Aster can smell the earthy scent of the greenhouse in thir robes as they walked along the stone path, behind the rest of the class.
Their fellow students infront of them chatters as the open field of teh Training Grounds came to view.
A group just ahead spoke in excitement:
"I've been flying when I was five,"one boy boasted. "My parents bought me one during my birthday."
"I’ve never even touched a broom," a quieter voice admitted. "What if I can’t get it to lift?"
"Just say 'Up,' someone replied confidently. "It listens if you mean it."
"Up" Aster whispered to themselves, testing the word in silence.
"Seems easy enough." Aster muttered under their breath as they look at the rows of brooms lay neatly on the grass, one for each student.
Students shuffled into places. Some grinning with excitement, while others shifting nervously. Aster stepped up into one of the free brooms, glancing down at it.
It looks ordinary.
It looks like . . . a broom.
The wood looks worn out and the handle is smoth from years of use with the twigs on its end is tightly bound by a faded cord.
For a brief moment, doubt crept in.
Aster closed their eyes and drew in a breath to steady themselves.
I can do this.
