Chapter One: Willow

Magic didn't always have logic to it. Sometimes, it seemed that other places and other realms just casually bumped into each other, spilling over their contents. This seemed to be how Dreadmor Academy functioned as well – casually bumping into non-human places and yet somehow existing side by side with them.

Honestly, Willow found the whole concept a little insane. Wild magic, non-human creatures – they presented a danger and mystery to those who lived on Earth. Wild magic areas – otherworldly spots – usually had clear borders. Where the richest academies held their summer camp program, there was a wild magic area defined by a clear boundary and a posted warning to the campers who went there. Other places all over the world followed this example.

Then, you had a school where no such boundaries existed.

"You know," Harrow said, glaring at Willow, "if the whole lack of boundary thing is a big issue for you, you could always just transfer to another one of the academies."

They sat together on one of the ivy-laced stone benches in the Triscor Garden, where some of the oddly lifelike statues were located. "When you come here, you sign up for a deep connection to wild magic. It's supposed to be what gives Dreadmor students an edge compared to all the other academies."

"It's still insanely dangerous," Willow said, even though, yes, she did sign up for Dreadmor. Of course, logically, she knew at the time that she'd be getting herself in deep, but it hadn't truly registered just… how deep the situation would be. In the three years she'd been at Dreadmor, at least three students had mysteriously gone missing; others had been expelled, and she was about eighty percent convinced that the Triscor Garden statues were people who'd been enchanted and turned into stone.

Still, after four years of dubious magical activity and lessons, she could flee elsewhere or stay longer to gain a master's in a chosen subject and stay longer. Maybe she'd become one of those perpetual student types who never entered the real world since, even now, she still didn't know what she really wanted to do.

Go to Dreadmor, her mother had said. It's a wonderful place. I went there, and look how I turned out!

She turned out to be a witch selling potions and charms to normal humans in a kooky little shop. Some of the potions worked, some of them, well, didn't.

Willow, not knowing what else to do, went to Dreadmor because her mother did. And as insane as the place was – she was reticent about leaving.

"Danger is part of the fun," Harrow said, flicking a speck of dust or maybe dandruff from her hair. "Things got pretty freaking dangerous at the summer camp. We're not really supposed to talk much about it, but… let's just say that after experiencing the camp, the academy is like a day at the beach."

"What the hell kind of camp was it? A death camp?"

Harrow snorted. "No, just a ‘bleeding realm' kind of camp." She tapped her chin with an index finger. "Come to think of it, Dreadmor has that going for it, too. We have a crossover between the normal and fae realms. There's enough similarity between the two that the relationship has become symbiotic. All the magic on our planet comes from the fae realms and seeps over into ours."

Willow already knew this. After all, her own magic came from a fae ancestor. She exercised some of that magic now – playing with some of the water flowing from the fountain, letting it form lazy loops and spirals. "So – the camp – it was a less friendly kind of bleed?"

Harrow nodded. "Not all the realms that touch ours work. I can't really say too much more than that. Z'Hana would hunt me down."

Z'Hana was teaching Willow's next lesson. The women did have a rather stern, hawk-like attitude. Willow nodded. "Right, she was at the camp, too. It's a little annoying knowing that there are a few people here who are all in on this big secret. I mean – there were a lot of people at that camp. You'd think we'd get some news about it."

"Mmm," Harrow said before very noticeably changing the subject. She jabbed her finger at a figure sliding by some of the statues. "Oh, that student. I've seen him here before but only in the gardens."

The student in question walked around the gardens, slouched over, hands in pockets. Willow didn't recognize him, but she didn't know everyone from all the years, so that was no surprise. His orange hair hung around his face in a shaggy, uncut mess. Willow definitely saw how Harrow might recognize him. That hair color was fascinating.

"Wonder what year he is," Willow said, trying not to stare too openly at him. "He seems older."

"You can always ask him yourself," Harrow said, smirking slightly. "I thought he might be your type."

"You don't even know what my type is!"

"Don't think we don't notice who you look at in class." Harrow nudged her, being way too eager to push Willow toward a stranger.

Willow paused. "What is my type anyway?"

"Handsome. Striking."

Willow glared. "That doesn't sound like a type…"

"Whatever. If you do speak to him, just make sure he's not a serial killer or anything."

"Can't you use your powers to figure that out?"

"My powers," Harrow said in a lofty manner, "are not for the likes of mere mortals like you. Also, they're not very reliable, so no." She patted Willow, grinning, and the pats were less friendly and more of a nudge. "I've got to head to lessons now. But for real. What's the worst that could happen?"

"I can name a few things…"

"Bye! Love you and whatever." Harrow darted out of the garden, hurrying to the entrance, leaving Willow alone and wondering if she should head inside as well, maybe catch up on some reading in the library, or do exactly what Harrow hinted at with the orange-haired stranger walking through the gardens with a slouch. Though other students trickled in and sat on the benches, Willow's gaze was drawn to this lonely student.

Maybe she should approach him. Except walking up to a stranger and trying to come up with a topic sounded terrifying. After a fierce internal debate, which, the longer it went on, the more insurmountable the task appeared to be, she instead took the coward's way out, playing with the waters of the fountain a little more as Professor Umber recommended, to strengthen her magic muscles.

The act of changing the water's patterns drew a little attention but nothing more than mild curiosity from the others.

The orange-haired man, however, froze in place, eyes fixated on the rising waters, which resembled the swell of a tide, smashing the sides, sloshing around, but instead of spilling upon the ground, the water swirled and formed dozens of ropey pathways, flowing back into the fountain.

His frozen stance turned into action, and the orange-haired man headed in her direction, eyes fixed on her.

Well, she supposed that was one way to grab someone's attention accidentally.