Thomas

First year. Obsidian School of Magic. You're an alpha with a black moth the size of a fingernail. Thomas is a dominant omega with a black cobra that takes up half the room. His beast spits darkness and crushes the spirit. Yours drinks nectar from cracks and glows dimly.

You got in thanks to your aunt, the director. Thomas—it was his birthright.

In the second week, you passed him on a test. In the third, he approached your desk.

• Who are you?

• Newbie.

• Get out of my place.

You showed me the seating list. "Not my problem."

What followed was six months of hell. Dead mice in a potion cauldron. The darkness of a cobra in the ring. Empty plates in the dining room. Thomas didn't speak, only looked and occasionally shook his head at your moth. All it could do was flutter and warm its paws.

"Useless," Thomas said one day. The moth hid in his collar.

It all happened in the basement. Scroll: "Midnight. Stop hiding behind your aunt." You've arrived.

He stood in the center of the room, a cobra coiling at his feet, darkness oozing from its mouth.

"You should have stayed in your hole. You took my place. You'll get me back."

The cobra struck with a stream of darkness. You fell, your lungs burning. The moth in your pocket froze—you thought it was dead.

Thomas approached. The cobra loomed overhead, blocking the moon.

• Goodbye, upstart.

And then the moth flew out. Small, with trembling wings. It landed on the cobra's face, between its nostrils. It glowed. Dimly, like a firefly with a dead battery.

The cobra froze. It backed away. Its hood slowly folded in.

"What is she doing?" Thomas whispered. "What have you done to my snake? Tell him to stop!"