“You did it!” Fritz’s hands were off her shoulders, and he was clapping them together like a madman.

“I broke the bulb.” She stared at the shattered glass on the floor. Thinking of the prince led her to breaking things. It wasn’t really impressive—or healthy.

“Who cares? We have a lot more.” Fritz laughed, something about his laugh was infectious, and she smiled despite herself. “You are a Windwalker!” He took both her hands in his and spun her around a few times until she felt dizzy, but slightly giddy. “Next, do that one.”

Vhalla turned to the opposite bulb and repeated the process, this time trying to think of the wind staying only within the glass, but never actually touching it. She tried to quell her emotions some, but still reach from the same font she felt when her mind turned to angry thoughts of the crown prince. The bulb shuddered before cracking and breaking. This time there were significantly fewer pieces.

“You’re amazing Vhalla!” Fritz cheered.

His words and the world around her was lost as Vhalla stared, mesmerized by the shattered glass. She had done it, more or less. Magic had been scary, mysterious, painful, or intellectual. But this was the first time she could’ve described any moment as fun or rewarding. For once, it felt good.

And, for the first time in her life, Vhalla felt strong.

“Vhalla,” A familiar voice broke her trance. “I’m sorry, I stepped out for some lessons and training and you were gone.”

She turned to look at the Western woman approaching quickly. Vhalla saw genuine concern in Larel’s eyes. It was tempered with a look at Fritz, noting that Vhalla had not been alone.

“How do you feel?” Larel asked, inspecting her bandages.

“I’m fine.” Vhalla braved a smile and was surprised to find her face still moved as she expected it to.

“She’s better than fine!” Fritz clasped a hand over her shoulder, and Vhalla grimaced as it shot sharp pain down her arm. “Look, Larel, the Tower’s first Windwalker broke a bulb!”

“Really?” Larel half stepped around Fritz to inspect Vhalla’s accomplishment, if it could be called that. “Do you feel fine?”

“I do.” Vhalla nodded, rubbing her shoulder where Fritz had given her his painful version of encouragement. “Well, other than the obvious.”

“You need more potion.” Larel nodded in agreement. “I’ll tell the minister about your success and then we’ll get you food and medicine.”

“Come visit me again, okay?” Fritz asked hopefully.

Vhalla fidgeted with the bandages on her hands and fingers. She did not want to go back to that lonely room just yet. Things had been feeling normal, a strange and different normal, but normal nonetheless.

“Can I eat with both of you?” Vhalla asked timidly.

“Of course you can!” Fritz bounced. Larel had a small and knowing smile, but spared any comment and simply nodded.

Vhalla sat next to Fritz in the Tower’s dining hall. She was surprised to find that they had their own kitchens, and the apprentices took turns cooking. Fritz explained that, as a result, they got to try all kinds of food from the different regions of the continent.

The strawberries hadn’t been a fluke. Not only was the variety apparently better, but the quality of the food was as well. The meat was fresh, and it was actual cuts. Not the reject pieces, riddled with chewy fat and tendons, that she would get in the normal servants’ and apprentices’ dining hall. The vegetables were so fresh they still had a crunch. Vhalla felt cheated.

Larel noticed her disapproving stare within moments, and Vhalla wondered if the power to read minds was part of a Firebearer’s Affinity as Larel found herself quickly explaining the cause of the differing food system.

There was a saying that Vhalla had heard before: The Tower takes care of its own.

Sorcerers knew how hard life could be, and they stuck together as a result. The Tower had a large number of sponsors who, after training, had gone out into the world and earned their fortunes. But they never forgot the start the Tower gave them and regularly sent coin and gifts to take care of the current apprentices. The cycle repeated itself generation after generation.

She sat between Larel and Fritz, and they did a good job of steering the conversation around her so that she only participated as much as she felt like. Larel spoke with other Firebearers, who wore capped sleeves and collared jackets. Fritz seemed engrossed in his own world talking to the man, Grahm, at his side. From the corners of her eyes Vhalla saw the men’s thighs touch briefly as Fritz leaned in. Was she simply imagining the warm glow radiating between them?

After the meal was over, Larel escorted her up to her temporary room and Vhalla appreciated the artwork in the halls all over again. She tried snuffing a bulb again, but only succeeded in shattering it.

“Really, Vhalla,” Larel sighed, though she didn’t sound genuinely upset. The other woman held out a hand, and the glass shards briefly burnt white-hot and disappeared.

They entered the workroom, and soon Vhalla was settling beneath the covers. Larel had five more potions for her patient to take and three bandages to replace.

“You’ll speak with the minister tomorrow.” The Western woman looked at Vhalla’s bruising. Even Vhalla was surprised at how fast her skin was healing now.

“What will happen then?” she braved to ask.

“I don’t know.” Larel shook her head. “But I’ll be here to help with whatever it is, as long as you don’t mind me as your mentor.”

Vhalla stared at the dark-haired woman for a long moment. She remembered her harsh words nights ago. Perhaps they had been deserved, perhaps not. Things had changed, and as much as Vhalla had been trying for years to grow into a woman, right now she needed her inner child who embraced the world shifting around her.

“I don’t mind,” Vhalla whispered. “If you still don’t mind being my mentor.”

Larel only smiled.

VHALLA MET THE dawn the next morning. It hadn’t been pain or discomfort that woke her early but apprehension for what the day would hold. Vhalla had spent almost a week in the Tower. Granted, half of it she had been unconscious. The minister had stopped to see her twice more when she was awake, overseeing her healing personally.

Her opinion of the Minister of Sorcery had improved with his efforts to heal her, but Vhalla still remembered his conversation with the prince. The minister kept assuring her that she could trust him, that he meant her no harm. Vhalla hoped that he was sincere.

She met the minster in the room adjacent to her temporary chambers. Vhalla sat in the same chair she had occupied weeks ago. This time a mug of steaming tea was placed before her, which Vhalla timidly—bravely— sipped. Unsurprisingly, it was high-quality. Superior food was something she could grow accustomed to, Vhalla mused as she absorbed the tea’s aromatics.

“I am glad you are feeling better,” the minister started after acquiring his own tea. “Better enough that I’ve already heard rumors of my apprentices and mentors taking dinner with the first Windwalker.” Vhalla avoided his stare, guilty as charged. “Which means, we need to speak on your future.”

She wasn’t sure what to say.

“I am sure Larel has already explained most of it to you. But, you are a sorcerer now, your place is here in the Tower. We have worked hard to create a situation that is a haven for sorcerers of all ranks and skills. You will be allowed to practice freely and will be taught how to control and apply your new skills.” He folded his hands, placing them on the table.

“Now, to accept the black robes, you will have to resign your current position in the library. That is not to say you could not patronize the library in your spare time. But you would move here, into the Tower, to live and work among your new peers.” He produced a piece of paper from within his robes that was a formal decree of change in apprenticeship. It had four blank spaces for signatures.