The schedule rune had no mercy.

  It appeared the moment Nathan opened his eyes the next morning, hovering smugly over his bed and chiming like a bell every twenty seconds until he acknowledged it.

  Lissandre threw a pillow at it.

  “Tell it you’re awake before I light it on fire,” she mumbled into her blanket.

  Nathan blinked at the golden glyphs pulsing midair.

  MONDAY

  Core: Runes – Tower 2, Room 3C

  Core: Casting – South Arena Hall

  Modified: Channeling Observation Only – No Solo Work

  Supervisor Assigned: Prof. Varis, Prof. Brannock

  “Wonderful,” Nathan muttered. “An escort and a warning label.”

  Breakfast was a blur of enchanted fruit, tea that stirred itself, and hovering platters of bread that tried to land in your lap whether you wanted them or not. Nathan barely tasted any of it.

  Everywhere he went, he felt eyes.

  Some students tried to act subtle—others didn’t bother. When he passed through the library hallway, someone whispered “That’s him” loud enough to echo.

  By the time he reached his first class, his stomach was coiled like wire.

  Tower 2, Room 3C was a wide, tiered lecture space carved from golden sandstone, with long rune-etched tables that shimmered beneath glass. Light filtered down from a domed skylight, but the room still felt cold.

  The professor stood already at the front.

  Tall, thin, wrapped in robes the color of ink and charcoal, with sharp features and a permanent expression of half-curiosity, half-mild disdain.

  Professor Solen Varis, Head of Runes.

  “Take your seats,” he said, not looking up from the rune-circle he was sketching into the air. “And do not talk. I can smell conversation.”

  Nathan found an empty table near the middle and sat quickly. His fingers trembled slightly.

  Professor Varis turned from the rune board and tapped the air beside him. Eight glowing glyphs appeared instantly, rotating slowly in place.

  “This, for those of you who somehow slept through orientation, is the elemental tier system. Learn it. It governs your magic—and your limits.”

  The glyphs split into three distinct bands.

  He pointed to the first.

  “Low Tier: Fire. Earth. Water. Air. These are the fundamental building blocks. Most of you will align with one of these. If you’re lucky, two—though that’s rare and usually unstable.”

  A few students straightened in their seats with pride.

  Nathan watched the glyphs. They shimmered with subtle, pulsing energy.

  Varis moved to the second ring.

  “Mid Tier: Metal. Wood. These affinities are rarer, but stronger. And most importantly, they cascade. That means a Metal affinity also allows you to use Earth and Fire magic. A Wood affinity grants access to Water and Air.”

  He gestured toward Roremand, who sat in the front row, notebook already half-filled.

  “Mr. Serel here is a Metal affinity. That means, theoretically, he can channel Fire for combustion, Earth for reinforcement, and Metal for shaping and impact.”

  “Not theoretically,” Roremand said coolly. “Practically.”

  Varis ignored him.

  “The benefit of a mid-tier affinity is range. The cost is strain. Channeling multiple elements through a single focus fractures more quickly. Stability is the key.”

  Then he turned to the final, highest orbiting band of glyphs.

  “High Tier: Sun. Moon. Blood.”

  The class went very quiet.

  “These affinities have not appeared in over a thousand years. Blood was outlawed after the Reaper Massacres. Its users are considered corrupted, dangerous, and untrainable. Sun and Moon, while technically sanctioned, have gone untested for so long their true capacity is unknown.”

  Nathan looked down at his stylus.

  He said nothing.

  Varis continued. “Sun, it’s said, grants mastery over Water, Air, and Wood. Moon, over Fire, Earth, and Metal. A convergence of opposites. If such affinities existed again—if—they would be dangerously flexible.”

  “And Blood?” someone whispered.

  Varis didn’t smile. “Blood does not obey tiers. It takes what it wants.”

  Varis finished his gesture, and a floating ring of blue runes flared to life at the center of the room.

  “Runes are the grammar of intent,” he said. “They are the syntax of elemental logic. You cast because the world agrees to your statement. That agreement must be negotiated.”

  He turned to the board.

  “Today: the Four Base Threads—Fire, Earth, Water, Air. Each has a primary glyph. Draw one, and it should resonate if you match. If not—well, it explodes.”

  No one laughed.

  Varis raised one finger, and glowing symbols appeared above the room—simple, elegant designs that shimmered with elemental energy. He handed each student a rune stylus—lightweight, metal, with a single crystal core.

  Nathan held his like it might shatter.

  Varis began walking the aisles.

  “You may attempt the glyph you think suits you. If you're unclassified—” his eyes flicked briefly to Nathan, “—you may test each once. Slowly.”

  One by one, students etched glowing shapes into the air.

  When their rune matched their affinity, it pulsed—a gentle tone, a flicker of color. When it didn’t, it fizzled or vanished.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Lissandre’s flame rune erupted into a dramatic swirl of red sparks. She winked at Nathan and bowed.

  Roremand’s fire glyph pulsed with such precision it rang like a tuning fork.

  Then it was Nathan’s turn.

  He raised his stylus. His hand shook.

  He tried Water first.

  Nothing.

  Then Fire.

  The rune sparked, then fizzled.

  Earth. Still nothing.

  Air: a faint flicker—and then gone.

  The room had gone quiet around him.

  He turned toward Professor Varis, who raised a hand.

  “That’s enough,” he said, not unkindly. “Observation is still learning.”

  Nathan sank into his seat. His ears burned.

  The dueling field sat in the shadow of the South Tower, where the stone glistened with ward-runes and scorch marks told quiet stories of past failures. It was wide and circular, with spectator steps along the edges and silver lines dividing the arena into measured halves.

  Professor Branrock stood in the center of the wide, stone-floored practice hall, arms folded behind his back, surveying the ring of new students. A faint echo lingered in the air—dying murmurs of excitement and apprehension. Sunlight poured in from high windows, illuminating the runes etched into the walls.

  “Welcome to your first day of Casting class,” he said, voice resonating calmly over the hush. “Before we practice, understand three rules that shape how we cast—rules as unyielding as the stone beneath your feet:

  “Rule One: You cast with one hand only. No flourish of both arms, no dancing about in pairs—just your dominant hand forming the circle and runes. If you try waving both, you’ll be lucky to get sparks—unlucky to cause a fire you can’t control.

  “Rule Two: You can’t cast multiple elements at once. Each element has unique runic grammar. If you try forging Fire and Earth in the same breath, you’ll cause a meltdown—your mind and runes can’t handle that conflict mid-spell.

  “Rule Three: You must always draw runes. They’re the language the world obeys. Even the simplest spark or breeze demands at least a basic scribed symbol. Skip the runes and you’re just waving your hand in vain, shouting at the elements with no grammar or syntax.”

  Professor Branrock lifted his right hand and scribed an invisible circle at chest height. “Here’s how you cast,” he said:

  Form the circle: Use one hand – your dominant one. Move your fingertips in a smooth loop, visualizing the shape. As you complete the loop, imagine the element you want: Fire, Water, Air, or Earth. A faint glyph representing that element will appear in the circle, glowing softly if your intent is strong.

  Add the rune: Once the glyph for your element stabilizes, you draw a specific rune inside the circle to dictate what the spell does—whether it’s conjuring a flame burst, shaping a water shield, a gust of wind, or a small quake. Think of the glyph as the element’s identity, and the rune as the command that shapes it.

  He demonstrated with Fire. A gentle motion of his fingers etched a glowing ring in midair; within seconds, a soft flame glyph sparked at its center. “Now,” Branrock said, “I add the Fire rune. If I choose the ‘flare’ rune…” He traced a simple, angular mark inside the ring. Instantly, a small burst of flame appeared at his fingertips, shimmering with controlled heat.

  “Notice,” he continued, letting the flame dissipate, “that I never use my other hand; I don’t mix multiple elements; and I always complete the runes. Miss a stroke, and the magic fizzles—or worse, surges unpredictably. But follow these steps with focus, and the world listens.”

  He paused, letting the silence settle in. A few students shifted nervously, glancing around. Then Branrock continued, his tone softening just enough to feel welcoming:

  “Now, today’s lesson is about paired casting. Yes, I just told you that no single caster can channel multiple elements at once. But two casters, each focusing on one element, can combine efforts. Fire, meet Air—together you form a blazing whirlwind. Earth, meet Water—together you sculpt living clay. This synergy won’t violate our three rules, because each person remains bound to their own single-element runes.

  “You’ll see that even though you each cast with one hand, one element, and always runes, your spells can intertwine. The result is far stronger than either caster could manage alone. So pair up, pick your elements wisely, and remember the fundamentals. One slip of your runic circle, and you’ll turn synergy into chaos.”

  A faint smile touched his lips. “Understood? Then take your places at the practice circles. One hand, one element, always runes—and together, produce something greater than you can alone.”

  Nathan had hoped they’d pair him with someone patient.

  Instead, he got Roremand Serel.

  The top scorer in every subject, head held too high, hair too perfect. A metal affinity caster—meaning he could command Earth and Fire as well—and he made sure everyone knew it.

  Nathan stood across from him, already sweating.

  “I won’t go easy on you,” Roremand said. “If you don’t belong here, better we find out now.”

  “Noted,” Nathan said dryly.

  “Channel when I say. Hold your focus steady. Try not to fumble the air.”

  Around them, other pairs moved into casting position—arms raised, feet shoulder-width apart. At the center of every stance: the same pattern of breath and motion.

  Draw the circle.

  Palm at center.

  Focus on the element.

  Write the rune.

  Cast.

  Professor Brannock stood at the outer ring, barking critiques. “Too slow! That’s not a fire rune, that’s a birthday candle. And where’s your anchor glyph, Lindal? Are you planning to launch your spell into your own foot?”

  Roremand rolled his eyes.

  Nathan breathed in and drew the circle in front of him—just like the textbook showed. He placed his palm in the center. Tried to summon a breeze. Wind. Anything.

  Nothing came.

  Just the quiet resistance he’d felt ever since his test. Like something behind a locked door.

  Roremand cast beside him.

  A clean, elegant ring of fire burst from his circle and struck the center dummy dead-on. The dummy staggered from the impact but didn’t burn. The heat had been measured. Precision perfect.

  Nathan felt every eye.

  “Again,” Roremand said.

  Nathan tried.

  Circle. Palm. Focus. Rune.

  Nothing.

  The glyph shimmered—then blinked out.

  “You’re not even trying,” Roremand snapped.

  “I am trying!”

  “If you’re going to fake it, at least be convincing.”

  Nathan gritted his teeth. Tried again.

  Circle.

  Palm.

  Focus.

  But instead of imagining air, the image that came was golden light—sunlight refracting on glass. The soft hum that haunted his dreams. The curve of the mirror. The pressure—

  —The pull—

  He cast.

  But not air.

  The training dummy imploded.

  There was no wind. No breeze. Just a sickening pull inward—a collapse of heat and force—and the dummy folded into itself like paper in water, then crumpled to the floor in smoking pieces.

  Silence fell.

  Roremand stared at the wreckage.

  “That,” he said slowly, “wasn’t Air.”

  Nathan backed away.

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  Brannock appeared out of nowhere, hands glowing.

  He raised a barrier around the training area and examined the remains of the dummy with narrowed eyes.

  “No channeling,” he snapped.

  “I didn’t!” Nathan insisted. “I just—thought.”

  Brannock stared at the glyph. His brow furrowed.

  “Visual trace detected,” he said. “Very faint. But there.”

  He turned back to Nathan. “You're leaking resonance.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means,” Brannock said coldly, “your magic reacts before you do.”

  Nathan stayed behind, standing at the edge of the arena, watching the empty rune still glowing faintly where his palm had been.

  Professor Varis joined him unexpectedly.

  “You’re not dangerous,” the man said. “Not yet.”

  Nathan turned. “Thanks?”

  Varis folded his arms. “But your relationship with your channel is... unconventional.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “That’s the problem,” Varis said quietly. “It responded anyway.”

  He paused.

  “There’s something old in you, Nathan Quinn. Something the runes want to hear.”

  Nathan frowned. “But I didn’t say anything.”

  “You don’t need to,” Varis replied.

  “Quinn.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Dismissed. Now.”

  Nathan didn’t wait.

  He didn’t run immediately. Not until he’d crossed the bridge away from the field. Then he broke into a full sprint across the stones, past ivy-wrapped arches and silent tower gates, until he reached the edge of the university boundary—where the wards shimmered faintly against the dark forest beyond.

  He collapsed on a bench, breath ragged, fists trembling.

  That hadn’t been fire. He hadn’t meant to cast anything. He didn’t even know how that happened.

  His hand still buzzed.

  Like it had briefly held the sun.

  Footsteps approached.

  “Did you mean to do that?” came a voice.

  He looked up.

  Roremand stood a few feet away. Still composed. Still perfect. But his green eyes weren’t disdainful now. Just calculating.

  “I didn’t mean to cast at all,” Nathan said.

  “Then you’re casting instinctively.”

  Nathan shook his head. “It doesn’t feel like it’s mine. It feels like something’s using me.”

  Roremand didn’t move. “That kind of spell doesn’t belong to any low-tier element. There was no combustion. No friction. Just pure force.”

  Nathan stayed silent.

  Roremand took a step closer. “Whatever you did, the runes recognized it. And Brannock noticed.”

  “Is he going to expel me?”

  “No,” Roremand said. “But he’s going to study you. And if you keep pulling stunts like that, you won’t be a student. You’ll be a subject.”

  He turned.

  And for the first time, his voice softened.

  “You should learn to control it, Quinn. Before someone else tries to control it for you.”

  Then he left.

  Nathan sat alone for a long time.

  The grass swayed gently, casting shadows across the cobblestones.

  Far above, clouds drifted.

  One of them glowed faintly.

  Like something golden watching from within.