Chapter 179: trust the instinct

Chapter 179: Trust the Instinct

POV: Astrid Vale

The exercise grounds had been transformed overnight, banners strung between posts, chalk lines marking out a winding course across the lawn, and a ring of instructors standing at the far end with slates in their hands. I found Eliza near the starting line with the rest of our team, a quiet Lycan girl named Pip, a lanky mind reader called Dorian, and a witch named Selwyn who kept straightening his sleeves as though they might betray him.

Professor Veyra raised her voice over the crowd. "You will navigate the course, solve each magical obstacle, and reach the final marker. No single student’s power will carry you through. If one person does all the work, you will fail."

We hadn’t even crossed the starting line when Dorian and Selwyn began arguing over who should lead, and Pip looked ready to walk away entirely. I felt the argument tightening around us like a knot.

"Let’s split the work by what we’re each good at," I said. "Eliza reads the spellwork. Dorian watches for anything that feels wrong. Selwyn handles the casting. Pip takes the physical side. I’ll watch for patterns."

Nobody spoke for a second, and then Eliza nodded. "That works," she said, and the knot loosened.

The first obstacle was a shimmering barrier stretched between two posts, rippling every time someone stepped toward it. Selwyn tried to push through and got thrown back onto the grass. Eliza crouched beside the posts and traced the faint lines of the weave.

"I recognize the spell," she said, "but I can’t dismantle it by myself. It’s too layered."

I watched the barrier instead of the posts. The ripples weren’t random. They came in a steady rhythm, three quick pulses, then a pause, then three again. "It’s breathing," I said. "Wait for the pause, and we go through together on the next one."

We missed twice, Selwyn stumbling into Pip the first time, Dorian hesitating the second, but on the third attempt we crossed in a clean line and the barrier closed behind us. Dorian blew out a breath and looked at me.

"I didn’t think you’d be useful," he admitted. "Sorry. That helped."

"Thanks," I said, and meant it more than I let on.

The second obstacle was a tall wooden frame threaded with glowing lines, a mechanism meant to be unlocked in sequence. Selwyn stepped forward to cast, and something in his magic caught against the frame wrong. His ability, a restless, crackling current, bled into the threads instead of settling, and the whole structure began to hum, then whine.

"It’s overloading," Eliza said.

Selwyn panicked and pushed harder. Pip lunged for the frame as if she could hold it together by strength alone. The whine climbed higher, and I felt the same jagged grinding I’d felt in the first assessment, two currents tearing against each other.

"Stop!" I said. "Everyone stop feeding it! Selwyn, pull back your magic. Pip, let go. Eliza, ground it, now!"

For a heartbeat, they all froze. Then Selwyn dropped his hands, and Pip stepped away, and Eliza slapped both palms against the base of the frame and pushed the excess energy into the soil. The whine thinned, wavered, and died.

A whistle blew from across the field. The instructors were already walking toward us, and one of them raised a hand to halt the exercise for every team nearby. Nobody had been hurt, but the frame lay scorched at its edges.

We gathered in a circle while Professor Veyra reviewed her slate. "Miss Vale’s instruction prevented injury," she said. "That is noted."

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

"However," she continued, "your group lost control of the mechanism before anyone noticed the problem. That is also noted."

"Yes, Professor," Eliza said.

Professor Veyra turned to me. "Instinct is useful, Miss Vale. But you must learn to explain and repeat what you do before you rely on it. Next time, someone may need you to say how you knew."

I nodded. Part of me wanted to argue, and part of me knew she was right, and somehow both feelings sat together without fighting. The others left with the lesson written plainly across their faces. Teamwork meant listening before the crisis, not during it.

Reed and Xander were waiting at the edge of the field, and Xander reached me first, talking before he’d fully stopped walking. "I heard it was a disaster. I heard the frame practically exploded. I would have finished the course in half the time, by the way."

"Are you hurt?" Reed asked, quieter, his eyes moving over me for any sign of injury.

"I’m fine," I said. "Nobody’s hurt."

I told them everything, the barrier’s rhythm, the overloaded frame, the order I’d shouted. Reed listened with his full attention. "You were right to stop them from forcing it," he said. "That was the harder decision."

"I wasn’t worried," Xander announced. "Not even for a second." He paused. "Did anyone else see how impressive she was? Please tell me someone saw."

"You’re a terrible liar," I said, and kissed him to stop the complaint.

Reed raised an eyebrow, and I kissed him too, softer, and he smiled against my mouth.

"Equal treatment," Xander said at once. "I demand a second."

"You’re impossible."

"Consistent."

I was laughing when I glanced across the grounds and saw Ivy and Roshan walking toward the gates together, side by side. Ivy looked more relaxed than she had the night before, her shoulders loose, a small smile touching her mouth. Roshan still wore the shadows under his eyes, but he’d stayed through the whole event, and he turned his head to listen when she spoke.

I didn’t follow them. I didn’t plan to demand details later, either. She was finding something quiet with someone who needed it, and it didn’t have to have a name yet.

That evening, I sat on my bed with my notebook and wrote down everything I could remember. The barrier’s rhythm. The overloaded frame. The grinding wrongness that had come before I’d understood why. The places where I hadn’t known what to do, and the moments I’d just moved.

I read it back once, slowly. For the first time, I could see a pattern forming across the pages, small and uneven, but mine.

I closed the notebook with a smile. I still had a great deal to learn, but for the first time my growing abilities felt like something I could work toward understanding, rather than something I had to fear.