Omen even liked the uniform. He said he didn’t, claimed he hated it to anyone who would listen, but it was actually pretty cool, all things considered. Black blazer worn with black trousers or skirt, white shirt and tie. Each of the Years, from First to Sixth, had a different colour, starting with yellow and ending with black. As a Third Year, Omen’s tie and the piping on his blazer were both purple. The school crest, a dragon and three burning towers, was captured in a patch worn on the left breast, and the uniforms looked cool no matter the size or weight of the student. Omen may not have won any Student of the Year prizes (they usually went to Auger), and he wished he could fit into a uniform a size or two smaller, but he definitely felt that all-too-rare sensation of pride whenever he donned those clothes.

Now he joined a line of smartly dressed students as they filed into class. He did his best to tuck in his shirt, then sat at his desk and pulled a book out of his bag.

“Where’d you get to?”

Omen looked up. Never’s ash-brown hair was tied back today, which meant he was identifying as male. This was unusual for a Tuesday. Normally he was a she by this stage of the week, although Omen knew by now that to assume anything of Never was a mistake. Back in First Year, she had stood up in class and declared loudly that he would not be held to anyone’s expectations but her own. He sat next to Omen in most of their classes together.

“I had a study period,” said Omen. “Where were you?”

“Maths,” said Never. “Where you should have been.”

“We have maths next class.”

“No, we had maths last class. Peccant has you down as ditching.”

“Aw, man.”

“You should really look at your timetable every once in a while.”

“He hates me so much.”

“You’re not his favourite, it has to be said.”

The door at the front of the class swung open and Miss Wicked walked in. Immediately, the chatter died. Miss Wicked was one of those teachers who demanded obedience from even the unruliest of students. In his three years of attendance, Omen had never seen her angry, had never heard her raise her voice, and yet she somehow remained intimidating despite this calm demeanour.

She was tall and brilliant and blonde and slender, and she had a tongue as sharp as her cheekbones and always wore pencil skirts and high heels. Omen was a little bit in love with her.

“Today we are going to be discussing Necromancy,” Miss Wicked said in that precise way of hers, where every word was perfectly formed. “Can anyone tell me the names of some prominent Necromancers of the past?”

Hands went up, Omen’s included.

“Axelia,” Miss Wicked said.