Rowan's voice shattered the fragile quiet, yanking me from the scrawled chaos of alchemical notes spread before me. "Einar!" His breath fogged the tiny cabin’s window, face pressed against the glass like a child hunting the first snowflake. "Pack up your things. I see the port lights from here."

The steady thrum of the ship beneath us shifted, a subtle lurch rippling through its timbers as the sails eased down with a sound like the snapping of great wings. Evening’s muted glow spilled over the edges of the horizon, bleeding into the darkening waves. Eight hours at sea, and the ocean had already carried us far from everything familiar. Far from the cold winds of the north.

“Pray we find a decent inn,” I murmured, snapping the leather-bound notebook shut. The scent of ink and old vellum still clung faintly to its pages. My suitcase waited at the edge of the table, barely heavy enough to warrant the effort.

Rowan threw himself onto the bed with a groan, sprawling like a man unused to long journeys. His boots hung off the edge, scuffing the carved posts. "There’ll be plenty of rooms. Don’t worry about that. Most’ve already taken the test by now—probably on their way back to whatever hole they crawled out of." His confidence was as unshaken as his grin.

The lid of my suitcase creaked as I opened it, the faint smell of cedar rising from within. Sparse belongings greeted me: a folded tunic, a pouch of coins, a sidebag at the bottom, a leather strapped notebook with ink and quill tucked in the corner, and the wand. My mother’s wand. Its surface glinted faintly in the lanternlight hanging above the cabin, the runes etched into the firewood catching the glow like melded gold.

Rowan leaned up, curiosity lighting his face. His grin widened, as though he were staring at the spoils of a king’s hoard. “So that’s the wand your mother used. Gods, you’ve been quiet about it all this time.”

I lifted it from its resting place, the weight of it familiar—like holding a fragment of my own bone. Its rough texture bit against my fingers, alive with some faint pulse that seemed to slip from my hand. "Yes. She used it sparingly. I’ve seen her cast spells in an instant without a sweet. Her control over it was truly amazing."

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Rowan edged closer, fingers twitching as though tempted to touch it. "It’s rejecting your touch, doesn’t it? That’s firewood for you. Suited to flames, but fickle in the wrong hands. Add a core material, and it becomes a vessel for destruction. And these runes…” His voice softened, reverent. “Lux. Sol. Yol. Three marks on one wand. You don’t see that every day. That’s mastercraft. Only sorcerers with mastery can have them carved.”

The words surprised me. Rowan rarely spoke with such weight. "You seem to know your way around a wand for someone who’s never held one."

His laugh was soft, almost bitter. "You spend years studying what you never have, and you pick things up. The runes are shortcuts, Einar. Like paving stones on a dirt path. Lux binds light, Sol bends life, and Yol spits fire. With these carved in, casting becomes as natural as breathing."

"And without them?"

“You’d be fumbling with patterns and perfect incantations mid-spell. Imagine that, in the middle of a duel.” His lips twisted into a lopsided grin. "It’s why most of them end up casting slowly. Not that it’s a bad thing. Just… even a split-second matter for sorcerers."

I slid the wand back into its place, closing the suitcase with care. "Guess we will learn more in the college."

"Will this wand ever choose someone again?" His question echoed, filled with wistful longing. He pushed to his feet, stretching. "Come, let’s not linger. The city awaits."

The ship's bells tolled above us as we stepped onto the deck, the crisp bite of salt-laden air filling my lungs. Around us, the crew moved like shadows, preparing the vessel to anchor. Twelve of us gathered at the rail, a ragtag mix of would-be students, travellers, and dreamers. The port of the city loomed ahead, quiet beneath the deepening twilight.

My eyes found the great structure rising in the centre of the island on the left of the harbour. Zenith, College for Sorcery. Its five spires clawed toward the heavens, joined by ancient stone walls that framed the central keep. Lanterns lined the bridges stretching from the city to the island, their glow flickering against the dark waters below. The dense forests beyond framed it all, stretching into the distant east like the maw of some forgotten beast.

Rowan whistled low as we disembarked, his breath curling in the cool air. “Look at it, Einar. Bigger than I imagined. Makes our whole town look like a collection of pigsties." His voice dropped, reverent. "The oldest wizarding college. I wonder how many secrets lie on that island and behind those walls.”

I stared up at the towering spires, their silhouettes cutting against the dying light. "Secrets… or answers for everything," I murmured.

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