Chapter 3: Thermodynamics and Floor Plans

The blueprint didn’t just represent a building; it represented a declaration of war, and Dorian’s thumb was currently pinning down the very corner where my pyromancy wing was supposed to be. 

He didn’t move it. He didn't even look at me. He kept his gaze fixed on the vellum spread across the mahogany conference table, his profile as sharp and unforgiving as a glacial shelf. Around us, the faculty of both Lumina and Umber sat in a silence so brittle it felt like a sneeze would shatter it. My instructors—draped in silks of crimson and gold—sat on the left. His instructors—armored in high-collared navy wool—sat on the right. 

The air in the room was already beginning to separate into distinct microclimates.

"The structural integrity of the west atrium cannot support open-air casting, Mira," Dorian said, his voice a low, resonant baritone that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up despite the heat simmering in my marrow. "The thermal plumes from your seniors would warp the support beams within a semester. We are installing dampeners. Everywhere."

I leaned forward, planting my palms on the table. A faint puff of smoke curled from the wood where my skin made contact. "Dampeners aren't an architectural Choice, Dorian. They’re a leash. If my students can’t feel the draft of the sky, they lose the rhythm of the flame. I won’t have them casting in a sterilized box."

"I would prefer a 'sterilized box' to a structural collapse," he countered, finally turning his head. His eyes were the color of deep-sea ice, piercing and impossibly cold. "Safety is not a negotiation."

"Neither is my curriculum." I swept my hand toward the blueprint, my fingers grazing his as I pointed toward the central courtyard. 

The contact was a physical jolt. It wasn't just the expected clash of temperatures—the biting frost of his skin meeting the fever of mine—it was a sudden, violent thrum of static that raced up my spine. My breath hitched, a puff of steam escaping my lips. 

Dorian didn’t pull away. If anything, his grip on the map tightened. I could see the frost blooming outward from his fingertips, white crystals racing across the vellum toward the scorched prints I’d left behind. 

"The curriculum will be standardized," he said, though his voice had dropped a fraction in pitch. "And the architecture will reflect the need for stability. We are merging two volatile elements. If we do not provide a framework of restraint, the Starfall Accord will be nothing more than a very expensive funeral pyre."

"You’re obsessed with restraint because you're terrified of anything you can't freeze solid," I snapped, my temper finally catching. 

The temperature in the room spiked. Behind me, Silas, my Head of Evocation, shifted uncomfortably as the vase of lilies on the sideboard began to wilt and brown in a matter of seconds. On the other side of the table, Dorian’s deputy, a woman whose expression was as frozen as her master’s, adjusted her collar as a visible chill rolled off Dorian in waves.

"I am terrified of incompetence," Dorian said, stepping closer. He was a head taller than me, forcing me to tilt my chin back to maintain eye contact. "I am terrified of the way you treat magic like a playground rather than a discipline." 

"Magic is life, Dorian. It’s supposed to breathe. It’s supposed to burn." 

"It’s supposed to be controlled."

We were inches apart now. I could smell him—not the expected scent of ozone and snow, but something deeper, like pine needles trapped in ice and the metallic tang of a coming storm. It was an intoxicating, infuriating scent. My gaze dropped to his mouth, then snapped back to his eyes. The irritation was a physical weight, but underneath it, there was a jagged, hungry current of attraction that I refused to acknowledge. 

"Look at the map," I commanded, my voice strained. "If we move the casting circles to the north ridge, the wind shear—"

"Will blow the embers directly into the dormitory vents," he interrupted, his hand moving over mine to trace a different line.

He didn't just touch my hand this time; he covered it. 

The reaction was instantaneous. The thermal shock was so violent it felt like a physical blow to the chest. A roar of steam erupted between us as our magics collided—my wild, white-hot instinct meeting his rigid, absolute zero. The blueprint under our hands didn't just tear; it disintegrated, the vellum curling into blackened ash on one side and shattering into frozen shards on the other.

A shockwave of gray mist blasted outward, hitting the walls with the force of a gale. 

"Look out!" Silas yelled, diving under the table.

The windows of the conference hall groaned. A layer of frost thick as a finger-width coated the glass instantly, while the chandelier above us began to glow red-hot, the crystals melting and dripping like wax onto the carpet. 

Dorian and I didn't move. We were locked in the center of the storm, our hands still fused over the ruined table. My heart was hammered against my ribs, fueled by a cocktail of adrenaline and something far more dangerous. His eyes were wide, the pupils blown out until only a thin ring of blue remained. For a second, the mask of the Great Cold Chancellor slipped, and I saw the same raw, terrified heat in him that was currently incinerating my common sense.

Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the pressure snapped. 

Dorian pulled his hand back as if I’d actually burned him. He tucked his arm behind his back, his fingers twitching. The mist began to settle, revealing a room that looked like a war zone. Half the table was scorched black; the other half was encased in a jagged block of ice. 

The faculty members were staring at us in horrific silence. Silas crawled out from under the table, brushing ash from his robes. 

"Well," Silas muttered, his voice cracking the silence. "I suppose that answers the question of whether the dampeners are necessary."

Dorian smoothed his tunic, his face returning to its impenetrable marble state, though a single rogue lock of dark hair had fallen over his forehead. He looked at the wreckage of the floor plans, then back at me. The air between us was still shimmering with the ghost of that contact.

"Meeting adjourned," Dorian said, his voice clipped and hollow. "We will reconvene when the Chancellor of Lumina learns the meaning of the word 'tether.'"

He turned on his heel and strode out of the room, his long coat snapping behind him. His faculty followed like a funeral procession, leaving me standing in the wreckage of our combined power. 

I looked down at my hand. It was trembling. Not with cold, and not with fear. 

I could still feel the phantom print of his palm against mine, a brand of ice that felt suspiciously like a promise. If this was what happened when we argued over floor plans, the actual merger was going to burn the entire world to the ground. 

I reached out and picked up a shard of the frozen blueprint, watching as it melted instantly in my grip, the water sizzling into steam before it could even hit the floor. 

I didn't stop him from leaving, but I stayed in that ruined room long after the others had gone, staring at the door and wondering how many more times I could survive being touched by a man who was both my only hope and my certain destruction. 

The dampeners were going in tomorrow, but as I felt the residual thrum of Dorian's magic still vibrating in the air, I knew no amount of stone or steel would ever be enough to contain us.