Finally, a small cloud forms above the trees.
“That’s it. Nice and easy,” Mr. Hart says.
The cloud gets bigger, darker. Magic swells inside me, ready to be released, and the sheer power of it makes me dizzy. It’s a terrible feeling, like I’m on the brink of losing control.
I’ve lost control twice before. The terror that haunts my dreams is enough to ensure it will never happen again.
Sweat beads on my skin, and I have to work hard for each shallow breath, as if I’m breathing atop Mount Everest instead of in a field in Pennsylvania.
I temper the flow and give myself three good breaths. Just three.
Then I start again.
Ash falls from the sky instead of rain, flames leaping toward the heavens as if they’re taunting me.
I find my thread of magic hovering above the forest floor. I let enough energy flow from my fingertips to keep it going, but no more than that.
“Rain,” I whisper.
Water rises from the ground and cools. Tiny droplets form, and all I have to do is combine them until they’re too heavy to stay in the air.
That’s it. I can do this.
I pull the cloud away from the trees, closer and closer to the flames until it hovers above the heart of the fire.
Power moves all around me like a cyclone, and I send it spiraling into the air, toward the droplets that are so close to being rain.
More magic surges inside me, desperate to get out, stealing my breath. There’s a deep well of it, but I’m terrified of letting go, terrified of what could happen if I do. I send out a small stream of magic that does nothing to ease the pressure building inside me, and I force the rest back down.
It isn’t enough.
The rain cloud flickers, threatening to undo all the progress I’ve made. It needs more energy.
“Stop fighting it,” Mr. Hart says behind me. “Just let it happen. You’re in control.”
But he’s wrong. Letting go would be like breaking a dam and hoping the water knows where to go. I know better than that. I know the devastation my power can cause.
There are so many sets of eyes on me, on the rain cloud churning above the fire. I split my focus between controlling the flow of my own magic and commanding everyone else’s, but it doesn’t feel right.
I can’t do it anymore.
I won’t.
The thread of magic collapses, energy thrashing every which way like a loose fire hose.
A collective groan moves through the witches around me. My arms fall to my sides, and my legs buckle beneath me, the pressure no longer holding me up. I sink to the ground, and heavy exhaustion replaces everything else. I could sleep right here, on the sawdust earth, surrounded by witches and fire.
I close my eyes as Mr. Hart’s steady voice begins directing the other witches.
“Okay, everyone in the northeast corner, you’re with Emily. Northwest, Josh. Southeast, Lee, and southwest, Grace. Let’s get this fire out.” Mr. Hart keeps his tone even, but after working with him for over a year, I know he’s disappointed.
After several minutes, four strong threads of magic are restored, and the cloud above the fire gets larger and darker. Emily, Josh, Lee, and Grace make upward motions with their hands, and all the water they’ve extracted from the ground rises into the atmosphere, going up, up, up.
They clap in unison, and the droplets of water combine, too heavy to remain in the air.
I look up. When the first raindrop lands on my cheek, a sick feeling moves through my body. It took four of our strongest witches to do what should have been natural for me. Easy, even.
Another raindrop falls.
And another.
Then the sky opens up.
Cheers rise all around me, the sound mixing with that of the rain. People clap each other on the back and hug. Josh pulls me up from the ground and wraps his arms around my waist, twirling me through the air as if I didn’t just fail in front of the entire school.
My hair is soaked, and my clothes cling to my skin. Josh sets me down and high-fives the other witches around him.
“We did it,” he says, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and kissing my temple.
But a training exercise is nothing compared to the unrestrained wildfires burning through California. We’re going to graduate this year, and then it’ll be up to us to fight the real fires. And they’re getting worse.
Witches have controlled the atmosphere for hundreds of years, keeping everything steady and calm. We’ve always succeeded. We’ve always been strong enough.
But the shaders—those without magic—were swept away by the possibilities of a world protected by it, of a world where every square inch could be used for gain. They began to push the limits of our power and our atmosphere. At first, we went along with it, caught up in their excitement. Then their excitement turned to greed, and they refused to slow down, ignoring our warnings and charging ahead, behaving as if magic were infinite. As if this planet were infinite. Now they’ve overplayed their hand.
We’ve tried to adapt and handle the shifting atmosphere on our own, but we can’t keep up; it’s as if we’re blowing out candles when the whole house is on fire. When we realized that what the world needed was rest, we pleaded with the shaders and pleaded for our home. But we were outnumbered. The shaders couldn’t see past their desire for more, developing land that humans were never meant to touch, requiring control in areas that were only ever meant to be wild.
There isn’t enough magic to support it all.
And now the atmosphere is collapsing around us.
Three years ago, we didn’t train this hard for wildfires. They spread and caused damage, but the witches were always able to put them out before they became devastating. Now
