I stood, feeling vaguely like a sacrificial offering.

  “So,” Weil said, mockery ringing in her voice, “what would you do if faced with a Curse of Consumption?”

  My eye twitched. Consumption? As in… what, exactly?

  “Well,” I ventured, “I’d try to avoid it. As they say, the best weapon is a good pair of legs.”

  The class snorted. Someone from the back shouted:

  “Hey Raspberry, was that your weapon yesterday? We noticed! Lace underwear, yeah? Great view!”

  Something dark flickered in Weil’s eyes — but she restrained herself.

  “Legs,” she repeated, folding her arms. “A reasonable start. Pity that with your first serious curse, you won’t have any. And then what?”

  “Well,” I said, “ideally I’d contact the authorities and report the culprit. The one doing the cursing.”

  Weil’s expression went flat.

  “You won’t know who cursed you. And what will you tell the magical patrol?”

  Her voice dropped, sharp and dangerous.

  “Consumption erodes your soul. Slowly. Thoroughly. Legs won’t help. Neither will patrols.”

  The way she said it felt like a challenge.

  “Oh. Right,” I said. “Then maybe a defensive spell? Something like ‘please stop, let’s all be friends’?”

  The class buzzed with whispers, clearly enjoying how visibly irritated Weil was becoming.

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  “You vastly underestimate this course, miss Orlova,” she hissed. “And I’m afraid you’ll have to learn the consequences personally.”

  She scanned the room, then smiled suddenly.

  “For next lesson, you’ll all study the Curse of Consumption and its countermeasures. And you, miss Orlova, will rid yourself of the Curse of Crooked Legs.”

  My stomach dropped.

  “And no,” she added pleasantly, “the infirmary won’t help you. Healing magic is useless against curses.”

  I stood perfectly still as Weil leaned in, murmured something under her breath, and with one sharp motion sliced a lock of my hair. She twisted it, exhaled a cloud of black mist straight at me —

  I blinked. Then looked down.

  My legs had… curved.

  Literally.

  Like a wheel.

  I loved my legs.

  All right, maybe they weren’t model-thin, but they were shapely, perfectly decent, and — most importantly — normal. And now… In my worst nightmares, I had never imagined I’d end up waddling like a war veteran, bow-legged and tragic.

  Oh yes. Professor Weil knew exactly where to strike — especially if you happened to be a girl and, in her opinion, a suspected lover of the dean.

  I couldn’t help wondering whether she fancied him herself. Or perhaps she was sleeping with him in the past. A perfectly reasonable pairing, really: he had a fondness for all things skeletal, and Anastasia certainly seemed to fit the aesthetic.

  The rest of the day’s classes passed like hard labour. I sat in silence, grimly copying every word, behaving like an exemplary student and doing my absolute best not to draw attention — particularly to my morning curse.

  The other lecturers left everyone alone. No threats, no theatrics — just monotone lectures delivered on autopilot. Boring, mercifully slow, and at least easy to write down.

  All in all, a quiet academic day at Tarnograd Academy.

  By the final lectures, I could barely process what I was writing. Honestly, the sheer volume of magical nonsense was starting to make me feel faintly nauseous. Terms, spells, amulets, defensive sigils — everything blended into a thick mental sludge.

  And the magical language! Apparently, the harder it is to pronounce, the more terrifying it’s supposed to be.

  Sometimes I suspect local mages take genuine pleasure in not being understood. Power, it seems, lies in incomprehensible words — preferably delivered with an air of deep superiority.

  Naturally, I’d been foolish to hope I’d be left alone.

  If the professors were busy with more important things, my fellow students clearly decided that missing an opportunity for mockery would be criminal negligence.