Moonlit Vows Of Vengeance-Chapter 61: Comforting Much

The voice came from a girl with pale horns and opalescent eyes. She sat cross-legged beside me, her sleeves billowing with faint magical shimmer.

I didn’t answer.

I turned to look at her. "Is that supposed to be comforting?"

"No," she said. "It’s just the truth."

I sighed. "They think I’m weak."

"They think you’re not worth noticing," she corrected. "That’s worse. But temporary."

I gave her a look.

She shrugged. "Things change around here. Fast."

I didn’t sleep that night.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her again—the woman with my face, the one from the dream. Her silver eyes were wild, her claws sharp as razors. She screamed at me with each strike.

Die. Die. Die.

It wasn’t just rage in her voice. It was desperation.

I woke up gasping, heart hammering, drenched in sweat. The moon hung high outside my window, full and bright, but I didn’t feel the usual pull beneath my skin. No shift. No stir.

Just silence.

Like I was hollow.

The sun rose too fast.

When I arrived at the Orientation Hall the next morning, the other students already bustled in groups, talking animatedly. They looked fresh, rested, confident.

I hovered near the edge of the crowd, watching.

One girl in lavender robes tossed her hair and said, "Some of us already got instructor attention yesterday. They said I might qualify for conjuration honours."

Her friend giggled. "As long as you don’t end up rooming with the Null."

I rolled my eyes.

Someone bumped into me, hard enough to make me stumble. "Oh. Sorry," said a tall boy with smug blue eyes. "Didn’t see you there. Or your magic."

Before I could respond, a chime rang out, and the principal’s projection shimmered to life at the far end of the hall.

"Welcome, new initiates," he said. "You’ve entered a school older than your memory and deeper than your fears. Your success will depend not on what you were born with, but what you dare to become."

A lie.

At least for me.

The practice yard shimmered with nervous energy. Lines had been drawn in chalk and runestone, dividing students into pairs across the open space. The spell-casting instructor—Professor Harken, sharp-eyed and silver-bearded—paced along the edge of the field like a wolf sizing up a pen of sheep.

"All right, initiates," he said, raising a hand. "The goal is simple. Partner up. Cast a harmless spell of your choosing—one designed to push, dazzle, disorient. Nothing lethal. Nothing mind-altering. Just enough to test magical resistance and responsiveness."

There was a ripple of excitement in the air. Most of them couldn’t wait to show off.

I, on the other hand, wanted to vanish.

"Don’t think too hard," Professor Harken added, eyes flicking toward me like he’d read my thoughts. "Magic is about intent and clarity. You either connect, or you don’t."

Great. Just what I needed. Another opportunity to prove how utterly disconnected I was from whatever strange current of magic flowed through this world.

I got paired with a tall, haughty girl named Ilira—flawless braids, crystal earrings, and an attitude like a bladed fan. She looked at me like I was gum on the bottom of her boot.

"You’re the one who made the meter explode, aren’t you?" she asked, arching a perfectly shaped brow. "And now you can’t do anything at all. Convenient."

I wondered how she found out when no one else knew, but I let the thought go.

"I didn’t do it on purpose," I muttered.

"Of course not," she said sweetly, already raising her hand. "Anyway, I’ll go first."

Her fingers danced through the air, shaping a sigil in light—elegant, refined. A sparkle of energy coiled like a serpent, and then struck toward me like a whip of sunfire.

I flinched.

But... nothing happened.

The magic struck the space just inches from my chest and then bent. Not shattered. Not dispelled. It curved around me, like a river flowing around a stone. The spell streaked off into the dirt, burning a harmless trench a few feet away.

There was a beat of silence.

"Did you... shield yourself?" Ilira asked, blinking.

I shook my head. "No. I didn’t do anything."

She frowned. "That’s not possible."

She tried again—this time a gust spell. The wind curled toward me, full of force and intent. I braced myself—

And again, it slid past me like I wasn’t there.

Now other pairs were slowing down, watching. Whispers floated in the air. Someone murmured, "Maybe she’s cursed..."

Professor Harken stepped forward, frowning.

"Miss Athena," he said, voice low and measuring. "What kind of spell did you cast to deflect?"

"I didn’t cast anything," I said. "I swear."

He squinted. Then gestured to another student. "You. Aether pulse. Direct hit. Now."

The boy—a red-haired kid with a nervous smile—nodded and aimed his glowing palms at me. ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

This one I felt coming. The pressure in the air tightened like a held breath. But the result was the same: the spell coiled and wavered—then flickered off into nothing as it neared my body.

I looked down at myself. No marks. No warmth. No sensation of resistance or shielding.

Nothing.

The magic just wouldn’t touch me.

"What in the is she?" the boy whispered.

Professor Harken studied me a moment longer, then said, "That will be all. Pairings dismissed."

Just like that, the students broke off. But their glances lingered like thorn barbs. Some looked jealous. Some looked scared.

But most of them just looked like they’d made up their minds about me.

And none of it felt good.

Ilira passed by again, her voice low and biting. "You’re not magicless. You’re... awesome."

I didn’t reply. I didn’t know what to say.

I didn’t make it more than five steps from the training room before Professor Harken called after me.

"Athena. Walk with me."

I hesitated, then followed him off the main path, where a row of shadow birches filtered the sunlight in jagged columns. The air was still and way too quiet.