If the Capital Institute of Arcane Excellence had a motto, it was probably something like "We stress you out with dignity."
The morning of the Magic Midterms dawned bright, cold, and buzzing with the kind of collective panic only teenage mages could generate. The courtyard was crammed with students muttering incantations, practicing hand signs, or simply trying not to throw up from nerves.
Revantra, for once, looked almost normal.
She stood near the edge of the field with her cloak folded neatly over one arm, hair tied back, eyes half-lidded as she watched a boy fail to summon a gust of wind for the fourth time.
A spark fizzled out of his wand, and he sneezed.
Revantra tilted her head. "I think he cast pollen."
Next to her, a sharp-featured girl with ink-stained sleeves nodded solemnly. "That's Connor. He once turned his shoes into birds. Mid-exam."
Revantra blinked. "…Did they fly away?"
"Right into the examiner's face."
"Ah. Talented."
High above, the faculty watched from a shaded balcony, each with a clipboard and a cup of something expensive. Professor Vennar, the Head of Elemental Studies, already looked exhausted and hadn't even called the first name.
"Students," he called down, voice magically amplified. "Welcome to your midterm practicals. Today you will demonstrate your spell control, responsiveness, and theoretical application. No second attempts. No crying. If you spontaneously summon a demon, we will count it—then banish it."
Several students went pale.
Revantra smiled faintly. Amateurs.
Below the bleachers, Elias was fiddling with a massive piece of parchment. It was poorly painted, covered in blue splotches and mismatched letters. The sign read:
GO RHEA! Or…REVANTRA?? WE BELIEVE IN YOU (MOSTLY)
He looked up and grinned, waving.
Revantra's expression faltered.
And then she blushed.
"Ugh, who's that waving like a dad?" the ink-sleeved girl muttered.
Revantra glanced away. "No one important," she said far too quickly.
Elias added a thumbs-up. His thumb was blue. He had apparently painted the sign this morning.
The midterms began with target spells.
One by one, students stepped forward to blast, scorch, or otherwise abuse a series of magically shielded dummies lined across the field. Most spells fizzled or sputtered. One overconfident boy tried a lightning bolt and shorted his own wand.
Revantra's name was called early.
She stepped into the ring.
The dummies buzzed with enchantments. A red target pulsed on each chest.
Professor Vennar raised an eyebrow. "Rhea Trivelle. Fire-based, yes?"
Revantra nodded, calm.
He checked his sheet. "You're not registered with a bloodline."
"I'm…an orphan," she said smoothly.
Another teacher scribbled something. Likely "Uncanny Confidence."
"Proceed."
Revantra raised her hand.
The first dummy combusted.
The fire didn't roar—it coiled, elegant and silent, like a silk ribbon turned to flame. It struck the center of the target and didn't even singe the dummy's edges. Pure control.
The second target lit with blue fire.
The third melted into slag.
By the fourth, one of the teachers had dropped their teacup.
Professor Vennar cleared his throat. "...Did you study this technique somewhere?"
Revantra blinked. "I read a book. Once."
Someone at the faculty table muttered, "What kind of book—Dragon Chronicles?"
A polite round of stunned silence followed her last shot, which cleanly sliced the top button off a dummy's tunic.
She bowed and stepped off the field.
Behind her, a dummy quietly collapsed in awe.
The next trial was agility spellcasting—cast while dodging.
The students were sent into a dome ward where conjured illusions launched soft projectiles. The goal: fire back at enchanted targets while not getting pelted in the face.
Connor, the Shoe Bird Boy, was hit nine times and accidentally turned one of the illusions into a raccoon.
Revantra strolled in.
The illusions sprang to life, launching padded orbs from all sides.
She moved like a flame—slipping, spinning, not running, just redirecting. Fire answered her gestures with uncanny grace, striking each target even as the attacks grew faster.
Her hair barely stirred.
Outside, the faculty murmured. Professor Vennar leaned forward.
"She's not drawing from a spellbook."
"No incantation either," another muttered. "Instinctive casting?"
"But that level of responsiveness—she's not even breaking a sweat."
"She's either a prodigy," said one grimly, "or a very convincing reincarnated warlord."
Elias, in the bleachers, cheered. "YEAH RHEA! SMOKE THOSE ILLUSIONS!"
A few heads turned.
Revantra glanced up mid-spin—and the illusion she was aiming for ended up extra-crispy.
One of the teachers leaned over. "Did she just blush?"
Professor Vennar, who had not seen anyone blush mid-exam in twenty years, stared down.
Revantra strode out of the ward with only a faint whiff of ozone around her.
Then came the magic theory responses.
This part wasn't flashy—students had to read simulated scrolls aloud and use basic spells to respond to hypothetical crises. For example: a village infested with shadow snakes, or a merchant cursed to sneeze gold coins.
Most students fumbled the fine details. One accidentally gave the merchant more sneezing powers.
Revantra?
Revantra solved the snake plague by casting a banishment circle on herself, drawing the shadow creatures into her palm like water into a drain, then sealing them away.
"And the coins?" asked the teacher.
"Place him in a wind tunnel until the curse burns out."
The examiner blinked. "…Technically correct."
Revantra didn't even smile. But she did glance, for the third time, toward the stands.
Elias was now holding up a second sign, made from two parchment scraps sewn together:
YOU'RE MELTING THE CURRICULUM!
He waved both arms, beaming.
She bit her lip.
And that was when the grading scroll in her hand burst into flame.
The examiner yelped.
Revantra yanked her hand back. "I—I didn't mean—!"
The scroll crumbled to ash.
"Sorry," she added, flushing hard. "My hand slipped."
"Onto a combustion rune?" the examiner said faintly.
Revantra looked up at Elias, who had just dropped the second sign on his own head.
She covered her face with both hands and muttered, "I hate him."
Later that afternoon, the courtyard buzzed with post-exam speculation.
"Did you see her move? Like a flame dancer."
"She didn't even chant."
"I heard she's actually a spirit of vengeance. Or a forgotten blood heiress."
"Maybe a phoenix in disguise."
Revantra sat at the edge of the fountain, letting her boots dry from the water challenge portion, which someone had forgotten to heat.
Theo plopped down beside her with a piece of fried dough.
"You've officially terrified the entire department."
"I wasn't trying to."
"Oh, I know. That's what makes it worse. You accidentally blew up the expectations curve."
He tore off a piece of dough and offered it.
She took it absently.
"Your boyfriend's ridiculous," Theo added.
"He's not my—" Revantra stopped. "He's just…"
Theo grinned. "Embarrassing in public. Annoying. And you can't stop looking at him even when he's doing this—"
Theo mimed Elias's sign-waving. Badly.
Revantra smirked. "That was a very poor imitation."
"True," Theo said. "His arms flail more. But you get the point."
She popped the fried dough into her mouth and chewed slowly.
"I didn't mean to burn the scroll."
"You think that'll affect your grade?"
"I think the examiner had a complex relationship with parchment."
Theo snorted.
Elias jogged up a few minutes later, still holding a damp corner of the second sign.
"You were amazing," he said breathlessly. "Seriously. I almost threw my sign off the roof."
Revantra glanced at him, half-laughing, half-mortified.
"You made two signs?"
"Technically three. The first one exploded when I tried using fireproofing ink."
"You tried to fireproof something with fire ink?"
"I'm creative," Elias said proudly.
Revantra shook her head. "You're lucky I didn't combust from embarrassment."
"You did combust the grading sheet."
"...Shut up."
But her smile didn't fade.
They stood there for a moment—awkwardly, surrounded by gossiping students, half-burnt scrolls, and the smell of fried dough—and something settled in her chest.
Not power.
Not pride.
Just a small, warm certainty that she wasn't alone.
And that maybe, even with all her terrifying strength and misplaced instincts, she could still belong here.
With him.
Even if he couldn't paint a sign to save his life.
Later that evening…
Professor Vennar finished reviewing the last of the recorded footage from the midterms. He rubbed his temples.
"She shouldn't exist," he muttered. "That level of reactive precision… You don't learn that. You inherit it. Or remember it."
One of the other teachers nodded, pensive.
"Keep her in observation. Quietly. And if any other oddities show up…"
"We'll document them," Vennar said grimly.
He paused the footage.
Revantra was mid-spin, fire coiling from her fingers like breath.
And for a moment—just one frame—her eyes gleamed crimson.
To be continued…