The glow of arcane energies danced across Dalia Sinclair's palms, a gentle shimmer of light that belied the raw power contained within. A single bead of sweat traced its way down her temple as she concentrated, urging the volatile magic to bend to her will. Twenty pairs of eyes bored into her back, their collective weight a tangible pressure between her shoulder blades.

  "Focus, Miss Sinclair," Professor Caldwell's voice cut through the clatter of the academy's Ironclad War Yard workshop, sharp against the hum of idling turbines.

  "Control is paramount. Precision is essential."

  Dalia gritted her teeth, pushing a wayward strand of unruly brown hair from her face with her shoulder. The sphere of magical energy hovering between her hands pulsed threateningly, its azure glow intensifying with each passing second. She could feel it slipping, like trying to hold water in cupped hands.

  "Steady now," she whispered to herself. "Just like Ezra taught you."

  The magical construct was supposed to be a simple exercise—form a perfect sphere, maintain it for one hundred heartbeats, then disperse it safely. The kind of basic control drill first-years mastered within weeks. Yet here she was, a third-year student at the prestigious Aeronautical War Academy, struggling with fundamentals while her classmates watched with expressions ranging from pity to poorly concealed amusement.

  Dalia inhaled deeply, trying to center herself. The magical sphere responded, stabilizing momentarily, its chaotic energy settling into smooth, concentric layers of light. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

  "There we go," she murmured. "That's it."

  Then she felt it—a discordant ripple within the magical construct, a tiny imperfection that threatened to unravel everything. Panic flared in her chest. She tried to compensate, pouring more power into the sphere to stabilize it.

  It was the wrong move.

  The sphere pulsed violently, expanding to twice its intended size in an instant. Gasps erupted from her classmates. Professor Caldwell stepped forward, alarm evident in his usually impassive face.

  "Miss Sinclair, disperse it now!"

  But it was too late. The magical construct shuddered, its surface rippling like water disturbed by a thrown stone. Dalia frantically tried to contain it, her fingers splayed wide as she attempted to channel the excess energy safely away.

  The sphere imploded with a sound like shattering glass, then exploded outward in a blinding flash of azure light. The shockwave hurled Dalia backward, slamming her onto the grimy iron deck of the workshop. Tools clattered off workbenches, a stack of steel plating toppled with a deafening crash, and several students threw up makeshift shields of scrap metal to protect themselves from the magical backlash.

  As the dust settled, Dalia hauled herself up on her elbows, coughing through the haze of burnt oil and singed leather that hung thick in the workshop. The workshop was a wreck—gears and bolts strewn across the grimy floor, a workbench smoldering where a stray spark had caught, the air buzzing with leftover static that stung her skin. And standing at the center of it all was Professor Caldwell, his robes singed and his expression thunderous.

  "Well," Dalia quipped, forcing a crooked smile that didn't reach her eyes, "at least I dispersed it, right?"

  Her attempt at humor fell flat in the stony silence. Professor Caldwell's nostrils flared as he drew himself up to his full, imposing height.

  "Miss Sinclair," he intoned, each syllable sharp as a blade, "this is precisely the kind of reckless behavior that makes your instructors question your place at this academy."

  The words stung more than Dalia cared to admit. She rose to her feet, brushing dust from her uniform with affected nonchalance. "It was just a small miscalculation," she said, striving to keep her voice steady. "I almost had it."

  "Almost," Professor Caldwell repeated, the word dripping with disdain, "is the difference between a controlled landing and a flaming wreck when you're three thousand feet in the air, Miss Sinclair."

  Titters of laughter rippled through the assembled students. Dalia's cheeks burned, but she maintained her posture, shoulders back, chin lifted in defiance.

  From the back of the room, a smooth, cultured voice drawled, "Perhaps she'd be better suited to the kitchens than the cockpit, Professor."

  The comment came from Elias Graywood, son of some high-ranking admiral and leader of what Dalia had privately dubbed the "aristocratic airheads"—wealthy students whose families had deep ties to some of the more questionable merchant coalitions. Rumors hinted at connections to the very pirate factions the academy trained them to combat, though nothing had ever been proven.

  "That's quite enough, Mr. Graywood," Professor Caldwell said, though Dalia couldn't help but notice how much milder his rebuke was compared to the one she'd received. "Miss Sinclair, clean up this mess. The rest of you are dismissed."

  As the other students filed out, many casting amused glances her way, Dalia felt a familiar knot of frustration tighten in her chest. She knelt, gathering scattered papers with perhaps more force than necessary, acutely aware of Elias Graywood lingering by the door with his coterie of sycophants.

  "Don't mind him," came a soft voice beside her. Dalia looked up to find Lyra Chen, one of the few classmates who had never treated her with contempt, kneeling to help.

  "I don't," Dalia lied, shoving a leather-bound tome back onto its shelf. "They're not worth the energy."

  Lyra's skeptical expression made it clear she wasn't convinced. "You know," she said carefully, "it's not that you lack power. You have more raw magical potential than half the class combined. It's just—"

  "Control," Dalia finished for her, sighing heavily. "I know. Everyone keeps telling me that, as if I'm not trying."

  "Maybe you're trying too hard," Lyra suggested, rising to her feet with an armful of scrolls. "You push when you should pull, force when you should flow."

  Dalia snorted, though there was no real malice in it. "Now you sound like Ezra."

  "Your mentor is a wise man," Lyra replied with a small smile. "You'd do well to listen to him more."

  With Lyra’s help, the workshop was wrestled back into shape quick enough. As they wrapped up, Dalia spotted dark clouds piling up beyond the grimy portholes, odd for a day that’d kicked off crisp and clear.

  'Weird sky,' she grunted, scowling at the fast-blackening clouds.

  'Yeah, hit fast,' Lyra said, tracking her stare, her brow creasing.

  A deep growl of thunder rumbled over the Yard’s sprawl, hard enough to shake the portholes in their rivets. A few students still hanging around the corridors squinted warily at the portholes.

  "Just a storm," Dalia said, more to herself than to Lyra. Yet something about it felt... wrong. The clouds were moving too fast, swirling in patterns that seemed almost deliberate. And there was a peculiar quality to the light filtering through them—a sickly, greenish cast that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

  Another thunderclap, louder than the first, and this time accompanied by a flash of lightning that illuminated the Ironclad War Yard workshop

  in stark, momentary clarity. In that frozen instant, Dalia could have sworn she saw the silhouette of something massive moving within the clouds—something that had no business being in the sky.

  "Dalia?" Lyra's voice seemed distant, muffled. "Are you all right? You look pale."

  Blinking, Dalia tore her gaze from the window. "I'm fine," she said automatically. "Just tired, I suppose."

  But as they left the Ironclad War Yard workshop together, she couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that had settled over her like a shroud. Something was coming. Something dangerous.

  Or perhaps, she thought wryly, it was just another manifestation of her overactive imagination—the same one that had gotten her into trouble more times than she could count.

  The Academy's Ironclad mess hall roared with the rowdy clamor of hundreds of students, their voices a rough din cutting through the clank of tin mugs and the hiss of steam vents overhead. Rusted gas lamps swung from riveted iron beams, their flickering amber glow glinting off long steel tables dented and scarred by years of hard use, the air thick with the tang of grease and boiled meat.

  Dalia sat alone at the end of one such table, poking listlessly at a bowl of stew. The morning's blowout in the workshop had spread through the Academy's rumor mill faster than a grease fire. Wherever she went, mutters and choked snickers trailed her like engine smoke.

  "Is this seat taken?" a cheerful voice asked, jolting her from her thoughts.

  Looking up, Dalia found herself face to face with Theo Holloway, a second-year student with an infectious grin and a reputation for circumventing rules with creative interpretations. They'd spoken a few times during cross-year training exercises, and she'd found his irreverent humor a welcome reprieve from the academy's stifling formality.

  "All yours," she replied, gesturing to the empty bench across from her.

  Theo dropped onto the seat with the loose-limbed grace of someone perpetually at ease in their own skin. "So," he said, loading his plate with roasted potatoes, "I heard you redecorated the Ironclad War Yard workshop this morning. Bold choice. The 'magical explosion' aesthetic is underrated, if you ask me."

  Despite herself, Dalia snorted. "It wasn't that bad."

  "Not according to Elias Graywood," Theo said, adopting a comically pompous expression. "'It was absolute chaos, darling. Total destruction. I feared for my life.'" His impression of Elias's affected accent was spot-on, and Dalia couldn't suppress a giggle.

  "He would say that," she muttered, her mood lightening slightly. "I think he's still sore about that time I outflew him in the summer trials."

  Theo grinned around a mouthful of potato. "Oh, definitely. His ego might never recover." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Besides, I've seen worse accidents. Last term, Markus Venn tried to amplify a simple light spell and ended up setting Professor Harlow's eyebrows on fire."

  Dalia winced sympathetically. "How long was he in detention?"

  "Three weeks of cleaning the astronomy tower. By hand. No magic allowed."

  "Ouch."

  Theo shrugged. "Could've been worse. Harlow's quite fond of those eyebrows."

  Their chatter was cut short by a sudden ruckus at the far end of the mess hall, boots clanging on the grimy deck amid the hiss of leaking steam. A knot of crewmates had crammed around one of the big reinforced porthole like windows, hollering and jabbing fingers through the smoky haze.

  Curious, Dalia and Theo abandoned their meals and moved to investigate.

  Pushing through the gathered onlookers, Dalia felt her breath catch in her throat. The storm had intensified dramatically, the sky now an apocalyptic canvas of writhing black clouds. Lightning forked across the darkness in jagged, fractal patterns, but instead of the usual white-blue, these bolts shone with an eerie, violet-tinged light.

  "That's not natural," Theo murmured beside her, his usual joviality replaced by genuine concern.

  Dalia's response died on her lips as a massive bolt of the strange lightning struck the academy's central stack with a deafening crack. The entire building shuddered. Plates and goblets danced across tables. Several students screamed.

  Dalia’s words choked off as a massive bolt of the strange lightning slammed into the Ironclad War Yard's central stack with a deafening crack. The whole rig shuddered like a beast shaken awake, rivets groaning under the strain. Tin mugs and trays clattered across battered steel tables. Several students hollered in panic.

  Then the gas lamps lighting the mess deck sputtered and died, plunging the space into shadow save for the violet glare of the unnatural storm seeping through the grimy portholes.

  Fear surged through the mob. Someone crashed into Dalia from behind, nearly knocking her flat. She grabbed the porthole rim, fingers digging into cold, grease-slick iron as chaos roared around her.

  'Hold steady, all of you!' The steely voice of Headmistress Varrine sliced through the din like a blade. A sphere of harsh white light flared above her outstretched hand, throwing sharp shadows across her grim face and the knot of senior staff around her. “It’s just a glitch in the ether grids. Back to your benches, now!"

  The students faltered, swapping jittery looks in the stark glow. Another lightning strike smashed nearby, thunder rolling in hot on its heels. The portholes rattled like loose bolts in their frames, flecks of rust shaking free.

  "I said, return to your seats!" Headmistress Varrine's voice had taken on a steely edge that brooked no argument.

  Reluctantly, the crowd began to disperse. Dalia made to follow, but something held her in place. She turned back to the window, drawn by an inexplicable compulsion.

  There, in the midst of the churning clouds, a darker shape moved with purpose—the silhouette she thought she'd glimpsed earlier. This time, there was no mistaking it. The outline of an airship, larger than any she'd ever seen, its hull bristling with what could only be weapon emplacements.

  "Do you see that?" she whispered, grabbing Theo's arm before he could move away.

  He squinted, following her gaze. "See what? The storm?"

  "No, in the clouds. That shape." She pointed, but even as she did, the silhouette melted back into the roiling darkness, leaving her questioning whether it had been there at all.

  Theo looked at her with concern. "I don't see anything, Dalia. Just the storm."

  She shook her head, frustrated. "It was there. I swear it was."

  His expression softened with sympathy. "It's been a rough day. The storm's playing tricks on all of us."

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  Reluctantly, Dalia allowed herself to be steered back to their table, though she couldn't shake the certainty of what she'd witnessed. She'd seen enough airship schematics in her tactical classes to recognize one, even obscured by storm clouds.

  But why would an airship be hovering directly above the academy? And why was no one raising the alarm?

  The remainder of the meal passed in tense silence, periodically broken by the crash of thunder and nervous murmurs from the student body. The teaching staff maintained a tight formation at the head table, their expressions grim as they conferred in hushed tones.

  When the bell finally rang to signal the end of the dining period, Dalia lingered, watching as Headmistress Varrine drew several senior professors into what appeared to be an urgent discussion.

  "Dalia?" Theo called from the doorway. "Are you coming? Combat Theory starts in five minutes."

  "You go ahead," she replied, her eyes still fixed on the staff table. "I'll catch up."

  As soon as Theo departed, Dalia moved closer to the head table, pretending to search for something in her bag while straining to catch fragments of the professors' conversation.

  "—unprecedented magical signature—"

  "—security protocols should be—"

  "—prepare the senior students for—"

  A sudden hand on her shoulder made her jump. Turning, she found herself face to face with Master Ezra Maddock, her mentor and the academy's resident expert on airship mechanics and magical propulsion.

  "Eavesdropping, Miss Sinclair?" Ezra's voice was stern, but the twinkle in his eye betrayed his amusement. He was a tall man with a shock of white hair and a beard that seemed perpetually singed at the edges from his frequent tinkering with volatile magical components.

  "Just tying my shoe, actually," Dalia replied with practiced innocence.

  "Ah, yes. Those notorious shoes that require one's ear to be pressed against a table to fasten properly." Ezra raised a bushy eyebrow. "Walk with me."

  It wasn't a request. Dalia slung her bag over her shoulder and fell into step beside him as he strode from the mess hall. The corridors were largely empty now, most students having hurried to their afternoon classes.

  "I heard about your... demonstration this morning," Ezra said after they had walked in silence for several moments.

  Dalia winced. "It wasn't as bad as people are making it out to be."

  "No?"

  "No," she insisted. "The sphere just got a little... enthusiastic."

  Ezra stopped walking and turned to face her, his expression suddenly serious. "Dalia, this isn't a joke. Your impulsivity is becoming dangerous."

  The shift in his tone caught her off guard. Ezra rarely chided her so directly. "I wasn't being impulsive," she protested. "I was trying to stabilize the construct."

  "By pouring more raw power into an already unstable magical formation?" He shook his head, disappointment evident in his weathered features. "That's like trying to put out a fire by throwing oil on it."

  Dalia felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. When he put it that way, it did sound foolish. "I panicked," she admitted in a small voice.

  Ezra's expression softened. "I know. And that's precisely the problem. In the air, panic costs lives. A moment's impulsive decision can send an entire airship and its crew plummeting to their deaths."

  They resumed walking, their path taking them through the academy's western wing, where tall porthole-windows offered a panoramic view of the storm-wracked sky. The unnatural lightning continued to flash, though the thunder had grown more distant.

  "Something's wrong with that storm," Dalia murmured, almost to herself.

  Ezra followed her gaze, his brow furrowing. "You've noticed, then."

  "It's magical in origin, isn't it?"

  He nodded slowly. "Indeed. Though not any type of weather magic we've documented before."

  "I saw something in the clouds," Dalia said, the words tumbling out before she could reconsider. "An airship. A big one."

  Ezra halted mid-step, his hand shooting out to grip her arm with surprising strength. "When?"

  Taken aback by his intensity, Dalia stammered, "J-just now, in the mess hall. And before that, from the Ironclad War Yard workshop. I thought I was imagining things at first, but I'm sure of it now."

  Ezra's expression grew grave, the lines on his face deepening. "Tell no one else about this, Dalia. Do you understand? No one."

  "But if there's a threat—"

  "The staff is aware of the situation," he cut her off, his voice dropping to a whisper though they were alone in the corridor. "Creating panic will only make things worse."

  Dalia stared at him, realization dawning. "So there is something out there."

  Ezra's silence was answer enough. After a moment, he released her arm and straightened his robes. "You should get to class, Miss Sinclair. And remember what I said about controlling your impulses. In times of crisis, discipline may be all that stands between survival and disaster."

  With that cryptic warning, he turned and strode away, leaving Dalia alone in the corridor with her racing thoughts and the persistent, nagging sensation that something momentous and terrible was unfolding above their heads.

  Combat Theory dragged interminably, Professor Marlow's monotonous voice droning on about tactical formations while Dalia's mind wandered repeatedly to the mysterious airship and Ezra's uncharacteristic alarm. She sketched absently in the margins of her notebook, rough outlines of the silhouette she'd glimpsed, trying to identify its class and origin from memory.

  It had been too large for a standard merchant vessel, and the protrusions along its hull suggested heavy armaments. Military, perhaps? But the academy maintained good relations with the kingdom's fleet. There would be no reason for them to approach clandestinely, shrouded by an unnatural storm.

  Which left only one likely explanation: pirates.

  Dalia's pencil stilled on the page. Pirate airships were typically cobbled-together affairs—repurposed merchant vessels or stolen military craft. They relied on speed and surprise, not overwhelming firepower. Whatever she had seen was something else entirely—larger, more cohesive in design, more threatening.

  "Miss Sinclair!"

  Dalia's head snapped up to find Professor Marlow glaring at her from the front of the classroom, his bushy mustache quivering with indignation.

  "Since you're clearly so engrossed in your note-taking," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "perhaps you'd care to enlighten the class about the tactical advantages of the Harrowind Maneuver?"

  Dalia's mind raced. The Harrowind Maneuver... something about using air currents and altitude to gain an advantage. Details eluded her.

  "It... leverages vertical positioning to, um, outmaneuver slower vessels?" she ventured, knowing even as the words left her mouth that they were woefully inadequate.

  Professor Marlow's disappointed sigh was theatrical in its execution. "A kindergartner could have provided more insight, Miss Sinclair. The Harrowind Maneuver, as Mr. Graywood correctly explained while you were daydreaming, involves a coordinated series of altitude shifts between multiple allied airships to confuse enemy targeting systems and create overlapping fields of fire."

  Elias Graywood, seated two rows ahead, turned to offer her a smug smile. Dalia resisted the urge to make a rude gesture in response.

  "Perhaps you should consider whether your evident lack of concentration is indicative of your suitability for this profession," Professor Marlow continued, twisting the knife. "Not everyone is cut out for aerial warfare, after all."

  The comment stung more than Dalia would ever admit aloud. Being an airship captain had been her dream since childhood, watching the majestic vessels soar above her family's modest estate. She'd fought tooth and nail for her place at the academy, enduring the skepticism of admissions officers who questioned whether a young woman from a minor noble house had the fortitude for such a demanding career.

  "I understand the maneuver perfectly well, Professor," she replied, unable to keep a hint of defiance from her voice. "I simply expressed it poorly."

  Professor Marlow's eyes narrowed at her tone. "See me after class, Miss Sinclair. We'll discuss your expression skills in detail."

  Wonderful. Another lecture on her inadequacies to cap off an already disastrous day.

  As Marlow resumed his monotonous lecture, Dalia became aware of a persistent tapping sound. At first, she thought it was rain against the classroom windows, but the rhythm was too regular, too deliberate.

  Looking around, she noticed other students had begun to hear it too, heads turning in confusion. The tapping grew louder, more insistent, until it became impossible to ignore.

  Professor Marlow broke off mid-sentence, his irritation palpable. "What in the world is that racket?"

  The answer came in the form of a small, metallic object that clinked into the room through the partially open transom window above the door. It rolled across the floor, coming to rest in the center of the classroom—a polished sphere no larger than an apple, covered in intricate runic engravings that pulsed with an ominous red light.

  Dalia recognized it instantly from her studies: a Void Sphere, a dangerous magical device used to temporarily nullify all arcane energies within its radius of effect.

  "Everyone out!" she shouted, leaping to her feet. "That's a—"

  The sphere detonated with a muffled thump and a burst of crimson light. A wave of tangible emptiness swept through the room, leaving a hollow sensation in its wake like the pressure drop before a thunderstorm. Dalia tried to summon a protective shield instinctively, but the magic slipped from her grasp like water through a sieve.

  Students cried out in panic and confusion as their own magical abilities fizzled and died. Professor Marlow, his face ashen, stumbled backward against his desk.

  "Remain calm!" he commanded, though his voice wavered. "This is simply a—"

  The classroom door burst open with a splintering crack. Three figures stormed in, their faces concealed behind featureless metal masks, their bodies clad in dark leather armor accented with blood-red trim. Each carried a crossbow-like weapon that hummed with mechanical energy—automatic bolt-throwers, illegal in seven kingdoms and the preferred armament of sky pirates.

  "Nobody move!" the lead intruder barked, his voice distorted by his mask. "Hands where we can see them!"

  Terror froze Dalia in place, her mind racing. Pirates. In the academy. How had they gotten past the wards? The guards?

  The storm, she realized with sudden clarity. The magical interference from the unnatural tempest must have weakened the academy's defenses enough for them to infiltrate.

  Professor Marlow stepped forward, drawing himself up to his full height. "What is the meaning of this outrage? This is a royal academy! You can't possibly—"

  The lead pirate fired without hesitation. A bolt embedded itself in Marlow's shoulder with a sickening thud, sending him crashing back against the chalkboard. Students screamed. Someone near the back of the room fainted.

  "Next one goes through his eye," the pirate announced coldly. "Anyone else feel like being a hero?"

  Silence fell over the classroom, broken only by Professor Marlow's pained groans as he clutched his wounded shoulder.

  Dalia's fingers curled into fists at her sides, nails digging half-moons into her palms. Powerless. They were all powerless without their magic, exactly as the pirates had planned. A perfect ambush.

  The lead pirate gestured to his companions. "Secure them. Anyone resists, shoot them in the leg. We need most of them alive, but not necessarily intact."

  As the other two pirates moved to bind the students' hands with rough rope, Dalia's mind raced. There had to be a way out, some angle she hadn't considered yet.

  The Void Sphere's effects would be temporary—five minutes, perhaps ten at most. If she could stall long enough...

  "Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt. "What do you want with a bunch of students?"

  The lead pirate turned toward her, the blank metal mask revealing nothing of the face behind it. For a long, unsettling moment, he simply stared.

  "Spirited," he finally said, and though she couldn't see his expression, Dalia could hear the smirk in his voice. "You must be Sinclair."

  A chill ran down her spine. He knew her name. Why would he know her name?

  "Captain's going to be pleased," the pirate continued, stepping closer. "He has plans for you, girl. Special plans."

  Dalia's blood turned to ice in her veins. Captain? What captain? And what possible interest could a pirate leader have in her specifically?

  Before she could form a response, a distant explosion rocked the building, powerful enough to send dust sifting from the ceiling. The lead pirate cocked his head, as if listening to something only he could hear.

  "Change of plans," he announced abruptly. "We're taking this one now. The rest can wait."

  He lunged forward with unexpected speed, grabbing Dalia's arm in a bruising grip. She reacted instinctively, driving her knee upward with all the force she could muster.

  The pirate doubled over with a strangled curse, his grip loosening just enough for Dalia to wrench herself free. She bolted for the door, shoving past one of his stunned companions.

  "Stop her!" the lead pirate wheezed, still hunched over in pain.

  Dalia burst into the corridor, heart pounding in her ears. The hallway stretched before her, eerily empty. Where was everyone? Had the entire academy been infiltrated?

  Another explosion, closer this time, sent tremors through the floor beneath her feet. Smoke billowed from a stairwell to her right, acrid and thick. Through a nearby window, she caught glimpses of figures moving across the academy grounds—more pirates, dozens of them, engaged in running battles with academy staff.

  The storm still raged overhead, but now she could clearly see what it had concealed: a massive airship hovering above the central quad, its hull dark and predatory against the turbulent sky. Smaller vessels surrounded it like pilot fish circling a shark.

  Dalia ran, her mind focused on a single goal: reaching Ezra. He would know what to do, how to fight back. The mechanics workshop was in the east wing, just past the library.

  Behind her, she heard shouts and the heavy thud of pursuing footsteps. The pirates were giving chase. She pushed herself harder, legs burning as she sprinted down corridors and vaulted over debris from damaged walls.

  A bolt whistled past her ear, so close she felt its passage disturb her hair. It embedded itself in the wall ahead with a solid chunk. Dalia changed direction abruptly, ducking into a side passage that would take her on a more circuitous route to the workshop.

  The Void Sphere's effects had to be wearing off by now. She reached for her magic, feeling the familiar warmth returning, though still weaker than normal. Not enough for any complex spellwork, but perhaps...

  Rounding a corner, she found herself face to face with another pirate, this one in the process of binding a terrified first-year student. The pirate looked up, surprise evident even behind his mask.

  Dalia didn't hesitate. She thrust out her hand, channeling what little magic had returned into the simplest spell she knew—a basic force push, the first thing taught to new students. Under normal circumstances, it would do little more than shove an opponent back a step or two.

  But Dalia had never been one for holding back. She poured everything she had into the spell, raw and unrefined.

  The blast caught the pirate square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and hurling him into the stone wall with bone-crushing force. He slumped to the floor, unmoving.

  The first-year student gaped at her, wide-eyed. "H-how did you do that? My magic still isn't working!"

  "Run," Dalia told them, not taking the time to explain that her oversized magical reservoir had likely helped her recover faster. "Get somewhere safe and hide."

  The student needed no further encouragement, bolting down the corridor and out of sight.

  Dalia continued her frantic journey toward the workshop, the sounds of battle growing louder with each passing moment. Twice more she encountered pirates, and twice more she was forced to fight—once with magic, once with a decorative sword hastily yanked from a wall display. Her technique was far from perfect, but desperation lent her strength and speed.

  Finally, breathless and battered, she reached the workshop's heavy double doors. They stood ajar, acrid smoke seeping out from within. Dalia's heart clenched with sudden dread.

  "Ezra?" she called, pushing the door wider. "Master Ezra, are you here?"

  The workshop was in ruins. Workbenches overturned, tools scattered across the floor, the complex apparatus of half-finished airship components smashed beyond recognition. Several small fires smoldered among the debris, filling the air with the choking smell of burning oil and molten metal.

  "Ezra!" Dalia called again, more desperately this time.

  A weak cough answered her from behind a toppled storage cabinet. Dalia scrambled over the wreckage, her hands and knees collecting cuts and bruises that she barely registered.

  Ezra lay partially concealed beneath the cabinet, blood matting his white hair and beard. His breathing came in ragged gasps, and a dark stain spread across the front of his robes.

  "No," Dalia whispered, dropping to her knees beside him. "No, no, no."

  Ezra's eyes fluttered open, cloudy with pain but still alert. "Dalia," he wheezed. "You shouldn't be here. They're looking for you."

  "Who? Why?" She helped him into a sitting position, propping his back against the wall. "What do they want with me?"

  Ezra coughed, a wet, rattling sound that sent a spasm of pain across his features. "Not just you. All of you. The students. Captain Blacklock... he's taking... hostages."

  "Blacklock?" The name sparked a vague recognition. "The pirate captain?"

  Ezra nodded weakly. "More than that. He was... one of us, once. An academy master. Before he... turned."

  Dalia's mind reeled with the implications. A former academy master, now leading a pirate fleet? What could drive someone to such a betrayal?

  "We need to get you to a healer," she said, pushing her questions aside. "Can you stand?"

  Ezra grasped her wrist with surprising strength. "Listen to me, Dalia. This is important." His voice dropped to an urgent whisper. "The Crimson Gull. Deck seven, berth thirty-nine. The manifest says... scrapped materials. But it's not. It's—"

  A crash from the workshop entrance cut him off. Dalia whirled to see three pirates advancing through the smoke, weapons trained on them.

  "Found her," one of them called into a communication device strapped to his wrist. "And the old man too. Still alive, surprisingly."

  "Step away from him," another ordered Dalia, gesturing with his bolt-thrower.

  Ezra's grip on her wrist tightened painfully. "Remember," he hissed. "The Gull. And Dalia... your impulsivity. It can destroy... or it can save. Learn the difference."

  The pirates were almost upon them now. Dalia looked frantically around for a weapon, a tool, anything she could use to defend them.

  "Last warning," the lead pirate growled. "Step away now, or we drop you both."

  Time seemed to slow. Dalia felt something shift inside her—a clarity of purpose, a crystallization of fear and anger and determination into something harder, sharper.

  Her magic surged in response, no longer the volatile, unpredictable force she had struggled with that morning, but a focused weapon, then everything went black.