Morning rushed in thick and heavy and all too sudden. Amina tumbled from a wispy, unclear dream into a hard desk chair and sat bolt upright, alert but only half awake, a piece of parchment stuck to her cheek.

"Ever the picture of dignity and grace, Amina Shi-Sabri."

A hot flush lit up Amina's face before the words properly found her. She blinked, then scowled, squinting crookedly through her lashes at the slender silhouette in the doorway. Warm light bathed the study in an array of golden shades, sparkling with the day's shine and needling her skull with an unnecessary abundance of wakefulness and joy. Tight cloak illuminated the brightest, sunniest yellow possible, even Isra smiled. Mockery gleamed harsh in her eyes.

If it were possible to tear light in half with her bare hands, Amina gladly would have. She settled for a glare vicious enough to shred her mentor's smile, though it was irritatingly ineffective.

Grin tweaking sideways, Isra folded her arms. "It's not becoming for such a talented mage apprentice to drool."

With a huff, Amina yanked the limp sheet of paper from her cheek and crumpled it in her fist, then wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. It came away much stickier than she would've liked, and she fought a grimace. "Someone's in a rare good mood."

Though she laced her voice with venom, the burn of embarrassment spread to the tips of her ears. She hadn't meant to fall asleep here. Perhaps if she'd dragged herself upstairs at a reasonable hour and made use of the perfectly comfortable bed that awaited her, her head wouldn't feel so stuffed with cotton it was ready to explode. Her mouth tasted stale. Enduring the dry scrape of saliva in her throat as she swallowed, she glanced down and took in the sea of books and scrolls her desk drowned in, the culprits of her restless night and spoiled dignity.

The book pressed carelessly open in front of her was scribed in letters so small they hurt to look at, and she recalled why she'd conked out when she did. Now, however, the yellowed parchment tucked beneath the book's back cover snagged her attention anew. It depicted a roughly inked sketch of a figure, one with too many curves and sharpened lines to be entirely human. Armour plating bulked out its shoulders, indenting its torso in broad shadow. That same hard, jagged shape engulfed the entirety of one arm. Two tentative lines were flung upward from the thing's head, tiny circles at their end, complete with dotted pupils that stared up in inanimate, beady fashion. Lost in an ocean of synonyms for danger that made up the drawing's accompanying passage, the same word was scrawled again and again: Feralite.

As discreetly as she could, she curled the parchment's corner beneath one finger, inching the drawing out of Isra's sightline. She would tell no-one about what she'd seen, not until she was totally sure. She didn't need to give anyone cause to believe she'd gone crazy enough to hallucinate a fantastical new Feralite.

After her night of pouring over dusty old texts and learning next to nothing, she barely wanted to think about it anymore, but the memory chased her without mercy. It had looked so real.

Just to be safe, she propped her elbows beyond the book and leaned over it. "I thought you'd be livid after what happened yesterday." She let her face fall into her hands, massaging the bridge of her nose in an attempt to soothe the ache of her pounding thoughts. Grateful as she was not to be at the receiving end of yet another lecture, at least she could let those words drone and wash over her. Isra's unusually cheerful demeanour only served to annoy.

"I was." Isra shouldered away from the doorway and strode a few meandering steps. "I still am. You disobeyed my direct order and placed yourself and others in serious danger with your recklessness."

Amina's head snapped up, fury kindled. "Safiya would have been in much more danger if I hadn't—"

"But," Isra continued, stressing the word hard enough that Amina obediently shut her mouth, "you did display courage and uncanny skill, and that has not gone unnoticed."

Disbelief shuttered in. Amina's jaw hung open for a moment too long before she found the ability to form words again. Head twisted to stare at her mentor, she released a shaky half-laugh. "Did you just praise me? Genuinely?"

Isra's lips twitched, riding an unsteady frown that didn't quite settle. "Perhaps."

Launching from her chair, Amina circumvented the desk and skittered closer, warmth building in her chest. She laced her fingers over her stomach and yanked on a polite smile. "Does this mean you'll perhaps consider putting me in for my trial? Since—"

"No."

Amina's glare fell back into place.

"At least, I don't believe that to be wise." Isra's pointy shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Your lack of forethought acted as a display of your immaturity in my eyes. If it were only up to me, I would be inclined to punish you for that, but you have a visitor who thinks otherwise."

The clashing sentiments ran too fast for Amina's sleep-fogged mind to keep up. Instinct itched at her with a flurry of arguments, but each bounced off a wall of confusion, spawning a single, tight-wound question. "Visitor? Who?"

Possibilities spiralled. Her mother? Elara Shi-Sabri was a busy woman, a glittering phantom Amina had barely seen since she moved out of her family home and into her mentor's, though she was always full of praise in the sparse moments they saw one another—though the words all bluster without care, of course, her interest targeted more at acquiring bragging rights than anything else. Her grandmother was all the same qualities cranked to their maximum. Her lip curled, tension straightening her spine as her gaze slid to the doorway. Much as she dreaded enduring either of their presence, if they'd somehow thought of her enough to convince Isra against punishment, she could take it.

She was so stiffly braced that it took her a moment to process the real face of the mage that appeared in the doorway, but once she did, all the air rushed from her lungs.

Dizziness overcame her, and it was suddenly a struggle to remain standing. Finery spilled in nauseating waves, spinning waterfalls of refracted light that coiled around the woman's elegant figure, enough that her very aura seemed to emit a twinkling glow. Her clothing was flame. Like ribbons of fantastical fire, it cascaded into the uncountable layers of her skirt, each shimmering a fresh shade of red yet rippling with shards of amber and gold with every slight movement. There was only one mage permitted to wear red.

"Head Mage Zephyrine," she breathed.

Movement fluttered in the corner of her eye. Beside her, Isra curled into a low curtsey, hands clasped in respect, yellow cloak pooling at her feet. Hastily, Amina copied the motion. The gold medallion marking the centre of her headpiece dipped low with her head's bow, and she watched it swing in front of her nose, its listless to and fro nothing compared to the quiver of her racing pulse.

Zephyrine's voice pooled in her ears like sweetened sap. "Rise, Amina."

Shakily, she obeyed. Her hands overlapped, first one way and then the opposite, fingers catching on one another as they tangled. Was there something she was supposed to do with her hands?

A smile curved the head mage's perfect lips. Like her dress, they were bright red, stark against the sun-kissed ebony of her skin. Her lashes were long and dipped in ink. Hair of the same smeared-charcoal shade coiled in a conglomeration of braids, one freed to dangle before her left ear, the rest crowning her in a swirl of complex spirals. Tri-colour lace—crimson, orange, gold, each flashing anew whenever the light pulled at them—wove a winding river through the sea of black, ruby medallions splitting off like tributaries and hanging over her forehead in a headpiece that resembled Amina's pure-gold selection. Her mother had demanded she begin wearing the headpiece years ago, the moment her talent with the dust began to reveal itself, intending to craft her image in reflection of this very woman. Amina had eventually grown to take as much pride in the jewellery as her mother did, though in this very moment, she bit down on a prickle of shame. Next to the most beautiful woman in Tehazihbith, everything she wore felt crude and tacky.

The long slit cut down the centre of Zephyrine's dress made her particularly self conscious. She tugged at the violet trimming of her own gown's neckline, plain white cloak shifting against her shoulders.

A light laugh lit stars in Zephyrine's kaleidoscopic eyes. "You have quite the wide-eyed stare."

Flinching, Amina averted her gaze, though she couldn't figure out where else to look. "Sorry," she said after too long a delay.

"Do not be." Scarlet trails of fabric teased the floorboards as the head mage glided forward. A chair creaked. "Sit."

There was only one, plush chair set out in that far corner by the window, back and armrests woven in languid curves, and Amina was rarely permitted to sit in it. It was Isra's favourite spot. She cast her own desk chair a glance as she passed, steps slow and strangled by hesitance, but kept her tongue trapped between her teeth. She prayed the weakness in her legs wasn't obvious.

Zephyrine's voice cut over her head. "You may leave us, Isra. I'd like to talk to your apprentice alone."

As Amina sank into the window seat, grateful to be off her feet but wrapping the armrests in a white-knuckled grip, she dared cast a glance back at her mentor. She toyed with a smile. Sharply neutral as Isra tried to keep her expression, the indignance swimming beneath filtered through like daylight.

"Are you quite sure?" Her voice was taut as a wire. "My apprentice and I are very close. I taught her all she knows, after all."

Zephyrine hummed, and her gaze slid to Amina. "Would you prefer your mentor to stay, then, Amina?"

Amina was sure she melted beneath the heat of that stare and its expectancy. There was probably something she was meant to say, but satisfaction wriggled to the surface before anything else, laced in amusement. "No." She caught Isra's gaze and cracked a grin. "I appreciate her concern, but I am my own person. I can manage."

One of Isra's eyes twitched.

"Very well." Zephyrine inclined her head. "You are free to go."

With a curt nod, Isra turned on her heel and swept out of the room, jaw wound visibly tight and good mood a distant memory. Amina made a mental note to prepare for a scolding later, though her smile lingered. Isra could be as bitter as she liked. It didn't taint the fluttering in her stomach, the delight of a victory.

As the room's quiet settled and reality dawned, however, the sensation soon dispersed into fizzing nerves. And now she was alone with the head mage. Maybe she hadn't quite thought this through.

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