LEXI
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As soon as medicinal magic starts, my shoulders drop. It’s almost physical, the shift from bracing myself to actually breathing properly. The classroom smells faintly of dried herbs and clean linen instead of chemicals and singed ingredients. The light filtering through the tall windows is softer here. Warmer. I slide into my seat and for the first time all day, I don’t feel like I’m behind. Professor Young begins with a review of muscular attachments and nerve pathways, and instead of scrambling to keep up, I’m already there. I know this. I understand this. When she asks a question about why certain bruises pool in particular areas depending on gravity and tissue density, my hand goes up automatically. I answer without stumbling. She nods, pleased. And it feels… Good. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming. Just
steady. This is the only class where I don’t feel like I’m scraping along and praying I can pass. I’m not guessing. I’m not hoping the magic
cooperates. I’m not being watched for failure. I belong here. The content today is fairly repetitive, more anatomy review, reinforcement of
safe healing protocols, the ethics of intervention timing, so I let myself skim ahead in the textbook. Not because I’m bored, but because
I’m eager. Layla’s tutoring session is after class, and that’s where things usually get interesting. I flip through sections on tissue
regeneration and advanced wound repair, I even review the section on healing bruises, rereading the parts about micro–capillary rupture
and the importance of guiding pooled blood back into circulation instead of simply ‘erasing‘ discolouration. I’ve already started
consciously incorporating that step. I’m proud of that. By the time the bell rings, I don’t rush out like most of the class. I linger, packing
my things slowly, pretending I’m not half–expecting Blake to appear in the doorway like he did earlier. He doesn’t. I glance up once.
Nothing. Maybe he decided he isn’t that interested in watching my tutoring sessions. Or maybe he’s actually gone to class for once. Or
maybe he’s off brooding somewhere about Professor Cage. Who knows. A tiny part of me is disappointed. But a much larger part of me is
too excited to dwell on it. I’m really hoping Layla lets me progress today. I feel like I have healing bruises completely down at this point.
The last few I’ve done have been clean, controlled magic, no flare, no lingering ache in my head afterwards. I can hold the hum steady
now instead of it flickering out on me. Ironically, my classmates have given me plenty of opportunities to practice. Every shoulder check.
Every ‘accidental‘ bump. Every elbow to the ribs. Silver linings, I guess. If they’re determined to be awful, I might as well get stronger
from it. I flex my fingers absently, remembering the feeling of the magic settling correctly under my skin last night. The way the bruise
just… Vanished. The rush of relief. The certainty. I’m not scraping by here and that is just such a relief.
Once the rest of the class clears out, Layla pulls a chair around and sits across from me on the other side of the desk. She doesn’t rush.
She never does. She settles in like this time is intentionally mine.
“Hey Lexi. How are you doing today?” She asks. Her tone is warm as always, but there’s a slight sharpness underneath it. Not unkind.
Just… Aware.
“I’m okay.” I answer automatically. Her eyes narrow just a fraction.
“I heard there was an incident today. Two of them actually. You and Blake are all anyone is talking about in the staff break room.” She
informs me bluntly. My entire face ignites.
“Seriously?” I groan, dragging a hand down my face.
“I bet they aren’t saying anything nice about me either.” I grumble.
“Well…” She says thoughtfully, leaning back in her chair.
“Actually George, Professor Matthews, mentioned that you managed to cast a repelling spell today that he was quite impressed with. He
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also said you’ve managed all the tasks in his class with no difficulties so far. Even without cooperating with other students.” She tells me. Her eyebrow lifts slightly.
“I suspect he has a more positive opinion of you than you think.” Layla adds. I let out a breath.
“It’s not that I’m not cooperating. It’s more like they refuse to cooperate with me.” I mutter. She nods slowly, not surprised.
“I suspected as much.” She answers. I fold my arms on the desk.
“I bet Professor Cage wasn’t nearly so complimentary.” I say dryly. Layla snorts. An actual, unfiltered snort.
“If you repeat this, I’ll deny it.” She says casually, leaning forward.
“But Harry is a judgemental old ass and a total bully. He doesn’t like me either.” She says with a smirk. I choke out a laugh before I can stop myself. It spills out of me, loud and genuine. The relief of it catches me off guard. It’s not just me. He’s not secretly right about me. He’s just… Like that. He doesn’t approve of the Professor I respect and admire the most. So there’s no way he’s actually right. Layla watches me carefully, a small, satisfied smile on her face.
“A little tip? If you wouldn’t go to someone for their advice, there is absolutely no reason you should value their criticism.” She concludes. I blink at her. That… Makes a ridiculous amount of sense. If I wouldn’t ask him how to live my life, why am I letting him dictate how I feel about myself?
“Thanks, Layla.” I say quietly. But then my smile falters.
“Although… He IS still my professor. He grades me.” I remind her. Layla shrugs easily.
“If you genuinely feel you’re being graded unfairly, speak to the principal. She will re–assess you herself. She’s not blind.” She promises. That’s reassuring. Mostly.
“Yeah.” I admit, twisting my fingers together.
“But… It’s a little hard to learn when your teacher isn’t really helping you.” I point out. Layla tilts her head.
“Isn’t he?” She asks mildly.
“Because from what I can see, Blake is more than proficient in his shift. It’s a basic level class. He is absolutely equipped to teach you, and he seems very invested in your progress. Maybe you just needed a different teacher.” She reasons. There’s a faint knowing look in her
eyes.
“I think you’ll be fine.” She finishes. I hesitate.
“That’s… Actually a good point.” I admit.
“But I’m still behind everyone else. I don’t know if it’s because I don’t know what I am, or because I didn’t grow up around magic, but I
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just haven’t figured shifting out at all.” I say with a heavy sigh. Layla rests her forearms on the desk.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe you need to stop treating it like a performance. You are a shifter. That’s not something you earn. It’s not a trick you unlock. It’s part of you. Plenty of shifters never attend formal training. It happens naturally.” She says gently and gives me a steady look.
“Even if you never learned it here, it would still happen eventually.” She says firmly. I sit back slightly, letting that settle. Shifting isn’t meant to be some elite skill. It’s not like learning a new language or memorising anatomy. It’s… Supposed to be me. And if it takes longer? Well, I was fine before I came here. Since arriving, I’ve learned magic. I’ve healed injuries. I’ve defended myself. I’ve met Blake. It
hasn’t exactly been a loss. Maybe I am measuring myself against the wrong standards. Although… Speaking of measuring…
“I’ve been doing really well with healing bruises though.” I say, straightening up again.
“I’ve had… Quite a few bumps lately. And I’ve been healing them up.” I say vaguely as I lift my leg slightly.
“Look. I still have one here.” I tell her. Then I close my eyes briefly, gather the magic, and guide it carefully the way I’ve practiced. It’s almost second nature now, the pull, the hum, the controlled flow. I focus on dispersing the pooled blood, knitting the tissue gently back together. It’s done in seconds. Layla watches closely, not interrupting.
“May 1?” She asks softly, reaching toward the spot. I nod. She presses lightly over the healed skin, her touch professional and assessing.
“Any pain or discomfort?” She asks. I shake my head.
“Nope. None.” I confirm.
“And you’ve been able to do this consistently?” She questions.
“Yes.” I answer without hesitation. She leans back and smiles, not indulgent, not exaggerated. Just genuinely pleased.
“You’ve been doing very well.” She compliments me. A beat passes.
“And I’m guessing you’re hoping to learn something new?” She asks. I sit up straighter immediately. She laughs, bright and amused.
“I thought so.”
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
