“It’s starting early,” Zorano rasped, his voice a ragged thread. The lunar clock, a silver-veined orb above the Dean’s desk, pulsed with an internal, furious crimson. Heat, dry and metallic, washed over the study, making the air crackle. I watched, frozen, as the deep carmine bleeding into the clock’s periphery swallowed the last vestiges of silver. The entire face became a single, throbbing eye of blood.
Then the sky outside exploded.
Not with sound, but with color. The panoramic window, usually an open pane to Candelbrax’s cloudscape, became an expanse of violent, shifting reds and purples. A pressure built in the room, pressing down like a physical hand, making my ears ache.
“The Crimson Sundering,” I breathed, the words a raw understanding. This wasn’t just a bad omens. This was the moment.
Before my eyes, the meticulously crafted stained-glass panels lining the walls began to weep. Not with water, but with liquid light, dissolving into rivulets of molten color that reformed into barbed, mineral teeth. The glass statues of ancient luminaries on pedestals shuddered, their serene faces distorting into monstrous, hungry snarls. The very structure of the chamber was turning against us, sharp edges blooming where smooth surfaces had been.
Zorano crumpled, a choked sound escaping him as he hit the floor, his injured side blooming with blood. He gasped, pressing a hand to the wound, his elegant features contorted in pain. The hard-light beam had done more damage than I first thought.
Suddenly, a searing pain blossomed in my own chest, radiating outwards. It felt like a thousand tiny needles, each one heated to a glowing point, were piercing my skin from the inside. My own magic, usually a comfortable hum beneath my awareness, was screaming. It thrashed and bucked, a wild beast trapped in my veins, trying to rip its way out. My vision blurred. A choking heat seized my throat.
This was it. The true danger of the Sundering. My magic was turning on me. It was boiling me alive.
“Tazia!” Fenzo’s voice, for once stripped of its usual bravado, sliced through the agony. He had been cowering under the desk, clutching his love potion vial like a holy relic, but now he scrambled out, his jaw slack with a panic that made his usually boisterous face look small. “Your… your face is glowing! And not in a good way!”
He was right. I could feel the light, hot and agonizing, trying to escape my skin. I doubled over, clutching my chest, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Every fiber of my being screamed for release, for the raw, unfettered expulsion of power that would surely consume me.
The broken fragments of a nearby luminary statue, now animated by the frenzied ambient magic, began to coalesce. They swirled, crunching, forming into a crude, shimmering humanoid shape—a glass-golem, its faceted limbs ending in razor-sharp claws. Another one rose from the splintered remains of Dean Val-Grevon’s desk, its head a spiked parody of his stern face.
“Oh, you want a piece of *this*?!” Fenzo yelled, suddenly snapping into action. His terror hadn’t paralyzed him; it had galvanized him. He brandished his love potion vial, a flimsy glass tube, like a sacred weapon. “Fine! I’ve got some… uh… some *feelings* for you too!”
He uncorked the vial with a flourish and hurled the pink liquid at the nearest glass-golem. It didn’t explode, or melt, or do anything remotely destructive. Instead, as the potion splashed across its vitrified torso, the golem paused. Its pointed head tilted. A soft, almost tender, hum emanated from its form. Then, to my utter bewilderment, it dropped to one knee and extended a shimmering, clawed hand towards Fenzo in what looked suspiciously like a marriage proposal.
“Not like that, you big lump!” Fenzo shrieked, clearly disgusted. “I meant… I meant *fight* feelings! Like, ‘I want to punch you in the face’ feelings!” He clapped his hands together, a burst of chaotic, multi-hued light erupting from his palms. It wasn’t elegant, or controlled, but it was *loud*. A deafening *CRACK* shook the room, and the love-struck golem burst into a million pieces.
“That’s it!” Fenzo declared, a manic grin spreading across his face. “Loud magic! Confusion magic! Let’s get these prism creeps confused!” He started yelling, a torrent of absurdities pouring from his mouth, each word punctuated by a burst of garish, uncontrolled light. “Did you know that glow-worms communicate through interpretive dance? No? Well, they do! It’s a tragedy! A beautiful, glittering tragedy!”
The second golem, still forming, seemed to hesitate, its hitching movements faltering under the onslaught of Fenzo’s chaotic sound and light. It was crude, unrefined, but it was working. Fenzo, my ridiculous, disaster-magnet best friend, was actually holding them off.
“Tazia,” Zorano gasped from the floor, struggling to push himself up. His eyes, though still clouded with pain, held a desperate urgency. He held out the glass-blade, the weapon from my nightmare, its edges now glowing with the same internal crimson as the lunar clock. “We need to do this. Now.”
My magic clawed at me from the inside, a fiery agony. It felt like my very soul was being shredded. I stumbled towards him, every step a torment. He was pale, sweating, his hand trembling as he held the blade. He looked at me, a flicker of something I hadn’t seen before in his eyes – fear. Fear for *me*.
“Are you afraid?” I choked out, my voice raw, barely recognizable. The pain was blinding, but my competitive fire, long suppressed, roared to life. This wasn’t the time for pious acts, for humble apologies. This was the moment of truth.
He didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on my chest, where the light pulsed violently beneath my skin. His hand wavered. He was hesitating. He was worried he’d hurt me.
That was it. That was the last straw. My facade shattered, crumbling into dust with a final, glorious blaze of fury. My meek nun act, my humble posture, my soft-spoken piety – all gone.
I snatched his hand, my grip surprisingly strong despite the agony, and pulled it, yanking the shimmering glass-blade closer. Our eyes locked. His held a sudden, startled intensity.
“Zorano Volterra,” I snarled, my voice regaining its old, sharp edge, laced with a desperate, exhilarating challenge. “You want to win, don’t you? You want to be the champion, the top student, the best? Prove it.”
I dragged his hand, the glass-blade held firmly within my grasp, and aimed it. Straight for my chest.
“Stab me,” I commanded, my eyes blazing, daring him. “Like the champion you are.”
His pupils shrank to pinpricks, reflecting the fierce, untamed light that now erupted from my skin. A primal gasp tore from his throat. Then, with a sudden, violent surge of desperate determination, he drove the glass-blade deep into my chest.
Instead of pain, a blinding, prismatic shockwave of pure light exploded outwards, tearing through the office, consuming everything in its incandescent embrace.