The Sigil Hall looked nothing like the cramped classrooms she'd imagined.
It was vast — a perfect circle, domed ceiling stretching so high it seemed to catch the sky itself. Every inch of its curved walls was etched with intricate lines and glyphs, their inlaid gold faintly shimmering under the light of a dozen hovering orbs. The floor was a single unbroken expanse of smooth, dark stone, marked with concentric rings like ripples in water.
Those rings weren't just decoration.
They pulsed faintly as students filed in, resonating to the touch of each footstep. When Kiria stepped over the first line, she felt a prickle in her skin — as though the floor were quietly assessing her.
Professor Myrren stood at the center, robes the color of storm clouds, his hair bound back in a sharp knot. He didn't speak at first, only waited as the last students took their places in a broad circle around him.
"This," he began, his voice carrying with uncanny clarity, "is where you will learn the language of magic. Not the flashy gestures you've seen in the yards. Not the forceful shouts of power. Here, you will learn to speak to the elements themselves — through sigils."
A flick of his wrist, and the nearest ring on the floor lit up, lines curling into a complex pattern of intersecting arcs. The glowing design hovered for a moment before fading back into the stone.
"Fire-binding," Myrren said. "Our most basic. A thread you will return to again and again."
Students began to shift, some pulling chalk from their pouches, others uncapping small vials of liquid silver. The materials clinked faintly in the echoing space.
Kiria had nothing.
A few eyes drifted toward her — some amused, some pitying. One, belonging to the sharp-eyed girl from the corridor incident, carried a spark of something meaner.
"Outer ring," Myrren instructed. "Inscribe your bind, and we will begin testing your control."
Kiria found herself next to a pair of boys who gave her just enough space to feel like she didn't belong there at all. She crouched, picking up a spare piece of chalk from the supply box at her feet. The stick felt dry and brittle in her hand.
She glanced toward the others, copying the curve of their first line, trying to remember which mark came next. The chalk scraped softly against the stone, leaving a pale trail that seemed too thin, too hesitant.
The prickle in her skin deepened.
Somewhere nearby, the sharp-eyed girl smirked — and shifted just enough for her robe sleeve to brush over Kiria's half-finished sigil.
The line bent.
Not much. But enough.
Kiria didn't notice. Not yet.
Kiria straightened, squinting at the pattern she'd drawn.
It looked right — mostly. The outer curve matched the others' work, and the inner loops mirrored Myrren's demonstration. Her hand shook a little as she completed the last stroke, pressing the chalk harder to match the boldness of her neighbors' lines.
"All students," Myrren's voice cut through the room, "channel into your bind on my mark. Do not force. The sigil will take what it needs."
Kiria's stomach knotted. She had no idea how to "channel" anything.
Around her, students planted their palms over the glowing circles they'd drawn. She did the same, fingers splayed against the cold stone.
"Mark."
The hall seemed to inhale.
Her fingertips tingled — faintly at first, then sharper, a prickling heat racing up her arms. She tried to pull back, but her hands wouldn't move. The lines of her sigil lit up, not with the warm gold of Myrren's example, but with a harsh, bluish-white glare.
"Stop—!" she gasped, but the light flared.
The pattern beneath her buckled inward, warping like glass under pressure. Then it snapped.
A shockwave ripped outward from her spot on the ring.
The floor's embedded glyphs caught the blast, but the force still hurled two students backward, scattering chalk and scrolls across the stone. A cluster of practice wands clattered away as a shimmering barrier flickered to life over Myrren's head.
The noise of the impact echoed in the dome, sharp and dissonant.
Kiria fell back on her hands, breath ragged. Her sigil lay in front of her, its chalk lines scattered into meaningless fragments.
"Hold positions!" Myrren's command was cold and immediate. His boots clicked against the stone as he approached her, eyes like flint.
"What," he said quietly, "was that?"
"I— I don't know, I didn't—"
A low groan from across the ring drew both their attention. One of the boys who'd been knocked over sat up, rubbing his temple. The other cursed under his breath, glaring at Kiria like she'd just set fire to the hall.
Professor Myrren studied her for a long moment, then flicked his fingers toward the glowing floor. The remaining energy bled away, the ripples fading until the stone lay still again.
"Class dismissed," he said to the rest, not taking his eyes off her.
Nobody needed telling twice. Students gathered their things, muttering, darting glances over their shoulders as they left.
Kiria was the only one who didn't move.
The Sigil Hall was empty except for the echo of retreating footsteps.
Professor Myrren stood with his arms behind his back, the folds of his robe hanging in perfect stillness. Kiria could hear her own breathing, quick and shallow, in the wide silence between them.
"Stand," he said, and she scrambled to her feet.
His gaze swept over her — not in anger, exactly, but in the kind of deep, clinical assessment one might give a dangerous but unfamiliar artifact.
"You claim you have no training," he said. "No magic at all."
"I don't," she said quickly. "I've never—"
"Then how," he stepped closer, voice dropping a fraction, "does a first attempt at fire-binding produce no flame, no heat… yet generates enough raw kinetic displacement to knock over four students?"
"Two," she muttered before she could stop herself.
One of his brows twitched upward.
The heavy door at the far side of the hall swung open, and another figure strode in — taller than Myrren, with a mane of silver hair and a long green coat lined in dark fur. His steps were brisk, and his sharp, assessing eyes landed on Kiria immediately.
"Myrren," he said, "I heard there was a disturbance."
"She claims it was unintentional," Myrren replied.
The newcomer's gaze lingered on her a moment longer before he crossed the hall to join them. "Unintentional… or instinctive?"
Kiria frowned. "Instinctive? I told you, I've never—"
"That," he interrupted mildly, "is the curious part."
Myrren folded his arms. "Master Orrick, this is neither the time nor the place."
"It's exactly the time," Orrick said, lowering his voice but not enough for Kiria to miss. "If she's the one—"
"Orrick." The warning in Myrren's tone was ice.
A beat of silence passed. Orrick's eyes softened a fraction as he looked back at her. "We will speak again," he said simply, then turned for the door.
Kiria glanced between them, frustration building like pressure behind her ribs. "Speak again about what?"
Neither answered.
By the time Kiria stepped out of the Sigil Hall, the news had already outrun her.
Students scattered across the courtyard turned their heads as she passed. Some leaned toward each other, whispering behind cupped hands; others didn't bother hiding their stares. She caught fragments of the talk — "threw half the class on the floor", "didn't even use fire", "must've been intentional".
It was impossible to tell which version they believed.
Her roommate, Taren, intercepted her halfway to the dormitory steps. "What did you do?" she hissed, eyes darting to the nearest cluster of gawkers.
"Nothing!" Kiria snapped, then softened. "I didn't… I couldn't…" The words trailed off as a pair of boys walked by, smirking like they'd just seen the punchline of a private joke.
Taren's frown deepened. "You're already the odd one out, you know. This won't help."
Kiria's jaw clenched. "Then let them talk."
But she could feel every glance, every murmur following her like a shadow.
They reached the edge of the fountain at the center of the courtyard, its carved stone lions spilling thin streams of water into the basin. Across the wide expanse, another group of students was crossing toward the east wing — and among them was Veylan.
He wasn't looking at anyone in particular… until he was.
For a heartbeat, their eyes met across the courtyard's sunlit gap. His gaze was unreadable — not mocking, not sympathetic, just… aware.
Then someone called his name, and he turned without breaking stride, disappearing into the east wing's shadowed archway.
Taren followed Kiria's gaze. "You don't want to get involved with him," she said flatly.
Kiria said nothing. She wasn't even sure what she'd seen in that look — or if she'd imagined it entirely.