“My name is Magnus Winterbrow—Schoolman Winterbrow to you—and I will be your first-year schoolman in Offensive Magics.”

Alfie sat at the back of the silent classroom. Will, Teo, and Howie sat to his left. Seated in front of him were the other eight first years. Every single face was turned to the front of the room, where the intense blond man that had overseen the combat exhibition the day before stood.

Up close, Alfie was able to discern a little more of the man. In the confines of the classroom, it became immediately apparent how tall and imposing he was with his square, jutting jaw, bright blond hair parted in a crisp side parting, and piercing green eyes.

These eyes were currently occupied with sliding unhurriedly from one first-year face to the next.

Alfie couldn’t help but instantly label Winterbrow as strict and demanding but also fair and just.

At least, he hoped.

He was not what Alfie would have expected for someone who would teach them the best way to kick the hell out of other people with magic. Alfie might have been expecting someone a little rougher and readier, whereas Winterbrow was—there was no other word for it—suave.

He wore the same pristine coat he had been wearing the previous day. Underneath this coat, the man was attired in a black waistcoat, a crisp white shirt, and a pair of slim black trousers. On his feet, he wore a pair of polished, black leather boots. They were clean but creased as if with much wear.

Alfie blinked and found that he was being subjected to the green X-ray stare that Winterbrow had been hitting the rest of the class with. It was a good stare. The piercing green eyes lanced right into Alfie’s head with such intensity he almost felt like the dapper man could’ve whisked up his brains without moving a muscle if he fancied it.

Maybe he can, Alfie thought. Maybe that’s something he’s going to teach us how to do.

Winterbrow smiled a slow smile as he gazed at Alfie. Alfie found himself squirming but did not look away from the man. He was visited with the same feeling he’d once had when one day when, on turning into an alleyway in the borough of Newham, he’d come face-to-face with a large, collarless, vicious-looking Doberman. The dog and Alfie had locked eyes before he’d even stumbled to a halt. The dog had begun to growl. In that moment, the little node in Alfie’s spine, which had been a part of the survival instinct ever since the first pioneering ape had climbed down out of the trees and decided to have a crack at the bipedal lark, had told him that he shouldn’t, on any account, run away.

Alfie got that feeling now. The feeling he was being weighed, his mettle tested.

Just as he’d done with the Doberman, Alfie didn’t look away. He didn’t move. He just sat at his desk impassively.

Eventually, Schoolman Winterbrow nodded to himself.

Then, he swept his gaze over the class as a whole and said, “Ah, you think that, perhaps, this clean-cut look does not marry with the battle-scarred warrior you might’ve been expecting?”

No one said anything—which, in a way, was answer enough.

“Let me tell you, the more scars a mage is decorated with, the less competent a warrior he is likely to be. And looks can be deceiving—this has never been truer than when it comes to battle. If they’re any good, the shrewd battle mage will be the epitome of a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

Alfie sat back slowly in his chair. He had to admit that, despite it being an aesthetic letdown, the man had a point. It was an older battle mage with no visible scars that you had to be most wary around.

“As for my attire…” Winterbrow continued, motioning from his head to his toes, “you see me wearing a long, black coat adorned with silver buttons, yes? Unmarked and unstained, yes?”

There was a general murmur of assent.

“Well, this coat is made of a sturdy, magical fabric that is impervious to flame and other types of magical attacks. It is also resistant to water, many varieties of acids, and blood.”

Winterbrow opened the folds of the expensive-looking coat. Alfie felt a thrill pass through him as he laid eyes on what had previously been concealed. A pair of daggers in matching sheaths hung across Winterbrow’s hips like a gunslinger’s pistols. To top off his look, he sported a small, silver pocket watch on a chain that ended in the pocket of his waistcoat.

“Modern life,” he said, “is very efficient at telling people what to think but extremely poor at telling them how to think. The same can be said about judging people. It’s fine and normal to look out over the surface of the sea from time to time, but that’s not what the sea is about. That’s not why it is there. What the sea is about is everything that lies beneath. Human beings are a circus of emotions and thoughts, and you don’t go to the circus just to sit outside and stare at the tent, do you?”

Alfie watched the way the man moved as he walked over to his desk and sat on the edge of it. He commanded attention and respect in the same way a tiger did.

He moves like one, too, Alfie realized.

“Welcome to Offensive Magics,” Winterbrow said. “You know what the Aetherbright Academy is about now. So, let me tell you what role I play under the broad umbrella of this institution’s martial scope.”

Winterbrow crossed his legs, one ankle resting on the opposite knee.

“I am going to make you into weapons.”

The already pointed atmosphere sharpened palpably in the room. Winterbrow smirked, and then his face grew grim.

“It is not such a glamorous and exciting prospect as you’re allowing yourselves to think at this very moment. I’m going to turn you into the kinds of mages that speak and act and carry yourselves as well as any other respected and respectful person. But under those carefully crafted and unshakeable concrete veneers, you will be the kinds of lethal individuals who, when you shake hands with other mages, will not be able to help glancing at their throats. When watching someone from across a crowded room, your eyes will rake not just their bodies but every part of them that might conceal a weapon.”

The room was deadly silent now. They were all held in the thrall of this intense, smartly dressed man. Alfie didn’t even want to blink or swallow lest he miss something.

“You will be taught by myself and others, over the course of three years, that every component of the body is an invitation to be eagerly accepted as a cat accepts a saucer of cream. You will look when you’re in the heat of combat, and you will see things differently. Eyes are for thumbs to gouge and blind. Cheeks can be hooked and torn wide. Necks are an offering to you—nature’s ultimate slip-up in design.”

It was at that moment that Molly Peery piped up and voiced the opinion that she thought they’d be learning magic in this class.

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Schoolman Winterbrow listened to her politely and gravely. He pursed his lips and nodded.

“Of course, you will be learning magic, Miss Peery,” he said, not unkindly, “but that’s not all. There are times when magic is of little or no use. Scenarios in which a spell can mean death for the mage. With that in mind, we need to learn to fight and kill and win any and all ways we can.”

Next to him, Alfie heard Howie swallow.

“Although it is cruel and contemptuous to do such a thing, if you must distill the mindset of the battle mage down into an essence of a kind then, perhaps, it is this,” Winterbrow said.

Alfie found that he was leaning forward, straining to catch every word.

“When the fight is on—when your life and the mission must be accomplished—surviving is the be-all and end-all of this. You will not have to worry about how your enemies view you; they will be lying at your feet free from any other care ever again. You will not have to worry about whether you have done the right thing; you will know because the battle mages crafted in the crucible of the Aetherbright Academy are forged only to do the right thing. You will not have to worry about what happens if you come off second best, as the reward for that is no more or less than a shroud.”

Alfie saw Fritha Hookway shift nervously in her seat as Schoolman Winterbrow’s eyes came to rest on her.

“You will learn to see that the world is a smorgasbord of things designed to cause bodily harm,” he said in a flat, emotionless voice. He nodded at Jason Bun’s desk, which was right in front of him. “Pens, a hardback book, a discarded jumper, spectacles… These are all weapons. Everything you touch is a potential bad day for someone else. You are a weapon—at least, you will be.”

Outside, in the grounds, Alfie could hear birds trilling, showing off to one another. He could hear the soft rush of the wind through leaves nearby, the occasional shout as someone hailed a friend, the distant abrasive siren song of a lawnmower.

But, inside the classroom, a dropped coin would have rung like a cymbal.

“So,” Schoolman Winterbrow said, clapping his hands and making a couple of students jump, “if you are going to judge a mage on their appearance alone, especially a mage trained under this roof, first, let me give you one word of caution. We breed a particular kind of mage here—as you know. Battle mages. Battle mages that mostly go on to work directly in the protection of this fair isle of ours.”

“MI7, sir?” the girl who had been assigned to Grant’s cabal asked tentatively.

Winterbrow gave her a short smile. “Astute observation, Sarah Moore. Mostly, yes, that’s where our lot ends up. Years back, I sat where you sit now. I trained with other mages like myself. I learned a lot, but what I learned best was that some mages exist only to fight and kill the enemy. Others, I found, were careless and would fight anyone at all.”

“Schoolman Winterbrow?” Alfie asked.

“Yes, Mr. Turner.”

“Provost Sharpe has touched on it, but what sorts of enemies are we most likely going to encounter?”

“Monsters mostly. But monsters don’t always look like monsters. The worst ones I’ve faced are the ones that look like me and you.”

“How many proper battle mages are there, Schoolman Winterbrow?” asked one of the other members of Grant’s cabal, Bastian Joyce.

Winterbrow turned his green eyes to the ceiling and frowned. “There are happily few of us. Happily I say because in war—like during the Djinn Wars—we are allowed to be the beasts that we were trained to be. We are taught to kill silently and fight without remorse, and it becomes instinctive, almost like breathing. It’s something that comes with a lot of responsibility and is a damn curse of a thing, really.”

“Curse?” Grant blurted. “Why’s that?”

“Because, Mr. Grant, once you’re taught it, you can’t unlearn it. Do you understand?” Winterbrow said, not taking his gaze from the ceiling.

“Yes, sir,” Grant said.

Winterbrow sighed through his nose. “No, you don’t. Not yet.”

He stood up and looked around at the class. His eyes fell on Alfie.

“This, is what is known as being thrown in at the deep end. Get used to it. For such scenarios make up at least seventy-five percent of the life of an MI7 battle mage working for the good of our fine land. Turner, Grant, you’re each of you going to demonstrate your magical capabilities.”

Alfie’s eyebrows rose. “We’re going to have a fight?”

“That’s right.”

“Scared?” Grant asked out of the corner of his mouth, half-turning to look at Alfie.

“Only of your breath, mate,” Alfie replied.

“I know nothing of either of your educational backgrounds, just as I’m sure you know nothing about one another,” Winterbrow said. “Stand at the back of the classroom and let’s see what you’ve got. Nothing like putting two fresh faces on the spot.”

Alfie and Grant got up and walked to the back of the classroom, where there was a large open space set under the oculus up in the ceiling.

“Full disclosure, Turner,” Grant whispered, “I’m from a very wealthy magical family—”

“So you keep saying,” Alfie said in a bored voice.

“—and, as such, I’ve been enjoying private training lessons since I was old enough to ride a bike without training wheels,” Grant finished.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m telling you, boyo, I’m—”

“There’s no way a numpty like you knows how to ride a bike without training wheels,” Alfie cut in. “I don’t believe that one for a second.”

Leaving the arrogant Grant to stew on that one for a moment, Alfie crossed to the other side of the space. He turned to face his opponent.

“There we go,” Winterbrow said as he fiddled with a device from his pocket. “Quests are up. This time, you can use whatever spells you have available. But take note: future tussles won’t be so advantageous. Oh, and one more thing: try not to kill each other. I’d hate to see one of you buried and the other thrown out of the Academy.”

New Quests Available!

Spell Duel

Face off against our opponent and successfully render them unable to continue fighting. You may use any spell you have available.

Warning: Lethal blows will result in immediate explusion.

Winner Quest Rewards:

100xp

50xp (Cabal)

Random Tier 1 Spell Boon

Loser Quest Rewards:

100xp

50xp (Cabal)

“Combatants, ready?” Winterbrow asked.

“Yep,” Alfie said. With his Petrifying Gaze spell, he almost felt like he had this in the bag. But he hadn’t seen Grant use his magic yet, so Alfie could very well be outclassed.

“Aye,” Grant growled.

“Then… begin,” Winterbrow said.

Alfie reached into himself, activating Petrifying Gaze. He looked up to stare into Grant’s eyes—a jet of water skipped across the stone floor from the point where Grant had crouched and touched it. It bounded like a skipping stone, forming four tight arcs, and then bounced up into Alfie’s unsuspecting face.

The elemental uppercut knocked him clean off his feet. He flew up, revolved, and then crashed down onto his back onto the unforgiving flags. A blaze of pain turned his vision red, and he thought he heard something crack—a rib, probably.

However, pride could be one hell of a thing; it was double-edged certainly, but as good as a shot of adrenaline in some circumstances.

He got to his feet automatically, trying to clear his eyes of water and stars.

Obviously, Grant wasn’t lying, he thought. I wouldn’t have thought it possible.

Alfie managed to dodge another bouncing jet of water, which splashed against the wall with such force that it turned to mist.

Grant was smirking; smiling so widely, in fact, that it was a wonder that the top of his immaculately parted head didn’t fall off. Paul Slater, the bully from Alfie’s senior school days, had often had that same look.

Grant didn’t want to just win this little bout, he wanted to embarrass Alfie, too.

Desperately, Alfie stepped this way and that, trying to make himself a less easy target while he fortified his body with Stoneskin. Using the latter made him a tad slower, but it would at least protect him should he get smashed with a spell from Grant.

Or so Alfie thought.

Grant’s next spell hit him like a maelstrom. One moment Alfie was standing, the next he had been flung with teeth-rattling force into the wall. Water whipped at his face, tore at his hair, and stung his eyes like blasting sand.

He tried to draw in a breath. Couldn’t.

He tried to scream. Couldn’t.

His head cracked into the wall as he felt whatever hydro-based spell Grant was subjecting drag him across—or down, or up—the wall. His mouth was filled with spray. He was flipped around, and he felt his face smack into the unyielding stone and his eyebrow split.

He tasted salt. Didn’t know if it was water or blood. He couldn’t breathe. His senses began to fade like a painting left out in the sun.

Distantly, he thought he heard someone yelling. Might’ve been the schoolman. What was his name, again?

It was how getting beaten into unconsciousness by white water rapids must have felt—a wild and merciless assault, a tempestuous dance between man and water.

The spray hissed and roared in Alfie’s ears like a frenzied beast as he thrashed and churned, his body pulled in a dizzying array of directions. Every inch of bare flesh was rubbed across the stone wall like it was a giant cheese grater and he was a luckless lump of cheddar.

His mind became a blur as thoughts and sensations became jumbled and incoherent and smudged. Darkness descended in a shroud that enveloped the mind in a velvet cloak of oblivion.

The pressure on Alfie lifted. There was a moment of weightlessness. His body fell to the ground as if all his bones had been replaced with lead rods. The world receded, fading into a distant memory as his consciousness slipped away like a ship disappearing over the horizon.