Chapter 5 – The History of Magic
Morning light poured through the stained glass windows of Regulas Tower, painting the marble floors with rippling colors of gold and crimson. The first bell echoed across the halls — a reminder that no one, not even the newly assigned elf from the death camps, could be late to class.
Zamira walked quietly through the corridor, boots echoing against the polished floor. Her dark tunic still smelled faintly of smoke from the camp's furnaces — a scent that refused to wash away no matter how many times she scrubbed. Eyes followed her as she passed, whispers chasing her shadow.
> That's her.
The elf from the camp.
Didn't they say she led a rebellion?
She ignored them all.
Rosalith walked beside her, chipper as always, flipping her auburn hair back. "Ignore them," she muttered under her breath. "They'll stop talking once they realize you're not going to burn the place down."
"I wasn't planning to," Zamira replied dryly.
They entered the classroom together. Rows of oak desks stood neatly in place, sunlight reflecting off the runic carvings etched into the walls. The teacher — a tall dragonborn woman draped in deep crimson robes — turned as the students filed in.
"Assigned seating," she announced sharply. "Your names are marked by flame or frost on your desks."
Rosalith found her spot easily, waving when she saw Nova and Sirius already seated near the back. Zamira's name, however, was carved beside a seat rimmed with a faint red glow — next to a boy with fiery red hair and a golden crest pinned to his collar. Flame Tower.
He didn't look at her when she sat down. Not at first.
Then he smirked. "Didn't think they'd let one of your kind in here."
Zamira's pen paused midair.
The boy leaned closer, his voice a low hiss. "I heard what you did during the war. How many of ours did you kill before they chained you up? Must've been quite the monster."
The class continued as if nothing was happening — laughter, soft chatter, parchment scratching — but every word of his sank like a needle beneath her skin.
Zamira didn't move. She didn't even look at him. She just opened her notebook and began to write, her hand steady, her face cold.
But under the desk, her shadow rippled. It stretched, twitched — and for a split second, the boy's pen snapped in two on its own.
He flinched. The teacher turned.
"Something wrong?" she asked sharply.
The boy swallowed hard. "N-no, Professor."
Zamira didn't look up. Her lips twitched into a faint, humorless smile.
When class ended, she stood and brushed her hands off calmly. "You dropped this," she said, handing him the broken pen without a glance.
And she walked out — quiet, composed, dangerous in her calm.
Rosalith caught up to her in the hall. "You didn't even yell at him!"
"Not worth the breath," Zamira said simply, her tone flat — but her golden-rimmed eyes still glowed faintly, like embers behind glass.
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Chapter 5 – The History of Magic (continued)
Lunch was winding down. Most students had left, leaving only the hum of quiet voices and the clatter of trays.
Zamira and Rami sat at the far corner of the Regulas Tower table, away from everyone else. Rosalith Nova ,Sirius , and Remus .were busy do so it was just me and Rami had gone unusually quiet, tracing the rim of his cup instead of cracking jokes.
"You're thinking too loud," Zamira said.
He smirked faintly. "Just wondering how many ways I can set homework on fire without getting expelled."
"Try not to. I'd rather not share a tower with someone banned from fire magic."
He was about to reply when a harsh laugh rang out behind them.
"Well, look at that," someone sneered. "The Death Camp girl and the family reject."
Zamira turned slowly. A group of Golden and Flame Tower boys stood behind them, led by the same red-haired student from Magic History. His grin was all teeth.
"Didn't your parents send you away, Rami?" the boy said mockingly. "Couldn't handle the embarrassment? Guess it's easier to toss away a kid who isn't worth the air he breathes."
The others chuckled.
Rami's grin disappeared. His eyes darkened, the humor gone. "You done?" he asked quietly.
"Oh, not yet." The boy leaned closer. "They shipped you here because you were nothing. Couldn't fight, couldn't focus, couldn't even make them proud. They're probably happier without you."
"Enough," Zamira said, her tone calm — too calm.
The leader's eyes flicked to her. "And you. You think you're better than us, elf? You're just a former slave they polished up and threw in here. A pretty little pet for the council."
The shadows under Zamira's chair stirred.
The boy didn't stop. "That's what you are, right? A project. Something broken they can fix. Or maybe—"
He stepped closer and shoved her shoulder. Hard.
"—maybe they just wanted a reminder of what happens when elves forget their place."
The room went silent.
Rami half-rose from his seat, fury flashing in his eyes, but before he could move—
Crack!
Zamira's fist connected squarely with the boy's jaw. The impact echoed across the hall. He stumbled back, crashing into a nearby table and clutching his face in shock.
The other students froze. Even Rami blinked.
Zamira stood over him, her voice quiet but razor-sharp. "Touch me again, and I'll make sure you leave with more than a bruise."
Her shadow stretched, curling like black smoke around her boots. The lamps flickered once.
The boy scrambled to his feet, face pale and bleeding from the split in his lip. "You—you're insane!"
"No," she said flatly. "Just tired."
He spat blood, glared, but didn't say another word. The group hurried out, their laughter replaced with silence.
When they were gone, Rami let out a long breath. "Remind me never to insult you during lunch."
Zamira sat back down and picked up her fork again. "Good plan."
He looked at her for a long moment, then smiled — small, almost proud. "You know, you hit harder than most fire mages."
"Must be all the suffering," she said, deadpan.
He laughed quietly, and for the first time, it didn't sound forced.
For the first time, neither of them felt quite so alone.