Owl [https://i.imgur.com/5l6WvQl.png]

Will you do it, if she asks? Balsevor says. When she asks.

"No." I close the book and stand, stretching my arms above my head. The sun is creeping up towards the edge of the horizon, lightening the sky into a deep hazy blue. The forest just before dawn smells richer, mustier. Birds are awake and twittering with excitement at the start of another day of frantic autumn foraging.

You know it's what she wants from you, the dragon says. Why are you helping her, if not to carry out her plans?

"I am not Prince Adain," I say firmly. The memory flashes into my mind of Sindred the first night we met, the sharp edge of her knife pressed to my throat, "I know who you are" whispered like a threat. "She can't turn me into someone I’m not."

She can make you play the part, he says.

"No, she can't."

Aisling strides into view, picking her way easily through the maze of tree roots. "I wish I could hear what he's saying," she says by way of greeting. She chuckles. "You sound crazy."

I smile. "Well…" I say, making a thoughtful face as I trail off, as if that's a fair assessment.

She laughs. "We all are, around here," she says.

"Sindred asked me to tell you she'd be back later this morning," I say.

"I was wondering. That goblin scare her off?" she asks.

"Something like that." I frown. "Do you think…? I know she really doesn't like the cave, or all the new visitors she's getting, but sometimes it seems like she can't wait to get away from… me." I laugh uncomfortably. "I know; how self-centered."

Aisling regards me, head tilted to one side. "Well, you are pretty terrifying," she says.

I feign a wounded gasp and she grins. I appreciate her humor. Aisling is one of the few people in the group who's made an effort to talk to me, make me feel like one of them. In fact, she seems genuinely happy that I've joined their secret rebellion, in a way that doesn't fully make sense to me. I worry that she also expects something of me based on who I used to be, that she's just another person I'll end up disappointing.

"I wouldn't worry about Sin," she says. "She's just… not quick to trust. None of us are. She's used to being alone, you know?"

I do. I think that's part of what's so frustrating. Sindred's sort of… coldness should be completely understandable. In many ways, I feel like we're the same. Cut off from people, perhaps more comfortable with quiet solitude. Not fully belonging in one place or the other. Yet sometimes the way she stares at me, I feel like she's trying to erase my very existence by force of will alone. Like she can't stand to be in the same world as me. She puts up this wall and it's as though I can feel it, pushing me away. I'm not sure why that drives me so insane.

"I just wish I could read what she's thinking, sometimes," I say, rubbing the back of my neck and looking to the sky.

Trust me, that's not what you want, says Balsevor. Even glimpses of your thoughts are enough to make a dragon scream for silence.

Aisling smiles knowingly at me. "Maybe she'll open up, someday. If you stick around long enough." She says the last part pointedly.

I smirk, a bit bashfully. "I can't leave until my mother is safe."

"But once she is…?" Aisling asks.

I open my mouth, then close it again. "I don't know," I say, sighing. "I suppose we'll see."

She nods in a way that says she accepts that, but just for now. "Come get some breakfast, before you're off to class?"

We climb up the hill and sit with the others, sipping barley tea between spoonfuls of hot porridge. A young girl with bright green skin and delicately pointed ears smiles at me from across the campfire, and when I smile back she giggles and whispers something to a friend of hers. Aurelius, who's hardly spoken a single word since the day I met him, nods politely. I return the greeting, careful not to let my eyes linger on the bumpy scar across his cheek.

A while later, I get up and fetch my heavy robes from where I left them folded in a corner. I shrug them on over my regular attire, and Aisling watches with raised eyebrows.

"You sure you aren't really one of them?" she asks. "You'd fool me, all dressed up like that."

I give a short laugh. "Maybe if I was, I'd be doing better at my classes," I tell her.

She pats me on the back as I head back out. "I don't envy you one bit," she says. "Stay safe out there. And good luck with all that learning."

...

My first class is Pneumatism. Master Ellerin teaches a basic healing class to all students, as well, but this one is only for those who've chosen Pneumatism as their primary area of study. There are five of us, in the first semester class. Only five students brave enough to study the art of life and death under Master Ellerin. There were eight, at the beginning. Three changed their minds, and ended up switching to Enchantment or Transmutation instead. They got scared, and if I wasn't so stubborn, I probably would have joined them.

The main lecture hall in the Pneumatists' Tower reminds me of Master Ellerin's office. Starkly white, scrubbed clean with spells that leave a lingering smell of soapy lemon. The rows of benches and desks are uncomfortable cold steel. Instead of his own desk at the front of the room, Master Ellerin stands before a wide iron cage. Within the bars is a long counter just big enough for a human body. And that's what's laid upon it, most mornings. If the person happens to be among the living, we're told they're a volunteer, someone who can't afford medical care, and is willing to risk all manner of harm in the chance that their injury or illness may be cured for them. Often, the body is not living, and, somehow, I prefer those days. Someone who's already dead can't be tortured.

So far, in this morning class we've learned how to disrupt the clotting of blood at the site of an open wound, causing immense blood loss if not reversed. The spell is referred to as Bleed. In the healing class, we learned how to reverse this spell, closing up small wounds on only a surface level. This spell, Knit Skin, can also be used to take care of blemishes and minor scars. I've been trying for weeks to master it, and have only managed to cause minor scars with hands that burn every subject instead of heal them. I keep waiting for Master Ellerin to pull me aside and tell me it's a lost cause, but he seems unnervingly fascinated by all my failures. The other professors, on the other hand, tolerate my mistakes far less graciously.

I file into the room with the four other students, who all have the same exhausted slump to their shoulders, droopy eyes focused on their dragging feet. I'm the only one to notice right away that there is no body in the cage today. Instead, there is a wooden pole a few feet long, attached to a circular base, and something small is wrapped around it. As I walk to my seat, I get close enough to see that my first assessment was wrong; there is a body, just not a human one. A gnome, barely larger than my hand, is gagged and tied to the wooden pole, arms stretched above its head. It's hard for me to make out its facial features because of the cloth roughly pulled across its mouth and its bushy head of hair. What stands out are its clothes: a perfectly tailored faerie suit, the matching jacket and trousers a sunny yellow with gold buttons, and a pair of shiny black boots. An outfit fit for a courtier, and one I've seen before.

Most gnomes want nothing to do with Underhill, and swear no fealty to the Queen of the Wood. They live in their own underground burrows and govern themselves in small groups they refer to as guilds. Gnomes are renowned for their craftsmanship, but no matter how extravagant and precious their creations, they generally prefer to live very quiet, ordinary lives. The exception to this are the gnomes who choose to work for the queen's court weaver, Yasha. Tasked with collecting the materials and putting together the wardrobes of the most important folk in the Wood, Yasha employs faeries of all sorts, and each of her gatherers, spinners, weavers and tailors wear the same shade of bright, dandelion yellow.

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Underneath my gray wool robes, I still wear the shirt and trousers I brought with me from the Wood, sewn of the softest faerie silk and fitted expertly to my form. It was Yasha I had gone to, years ago, when I needed new clothes. Or "The Weaver," as she was often called. She may have once been a troll, based on her height and hunched posture, but it was hard to tell after all the subtle transformations she'd undergone throughout the centuries, her strange beauty a combination of little gifts and payments from various faerie courtiers. I still remember the deal we made, in exchange for the finest clothes I, a prince, had ever owned. She'd asked for a kiss, and three of my newly grown feathers, plucked one by one by her nimble fingers while she grinned with delight.

For some reason, seeing one of Yasha's folk here in the Ironborn University makes me tremble with barely concealable fury. I quickly take my seat and lower my face so Master Ellerin won't see the emotion or sign of recognition in my expression.

Owl, cool down, Balsevor says. I swear this man's just waiting for an excuse to put you in that cage for his class to experiment on.

"There are two types of magically induced sleep," Master Ellerin says, as soon as we're all seated. "A charm, which tricks the target's mind, and a pneumatic drain, which forcefully exhausts the target on the energetic and physical level."

As Master Ellerin begins his lecture, my mind can't help but wander to my last conversation with Cassian, at the edge of the Wood. I made him an oath that my power would not be used against any of faerie-kind. I half-listen as Ellerin explains the risks of the new spell we are to learn.

"There is a reason we will not be practicing this spell on a human being today," he says, pacing in front of the cage."Draining a target of energy to cause fatigue is not so far a step from sucking the very life from a person. If done without expertise, a caster attempting this spell can slip into dangerous territories. Though this is considered a beginner spell, I'll be watching you all carefully for any sign of mana overextension, for if you're pushing your capabilities too far, you're also doing the spell wrong. Which is a great way to get someone killed." He gives each of the students a hard look as he says this. A couple of them wince.

"Any questions?" Master Ellerin asks.

One student raises her hand: Krizta, a very standoffish and studious girl with a permanent expression of skepticism and dark hair pulled back into a high ponytail. "What is that, Master Ellerin?" she asks, pointing to the gnome.

Master Ellerin smiles. "Come on, class," he says, "gather around to take a closer look. This is probably one of the few faerie specimens you will ever see. They're practically extinct, nowadays, but High Priest Rogemere has a couple of the creatures locked away for research purposes, and is generous enough to let the newer students use them in my class."

Owlodin, what are you doing? Go, Balsevor says as the rest of the class gets up and rushes to the front of the room and I don't move. If you get caught, this whole mission of yours was for nothing. Weeks, wasted.

Master Ellerin raises his eyebrows at me. "Avermire?" he asks.

Don't you want to find your mother?

"Sorry, sir," I say, clearing my throat. My jaw hurts from how tightly I was clenching my teeth together. "I was distracted for a moment."

I join the rest of the students huddled before the cage, keeping my features as apathetic as I possibly can as they gawk and gasp at the sight of a bound, gagged tailor only five inches tall. Based on the way his expertly fitted suit hangs off his body, the poor gnome is obviously starving. The beautiful yellow fabric is frayed and smudged with grime, just like the creature himself. His wide, panicked eyes dart back and forth. I look away before mine can meet them.

"Alright, back to your seats," Master Ellerin says, after watching us smugly for a minute, as though procuring such a "specimen" for his class is a sign of glory or status.

Just seeing that look on his face makes my skin tingle hotly, a sign that beneath my careful glamour there is angry fire flickering along my limbs, pulsing with the quick beat of my heart.

"Open your book to page one-hundred and sixteen. The spell is called Fatigue. Read through it on your own, and then we will go over it together," Master Ellerin instructs.

I slam my book down on the small steel desk attached to my seat more roughly than I mean to, and give a little apologetic smile at the sound, blaming it on clumsiness. I flip to the right page and start to read, propping my elbow on the desk and my chin in my palm.

This was your silly plan, remember? Balsevor points out. I told you it was a bad idea.

I rub my face and sigh, trying to focus on the words on the page.

Fatigue (Drain I) - beginner difficulty

Spell type: Pneumatic

Purpose of this spell is to drain just enough of a target's energy so they fall harmlessly unconscious for a short period of time (range of 1 minute-12 hours, typically).

Requires verbal incantation: Somnodallum oltellia. Best if said on an inhale, to capture the concept of pulling, or sucking, the energy from the target. Can be done with the use of material components that promote focus and more precise mana control, such as a small puppet/physical representation of the target, or a chalk circle on the ground around caster and target with a line drawn from caster to target and the rune for Take (using caster/target variants) on both sides of the line (page 879).

See next page 117-118 for detail on ways to incorporate various material components successfully with this spell.

Best if done touching or within touching distance of target. The more familiarity the caster has with the target's personal physiology, the easier the spell will be.

If mana control of the caster is not precise, both caster and target will almost surely suffer side effects, as is typical with even beginner pneumatic spells. Any pneumatic mana/energy manipulation of this sort can lead to symptoms of mana overextension in both caster and target: long-lasting lethargy, unconsciousness, physical ailment, shortened life span, or death.

Do not attempt on multiple targets at once.

I look up when I reach the bottom of the page, and see Master Ellerin watching me intently with a curious head-tilt. I sit up straighter in my chair, accidentally meeting his eyes. He smiles at me, and Balsevor's warning runs through my head. Ever since I lit that apple on fire in his office, I've caught Master Ellerin watching me like I'm the specimen, and it's only a matter of time before that becomes a serious problem.

But there are reasons I chose Pneumanism as my primary area of study, and I don't like the idea of giving up because the professor is looking at me creepily. One of the reasons is that of the seven different schools of magic at the University, Pneumatism is one of the few that makes even the slightest bit of sense to me. I learned how to wield the magical power of a sun dragon by instinct, with Balsevor's unhelpful snarky commentary. As he loved to tell me, dragons don't do certain types of magic. If I wanted to cause a meteor shower or a massive thunderstorm, it would feel natural and easy, and anything specifically related to fiery explosions even easier. But trying to do spells like the one I just read, with all their rules and extras, feels like threading a needle with a roaring flame, or trying to stuff that thunderstorm into a tiny glass bottle. It just doesn't fit. Yet, of all the options, Pneumatism is the least heavy on materials and specificities of all of the Ironborn schools, and the most likely to rely on the caster's natural instincts.

The other reason I chose it is that I'm changing physically. Every single time I use Balsevor's power I grow new feathers, the fires within me shine brighter, and those are just the ways that show on the surface. I'm changing inside, too. I can feel it. I have to, as the vessel for a sun dragon, in order to survive. And though I've barely even admitted it to myself, the idea of transforming into something else, of not being human anymore, scares me. I don't know exactly what I'll become, and that's terrifying. So Pneumatism, the school focused on the manipulation of life force and physiology, drew me in with whispered promises that maybe, just maybe, I could change back. I could undo it. And I'm not sure if that's really what I want, but not having control over it at all definitely isn't.

I look away from smiling Master Ellerin and pretend to go back to reading. A minute later, he continues his lecture, going into detail on every different method of achieving the desired results, and every outcome of the spell that he can think of, especially if we do the likely thing and screw it up. I zone out, having difficulty listening because of how much I'm dreading what's coming next. If I burn a target when I'm trying to close up a cut or remove a rash, what will happen when I try to drain a target's energy? Will they burst into flames, just like that apple I putrefied? I tap my foot nervously, glancing occasionally at the gnome in the cage, though I try not to. I'm starting to feel queasy.

The moment comes. Master Ellerin has finished with all his warnings and instructions and now it's time to make our first attempts.

"Avermire," he says, calling on me first, a knowing gleam in his eye. He is fully aware of how often I fail at even the simplest spells, and wants to use my mistakes as an example.

I stand up, my heartbeat racing in my chest. "No," I say.

"What?" He blinks at me.

"I'm not doing it. I can't."

"There's no harm. What's the worst that can happen?" He laughs, gesturing towards the cage. "You set fire to that thing?"

I look at the gnome, who over the course of our lesson has begun to whimper softly to himself and roll his head slowly back and forth. The other students and Master Ellerin are watching me expectantly. I take a slow breath in, trying to calm that urge to set all of them on fire.

Then I pick up my book and walk out.