Miss Raven Chen,
Thank you for your application to Sibylline College of Magical Arts. Unfortunately—
Unfortunately.
One word.
It crushes my dream as easily as shattering glass.
I look up at Dorian and Atticus. They’re both stock-still, staring at their letters. Dorian’s face is white. Atticus blinks a few times, then finally he says, “Oh.”
I don’t have to be a psychic like Atticus to know what happened.
Atticus gently refolds the letter and slides it neatly back in the envelope, his mouth set into a grim line. Dorian crumples his up and throws it in the nearest trash can with a huff.
My knees give out, and I collapse back down on the bench.
I check and recheck the letter, hoping the words are different, that maybe my mind misread it. But no, it’s real. I didn’t get in. I won’t be attending Sibylline. I won’t achieve my dream. I might as well die. Right here and now. I don’t even want to think about what I did wrong. I performed well on the written exams, scoring high marks in history and lore, and in the interview, I displayed my talents, transcribing in real time the text the assessor offered to me, a piece apparently written by an eighteenth-century monk in his own private dialect. I’d done well, but it hadn’t mattered.
I want to leap off the pier or tear the letter into a thousand little pieces. I need to scream, but I choke down the urge. How can I not be good enough? Me? I worked so hard for this! How many sleepless nights did I spend studying for the MSAT, the arcane college admissions test? Was being the president of Manhattan’s Youth Magicians Club not enough? What about my national award for excellence in sorcery? Did none of it even matter? My application was perfect,
perfect.
The disappointment is numbing.
Atticus clicks his tongue. “Maybe it’s for the better. It’s just a school for a bunch of magic snobs and elitist wizards and rich enchanters. So what’s even the point?”
“An education,” says Dorian dryly, masking his hurt with humor. “And I think you need all the help you can get.”
Atticus lets out a laugh. Dorian smiles back. That’s what comes with being friends.
Best friends. All of us. No matter what, we’re together. We’d planned on attending Sibylline—so now what?Will we have to separate? My mouth feels dry at the thought.
“Well, there goes my one chance,” says Atticus.
“You didn’t apply anywhere else?” Dorian asks.
“It was either Sibylline or nothing,” he says.
“Me too,” I say, and Dorian nods. We all did the same.
I won’t let this happen to us. I refuse. I can’t give up. Not now, not ever. “What if we don’t take no for an answer?”
Dorian’s eyebrows rise, and he looks at me, as if trying to read my expression.
“What are you saying? Reject their rejection? We can’t make them accept us,” Atticus says. “Can we?”
I picture Sibylline’s students on their first day of class: groups of eager young magicians walking the cobblestone streets, studying in the grand halls, and learning all that is worth knowing from masters of the craft. Everything that matters is there, nestled in the ivy-covered arches and the ancient tomes. I’d give anything to be there, at the center of it all. I’d do anything, any job . . .
It’s then that an idea starts to form.
Copyright © 2026 by Melissa de la Cruz. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
