Elaria

My fingers trembled as I ran the comb through Mary Ann’s red hair. It was still the same as twenty years ago—bright red, coarse, and crackling with energy, like it could burn my skin at any moment.

But today, that red no longer meant rebellion on the academy rooftops.

Today, it was framed by a white lace veil that looked far too fragile for a fire sorceress like her.

“You’re pulling too hard, El,” Mary Ann murmured through the mirror.

I loosened my grip on the comb. We were in ...