The Devoted: A Reverse Harem Omnibus (The Devoted Season Book 1)(5)

The size and breadth of the place sends my breath weaving between my ribs.

The carriage stops halfway through the wide-open courtyard. The carriage driver begins slapping the wooden wall behind him to wake the other travelers up. I hop off the front of the carriage, squinting to get a better look.

A small crowd has gathered. Students like me, maybe? Towering doors large enough to admit a full-sized wyvern yawn open and the crowd of students trickles inside one by one. The gruff scent of horse manure and road dust settles on my nose and I sniffle. Mr. Kitty disappears into my messenger bag and pops his tail out.

I roll my eyes at him, Nice to be a cat, isn’t it?

My heart slams against my ribcage with every step. The acceptance letter is crumpled in my hand and as I make my way to the crowd moving through the entrance, I try doing two things at once: straightening the letter while pretending I’ve got an ounce of confidence.

But that’s pretty hard when there’s a feline familiar in your messenger bag that won’t stop fidgeting. It’s like he’s caught a specter mouse in there and he’s trying to kill and eat it. Maybe not in that order.

Who knows?

I shake the bag and something small and tiny comes squeaking out. I jerk back and scream. The crowd behind me parts and high-pitched screams—some deep ones too—make me cringe. A couple of glares pin themselves to me and I shrug, muttering my favorite three words, “I’m so sorry!”

Their gazes say, “Yeah, whatever,”

I shrink against their glares. I’ve only just arrived and I’m already making people hate me. Good job, Lilac. You sure know how to win em.

We enter a sprawling hall with a ceiling that could easily swallow up the sky. A glittering chandelier hangs above. Crystals the size of my head dangle from it and reflect rainbow light off their multifaceted faces.

People in purple robes skirt through the crowd. One woman cuts a line toward me, looking into the faces of every new join with a clipboard attached to her hand, a quill pen scribbles across the parchment attached.

She comes to me and eyes the paper pressed against my chest, “Name?”

“L-Lilac Heart,”

The woman’s lips part into a smile, “Ah,” she breathes, tiny moth-like eyebrows rising inches from her eyes, “What a great time to forget your own name.”

Trust me, I know.

With a sprinkling of laughter, she continues on, asking the same question of everyone.

What a great first impression.

The crowd begins bunching and moving like a caterpillar crawling up a branch and I’m not really sure what’s going on as I’m herded through a high-ceilinged hallway and into a room even larger than the one previous.

This one is full of picnic-style tables. The white-wood floor shines beneath my dust-caked slippers and I have the peculiar need to stop at the threshold and dust off my shoes and hands. Standing flush with the walls are people in blue and gold robes. A large amount of them are young.

The girls have thick black lashes or amber-blond locks that glow in the sconcelight. While the guys look like they’ve been cut straight from an issue of Magician’s Quarterly. Everyone is too handsome, too pretty. They stare at us as we enter the large dining hall, some snickering, some pointing and making...crude gestures.

My dust slicked hands resemble the scalloped feet of a crow. Am I in the wrong place?

We are guided across the wide room toward a stage where a woman in a plain beige dress stands, a stiff-shouldered suit coat makes her shoulders look broader than they really are. But as she eyes the crowd and takes off her suit coat, my lips form an “O”. The suit coat actually made her shoulders look smaller.

This lady could easily hold two of these tables and not break a sweat. I admire that.

I’m also kind of terrified.

The doors to the hall close and the group begins chattering. The noise builds and builds, and I scan around the room searching for what’s so important. Most of the chatter is coming from the students on the walls.

“Initiates, Acolytes,” the woman on the stage spreads her powerful arms, “new joins,”

The Initiates and Acolytes on the walls fall silent. There’s a deceptive chill in the room that tells me that maybe if I don’t move, she won’t see me.

“I, Grand Enchantress Varga, welcome all of you to Firedrake Academy,” she drops into a curtsy, gracefully sliding her right leg forward. Her arms float out to her sides, but her skirts stay put, “Many of you chosen have the potential to become the best of the best,”

A snicker comes from the back of the hall. I nibble my lower lip.

Then, there’s silence. Absolute silence. The snicker has died. I can’t even hear my breathing, but there’s a high-pitched whining in the room like a mosquito’s hovering near my ear. I slap at my ear—except, my hand doesn’t move. It’s twitching, moving slowly like it’s fighting against a pressurized force. The whining is getting louder, ramping up and up until it’s an all-out scream. Nearby, someone flinches. Another person tosses back their head and cries out.

An explosive clap sunders the room. Robes fly backward. Hair is buffeted by a wind that shouldn’t exist. My hand is still trembling on my thigh and I blink away tears as wind lashes out at the entire room.

What is going on?!

Even the Grand Enchantress is still.

Air is ripped from my lungs. My eyes water. My lips open and close like I’m a drowning fish. Something appears out of nothing, something black and spherical and fine. Robes and hair and skin are yanked toward it. With another explosive clap, it drops its sphere and hovers above our heads.