KAEL
I am walking through the gates of Obsidian High, and the compound is responding before I do. The stone beneath my boots is humming faintly, a low vibration that usually means someone powerful has crossed the boundary. I slow without meaning to. My body reacts first. It always does.
Then I feel it again. Stronger this time.
The air tightens around my chest, subtle but unmistakable, like magic brushing against magic. I scan the courtyard, my expression calm, my posture controlled, as students bow their heads slightly or step aside. They always do. It has been this way for years. Influence bends space. Wealth sharpens it.
And then I see her.
She is stepping into the compound with her satchel clutched close, shoulders slightly hunched, trying to make herself smaller than she is. The moment her foot crosses the boundary line, the vibration spikes through me. My breath pauses. I have felt powerful signatures before. Heirs of ancient houses. Bloodline prodigies. Royals with too much magic and too little control.
This is different.
This is raw and contained at the same time. Like a storm wrapped in silk.
I do not know her. That alone tells me everything I need to know. I know every influential family in this school. I know their children, their bloodlines, their alliances. I know who paid for which wing of the academy, who funded which professor, who owes which vote on the Council.
She belongs to none of them.
Lowborn, my mind supplies coolly.
Who is she.
Classes move the way they always do. Controlled chaos. Power displays disguised as education. In Advanced Magical Theory, I sit where I always sit, near the window, light at my back, watching reflections instead of faces. The professor drones on about restraint and hierarchy. Students listen with half attention, already confident in their superiority.
I am listening for something else.
I feel it when she enters the room. The air shifts again, faint but persistent. I glance at the reflection in the glass and catch her taking a seat near the back. Plain uniform. No sigils stitched in gold. No family crest. No arrogance. She keeps her eyes down.
Interesting.
At lunch, my friends talk loudly about cars arriving next term. Imported engines enchanted to respond to voice commands. My cousin Cassian is boasting about a new voting bloc his mother secured on the Council. My sister Elara is scrolling through updates on her crystal screen, commenting on which families are falling out of favor this season.
I nod where required. Smile when expected. My role is effortless.
But my attention drifts.
I spot her sitting alone, shoulders tight, hands wrapped around her tray like it might disappear if she loosens her grip. Someone laughs nearby. Her posture stiffens. My jaw tightens without permission.
I do nothing.
That is the rule. That has always been the rule.
At home, restraint is survival.
The Morvane estate is loud in the way only powerful houses are. Servants move quietly. Conversations echo. Wealth announces itself without trying. My father is seated at the head of the table, posture immaculate, discussing infrastructure votes with my uncle. My mother listens with sharp focus, already calculating the consequences three steps ahead.
"Elara's engagement strengthens our eastern alliances," my father is saying. "Kael's presence at Obsidian maintains our visibility."
I am a presence, a symbol, a weight.
No one asks how I feel. They never have.
After dinner, I retreat to the upper balcony, overlooking the city. The lights glitter below like trapped stars. Power hums in the air. I should feel satisfied. This is the life I was shaped for.
The day of the practical assessment arrives wrapped in tension. The arena is alive, magic crawling along the walls, reacting to anticipation. I lean against a pillar on the upper level, arms crossed, watching with detached interest.
Students perform as expected. Fire shaped into pretty arcs. Water sculpted into elegant displays. Blood magic handled with caution and arrogance. The crowd reacts on cue.
Then she steps forward.
The vibration hits me so hard my fingers tighten against stone.
She is calm. Focused. Eyes clear. When she raises her hands, the air bends toward her like it recognizes authority. Power answers her instantly. Not borrowed. Not inherited. Her own.
I straighten slowly.
This is not training. This is instinct refined.
Someone interferes. I feel the disruption immediately. A spell meant to fracture concentration. She absorbs it without breaking rhythm. Corrects. Adapts. Dominates.
My lips curve before I realize I am smiling.
It is brief. Instinctive. Uncontrolled.
She looks up.
For a fraction of a second, our eyes meet.
The smile fades as quickly as it came. I turn away.
After the display, whispers ripple through the stands. I do not need to hear them to know what they say. Scholarship. Power. Impossible.
I leave before anyone can approach me.
In the corridor, the vibration follows again. She passes at a distance. My magic reacts like it recognizes a twin frequency. I slow. I do not stop.
Who is she.
I repeat the question as I walk. As I pass friends. As I step into sunlight.
Curiosity is a weakness. Attachment is a liability. My life is built on control.
And yet.
Every time she enters a space, something in me responds.
I have met power all my life.
I have never met this.
And for the first time in years, I am wondering what will happen if I lose control long enough to find out.