Harding." A monotone voice calls to me. "I asked you a question." I jolt in my seat slightly and I look at him. "Did you hear what I said?"
I answer honestly, "No."
He shakes his head disappointedly, "If you were listening you would have heard me say 'You all know Runes come from the Gods.' I roll my eyes at the mention of this belief.
It's ridiculous to think these Gods even exist, and you're supposed to believe and have hope that they do? Death is the end. There's no Valhalla, there's no Hel, and there certainly is no such thing as spirits.
"Are you aware of where the other sources of magic come from?" I ask, "Do you mean where do the other types of magic come from?" He nods his head, "Yes."
"Well, there are four types, obviously, one is Runic Magic, ours. There is also Qi Magic, Mana Magic, and Shamanism Magic." I pause and catch an approving look on his face, but it also says something else, it's probing me to go on.
"Qi magic resonates from within one's soul, Mana magic is pulled from a pool of mana, hence the name. Shamanistic magic is derived from the nature around them." I allow myself a small smile for recalling this information so easily.
"Good." He says simply. He goes on, "Qi Magic tends to be used in Southeast Asia, Mana magic congregates within mainland Europe and a few islands off the coast including Britain, Runic Magic tends to cluster within isolated communities and are generally withdrawn from society, however, large groups of us are in Scandinavia." He pauses making sure everybody is paying attention.
Many are not, a kid is sleeping and drool is forming a little puddle, with many others imitating him. Some doodle, or quietly chatter. He ignores this, however, and gives small smiles to the students who are listening. "And Shamanism is practiced in pockets around the world with larger portions in the Americas and Africa. Obviously, magic isn't restricted, to one location, but the leading theory it derives from families, so in a way we all may be related."
Lopez pauses sighing. "I'm speaking about this because the tournament is coming up, and it is important to understand our opponents as much as we understand ourselves." He checks his watch.
"Homework." The class groans. "Everybody has to write a 3-page essay about how magic may affect an isolated community's growth vs one that is not isolated. Anyone who has sleeping has to write an extra 2 pages. Class dismissed." They lament even louder this time, chattering as they gather their things and leave.
George is standing by the door and he catches my eye walking towards me. God he can't take a hint, I didn't even know he was in this class with me.
"Hey Jace," he says waving his hand at me.
Internally sighing I respond with a grunt, "Hnh." He blinks at me.
I check my watch, analog naturally, it's 2:15, and I've got to get to the grǫf. Making up a half-truth I say, "I gotta get to class."
"You don't have a class right now," he retorts with a wince.
I whip around on my heels at him, "And how would you know that?" I interrogate with more malice than intended. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, "Uh... I pay attention is all." I stare at him for a beat of silence.
Through gritted teeth I repeat myself, "I gotta get to class," and so I leave him there.
How do I always end up walking against the flow of people? I push against the throng of people with half a mind to use hrinda to clear a path for myself.
Eventually, I reach the grǫf. Glancing at my watch, I see it's 2:20. I kill time casting some warm-up Runes and stretching my muscles. In the midst of doing calf stretches, I notice movement out of the corner of my eye. Turning my head, I see Mrs. Sterling. She's gazing off into the far corner of the arena, a thoughtful look furrowing her brow.
I stand up and clear my throat to capture her attention. She turns to me with an elegance that feels almost otherworldly.
"Hello, Mr. Harding," she articulates, her faint English accent curling around the edges of her words. Her hands are clasped in front of her, and in that moment, I notice the multiple large rings adorning her fingers, each glistening with jewels that shimmer in a chaotic array of colors like an entrancing rainbow.
"Hello, Mrs. Sterling," I respond, choosing my words with calculated respect. "Is there a reason you have arrived early?"
Instead of answering, she deflects my query, her tone low and sultry, "Is there a reason you've arrived early?" She advances a step closer, a predatory glint igniting in her eye. "I'm allowed to walk wherever I please in my school, aren't I? Jace." That final word drips with an unsettling venom.
A sudden cough from my right startles us both, and we whip around to find the Dean approaching. Instantly, a smile flowers on Mrs. Sterling's face as her posture straightens, transforming her demeanor "Oh! Hello, Dean," she manages to choke out, the words laden with insincerity. "Mr. Harding and I were just..." She hesitates, her gaze drilling into me as if measuring the stakes, "Discussing some things, weren't we?" Her elegant smile flickers like a candle's flame. I nod slowly, weighing the consequences of defiance against the instinctual dread curling at the back of my mind. It isn't an intelligent idea—it's a death wish.
The Dean scrutinizes both of us, his deep green eyes narrowed, searching for a crack in our exteriors. Finding nothing to accuse us of, his expression morphs back to its usual charm as he begins to walk away. "I'm glad to see you've taken an interest in the opportunity we've reached out to you with," he states, his tone lingering on the word 'opportunity' like a predator savoring its prey.
He circles me like a hawk, forcing me to pivot and track his movements. Taking his stance beside Mrs. Sterling, he declares with an air of authority, "Since Mr. Morgan has chosen to grace us with his tardiness, I suppose we must commence this lesson."
"Duel me." The declaration booms in the air, leaving my mouth agape in disbelief. Surely I misheard him.
"What did you say?" I stammer, a mixture of shock and confusion flooding my senses.
"Duel me," he repeats with a face as chiseled as stone. Beside him, Mrs. Sterling's expression shifts into a manic grin, delight dancing in her eyes.
"Are you sure?" I ask, seeking confirmation of this impossible command.
"Don't make me ask again." His eyebrows knit together, and with a simple shrug, he removes his emerald jacket, revealing a fitted black dueling shirt underneath, sleek and menacing. He thrusts the jacket into Sterling's chest, and she gasps, caught off guard by the sudden shift in atmosphere.
"Attack me," he orders, his voice ice cold.
"JǪKULL!" I bellow, feeling the frigid energy course through my veins, my hands freezing over as I shape the magic into a needle-like projectile, hurling it toward him. With a mere flick of his hand, my attack veers off course, scattering into the air like smoke. The first droplets of rain pelt my face, initiating an ominous downpour.
"Again." His demand pierces the tension, a reminder of the urgency hanging thick in the air. I hesitate, recognizing the risk of casting too recklessly.
"Did I stutter?"
"But if I cast too soon, it could become dangerous," I protest, my instincts screaming to tread carefully.
"Again." The firmness in his voice is unyielding. The rain pours heavier, drenching the ground beneath us.
"JǪKULL!" I cry out once more, channeling my focus and energy to replicate the spell. Just as the icy needle is about to strike, it veers off course yet again, swallowed by the onslaught of the elements. The growl of thunder echoes ominously in the distance.
"Again!" His voice cuts through the storm, an unwavering command that drives fear into my heart.
"LYND!" I scream with renewed desperation, summoning lightning from the depths of my being. Bolts of energy surge through me, weaving a chaotic dance through the air. He raises his hand, effortlessly blocking the crackling discharge as if it were a mere gust of wind. Exhaustion crashes over me like the rising tide, pulling me to my knees as I gasp for air. The thunder rolls, mercilessly amplifying the situation.
Professor Morgan runs in with surprising speed from a man his age. "Stop!" The Dean turns toward him, "What did you say?"
"This can't go on! We agreed to train him, not hurt him!"
"Stand down, Alexander."
He looks to me with caution in his eyes, I nod, and he takes a step back with his head down.
"Get up." His voice is a relentless whip. Grateful for the breather, I rise to my feet, my head pounding from the strain, the tempest outside a reflection of the storm brewing within me, ready to unleash a power I scarcely understand.
"LYND!" I scream with renewed desperation, summoning lightning from the depths of my being. Bolts of energy surge through me, weaving a chaotic dance through the air. He raises his hand, effortlessly blocking the crackling discharge as if it were a mere gust of wind. Exhaustion crashes over me like a relentless tidal wave, dragging me down to my knees as I gasp for air. The thunder rolls, mercilessly amplifying the intensity of our deadly confrontation.
"Now." Ferocity bellows in his voice, slicing through the fog of my fatigue. With a surge of determination, I rise to my feet, lightning striking the field startling us all. I brace myself, I can't afford to falter.
Once more, I stretch my hands outward, igniting a furious blaze of energy. I vaguely shout something in defiance; the guttural sound seems to escape my lips almost involuntarily as flames burst forth, hungry for release. A static crackle fills my ears, drowning out all else when suddenly, a blinding bolt of lightning descends from the stormy sky, striking the Dean with staggering force. The impact is thunderous—a resonating crash that reverberates through my bones.
I hear three screams simultaneously, one being cut short. Morgan rushes to me, while Sterling runs to aid the Dean.
I gaze up, squinting against the vivid brilliance, and gasp in horror as I witness the deafening might of nature unleashed upon him. He is hit again, the sky unleashing its fury in a simultaneous barrage of searing energy. One. Two. Three. Each strike resonates within me, a countdown to both victory and despair. I see Morgan grabbing my arm and can feel myself being lifted off the ground. My vision begins to fade, darkness creeping closer at the edges of my consciousness, yet the unmistakable stench of burning flesh wafts through the air, the lines between agony and triumph blurring.