Chapter 28: Prodigy
It was Saturday morning, the last day of the midterms, and Clara once again stood next to Professor Morris on the training field. But instead of the Spellweaving Club, in front of them were the members of Class 2-A, lined up for the practical component of their Fundamentals of Magic exam.
Iris had come out of most of her exams looking cautiously optimistic. And Clara, for her part, had spent the week tutoring Emma and working with the professor to understand magical effects and refine her own spellcasting—she’d managed to hold the vibration on the knife for over a minute.
On the other side of the field, Major Ricardo and a professor Clara didn’t recognize were overseeing duels between the martial track students. And with them was someone in white robes… Father Leofric? Maybe he was there in case they needed some healing magic? Was priestly healing magic even a thing in this world?
Leofric seemed to notice her staring and gave her a peaceful smile. Clara averted her eyes, and a sense of guilt spread through her as if she’d done something wrong by not going to church.
Morris stepped forward, staff in hand, and addressed the class. “Welcome to the practical examination for Fundamentals of Magic. The rules are straightforward: each of you will have up to three minutes to perform a prepared demonstration of your chosen magic. You’ll be assessed on control, creativity and output.”
He adjusted his glasses. “A word of caution: this is an examination, not a battlefield. I expect demonstrations that will not pose a danger to the audience or the caster. Now, do we have any volunteers to go first, or shall I call on you?”
The first to come forward was a sandy-haired boy. He put two buckets on the ground, about a meter apart, and slowly transferred the water from one bucket to the other without letting a single drop fall. It was nothing visually spectacular, but with Clara’s newfound appreciation for magical control and visualization, she still thought it was impressive.
The next several students followed a similar pattern. There was a girl who conjured small bursts of wind to make leaves fly in a pattern, a boy whose wobbly attempt at holding up a flame made Morris reach for his staff, and Charlotte, who produced an impressively loud thunderclap that made half the audience flinch, similar to what the professor had done during the trial.
Then came Felicity. Clara expected something dramatic from someone who lived for attention, and the girl didn’t disappoint. Instead of looking at the professor, she turned to the other students, cast an incantation, and then started moving her mouth. Except instead of her voice, what came out was Charlotte’s, and the entire class laughed when she started talking about Felicity’s magic being superior to hers. Not including Charlotte herself, of course, who was now frowning with her arms crossed.
Clara gulped. This is a very dangerous spell for someone like her to have.
After Felicity, it was Edward who came forward—the boy who’d been sitting next to the prince last week. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms. There was an easygoing smile on his face, and his hand rested over the sword at his waist, which had an emerald attached to the pommel.
Morris raised an eyebrow. “I hope you don’t intend to attack anyone, Lord Edward. Martial track exams are on the other side, you know.”
Edward chuckled. “Not to worry, Professor. I don’t think this technique is quite ready for a live duel, anyway.”
He raised his sword; the smile vanished, replaced by an intense focus.
“Ventus, cela aciem!”
At first, Clara thought the boy had made a mistake—nothing seemed to be happening. Then her skirt fluttered, and a gust started flowing towards Edward’s sword. Clara’s hair whipped across her face, and she had to shield her eyes against the dust. When she looked again, Edward’s sword had changed—or rather, it had disappeared.
Clara squinted. If she focused, she could just barely make out a blur of wind wrapped around where the metal used to be. The sword hadn’t vanished; it had been swallowed by a sheath of moving air. Edward swung it around, and Clara’s eyes kept trying to find the tip, without success.
“That’s not fair! How are we supposed to dodge something we can’t see?” said a boy in the front.
Edward flicked his wrist twice more in quick succession, and then the wind was gone, and the blade was back.
“Interesting idea, Lord Edward,” said Viscount Vainglory from the side. “I’m curious about the specifics of your visualization.” The viscount had stopped skipping class after his conversation with Clara, but his bearing was still noticeably more subdued than it used to be.
“Edward,” said Lochlann, stepping forward with a frown. “Can I borrow that?”
Edward narrowed his eyes, but handed him the sword anyway. “Here you go.” No title when talking to the Crown Prince, Clara noted.
Lochlann walked to the center of the practice area and stabbed the sword into the ground. Then he drew a slender wand of dark wood from inside his jacket and pointed it towards the sky.
“Ignis.”
It was the simplest of chants, but the effect was immediate. Fire bloomed from the top of his wand, creating a column of crimson similar to what the mages of the Spellweaving Club had done. Clara took a step back as the warmth reached her.
But Lochlann wasn’t done. “Vesti aciem,” he chanted, sweeping his wand down. The column split into separate streams, which then coiled like serpents around the sword. He grasped the hilt and pulled it off the ground, holding it with two hands in front of his face. Then he swung it, and the arc left a searing afterimage.
An auburn-haired prince wielding a majestic flaming sword. If only it wasn’t Lochlann…
“Well held, Your Highness,” said Morris as the flames extinguished. Lochlann gave a curt nod and went back to the line, returning the sword to Edward with a smirk.
“Let’s see, who hasn’t gone yet…” The professor flipped through his notes. “Ah, Lady Iris. Please, go ahead.”
Iris came forward with her chin held high. She held a silver wand with a small amethyst tip. Clara gave her a thumbs-up of encouragement, then realized she wasn’t sure how that gesture translated here since it was popularized only after World War II in her world, then realized she was overthinking it and just gave her a smile and nod.
Iris opened her free hand and pointed her wand towards it. Clara held her breath, excited to see the illusion spell Iris had put so much effort into over the past few days.
“Florete, imagines meae. Surgite ex animo et vivite.”
Bloom, images of mine. Rise from my mind and live. It was the longest chant of the demonstration so far, and one Clara had helped Iris refine.
The amethyst pulsed with a deep violet light, and something appeared in Iris’s hand: flowers. Clara knew they were illusions, crafted from light and color, but they were so vivid and so textured that the distinction didn’t matter. A dozen roses in deep crimson red unfurled their flowers, held by Iris like a bouquet towards the professor.
Morris sniffed. “Is that… smell?”
It was a sweet, warm scent.
Then Iris swirled joyfully, ‘threw’ the flowers into the air, and swept her wand, making the petals drift around with the breeze until they slowly vanished.
“That was lovely, Lady Iris!” Helena clapped from the side, her blue eyes bright with delight. “I didn’t know illusion magic could create smells! How creative.”
A few other students joined in the polite applause, and Iris returned to the line with a satisfied smile, though her gaze lingered on Helena for a moment.
“That is quite an improvement from last term. Excellent work, Lady Iris,” said the professor. Clara beamed with pride, opting not to dwell on the ethics of a professor scoring someone whom he’d privately tutored and whose family had paid for his freedom.
The next several students took their turns. A girl with a stutter caused a misfire, and the energy blasted her into the ground. Professor Morris made sure she was okay, then Edward offered to help her to the infirmary. After that, Vivienne opened a book and chanted a spell that made the text light up, allowing one to read in the dark.
I’d love to learn that one.
“Who’s next?” Morris consulted his sheet again. “Lady Helena, would you like to take your turn?”
Helena walked to the center of the field with small steps, her hair catching the midday sun.
“Watch carefully,” Morris whispered to Clara. “She showed considerable growth throughout the last year. I even recommended her for the Spellweaving Club, but she didn’t seem interested.”
Really? Her? Clara had assumed Helena was mostly incompetent at… well, everything, and relied only on her attitude and on the prince’s help to get where she needed to get.
Helena raised her right hand. There was a topaz ring on her index finger.
“A ring? Are you sure you can handle that?”
“If it’s okay, Professor.”
Morris nodded, and Clara furrowed her brow. Earlier this week, he had explained to her that long, straight objects like a wand or staff had the optimal shape to conduct magical energy, and that only advanced casters could effectively use jewelry like rings or brooches.
Helena closed her eyes and stood perfectly still for several seconds. The breeze stirred her blonde hair, and a few students began to whisper. Then she opened her eyes and spoke.
“Florete, imagines meae. Surgite ex animo et vivite.”
Clara’s breath caught. She was copying Iris’s incantation. Iris’s face had gone rigid.
But the chant didn’t stop there.
“Tangite terram et eam vestite.”
It was a combination of Lochlann’s chant, Iris’s spell, and something completely new. Did Helena come up with this impromptu?
Flowers erupted on the ground around Helena. At first, they made only a small circle, but then they spread in a wave, racing across the practice area in every direction. There were poppies, cornflowers, daisies, buttercups—countless blossoms carpeting the earth until the entire field was a rainbow meadow.
“Is that… warmth?” Vivienne murmured.
Clara turned to Morris. The professor’s pen was motionless, and his mouth was open. At the other side of the field, the martial track students had stopped dueling and were now gawking at the surrounding flowers.
Clara looked down at her own feet. The illusory flowers were climbing over her shoes, pressing against her ankles with a softness that almost felt like real contact. She knelt and reached for a poppy, and the petals felt just as silky as they should have, until they dispersed into light at her touch.
How was this possible? Helena would have to be visualizing every single one of these flowers and perfectly picture the sensations involving them from the point of view of each person standing in the field. To Clara, that seemed beyond superhuman.
“That’s not just light and scent,” said Viscount Vainglory under his breath, eyes widened. “Lady Helena is projecting tactile sensations across the entire field.”
If even he was shocked, then what did that say about Helena’s spell?
The meadow held for thirty, sixty, ninety seconds—far longer than Iris’s bouquet. Helena stood at its center with her eyes half-closed and her expression serene, as if this required no particular effort. Then she lowered her hands, and the flowers dissolved, fading into the sky with a golden glow reminiscent of the Blessing of Truth. And the training field was bare again, scorches and all.
Nobody spoke.
Helena curtsied. “Thank you, Professor. I hope that was adequate.”
Adequate. Clara nearly choked.
Morris retrieved his pen, which he’d dropped to the ground, then cleared his throat twice before speaking. “Lady Helena. That was… yes. That was very much alright. I will need some time to score this properly. If the next student could please continue with their demonstration?”
There was nervous laughter from the students. I pity whoever has to follow that up.
Helena smiled and returned to the line with the same small, unhurried steps, and Lochlann immediately began singing her praises.
She had taken Iris’s spell—her concept, which Clara had helped her polish and which she’d practiced for days—and done it bigger, broader, and deeper, mixing it with two other concepts without breaking a sweat.
Clara didn’t know if it was malicious, but Iris would certainly think so. Though to her credit, Iris was standing very still, and her expression was serene. But the silver wand she held at her side was ever so slightly shaking.
It seems there’s a lot more to Helena Rosewood than I assumed.