Chapter 1

“Why in the seven levels of hell would I agree to that?”

My eyes could not have squinted more harshly at Sarto. The old mage’s frown disrupted the curled path of his mustache as he studied me from across the room, eyes narrowed behind his smudged lenses. The smell of ink and rosemary still hung thick in the cottage. A dozen parchments littered my desk, curling at the edges from candle heat, and a thin line of dust divided what was his half of the workspace from mine.

“Because it will be good for you to go somewhere new.” He folded his hands together with great ceremony, as though explaining a lesson to a particularly stubborn student. “You’re young, Fitalia. Now is the chance to explore and, hopefully, socialize a bit.” He mumbled that last part, staring down at his fingers.

I scoffed loud enough to make him wince. “You’re one to talk! Have you asked Carolina on a walk yet? No? That’s what I thought.”

He made a noise like an old kettle refusing to boil, and I turned back to my desk, pushing scattered notes around until I found what I was looking for. “Ha! There you are, little guy.”

The Gordo uncurled its dainty green leaves, stretching like a sleepy cat. “You have to be careful where you nap, buddy,” I murmured, lowering my voice as I plopped into the chair. “My desk is not a safe option. Plus”—I swung my gaze to the hanging birdhouse I’d converted into a fairy cottage—“you already have a lovely bed made for you in there.”

The Gordo, whom I uncreatively named…Gordo, gave a small yip, its leafy body shivering in protest before curling tighter in my palm. I smiled faintly. I’d found him clinging to a fallen log months ago, the last of his kind I’d seen this far south. Now, he was the closest thing I had to company that didn’t judge me.

“We can hang out later, when the company is less intrusive,” I said, shooting Sarto a pointed glare as I walked to the hanging cottage. Gordo wiggled in complaint but finally tucked himself inside.

“The…business Madam Drol and I have is none of your concern.” Sarto’s voice faltered, and the prominent apples of his cheeks flushed pink. I laughed quietly, earning a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“I have been your instructor for eleven years, Fitalia,” he went on, clearing his throat, “and I have never led you astray, hm?”

That tone—stern, familiar, annoyingly fatherly—always managed to peel away the layers I built up. I stared down at a fallen pebble near my boot and nudged it with my toe. “No, Sarto. You’ve always looked after me.”

He smiled faintly beneath the mustache twitch I’d come to know as my warning sign.

“You’re not asking me to socialize,” I said, lifting my chin. “You’re asking me to travel to the Yantree Hills to stay with a stranger. I have never seen you give a stranger the time of day, and now I’m supposed to live with one?”

My voice cracked, and I hated it. Dramatic or not, the thought of leaving Pontapary felt like prying out a root that had grown too deep. My home smelled of rain and old parchment. The wood still hummed faintly with the memory of Arcana even if I couldn’t touch it anymore.

Sarto’s eyes softened. “The archmage of Yantree Hills will help you. He may be able to figure out what has… happened to your powers.”

That word—happened—always landed like a curse. The familiar shame crawled up my ribs, pressing against my lungs. Two years. Two years since the thread of Arcana had unspooled from me. Two years since I’d felt the pulse of the world’s hum or drawn a single rune without it fading to nothing. Arcana used to taste like citrus on my tongue, sharp and alive. Now, there was only silence.

“Why this mage?” I asked. “What makes you think he can help when we’ve already searched every tome, every temple, every ruin in this wretched city?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, Sarto pushed himself up with his staff, his movements slower than they’d been even last season. The years had begun to steal from him. “He is the most powerful archmage of your generation,” he said finally. “If anyone can discover the cause, it will be him.”

He leaned heavier on the staff, and for a moment I saw him not as my teacher but as an old man who had given too much of himself to Arcana. Sarto had lived over seven centuries—longer than most who wove at his level. The stronger one’s thread of Arcana, the more it consumed. If a mage did not find a way to release the excess, the power began to feed on the body itself, hollowing from the inside out.

I stood up and stepped closer. “Here,” I said quietly, offering my arm. He took it with a small grunt, the weight of grief pressing against me more than his hand ever could.

“Thank you, Fitalia,” he said. “This is why you’re my favorite student.”

I smiled faintly. “I’m your only student, so that doesn’t mean much. But I’ll take it anyway.”

“A compliment is a compliment, my dear. They do not always come freely, so take them all as they appear.”

His words settled somewhere deep. Maybe because I knew he wouldn’t be around forever, and I hated the thought of coming back here one day to find the cottage quiet.

We stepped outside. The air was cool, scented with damp earth and lavender. Pontapary spread before us, a patchwork of ivy-covered cottages and crooked streets twisting through the hillside. The horizon shimmered with thin wisps of cloud, and the lake below caught the light like molten glass.

I could have stayed in that moment forever.

“Is that why you offer Carolina so many compliments?” I asked, biting my lip to hide a smirk. “Because you’re worried she’ll run out?”

Sarto’s staff came down quick as lightning against my shins. “Ow! That hurt!”

“See? Now you’ve lost my unburdened compliment,” he said with a sniff.

I laughed, the sound surprising even me. It rolled out of my chest and over the hills, scattering the quiet like dandelion seeds. For the first time in months, the sun felt warm.

Then, softer, he said, “You will go, then?”

I hesitated. The wind brushed against my cheek, carrying the scent of wet stone and old ink from my workshop. Behind us, Gordo yipped once, as if offering his opinion.

“I’ll go,” I said finally. “But only because I do not feel like being beat again.”

Sarto’s eyes gleamed, and for a second, I could swear I saw pride—not the kind a teacher holds for a student, but something closer to love. The way my parents often looked at me.

“Then we’ll leave at dawn.”

He turned toward the path, but I stayed there, watching him walk until the wind took his robe and fluttered it like wings. My chest tightened. Arcana had once whispered to me from that same breeze. Now, there was only stillness.

I closed my eyes and whispered to the emptiness, “Please let him be right.”

The wind did not answer.