The Weave.

By the time the glowing lines of the map led me to Lecture Hall A, the room was already full. Dozens of students filled the tiered rows, uniforms crisp, their voices buzzing like a hive as sparks of magic flickered across fingertips or hovered lazily over parchment. My stomach tightened as I scanned the room. Of course. The only empty seat was in the back. I climbed the steps two at a time, my bag knocking against my hip, and slid into the seat without hesitation. The boy beside it looked up the moment I dropped down. He was all sharp edges and smirks, with short, dark hair spiked into a mullet that looked like a weapon all on its own, and sides shaved close to his head. His eyes, dark brown with a strange auburn gleam, caught the light like smouldering coals. Mischief glinted there, bold and unashamed. Great. Precisely the kind of boy I had no interest in dealing with. I shoved my bag onto the desk, keeping my head down, ignoring him completely. His smirk only widened, but he didn’t speak. Yet.

The door at the front of the hall creaked open, and a hush swept through the room. A tall woman strode inside, her silver robes catching the light like ripples of water. Her hair was bone-white, braided down her back, and her skin shimmered faintly with scales along the edges of her cheekbones. Her eyes, sharp and glassy, were an uncanny shade of pale teal.

“Good morning and welcome back to yet another year,” she said, voice calm but commanding. “I am Professor Elara Vey for those that don't know me, and I will be your instructor for Arcane Theory.”

The title suited her. Vey moved like someone who had centuries coiled inside her bones. When she reached the front, she laid one hand on the lectern. Magic sparked faintly along her fingers, the air crackling as the wood responded to her touch.

“Let us begin,” she continued, scanning the hall with eyes that missed nothing. “Arcane Theory is not about how you cast, but about why magic behaves as it does. You all wield it, yes, but power without understanding is a blade in the hands of a child.”

The boy beside me let out a low chuckle, and I felt his eyes on me. I kept mine locked on the professor.

“First,” Vey said, flicking her hand. A glowing lattice of light sprang into the air, filling the front of the room. Threads of gold and blue wove together like a spider’s web, pulsing faintly. “This is the Weave. It binds all things: the air you breathe, the ground you walk on, even the thoughts in your head. Magic is not created, it is drawn from the Weave.”

Students scribbled furiously. I just stared, trying not to gape.

“Each magical race has a different connection to it,” she went on. “Shifters pull instinctively from their bloodlines, witches through spoken craft, fae through bargains and oaths. Warlocks…” her eyes flicked to a cluster of them in the front row, “are much like witches. And seers, of course, glimpse the Weave’s flow into what might be.”

I swallowed hard. No mention of siphons. No hint that someone like me even existed.

Vey’s voice sharpened. “But the Weave is not infinite. Every thread pulled takes a toll. Use too much, and you burn yourself. Bend it the wrong way, and it snaps back with consequences.”

She let that hang in the air a moment before closing her hand. The lattice of light collapsed into a single glowing spark, hovering above her palm.

“That,” she said softly, “is Arcane Theory. Understanding not only the gift you hold, but the cost it demands.”

The room was silent. Dozens of wide eyes, scribbling quills, and sparks of restless magic.

Beside me, the boy with the mullet leaned just close enough for his voice to brush my ear. “Looks like you’re already taking notes, stray. Didn’t think you’d care.”

I stiffened, clutching my pen tighter. Notes? No. But I was listening to every word, because if the Council thought they owned me, I needed to know exactly what they planned to use me for.

Professor Vey let the spark hover above her palm for a long moment, the pale-blue light casting sharp shadows across her fae features. Then she flicked her fingers, and the spark shot upward, weaving itself into a thin strand of glowing gold.

“Most of you,” she said, “believe magic is yours. That it sits inside you, waiting to be bent to your will.”

The strand thickened into a rope, stretching taut between her hands. “But in truth, you borrow it. You take from the Weave, and you owe it a price.”

With another sharp twist of her hand, the rope lashed outward into the shape of a spear. Energy hummed through the hall, sharp and electric, and the hairs on my arms stood up. Students leaned forward, wide-eyed, enchanted.

“Now,” Vey murmured, her voice almost too soft to catch, “what happens when you take more than you can repay?”

She hurled the spear across the room. It struck the stone wall with a boom that rattled the benches. Gasps and nervous laughter rippled through the students until the spear snapped back like a rubber band, slamming into Vey’s chest with brutal force. The impact sent sparks crackling across her body, lighting her robes in a shimmer of blue fire. She staggered a single step, but her sharp smile never faltered. With a flick, the flames guttered out, leaving nothing but smoke curling in the air.

A hush fell. The kind that crawled up your spine and told you this wasn’t a parlour trick.

“That,” she said coolly, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeve, “is the Weave’s answer to arrogance. The greater the theft, the greater the backlash. History is littered with corpses of fools who thought themselves greater than the law that binds us all.”

My grip on my pen tightened, knuckles white. Because if what she said was true, then how the hell had I survived siphoning all these years?

A hand shot up near the front row.

“How does this apply to us?” he asked, his voice carrying easily through the hall. “Shifters power comes from blood, not some… magic net in the sky.”

A ripple of murmurs followed, half the class nodding in agreement.

Professor Vey’s expression didn’t change. If anything, the faint curve of her lips sharpened. “A fair question. And you are correct, shifters do not cast in the traditional sense. Your magic is bound in the marrow, written into the bloodline itself. You are the Weave made flesh.”

The boy puffed his chest like she’d complimented him.

“But, you are not exempt. The Weave still governs you. Every shift, every flare of enhanced strength or speed, is a thread you tug. Push too far, too often, and even your blood betrays you. The beast consumes.”

So even shifters could burn out. The Weave really didn’t give a damn what species you were, it always demanded its cut.