“Hey there, I’m Maria. Nice to meet you at our fine establishment. You’re looking sharp—mind telling me your name?”
The mannequin—or what was left of it, just half a head and most of a torso—probably had the right to toss out a compliment like that. After all, my head’s still on my shoulders, fully intact. Just a little scratched up. And my jumpsuit, with all its burn holes, clearly shows I’ve still got all my limbs attached.
Optimism is practically my middle name. My first name, though?
That’s one I can’t share.
So, I silently press my thumb to the scanner. I could’ve just looked this hybrid of a security guard and a freak-show exhibit in the eye. But today, Maria’s clearly taken a beating. Looking her in the eye isn’t an option until the repair crew shows up.
Probably some senior student—more likely a girl—was in a bad mood. Or maybe they just didn’t have eyes or thumbs today and were running late for a test.
But what do I care about the woes of museum relics? I’ve got an interview with the dean. See, I didn’t get accepted into the academy. They said I didn’t have enough magic and lacked any powerful recommendations. Plus, the obstacle course was apparently too much for me.
Life’s a mess, as someone once said.
I’m not about to let them walk all over me. Why is it that every talented kid gets in, but not me? They should’ve just handed me a diploma the second they measured my magic levels without my mom’s bracelet. Problem is, it doesn’t come off. And even with it on, they could find magic in me if they looked hard enough. So what if it’s a little different? They’re the ones who are different. They’re just jealous. Their own magic is barely a flicker. Mine’s just… temporarily blocked, not weird or wrong or whatever they’re saying.
They haven’t even seen my dad’s magic yet.
Their magic meter must be busted. They shouldn’t be shoving so much tech into magic—or magic into tech, for that matter. Then nothing would break.
You’re cutting corners in all the wrong places, as my mom would say.
But she said something else entirely. Something cryptic.
She went on about how he’s super honest and noble. A real looker, too, one in a million. And she gave my dad this meaningful glance.
As if he’s just some average Joe in the looks department. I felt kinda offended for him. He just rolled his eyes, though.
Mom added that I got the short end of the stick, but there’s nothing to be done about it. She told me if I ever got into trouble, I should go straight to him and say he owes her everything—and that he can’t turn away a girl in need.
“That’s it? He’ll definitely help?” I asked, stunned.
“That’s it. ‘Girl in need’—those are the magic words. But don’t tell anyone, and don’t say them unless it’s a real emergency.”
“Maybe I should apply to a different academy altogether?” I tried to crack a joke.
“No way. At least there, you’ve got someone we know,” Mom yelped, practically leaping into Dad’s arms in a panic. He caught her mid-air, and they took off to handle some shady business of their own.
Dad only managed to toss over his shoulder that no academy exists for my kind of magic. I’d have to learn everything on my own, but at least I’d get a diploma this way. And a bonus idiot, whatever that meant.
They didn’t answer why I needed a diploma—or an idiot, for that matter. Probably didn’t hear me. They were already too far off.
So, armed with what passed for parental blessings, I showed up here at the gates of Rosewood Academy. And I displayed such a level of magic that their meter glitched out. It flat-out refused to register even a single percent of raw magic in me.
On the training field, they barely hit me. Just singed my jumpsuit. So they counted it as a hit. I’m still fuming. Besides this jumpsuit, all I’ve got is one of Mom’s dresses. It’s silk, absolutely gorgeous. But I’m not about to run obstacle courses in it or sit through classes in this rundown, backwater school.
Anyway, that beat-up Maria let me through. Talk about the poster child for a girl in need. Later, the dean chewed out the repair crew for taking too long, blaming them for everything.
But it’s not their fault. It’s because the passcodes for the office doors need to be changed now and then. Otherwise, you end up stuck like this for no reason.
So, I walked in and said there’s a girl in the hall who’s in trouble—and that I’ve got problems of my own.
Well, I started with a “good afternoon,” of course, but it didn’t feel like a good one for me—or for him, by the looks of it.
I decided to skip the fake pleasantries. I just pointed to the holes in my jumpsuit, mentioned my one and only dress, and brought up my parents, who I don’t even know where they are. They didn’t give me anything to bring with me except their blessing and instructions to study here. And to get that diploma. Because these days, you’re nothing without one.
And that was that. I mean, he asked the instructors and repair crew a few questions. But it was obvious he’d enroll me. He’s not about to kick a helpless, pitiful girl like me out onto the street.
Handsome, clueless, and honest. Everything you need to be a dean. Good thing I’m not aiming for a career like that. I’m all of those things—just with a “not” in front of each one.
“Would you consider household magic? I mean, miss,” he asked. The “miss” part clinched it—I’m no longer some scruffy country bumpkin. I’m a student now. An adept, as they call it out here in the sticks.
“Sure, household magic works for me,” I said politely.
The handsome dean jerked his head up from the papers he’d been rifling through on his desk, his military-style buzz cut snapping to attention. What did I say wrong?
“Seriously?”
“Dead serious. What, are there no spots left? I can switch to another program. I just need that diploma…” I trailed off, trying to squeeze out a pitiful, orphan-like tear.
“No, it’s not that. It’s just your performance on the field wasn’t great. A bit below average. And girls always seem to want combat magic. Probably because there are more guys there. Easier to find a husband, I guess… Or you could go for necromancy. Lay the undead to rest. But with your low magic levels, you might manage a zombie mosquito at best. No decent contracts for you there. Or maybe—”
“Thanks a bunch. I’m not looking to get married. And I can’t stand the undead—they stink. Household magic would be perfect. Maybe they teach how to patch up jumpsuits there. See this?” I shook out the old jumpsuit around me, the one Mom used to wear while cleaning our yacht. Household magic runs in the family, just like my looks. But no need to spill all that to the first dean I meet. And combat magic? Forget it. Dad always said no one teaches it right anyway. So why waste my breath? Plus, those mosquito jabs stung a little.
“You don’t want to?” the dean asked, shocked, arching his sharp brows over those striking eyes. And his face—man, it’s something else. Not like Dad’s, all cold and disdainful. This guy’s face is open, honest, and strong. Like a knight or something.
Ugh, my vocabulary sucks. No one ever taught me how to talk fancy. My parents were always too busy. Now I can’t even describe what I’m seeing or feeling properly.
“Not interested in marriage? Then how will you…?” He hesitated.
“I’ll get my diploma and find a job somewhere.”
Oh no. He’s about to figure something out.
“Wait, you’re not from around here? How’d you even get in?”
“I’m local. They checked me out. My family’s been here for generations, back as far as you wanna trace.”
The key is not to lie. I can tell he’d sniff out a fib in a heartbeat. And honestly, he doesn’t look all that local himself. Sometimes his eyes flash with vertical pupils. Dragons haven’t been around here since Dad’s time. And this outsider’s gonna question me about not being local?
“Don’t worry, adept. I just got the wrong impression. Local girls all get married. They use their magic for household stuff, helping their husbands run a kingdom or whatever setup they land in. Our graduates are in high demand, don’t get me wrong. A diploma from here is basically a ticket to a cushy life, at least in a small barony.”
“Sir, can I ask something? Are you from around here?”
He gave me a sharp look, almost offended for some reason.
What, does he think he’s some big shot everyone should know about? A dean’s a dean, even in the boonies. Just a guy buried in paperwork, divvying up meager resources so every department gets a piece. And he had to jump through hoops for this lousy desk job? For the peanuts they pay him here?
Heaven forbid I ever end up that desperate.
“You don’t even know that?” he asked, stunned, like I’d forgotten my times tables. “Everyone knows, adept. I’m not from here. It just… worked out that way.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I hurried to cover my tracks. “I don’t know much about anyone around here. I’m from way out, up in the northern swamps. No roads, news travels slow. I just heard an academy opened up here, taking girls without titles. Just anyone with magic. So here I am… Though I’m not totally clear on the ‘demand’ part. Do you, like, sell us off afterward?”
He tilted his head to the left, giving me a mocking smirk. Smug lizard.
“Well, how’d you think it works, adept? For those who can’t pay tuition, suitors foot the bill. And suitors pick the ones with the best magic skills. It pays off in the long run. They’re not looking at appearances…”
He stopped short. Too late. Now I’ve got myself a personal enemy. Not looking at appearances, huh? Sure. Pretty boy. Just like Mom said.
Looks and money don’t matter when you’ve already got ‘em.
“Got any more jokes, sir?”
“What do you mean?” my newfound nemesis asked, all serious.
“You know, about selling me off after graduation.”
“Of course not. Well, actually, yes. You’ve got me all mixed up, adept. It was a joke, but you’ll still have to settle the bill.”
“Meaning? Why don’t they warn us about this upfront?”
“Guess someone rushed onto the obstacle course without reading the fine print. But it’s not as bad as it sounds. You can work off the cost during your studies, or after. If it’s after, though, a husband, parent, or guardian has to vouch for you.”
“Got it. I’ll work it off during. Where do I sign? Household magic, payment through work-study.”
“I like your enthusiasm, adept. And I’ve got a job for you. Now, show me what you’ve got. Something simple. If your magic’s inherited, you should be able to do a little something without training. I’ll measure your level myself. I don’t need a magic meter for that.”
Of course he doesn’t. A dragon is basically living magic. He can sense it. Don’t ask me how. Ask him yourself. How would I know? I’m no dragon.
“I hear you loud and clear, sir. Or are you some kind of aristocrat? Should I be using a title?”
“I’m impressed, adept. And not just because you’re aware aristocracy exists. Guess even in the swamps, there’s a pecking order.”
Oops. I’m getting too comfortable here. Bad timing.
“Yeah. We’ve got aristocrats too, and it can get real unpleasant if you skip their titles. Painful, even.”
“Is that so? But I’m more impressed you don’t know even this much about me. Don’t look so scared. It’s a pleasant surprise. If your household magic is even a smidge above rock bottom, I’ve already got a spot for you. Show me what you can do. Don’t stress. This isn’t a test. It’s just that our charter forbids hiring the completely ungifted for this role. But it doesn’t specify how much talent you need. So, it’s just a formality, got it?”
“Size doesn’t matter, huh? Interesting,” I said, surprised. Then I shut up, stunned, as the dean turned redder than Mom did when Dad gifted her a stuffed tavern keeper for some anniversary of theirs.
That’s, uh… cute?
Everyone’s got their triggers. Still, I don’t get why he’s blushing. I just repeated what he said.
But I’ve got bigger fish to fry. This needs precision. My parents set up my defenses, and they’re top-notch. Still, no one’s gonna believe my skills are minimal if I don’t keep myself in check. I take a few deep breaths, slow and steady.
And don’t give me that skeptical look. I’m young. There’s room to grow. I’d rather not bring up that old swamp saying about frogs and, well, you know. But what can I do? My backwater home is mostly famous for its folklore.
He finally remembers what I asked. So young, and already forgetful. Or is this that famous absent-mindedness of scholars?
“We address everyone the same here, adept. During your time at the academy, titles and privileges are suspended. Keeps ‘em from interfering with learning. You’ll call most instructors ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am.’ We don’t have many young ladies on staff—just the storeroom manager, head cook, and the magic etiquette professor, who’s also the dean of household magic. Adepts call each other by name. Speaking of which, what’s yours?”
Here we go.
“I’m not sure you’d understand…”
“Adept, do I strike you as slow-witted?” Oh, now he’s gone pale. What a nutcase.
“No, sir, you seem plenty sharp to me. It’s just a local saying from the northern swamps. If you value your life and sanity, don’t dig too deep into what it means. It just means I can’t logically explain something that’s obvious to me. I can’t say my name. And I can’t tell you why.”
“Ah, fair enough.” He’s not surprised or even curious. “That happens. You’re not some kind of knight-maiden, are you, adept?”
“Something like that, sir.”
“Still, we’ve gotta register you for first year somehow. ‘The One Who Cannot Be Named’ is a mouthful to write down. And a pain to say.”
Ha, but it’s pretty accurate.
“What if we shorten the first three words to Tyan? Would that work?” I ask this fan of brevity.
Why’s he grinning like that?
Total weirdo, I’m telling you.
“Tyan it is, then. And you, adept, are a real time-eater.”
Look at him, so perceptive. Too perceptive. Dad always said, “Know too much, and you won’t live long.”
“I’m ready,” I said, hoping to steer him off the topic of time. I rolled up the sleeves of my jumpsuit past my elbows to show there’s nothing hidden there. The dean gave my arms a sympathetic look.
“Remind me later, and I’ll issue you vouchers for extra meals, Adept Tyan.”
“Thanks in advance, sir. For now, could you hand me something from your desk? Something personal, so you know it’s unique. If it’s not too much trouble, something small. My magic reserves are pretty low, as the report says.”
He started rummaging through the papers on his desk again and pulled out a small glass-like orb from under the mess.
“If this is some disappearing act, adept, it won’t fly. This is Rosewood Academy of Magic, not a circus. Though that’s not always obvious. I’ll see right through any tricks. Magic only, nothing else.”
“No, sir, no tricks. This is our family’s household magic. We use it to pass the time on boring swamp evenings,” I assured him, extending my hand palm-up. He placed the orb in it.
It’s heavier than it looks for its size. And what’s it doing on a dean’s desk? Then again, his desk is such a pigsty, even Dad’s doesn’t look this bad every day…
Focus. Keep it minimal.
I roll up my sleeves further, toss the cold glass orb into my left sleeve with my right hand since it’s got no holes. I spin around on my axis and, with a practiced flick, send a dozen identical orbs flying out of my sleeve.
And of course, I had to wonder if a dozen was too many for a “low-level” demo. Naturally, I lost a bit of control. Now the dean’s glaring at me, and in the mahogany cabinet next to him, twelve neat holes the size of the orbs outline the silhouette of his tall, handsome frame.
Oops.
And so, our heroes have met.
They don’t yet know how much they’ll need each other.
Add this book to your library, and you’ll gradually uncover the stroke of luck that’s landed on Rosewood Academy—and just what kind of services the dean needs from this adept.
Most importantly, you’ll find out why everyone at the academy is so curious to know.