"Will it be easier to perform a simple magical trick when you've tethered an elemental?" she asks, voice deceptively sweet. "No. Because if you can't even do this, no elemental will deem you worthy of the primal tether."

"What happens if we don't tether an elemental on Confluence Day?" Mireen asks.

Unlike me, Mireen has already shown a talent for channeling, which means Sestra hates her less than the rest of us. Otherwise, I doubt she'd even answer the question.

"You'll be trapped in the elemental plane. The rift between worlds opens briefly once each year. The only way back is with the tether of an elemental. To put it quite simply, tether or die."

For just a moment, something seems to drift behind Sestra’s eyes—a shadow of memory or perhaps grief—and her fingers absently trace one of the blue markings on her forearm. Then it's gone, replaced by her usual stern expression as her eyes sweep over the class. "Which is one reason I push you all so hard. The elemental plane shows no mercy to the unprepared."

“Tether or die, huh?” Mireen whispers. “If I get stuck on the elemental plane, I’m going to find the cutest elemental and befriend it. We’ll go on adventures together. It’ll be great. Who says I have to die?”

“If there are any giant rat elementals, I’m sure you’ll be in paradise.”

There's a sound of rushing water to my right. I look up suddenly, along with the rest of the class.

Malakai has conjured a long, twisting line of water that sprouts from his palm and has started whipping from side to side as it grows like some kind of tentacle.

"Cut off that spell," Sestra commands, her voice sharp with warning. "Spheres, Malakai. Spheres are the assignment, not⁠—"

Malakai's eyes slide to the guy beside him—a burly East Coaster named Lorne. For a split second, I see the calculation and malice in Malakai's eyes.

Oh shit.

I'm standing before I know it, eyes wide and heart hammering in my chest.

Malakai is pretending he can't control the spell, even as I see the water sharpening into a blade-like shape.

I make it three long steps toward him, but I'm not fast enough.

One moment, the blade of water is whipping left and right. The next, Lorne is gripping his throat.

Blood trickles between his fingers as he stands, his chair scraping on stone and falling sideways. The sound echoes through the suddenly silent room.

There are gasps and a few screams as Lorne falls to his knees, eyes bulging. A gurgling sound escapes his throat as he tries to breathe through the blood. He reaches out, fingers grasping at the air, before collapsing face-first onto the stone floor.