A boy no older than eleven strutted into the magic hall like he owned every brick in the walls. Blonde hair, too bright. Blue eyes, too smug. Red wizard’s robe embroidered with gold thread that had never seen actual spellwork. A floppy star-covered hat drooped over one ear, and in his hands, he carried a staff topped with a crystal shaped like a flickering flame.

  Meka reacted instantly.

  She tried to hide behind me.

  Which would have worked if she were not three times my size.

  I glanced up at her. “Who is that?”

  She clutched her new leaf-bunny familiar tighter against her chest. “That’s Oliver. He is so mean.”

  “Of course he is,” I muttered. “It’s fine. We were finished anyway.”

  Oliver spotted us and smirked.

  “Oh, if it isn’t the Hayhead,” he said loudly. “And what is this? She’s standing in front of a… what is that? A midget?”

  Meka puffed up, anger briefly overpowering fear. “Hey! Don’t talk to Runt like that!”

  I slapped my own forehead. “Meka…”

  Too late.

  Oliver burst out laughing. “His name is Runt? That is hilarious.”

  Two boys flanking him laughed too, puffed up on borrowed confidence.

  One elbowed Oliver. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Since Instructor Randall isn’t here, and they can’t really run away…” He grinned wide. “Why don’t we play Hotfoot? Or Hot Hoof, in your case, Hayhead.”

  Meka’s ears flattened.

  I felt the shift before I saw it, Oliver was gathering mana. Sloppy, undisciplined. Dangerous.

  I pointed my staff at him. “You know that is going to cause a problem. You are not supposed to attack people.”

  Oliver shrugged. “We’re not attacking anyone. We’re playing a game.”

  He raised his staff.

  A burst of bright orange light flared from the staff, the unmistakable glow of fire magic.

  “I cast fireball.” He invoked

  “Move!” I snapped.

  Meka dove to the side, clutching her familiar. I rolled in the opposite direction, barely clearing the line of fire.

  The fireball slammed into the focusing plate.

  The runes sparked violently.

  Magic flared up the grooves, crackling like trapped fire racing through stone channels.

  “You damn idiots!” I shouted. “Do you have any idea what you just did? Do you know how much that costs?!”

  Oliver scoffed. “My father will pay for it. It’s fine. We’re just having fun.”

  Another kid chimed in with a half-bow and a mocking tone. “Do you have any idea who his father is?”

  Oliver smirked. “Don’t worry. Instructor Randall will take care of everything. We can do whatever we want.”

  The focusing plate sparked again.

  Things were about to get very bad.

  I exhaled sharply. “Meka, other side of the room. Now.”

  She didn’t argue. She clutched her leaf-bunny tight against her chest and bolted across the hall, hooves clattering against stone. She was fast when she wanted to be, even while trying to shield her familiar from every possible danger.

  Oliver called after her, voice pitched cruel and delighted. “That’s not going to save you, Hayhead! Run all you want, you ugly cow!”

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  Meka flinched, but kept going.

  I turned back toward him. “Looks like I need to teach another lesson.”

  Oliver blinked. “What are you talking about, Runt?”

  “That is Instructor Runt to you,” I said, planting my staff on the ground. “And let me enlighten you on the basics of staff fighting, you ignoramus.”

  His friends snickered as I slid my staff behind me, lowering it at an angle, balancing the length across my back. I shifted forward onto one foot, letting my center settle.

  One of the boys whispered, “Is he going to cast a spell?”

  Another snorted. “No, you idiots. He’s in the martial class. Look at him. He definitely doesn’t have any magic. There’s no way.”

  “I cast…” I said.

  Every child in front of me froze.

  “Oh shit,” one whispered. “He’s going to cast something.”

  I dashed forward, staff sweeping low to build speed, then pivoted my hips and brought the oversized weapon around in a tight arc.

  “Sleep,” I finished.

  Oliver barely had time to frown.

  The staff’s knotted crown slammed into the side of his head with a meaty crack.

  He dropped like a sack of flour.

  Gasps. Screams. Someone yelled, “He killed him!” Someone else yelled, “He actually cast a spell!”

  Greta had told me that I needed to breathe out when striking, and that first moment where I screamed, I cast shield at the muck monkey proved she was right. You hit harder when you exhale. It lets your body release force instead of trapping it. Calling out an attack was just the loudest, most focused way to force myself to breathe properly. So I slipped into a rhythm, naming my strikes like they were spells. Not because the words mattered, but because the breath behind them did. And because, after a lifetime of incantations, speaking my intent while I moved felt natural.

  I planted the staff against the floor. “I cast summon Greta,” I said loudly, then yelled at the top of my lungs, “GRETA!”

  Across the room, Oliver twitched on the ground and groaned. “You… little… shit… you’re gonna pay for that.”

  He staggered upright.

  "Marco, freeze him!” he shouted.

  A heavier kid-stocky, red-cheeked, breathing hard-stepped up beside him and began gathering cold magic in both hands, building power.

  “I cast Ice Grasp!” Marco bellowed, frost blooming from his fingertips.

  I sighed. “And I cast bruised ribs.”

  I stepped into him before his spell could finish forming and whipped the staff forward. Not with my own strength, my body didn’t have much, but using myself as a pivot point, letting the full weight of the staff’s enchanted crown snap forward with ruthless momentum.

  The staff hit Marco in the ribs with a heavy thunk that sent him stumbling backward, wheezing.

  “What the hell!” he gasped. “That hurt!”

  “No,” I said, readying my stance again. “This is me being gentle.”

  Another kid screamed, “Why is he so fast?!”

  “He’s like two!” someone yelled.

  “It’s the staff!” another kid shouted. “It’s magic, look at it!”

  They weren’t wrong.

  The staff moved like a weapon ten times more dangerous than the child holding it, the weight driving itself forward with every shift of my footwork. Every rotation of my hips sent the crown snapping outward with brutal efficiency.

  This was how I had fought when out of mana. This was how a staff master fought.

  I lowered the staff and pointed it at the group of trembling, furious, and very stupid children.

  “Next lesson,” I said. “Don’t cast spells at people unless you are prepared for the consequences.”

  None of them listened.

  One of the boys at the back, freckled and trying very hard to look brave while his hands shook, lifted his staff with both hands. “H-he is just one kid,” he said. “There are twelve of us.”

  “Twelve idiots still adds up to nothing,” I said.

  “Shut up!” another snapped. He jabbed a finger at me. “You only got Oliver because you attacked first!”

  “Incorrect,” I said. “I defended my student. That is my job.” I tapped the staff lightly against the floor. “Your job is to avoid learning this lesson the hard way.”

  Oliver wiped at the side of his head, winced, and glared at me with watery eyes and a swelling lump. “You are dead,” he hissed. “All of you, get him!”

  Several of them hesitated.

  Then one of the bigger boys saw Oliver watching and puffed up his chest. “Fine,” he said. “He cannot stop all of us. I cast Ice Burst.”

  The spell released as soon as the last word left his mouth. A jagged sphere of pale blue ice and frozen air roared into existence and shot straight for my face.

  I dropped under it. The cold burned across my scalp as it passed inches above my head and burst against the far wall, exploding into shards that shredded a rack of dried herbs and dusted the floor with frost.

  “Brilliant,” I said. “Set the room on fire while you are at it. That will definitely improve your grades.”

  Someone near the back laughed, then choked it off when Oliver glared at him.

  A girl, dark haired and wide eyed, planted her feet and lifted her hands. “I cast Wind Push!”

  The air slammed toward me in a visible ripple, a compressed wave meant to knock me off my feet.

  I stepped into it instead of away, angle of my stance turning the blast into a shove that slid past my shoulder. My feet skidded half a pace, then caught. I let the force travel down my spine and into the staff, pivoted, and used the stored momentum to whip the crown of the staff across another boy’s shins. “I cast Trip!” I shouted.

  He yelled and toppled forward. His wild grab for my sleeve missed by a hand span.

  I moved. Fast.

  Greta had once described a particular toddler she had seen in a marketplace as “greased up and fully aware he was not supposed to be doing the things he was.” That was the closest thing I had ever heard to what I felt like in that moment. My body was short and soft, my balance not perfect, but every instinct in me knew exactly how to turn every flailing grab and stumbling rush into an opening.

  A boy on my left lifted his staff. “I cast Stone Nail!”

  The stone under my feet shivered, trying to jerk itself sideways.

  I hopped at the same moment, clear of the shifting tile, vaulted over his attempt at impaling me, and brought my staff down on the top of his staff instead. The weight of my weapon slammed his focus tool straight into the floor and knocked it out of his hands. “I Cast Disarm!”

  He yelped as splinters jumped.

  “No casting with a staff for you,” I said, turning toward them with a look of disappointment that didn’t quite fit the chaos.

  It wasn’t really their fault no one had ever beaten any sense into them.

  Which meant, apparently, that the job fell to me.