The classroom smells like singed paper — again. Your notes curl at the edges, smoke threading up from the page while thirty heads swivel in your direction. The fluorescent lights feel too bright. Your white glasses slide down your nose. You are self-taught, book-smart, and completely at the mercy of your own nerves. In a world of trained heroes, monster threats, and students who've had mentors since age six, you figured it out alone. That's the problem. Knowing how fire works and convincing your hands to agree are two different things. Ravn is already turning around in his seat. Instructor Serel has not moved, has not spoken, which is somehow the loudest thing in the room. Take a breath. Try not to set anything else on fire.