Crystal Potential

The first week at Crystalline Peak passed in a blur of new faces, unfamiliar hallways, and long days packed with lessons. Each morning brought something unexpected—spells she’d never heard of, theories that made her head spin, and bursts of magic that felt equal parts thrilling and unpredictable. The schedule was intense, and by the time Friday rolled around, Miruna was exhausted, but things were starting—just barely—to click into place. She was beginning to find a rhythm, a pattern to the chaos, even if she still got turned around on the way to class or inevitably fumbled her way through some of the spells.

There were parts of the day she looked forward to: quiet moments by the lake where she could try practicing on her own, or sitting with her roommates during meals, trading stories and bits of laughter like they'd known each other longer than a few days. It wasn’t all easy, though. Some lessons came naturally to her, while others left her staring at her notes with a growing sense of frustration. She wasn’t alone in that—plenty of students were still adjusting, still figuring things out. Alaric, she noticed, had grown quieter as the week went on, his usual spark dimming.

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Professor Varrow wasted no time in diving into the history of spellcraft, his crisp voice commanding the attention of the class. They began with the origins of magic—the first recorded spells, the way raw power had been refined into controlled, deliberate incantations over centuries. He spoke briefly of accidental magic, how it flared in uncontrolled bursts in children and untrained individuals, but waved it away as something they would revisit later.

"The true study," he had said, pacing in front of the room, "is how we take the unpredictable and shape it into something structured, something reliable. By the end of this course, you will understand the conditions that allow magic to be transformed from instinct to mastery."

Miruna took careful notes, recognizing hints of what Ivan had been teaching her in their tutoring sessions. The idea of regulation—of knowing how much magic to use and when—was something she had been working on in each session.

On Thursday, they attempted their first spell: Avifors, a basic transfiguration spell that turned objects into birds. Professor Varrow demonstrated with a flick of his wrist, a pebble on his desk shifting seamlessly into a raven that took off in a burst of black feathers.

"The key is precision," he instructed, his gaze sharp as he observed them. "Too much magic, and you may create something unintended. Too little, and nothing will happen at all."

Miruna steadied herself, gripping her staff. She had practiced magic regulation enough to know the feeling of the right amount of power thrumming beneath her fingertips. With careful intent, she cast the spell, watching as the small stone before her shimmered, then transformed into a delicate sparrow. It fluttered its wings before taking off, circling the room before perching on the windowsill.

Pride swelled in her chest—she had done it. The spell had worked exactly as intended. When she glanced around, she observed the other students that had gotten the spell to work as they stared at their own birds as they flew up and around the room. But not everyone got so lucky on the first try. Some students barely managed a few twitching feathers, while others caused their objects to morph into unsettling, half-formed shapes.

Professor Varrow’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before he gave a short nod as he moved around the room, instructing students on how to balance their power. "Good control, Miss Potter . "

Miruna returned to her seat, still feeling the thrill of success. She hadn’t always had the luxury of feeling like she belonged, but here, in this moment, she did.

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Lady Lysandra’s class was unlike any other. Instead of strict lectures or rigid spellwork, discussions dominated the lessons, prompting students to think critically about the moral implications of magic. This week’s topic focused on the classification of magic into light, grey, and dark categories. She explained that while most of the world followed a modernized approach to these classifications, some places—such as Magical Britain—still enforced outdated laws that banned entire branches of magic without consideration for their practical uses.

On Wednesday, students were divided into groups to debate these classifications. Miruna found herself sitting with three other students—two from France, one from Italy, and another from Canada. Their task was to discuss whether all magic should be allowed or if certain forms should remain restricted.

“I think everything should be allowed, as long as it’s not used to harm people,” Miruna argued firmly. “Magic is a tool. It’s how you use it that makes it good or bad.”

One of the French students, a girl named Sabine, nodded. “Exactly. The idea that some magic is ‘evil’ by default is outdated. It’s about responsibility.”

The Canadian boy, Connor, shrugged. “Most of the world agrees with that, but you can’t ignore that some magic is just… dangerous. Necromancy, for example. It’s not always about harming people, but raising the dead has serious ethical concerns.”

The only one who disagreed outright was Luca, the Italian boy. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “I don’t think anything should be forbidden, but I do believe certain magic should only be taught under strict supervision. People fear what they don’t understand, but if we were properly trained, we wouldn’t have to ban anything.”

Miruna considered his words. “So you think dark magic should be studied, but only if you can prove you’re responsible?”

Luca nodded. “Exactly. Fear of knowledge is what makes magic dangerous.”

Sabine nodded in agreement. "That makes sense. I mean, Grey magic is outlawed in some places just because it can be unpredictable, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad."

Luca, however, frowned. "I agree, but there should still be oversight. Some magic can be dangerous if people don’t know what they’re doing. Where I’m from, students are taught Dark magic, but only under strict supervision. You should be trained in it before you can use it freely."

"But who gets to decide who’s responsible enough to use it?" Miruna countered. "That’s the problem, isn’t it? If you regulate it too much, people will still find ways to use it—but they won’t have the knowledge to do so safely."

The discussion continued until Lady Lysandra called for their attention. By Friday, she announced that the following week would be spent on a project about the ethics of magic classifications. Miruna left the classroom eager for the challenge—this was the kind of conversation she enjoyed, one that made her think beyond just spellwork.

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The elemental pavilion was an open, breezy space, perched on the edge of the lake, with waves lapping gently against the stone. The air was cool and crisp, the scent of earth and water mingling in the breeze. The Water Master, who stood confidently on the lake's surface, didn’t make any move to acknowledge their presence at first. He seemed to float, as though the water itself were holding him there.

“Find a seat,” the Water Master finally instructed, his voice calm yet firm. “Dip your feet into the water. You need to feel it, to connect with it. Magic doesn’t come through force, but through understanding.”

Miruna stepped forward, feeling the smooth stone beneath her feet, and took a seat on the ledge as the others did the same. She dipped her feet into the cool water, letting the sensation of it flow around her ankles. The slight tingle of magic brushed against her skin, but it didn’t feel like anything solid—more like a gentle hum beneath the surface. She closed her eyes, trying to focus on the element, but all she could hear was the soft rush of water and the occasional flick of the breeze.

The Water Master stood across from them, his posture relaxed but commanding. He spoke with a steady voice, his words seeming to resonate with the water itself. “Magic isn’t about dominating the elements. It’s about listening. The water is alive in its own way—it has its own rhythm, its own pattern. It doesn’t want to be controlled; it wants to be understood. It’s not a tool, but a partner.”

Miruna glanced down at the water, watching the waves swirl in different directions. It seemed random to her, unpredictable. She sat in silence on the edge, watching the waves and trying to find a pattern, but all she saw was chaos—water moving in different directions, small waves colliding and scattering. Nothing about it seemed easy or structured. How could she connect with this? She closed her eyes and tried to feel it again, to find some trace of the flow the Water Master spoke of. But still, nothing happened.

The next day, as the group returned for another lesson, something shifted inside her. While watching the surface of the lake again, she noticed how the water moved with the flow of energy, and how each ripple seemed to carry magic with it. At first, she thought it was just her mind playing tricks on her—seeing something others couldn’t—but when she looked closer, the currents themselves shimmered, pulsating with a rhythm she had never noticed before. They weren't just ripples. They were magical threads within the water, weaving their way through the lake like veins of liquid energy.The waves swirled in patterns that repeated, and how tiny ripples moved in sync with one another, responding to the subtle changes in the breeze. It wasn’t random; it was a conversation.

Miruna blinked in surprise. She could see it now. She was seeing the magic itself, the flow of energy inside the water, clearly and without effort. The Water Master, who had been watching her, gave a small smile and a nod of approval, acknowledging that she had understood the lesson in a way that no one else had. “Now, reach out. Don’t force it. Guide it.”

For a few moments, Miruna hesitated, her fingers hovering just above the water. She could feel the current of magic beneath the surface, and instead of trying to bend it to her will, she let herself follow its path. Slowly, carefully, she reached out with her awareness, not her hands, and allowed the water to respond to her.

To her astonishment, a small trail of water lifted from the lake. A soft, fluid tendril of water curled from the lake like a serpent, rising easily, almost as if the water had been waiting for her to join it in its rhythm. The tendril curved and dipped, tracing shapes in the air with ease.

The Water Master watched her with an approving glance. “Well done, Miss Potter,” he said. ““You’ve understood something most students take weeks to grasp. The water is playful, eager to move, but it is also delicate, and you must never forget that. Most people don’t connect with it this quickly. Now, try shaping it. Water is malleable, but you must always respect its flow. Only by understanding it can you shape it, not force it.”

By the end of the week, Miruna wasn’t the only one who had made progress. Nadia and Felix had each learned to form basic shapes from the water. Nadia had mastered forming small spheres, while Felix shaped the water into simple rings. Although still working with the same basic instructions as the others, Miruna was able to pull water from the lake and shape it into delicate, twisting shapes, resembling flowers or miniature animals. The key, she realized, was not to control the water but to understand it completely, allowing its natural rhythm to guide her.

Alaric, though, seemed to be pulling inward as the week wore on. His jokes had become less frequent, his laughter quieter. He smiled, but it didn’t always reach his eyes. Miruna noticed, but between trying to catch up on assignments and keep her own magic under control, she hadn’t found the right moment to ask him about it. Not yet.

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In Mr. R’s class, the assignment for the week was clear: choose a rune and explain it to the class. The girls quickly realized the task would be challenging but rewarding, and they were eager to get started. The four of them gathered their materials and one of the course books from a shelf in the corner of the room and began brainstorming. They all agreed that the rune should symbolize protection, something that seemed to be a very popular topic at the Crystalline Peak.

After much discussion, they decided on a circular shape with flowing, interwoven lines that crosses from one side to the other. The rune itself was named Karieth , one of the original Elyrith runes, and meant “guardian.” It, when paired in a runic array, would identify intruders or those who want harm from those willing to provide help.

The field trip to the castle entrance on Wednesday offered a welcome break. The class examined the ancient runes carved into the massive wooden doors—seven in total, each representing a different magical force. Miruna was in awe of the intricate designs, feeling a deep connection to the symbols that had stood the test of time. As they studied the runes, Mr. R explained how each one was imbued with centuries of magic, offering protection and wisdom to anyone who passed through them.

By Friday, the girls were ready to present their rune project. Mr. R gave them a warm smile as he listened to their explanation. “Well done, ladies,” he said with a nod, clearly impressed by their work. “Your research is thorough, and the presentation shows a high level of effort.” The girls shared a knowing glance and laughed softly to themselves, remembering how they had stayed up late finishing the project the night before.

Though they had managed to put together a well-researched presentation, the truth was they had been so caught up in the excitement of their research that the final push had been rushed. Still, Mr. R's praise made it all worthwhile, and the girls felt a quiet sense of accomplishment. As they returned to their seats, they exchanged a look of mutual understanding—this was just another step in the long journey ahead.

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In Magical Flora and Potions, Miruna found a kind of peace. The enchanted greenhouses were alive with warmth, color, and the soft murmur of magical life. Vines whispered against glass walls, blossoms shimmered with faint, glowing dust, and herbs adjusted their leaves toward whoever walked past them. This week’s lesson focused on repotting young mandrakes before they matured past their safest phase.

She sat at her station with thick gloves on, gently easing the squirming root into a fresh soil blend that smelled of mint and damp moss. The girl with tight curls pulled into two puffs who had introduced herself as Imara chatted with her almost daily. “Careful not to let the root twist too much,” she warned with a smile. “They like to dramatize when they’re moved.”

Miruna laughed softly. “It’s like they know we’re new and want to test us.”

Imara grinned. “Exactly! My mom used to say plants are like people. Give them the right space and care, and they’ll thrive. Crowd them too much, and they’ll get grumpy.”

The two girls chatted as they worked, their conversation weaving between classwork and memories. Imara shared stories of gardening back home in a tiny backyard filled with magical seedlings. “Mom had a moon-bloom that only opened when I laughed near it,” she said fondly. “She swore the flower liked me more than her.”

Maggie, as the instructor had instructed them to call her on the first day,  walked by, her long apron streaked with pollen and soil. “Excellent root tucking, both of you,” she said, beaming at their careful work. “Tomorrow we’ll be handling spellshade ivy—don’t let it brush your skin.”

Spellshade ivy, Miruna learned, grew in long black ribbons with leaves that shimmered purple at dusk. It could camouflage itself and was used in cloaking potions. There were also glimmercaps—tiny mushrooms that lit up with different colors depending on your mood—and frost lilies that could be coaxed into blooming even in warm climates with the right spell.

Miruna felt herself relaxing fully for the first time in a while Between Imara’s easy chatter and the professor’s kind encouragement, the class began to feel like something she could belong to.

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Her tutoring sessions with Ivan became a steady anchor in the chaos of her schedule.

They met in a quiet classroom on the fourth floor of the castle every afternoon, a stack of charms and transfiguration textbooks between them and a growing collection of inside jokes traded over parchment and ink smudges. Ivan never acted like he was above the work. He made mistakes, laughed at them, and then they moved on— nevertheless, there was some teasing from Miruna when his handwriting got too messy to read.

“Magic doesn’t need to be perfect,” he said during their second session, nudging the feather she had just transfigured from a wooden block. “It just needs to be practiced.”

Miruna grinned as she watched it flutter slightly under his touch. She still wasn’t used to someone being patient with her—someone who didn’t sigh or tap their foot or say she was wasting time.

That Wednesday, halfway through their session, something strange happened. They were working through a series of transfigurations, and on her first try, she managed to shift the wood into a full, clean feather—no frayed edges, no odd colors, no partial change. Just a feather, soft and cream-colored, with a faint golden sheen at the base.

She looked up, expecting Ivan to comment. Instead, he smiled briefly, murmured something about “good form,” and continued explaining the next step. But she noticed, later, that he slipped the feather into his satchel. He didn’t explain, and she didn’t ask.

By Friday, Miruna was exhausted. The week had been long—spellwork assessments, late nights studying, a chilly wind threading through her coat on the way back from the library—and she was running ten minutes late for tutoring. She arrived to find Ivan already settled at their table, a cinnamon tart sitting on a napkin beside her chair.

“You’re late,” he said mildly, flipping through the notes she had left there the day before. “Again.”

“I was studying,” she muttered, slumping into the chair.

“I figured. You missed dinner, so I brought this.” He pushed the tart toward her, then immediately frowned. “Wait, are you wearing the same braid from yesterday? That’s like… a war crime.”

Miruna gave a tired laugh and pulled the elastic free from her hair. “Sorry, Officer Style Violation.”

Ivan ruffled her hair as she tried to fix it. “You’re lucky I like you.”

She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. He noticed.

“You’re not devouring that,” he said, tapping the tart. “Something’s definitely wrong.”

She hesitated, then glanced toward the library window. The sky was turning soft shades of gray-blue, and somewhere in the distance, the bells of the main tower chimed seven o’clock.

“It’s Alaric,” she said quietly. “I think… he’s scared to tell his family that he’s a water elemental instead of fire. And I don’t really know what to say. I’m worried about him.”

Ivan didn’t say anything right away. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded, and watched her fidget with the edge of her sleeve.

Then he reached into his satchel and pulled something out—a thin silver bracelet with a single cream-and-gold feather charm dangling from the center. Her transfigured feather.

“You earned this earlier,” he said, placing it on the table between them. “But I think now’s the right time to give it to you.”

She blinked. “You… kept it?”

“Of course I did. It was your first clean transfiguration. That kind of thing matters.” His voice was gentle, but steady. “Every spell takes effort. So does honesty. And friendship.”

Miruna reached for the bracelet, her fingers brushing against the charm. It was cool against her skin, but familiar. Comforting.

“What if it’s not enough?” she asked quietly.

Ivan didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head, studying her the way he did when she missed a charm’s pronunciation and didn’t want to admit it.

“Sometimes,” he said finally, “we have to work twice as hard to understand something. That’s how we get stronger. Not just with magic, but with people, too.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She slipped the bracelet onto her wrist, watching the feather catch the light.

Later, as they packed up their things and she tried to tame her hair again, Ivan tossed her a spare ribbon from his bag and gave her a look.

“You are not showing up tomorrow with a bird’s nest on your head,” he warned.

Miruna smirked. “Says the guy whose cloak still has chalk dust from Wednesday.”

“Touché,” he muttered, brushing at his sleeve.

And just like that, the heavy weight of the week didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

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Most nights, Miruna and her roommates ended the day sprawled across their dorm room floor, surrounded by homework, spell notes, and the occasional nail polish or braided bracelet. But on Thursday night, Aurelia peeked out the door with a mischievous grin.

“Kitchen raid?”

Within minutes, they were barefoot and sneaking down the stairwell toward the student-access kitchen tucked away on the first floor of their dorm building. Thalia had swiped a pouch of chocolate chips earlier that week, and Seraphina somehow produced flour, sugar, and butter like she’d been planning it all along.

As they stirred the batter, Miruna watched in fascination. “So we’re just… putting it all together? Like this?”

Aurelia laughed. “Wait—you’ve never had cookies warm out of the oven?”

Miruna shrugged, but the look she gave made the others exchange a subtle glance. “I’ve had cookies,” she said, eyes wide as the scent filled the kitchen, “but not like this.”

When the first batch came out, she took a bite and let the soft, gooey warmth melt on her tongue. Her expression was unreadable for a moment—then she closed her eyes with a quiet, surprised smile.

They sat on the counter, legs swinging, trading ridiculous stories from their childhoods. “I once tried to make cookies with sea salt instead of sugar,” Thalia admitted, making them all groan.

Back upstairs, cheeks flushed and stomachs warm, the girls kicked off their blankets and flopped onto the rug in their pajamas. The sugar high hadn't faded yet, and none of them were ready to sleep.

“Okay,” Seraphina said, propping herself up on one elbow. “I say we do something chaotic.”

Miruna’s face lit up. “Wait! I have something.”

She darted over to her trunk and carefully pulled out a thick, ribbon-marked book from the school library. Its leather cover was embossed with curling golden letters: Witchery & Wonder — Volume III: Aesthetic Enchantments for the Advanced Novice .

Aurelia’s eyes sparkled. “Is that what I think it is?”

“I found it in the charmwork section on Monday,” Miruna said, flipping through the pages. “There’s a spell in here— Piercere Auris . It’s for safely piercing ears. Completely painless.”

Thalia sat bolt upright. “We can pierce our ears with magic ?!”

Miruna stopped at a dog-eared page and turned the book toward them. The spell shimmered slightly under the lamplight, scripted in elegant calligraphy with a glowing diagram of a delicate earring hovering just above the text.

Seraphina grinned. “No way we’re not doing this.”

“Okay, okay—everyone sit still,” Miruna said, her voice both nervous and excited. “I’ve never cast this before, but it says it’s safe and self-correcting.”

They took turns sitting cross-legged while Miruna followed the spell instructions. With a flick of her wand and a whispered Piercere Auris , a faint glow enveloped each girl’s earlobe before fading away, leaving behind a tiny, perfect piercing.

Last was Miruna. She hesitated for a second, then reached into the compartment in the thigh of her prosthetic and pulled out the small, cloud-shaped charm she’d been gifted by the Air Master. With a deep breath, she attached it onto an enchanted earring back and fastened it into place.

The moment it settled, it chimed.

Soft, delicate notes like tiny crystal bells rang out with the slightest tilt of her head. She paused, blinking.

“It sings,” she said quietly, a surprised smile blooming across her face.

Aurelia sighed dreamily and giggled. “We are officially the coolest people in this school.”

“And it’s about to get even better,” Thalia said with a gleam in her eye, scooting closer to the book. “There’s a whole section on appearance charms!”

What followed was an hour of chaotic experimentation. Seraphina accidentally gave herself constellation-shaped freckles that glowed in the dark. Aurelia turned her eyelashes silver, then spent five full minutes blinking dramatically at everyone. Miruna tried a sparkle charm and ended up glittering so much that even the couches they were sitting on shimmered.

But nothing topped Thalia. After reading a particularly complicated incantation with too much enthusiasm, her long blond hair shimmered into a liquid rainbow, shifting color with every movement.

“Oh my stars,” she gasped. “I look like a fairy queen.”

“You look like a cautionary tale,” Aurelia muttered as she ducked a trail of glitter.

“I am absolutely doing this for real one day,” Thalia announced, doing a dramatic hair toss that sent sparkles across the floor. “You can’t stop me.”

The other three exchanged a slow, deliberate look.

“We’re hiding the book,” Seraphina said immediately.

“Agreed,” said Miruna.

“Lock it in the closet,” Aurelia added. “Behind the cauldron. Under the socks.”

Thalia pouted but didn’t argue.

Eventually, after many poorly reversed spells and a pillow fight to chase off the leftover magic static in the air, they collapsed into bed. Thalia’s hair shimmered until just before midnight, when Miruna finally got the countercharm right and the rainbow strands faded back to blonde.

As the room fell quiet and the soft sound of breathing settled in around her, Miruna lay still and listened to the gentle chime of her new earring in the dark.

It was beautiful.
But more than that… it meant something.
Warmth. Belonging. Magic shared between friends.

For the first time in her life, she didn’t feel like she was watching life from a tower window.

She was in it.

And she didn’t want the night to end.

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Celestial Cartography was unlike anything Miruna had expected. The classroom had no ceiling—just a shimmering, illusionary view of the night sky. Professor Vega wore long navy robes covered in constellations that moved faintly as she walked, and she spoke like she was half-wrapped in stardust herself.

“Magic,” she said in the first lecture, “is shaped by the world it exists in. And nothing shapes the world more than the stars.”

They studied lunar cycles, planetary alignments, and the way spells could subtly shift depending on the constellations overhead. Miruna found herself enchanted by the idea that the sky itself influenced magic, like a silent partner watching over it all.

She spent one afternoon tracing a chart that showed how healing spells were strongest under a waxing moon, while illusion spells often faltered during solar eclipses. “Some say this is why divination works,” Professor Vega explained one day. “The stars leave trails—clues.”

Miruna caught herself wondering what kind of trail her life was leaving behind. Was her affinity tied to the moon, the lake, the wind in her lungs? Could a single star explain why the elements called to her the way they did?

She didn’t have answers yet. But she was starting to believe they were out there—drifting quietly through the sky, waiting for her to look up.

⋘ ──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ──── ⋙

By Friday night, the dorm was a mess of half-finished assignments, discarded robes, and the last crumbs of a cookie raid. The girls were sprawled across the seating nook in the center of their room—cushions tossed everywhere, a glowing orb lazily drifting above them, casting soft golden light on their tired faces.

Thalia flopped onto her stomach with a groan. “I still can’t believe we have classes on Saturday. That should be illegal.”

Seraphina tossed a pillow in her direction. “You mean like the class you slept through on Tuesday?”

“I was resting my eyes!” Thalia protested, muffled by the pillow.

Aurelia snorted. “Resting your eyes for ninety minutes while snoring like a garden troll?”

The girls broke into laughter, the kind that came easy after a long week, when everything was funny and everything hurt from exhaustion. Even Miruna found herself laughing, hugging a cushion to her chest, the tension from earlier momentarily softened by the warmth of her roommates.

“Just wait,” Thalia said dramatically, sitting up and pointing at them all. “One day, I’ll be a world-famous healer or something, and when you come crawling to me after some explosive spell gone wrong, I’ll say, ‘Sorry, no appointments on Saturdays!’”

Seraphina reached over to ruffle Thalia’s hair. “You’d cave the second someone said ‘please.’”

With one last round of teasing, they finally peeled off toward their separate sleeping alcoves. The room gradually dimmed as each girl tucked into her bed, soft curtains pulled halfway shut. The chatter died down, replaced by the occasional rustle of blankets and the creak of the dorm settling into quiet.

Miruna lay curled beneath her covers, the enchanted window above her nook showing the drifting stars. She stared at them, her mind far away. Despite the laughter, her thoughts kept circling back—to something that had weighed on her all day. Something she hadn’t spoken about.

That morning.

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As the class had ended on Friday and Miruna, Nadia, and Felix had begun making their way toward the dining hall, Miruna had noticed that Alaric was walking behind them, his usually confident stride unusually slow. His shoulders were hunched, and he had seemed to be lost in thought, his usual determination replaced by something heavier, something guarded.

Miruna had slowed her steps, letting Nadia and Felix walk ahead as she fell into step beside him. “Alaric,” she had said gently, “you’ve been quieter than usual. Are you okay?”

He hadn’t answered at first. The only response had been the rigid set of his jaw, and Miruna could see the tension radiating from him. He was usually so composed, so self-assured—but now, there had been a weight about him that made her chest tighten.

Finally, after what had felt like an eternity, he had exhaled sharply. “It’s nothing. Just... stuff on my mind.”

She had hesitated, then asked softly, “Did you tell your parents yet?”

That was when everything had shifted.

Alaric’s face had tightened like he’d been slapped. He had turned his head sharply away, his voice suddenly sharp and defensive. “It doesn’t affect you. Why do you care?”

Miruna had blinked, caught off guard. “I… I just want you to be okay. And I know that this means a lot to you.”

His fists had clenched at his sides, his voice rising. “It must be nice. Little Miss Perfect over here, born with everything. Magic just... clicks for you, right? It’s all so easy for you.”

She had flinched, the words cutting deeper than she’d expected.

“You think it’s easy for me?” he had snapped, now pacing in front of her, his voice thick with something heavier than anger. “Do you know what it’s like to be the only one in your entire family who’s not what they expected? My family—they were all fire elementals. They all thought I was going to be fire, too. It’s the legacy. The whole damn legacy.”

He had stopped, breathing hard, as if the truth had been trapped inside him for years. “And now I have to go back and tell them... that I’m not fire. I’m... I’m water.”

He had turned to her then, eyes wide and glinting with frustration and fear. “Do you know what that’s like? To break a legacy like that?”

Miruna hadn’t answered. She couldn’t. Not with the truth that sat heavy in her own chest. That no one had expected anything of her at all. That her magic had gone unnoticed by the people who were supposed to care the most.

But Alaric hadn’t waited.

“What about you?” he had asked suddenly, bitterness twisting his tone. “You’ve got this—two affinities. I bet your family is so proud of you, huh? They must think you’re some kind of... perfect prodigy.”

His voice had faltered as he’d added, quieter, “Everything’s just handed to you, isn’t it?”

She had shaken her head, the sting of his words lingering, but there had been something else in his voice—uncertainty. Like he hadn’t fully believed what he was saying, but he needed someone to blame. And she had been the closest one.

“I don’t think it’s easy for you,” he had muttered after a long pause, eyes downcast. “But it feels like it. You’re already good at this. I’m just trying to stay afloat. I can’t even control this water—I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be what they wanted me to be. And now... I have to tell them I’m not who they thought I was. That I’m not... fire.”

His voice had cracked. He had looked away, running a hand through his hair, trying to keep himself together. “I don’t know how to face them. I don’t know how to face myself.”

The vulnerability in his voice had struck Miruna harder than any of his anger had. She had wanted to say something—to tell him he wasn’t alone, that he was stronger than he knew—but her own silence had grown roots. She didn’t know how to explain the kind of loneliness that didn’t come from expectations but from being forgotten altogether.

And then, softer, he had whispered, “I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me. I just... I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

It had felt like something unraveling. Something neither of them could stop.

And then he had walked away, his retreating footsteps heavy, leaving behind a silence Miruna hadn’t been able to fill.

⋘ ──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ──── ⋙

Back in the present, in the soft stillness of her bed, Miruna blinked at the stars outside her window. The memory sat like a stone in her chest. She rolled onto her side, hugging her blanket close.

She didn’t know what Alaric needed right now. But part of her ached to tell him he wasn’t the only one afraid of not belonging. Of not being enough.

She closed her eyes, her mind still echoing with his words.
I don’t know how to face them. I don’t know how to face myself.

Neither do I, she thought quietly.

Not yet.

⋘ ──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ──── ⋙

On the other side of campus from the worried form of a girl finding her path, a figure moved silently through the halls of the castle.

Tall and wrapped in midnight-black robes, the figure swept out of an office at the top of a narrow tower, the door closing behind them with a soft click. Their step was measured and deliberate, yet made no sound, as if the very floor bent to avoid betraying their presence. The air around them held a strange stillness—like the eye of a storm.

Down the winding stone stair they descended, the folds of their cloak trailing like shadows that refused to lift. At the base of the spiral, they paused before a carved wooden door marked only by a small sigil: a star split in two. With a flick of gloved fingers, the door creaked open.

Inside, a fire burned low in a hearth of black stone. The sitting room was small but ornate, its walls lined with old maps and faded charts of constellations. A single high-backed chair faced the fire—and in it sat another figure, also cloaked in black. Though shorter and younger, the second figure’s presence still carried weight, like a secret too heavy for someone his age to bear.

The tall figure entered without hesitation, robes whispering across the flagstones. The hood of their cloak was pulled so low it cloaked their face in shadow, revealing only the pale line of a chin and the faintest suggestion of a mouth. They came to a stop in front of the fire, hands clasped behind their back, and tilted their head slightly.

The voice that followed was smooth and slow, each word drawn out as if time itself were beneath them. “Anything to report on the child of stars?”

The boy in the chair didn’t look up. His own cloak was heavy and oversized, its folds pooling around him. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but clear, with a hint of tension beneath his calm. “Nothing unusual. She shows promise—dual affinity. Air and water. Strong control, above average for her level.”

The taller figure’s head shifted, just slightly. “But?”

The boy hesitated, his hands tightening around the edge of the chair’s armrest. “During the crystal test… I thought I saw something else. In the threads. Just for a moment.”

“What did you see?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, frustrated. “It was like a flicker. A ripple across the strands. Not elemental. Not anything I recognized.”

The taller figure’s voice remained even, but there was a new tension threading beneath it. “Then learn to recognize it. We cannot afford uncertainty. Not with her.”

The boy lowered his head. “Yes. I’ll keep watching her.”

The figure turned their attention toward the fire, studying the embers. “What else?”

“She speaks with others. Laughs with her roommates. She studies late. She worries over her work. If I didn’t know what she was, I’d believe she was just another student.”

“That is precisely what she wants you to believe.”

The boy’s voice dipped slightly. “You think she knows?”

There was a pause before the reply. “Not yet. But she will. The moment always comes.”

The boy shifted in place. “Do you believe it was an echo?”

“No,” the figure said flatly. “Echoes do not behave like this. What you saw must have been a tremor. A warning.”

He gave a small, reluctant nod. “Should I push further?”

“Not yet. Watch. Wait. Patterns reveal themselves when disturbed.”

Another moment of quiet fell. The fire popped, casting shadows that stretched long against the ceiling.

Then the boy gave a final bow and turned. His footsteps echoed with soft clicks against the stone floor as he walked out of the room and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

The taller figure stood unmoving, gaze lingering on the cold embers in the hearth. Then, voice low and almost amused, they murmured,

“Storms born of starlight do not obey. Even the stars know to fear their own children.”

As the words left their mouth, the hood slipped just enough to reveal a sliver of pale skin and the curl of a smirk—cool and satisfied.

Then, without warning, the figure raised one hand and vanished in a silent swirl of white sparks. They shimmered for a moment in the firelight—and then drifted downward, slowly, softly.

Snowflakes.

But if one had looked closer… they would have seen the flakes melt away before touching the floor, disappearing without a trace.