“What did you mean by that?” I asked. My voice felt small in the vast hall. “When you said, ''Finally, someone like me'' . . . what did you mean?”


    Andora smiled faintly. It wasn’t her usual sharp grin—this one was softer, almost relieved.


    “Your discipline,” she said, “is called Wisdom. It’s . . . uncommon.” She paused, like she was picking her words carefully. “Wisdom isn’t about power—not directly. It’s about understanding the mechanics of magic itself. You don’t just use spells—you shape them, alter them, create new ones. And you feel magic differently from the rest of us. It’s why your sphere showed runes and diagrams instead of something physical. Wisdom is the discipline of creation, adaptation . . . and risk.”


    I swallowed hard. “Risk?”


    “Magic doesn’t always behave the way we expect,” she said. “Most disciplines rely on established methods, but Wisdom bends those rules. If you don’t fully understand what you’re doing . . .” Her gaze sharpened. “It can go very wrong.”


    I thought back to the lightning strike, the frozen river, and the sharp cold I’d felt spreading through my chest afterward. That hadn’t felt like power—it had felt like I’d barely stopped something from spiraling out of control.


    “But you’re like me?” I asked.


    Andora’s expression softened. “Yes. My discipline is Wisdom as well.”


    That surprised me—somehow, I’d imagined her wielding something louder, something more forceful. But that sort of explains why only she was able to use magic within the Woods of Silence, or at least create a fortress where magic exists within a realm that rejects it.


    Before I could ask more, Cassandra spoke up.


    “Wait . . . what’s the difference between Wisdom and Divination?” she asked. “I thought my powers were about insight and understanding too?”


    “Divination is about discovering what is,” Andora explained. “The past, the present, possible futures—Divination reveals what already exists. Wisdom, on the other hand . . . shapes what could be. It creates new paths, new spells, new outcomes. Divination observes. Wisdom acts.”


    Cassandra frowned, clearly turning the words over in her head. “So . . . my magic won’t change anything?”


    “It can,” Andora corrected her. “Divination can guide you toward the right choices. It’s just . . . less direct.”


    Cassandra didn’t seem convinced.


    “And my Alteration?” Viktor asked.


    “Alteration enhances what’s already there,” Andora said. “Your strength and speed aren’t new powers—they’re your natural abilities, amplified to impossible levels.” She gave him a meaningful look. “You’ll need to be careful with that. Pushing too far can destroy what you’re trying to improve.”


    Viktor’s jaw tightened. “So if I’m not careful . . . I could break myself?”


    “Or others,” Andora said bluntly. “And that’s why you’ll learn control.”


    Zeke shot Viktor a concerned look but didn’t comment. Instead, he raised his hand.


    “Okay, so my Conjuration makes fire constructs—but what about Hyacinth? You looked at the particles in the sphere like they’re . . . weird.”


    Andora’s smile widened. “Hyacinth’s Conjuration is special,” she said. “Most Conjurers create based on logic—they build with clear mental blueprints. But Hyacinth’s creations seem to come from her imagination itself. She’s less restricted—but that freedom makes her ability harder to master.”


    Hyacinth interjected. “But what about my Planar magic?”


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    “Hmmmm,” Andora thought for a moment. “That one is rather curious. Tell me, have you every conjured anything before you got here?”


    “Yes,” Hyacinth answered. “I have conjured dinnerware, umbrella, some pillows, and . . . ”


    “And where did you based them off from?” Andora asked further.


    “My imagination?” Hyacinth said, her tone was rather unsure.


    Andora let out a soft laugh. “Were they your own creations of something you have seen from the past?”


    “Yes,” Hyacinth responded gently, “things I have seen in the past.”


    “From your world,” Andora hinted. “I am guessing those were not conjured but summoned.”


    And before Hyacinth could ask further, her sister interrupted. “And what about my healing?” Amethyst asked.


    “You just don’t heal,” Andora said. “Your gift combines Evocation and Disruption. You don’t just mend injuries—you channel protective and restorative energy. You can strengthen others, heal them, but you can also harm them. Your power isn’t just your own—you’re calling on something greater.”


    Amethyst blinked. “Wait . . . something greater?”


    Andora’s gaze lingered on her. “We’ll talk about that when you’re ready.”


    Amethyst exchanged a nervous glance with Hyacinth.


    “And my earth magic?” Andrew asked.


    “Interference,” Andora said simply. “You don’t create stone or soil—you manipulate what’s already there. Interference magic strengthens and controls elements outside your body.”


    Andrew furrowed his brow. “So . . . I can’t create stone walls or pillars?”


    “Not unless there''s already stone nearby,” Andora clarified. “Your strength lies in control, not creation. You can make the ground split open, you can make the earth quake, you send boulders flying, but you cannot conjure earth and rocks from thin air.”


    “And my water magic is the same?” Gabrielle asked.


    Andora nodded. “Yes, but your connection to water runs deeper. It’s tied to your emotions, your will. You can create wards, enchantments, seals, curses, purify an area, item, or creature.”


    Gabrielle straightened at that. Her shoulders squared like she was still holding onto the power she’d claimed back at the river. “But I was able to split the Frozen River?”


    “Just because your discipline is Abjuration does not mean you cannot manipulate waters,” Andora explained. “Your discipline is your strongest approach to how you use magic. It is not your only approach.”


    Pierre crossed his arms. “What about me? I just . . . change.”


    “Your shapeshifting is Transfiguration,” Andora said. “It’s flexible, but temporary. You alter your form by overlaying a new shape over your real one. The more extreme the change, the harder it is to hold.”


    Pierre scowled. “So I can’t turn into a dragon?”


    “You can,” Andora said dryly. “But it will take its toll. You may hold that form for long, but we don’t know how long before you collapse.”


    Pierre’s scowl deepened.


    “And my copying ability?” Sakura asked quietly.


    Andora’s expression softened. “Your discipline is Invocation. Each time you mimic someone’s abilities, someone’s form, you’re calling on their essence—their identity—and weaving it into your own magic. Your own self. It’s not just copying. You’re . . . borrowing their presence.”


    Sakura’s eyes widened. “Their presence?”


    “Yes, and that’s why it might so . . . heavy sometimes,” Andora said. “You''re carrying part of their spirit when you use their power.”


    Sakura’s face paled, and her fingers tightened around her sleeve.


    “That’s . . . a lot,” Zeke muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.


    “It is,” Andora agreed smiling. “But you’ll have time to train and understand your abilities. None of you are expected to master your discipline overnight.”


    She paused, and I felt the weight of her gaze shift across the room. For a moment, it felt like we were all standing on the edge of something—like the floor beneath us might suddenly give way.


    Her smile faded. “I won’t be the one training you. Each of you will be guided by someone who understands your discipline—someone who can teach you what you need to know. They aren’t from this place . . . or this time.”


    That silenced the room.


    “Wait . . . from another time?” Viktor asked.


    “Who are they?” Gabrielle demanded.


    “You’ll know soon enough,” Andora said. “But you won’t be trained together. Each of you will learn alone, in your own way . . . and on your own path.”


    The air seemed colder now.


    For the first time since we’d arrived in Mysteria . . . I felt like we were really being separated.


    “Now,” Andora said at last, her tone shifting. “It’s time for you to receive your new names.”


    “A new name?” Pierre scoffed. “What the fuck for?”