The bus roared toward the city center. Between laughter and side-glances, day two of school waited with the same gaping mouth as yesterday, ready to swallow them whole.

  Weekday again: the center was an orderly chaos—the kind that makes your feet fidget but keeps you from tripping. The girls merged into the tide of blue-uniformed students streaming toward the gates. No one ran; the calm was thicker than yesterday’s. Out of habit and need, Fer let Annya take her hand as they walked. Holding it kept the crush of bodies from squeezing her breath. Much later than she should have, Fer admitted the truth to herself: she needed her.

  She looked up—no unusual air traffic, just patrols. In the distance, the sky-blue wings of pegasi cut across the morning.

  “There goes Miss Perfection…” she thought, without any real sting.

  They spotted the clown-butlers helping a crew of workers—adults in hardhats and gloves with the Kingdom’s insignia stamped on their uniforms. Ministry people, finishing their sweep. Hand signals went around as the border-yard gates opened with a metallic squeal. The rest of the staff dismissed their summoned hounds and owls, packed up tools, and headed out the far exit.

  Annya didn’t care; no one did. Routine checks. Every magic school got them—especially at the start of term.

  But Feralynn noticed something: when Choppi and Chappi finished smiling and waving the inspectors off, they turned to each other—worried. Tight. They watched the tide of students pour in, then looked back at each other and spoke with unusual gravity. The noise and motion made lip-reading impossible, but those furrowed brows hid something. Both nodded with determination, set their faces, and turned back to greet students with the usual sunshine.

  They slipped into Professor Bernt’s classroom just as he was levitating desks and chairs into neat rows with his gauntlets.

  “Damn inspectors… can’t they put things back where they found them? Hmph, lazy lot…” he muttered, finishing the room.

  Fer and Annya sat together again. Annya waved at everyone—half the class seemed to know her from her family’s bakery—and returned each greeting with sugared sweetness. Fer followed a step behind like her shadow, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. She caught a few looks anyway, a few whispers: “That’s her, the fire one…”

  The sneaking talk burned her ears. She clenched her fists inside her pockets, exhaled a growl of a sigh, and sat. Across the room sat Miria and her cluster of girls—trendy earrings, rings, bracelets, hair clips arranged to perfection. They laughed and traded gossip, leaving Miria to sit at the center. The silver-haired girl only smiled with her eyes closed, saying nothing, hands already setting up for note-taking.

  TAP. TAP. TAP.

  “Alright then—no inspection is going to save you from my boring lectures, heh.” Bernt laughed dryly after snapping his chalk against the board. “Today we’ll dig a little deeper into the categories of magic.”

  Zippers and notebooks opened. Fer yawned the moment his voice hit her ears.

  “I’m not giving you my notes~” Annya sang.

  “Ugh…”

  Defeated, Fer pulled out her notebook and pen. She rubbed her eyes, trying to wake up.

  Bernt noticed the sudden hush in the room. He stopped writing.

  “Hm, why not?” he muttered to himself before tugging on his gauntlets. “Fine, I don’t feel like scribbling. I’ll show you instead—maybe that way you won’t all fall asleep.”

  He checked the ether-crystals in place, then extended his hand. A green light blossomed, bursting into the shape of a tree. Leaves of light drifted down onto the floor. Gasps filled the room, and even Fer opened her eyes with interest.

  “All things begin in nature,” he said, holding the tree aloft. “Cars, buildings, your clothes, food, and magic itself.”

  He lowered it gently, rooting the glowing trunk to the ground. He walked around it as he lectured.

  “Like everything in nature, it changes with its environment. It adapts. I imagine you saw something of that yesterday with Professor Romina, yes?” He chuckled. “That woman does love her theatrics, always mocking me for being dull.”

  A clap—blue sparks leapt from his gloves.

  “Alright! Let’s see if you did your homework. Sorceries. What are they?”

  A boy—an elf with tied-back hair—shot his hand up.

  “Solidified mana in its pure state! The fastest and easiest category to learn!”

  Bernt flicked a streak of blue light at the tree, which collapsed and reshaped into a perfect sphere, rotating slowly.

  “Correct. Sorceries are solid mana. No specific substance. Think of it like plain rice—easy to cook, nothing fancy, yet never underestimate them.”

  Another clap. “Next: miracles!”

  Annya waved her hand furiously. Bernt gave her the nod.

  “They’re, um, spells of light! They come from positive energies, from good things!”

  Bernt hurled a sphere of golden light at the sphere. It morphed into a cross of two gleaming swords.

  “Almost right, Miss Oak.” He corrected with a smile. “Miracles are light, yes—but not always from positivity. They heal, but they also can strike really hard. Though I doubt one of those stubborn nuns would admit it.”

  His grin sharpened. “Next—curses!”

  Hands flew up again. All but one.

  “Red eyes.” He pointed. Silence dropped on Feralynn. Every gaze turned to her. She swallowed, caught in their weight. “Always quiet. Not blaming you.” He paused, giving her room. “Curses?”

  Feralynn inhaled. Her nerves tangled her tongue.

  “Curses are… what I feel every morning when I’m forced to get up early for this class.”

  Laughter burst across the room—even from Bernt, who shook his head. Miria rolled her eyes at the sarcastic little joke, crossing her arms.

  “Yes, something like that.” He threw a black sphere at the cross. It warped into a violet-shadowed bat. “Curses oppose miracles.”

  A hand rose. “Is that why they’re banned so often?”

  “Yes, yes. Darkness, negative energy—it’s easily abused. Too many magi use it for crime.”

  Another clap.

  “Last one. Easy. Who’s got it?”

  Miria raised her hand, deliberate, elegant. Bernt nodded.

  “Elemental control, Professor. Manipulating the raw forces of nature.”

  “Exactly, Miss Frostweaver.” He fired a streak of gray at the bat, which burst into fragments: a drop of water, a fireball, a spark of lightning, a shard of ice, a chunk of stone, a puff of wind.

  “Think Avatar—but with extra steps. You’ve seen Avatar, right?”

  Awkward silence. A cough.

  “…Wow, I’m old,” he muttered. “Anyway—cloud-shoving, lava-flinging. Fed by emotions, like sorcery. Unless you’re a saint… or a psycho.”

  Fer smirked, eyes glinting.

  “Saint or psycho… I’ll take the second.”

  Annya jabbed her with a playful elbow.

  The floating elements winked out. The classroom returned to normal.

  “Show’s over, time for the boring part. Open your books, page 117. Theory on each category. Much later we’ll get into blends. Sleep through it if you want—don’t cry over your grades later.” He stripped off the gloves and went back to chalk. “Then you’ve got Arcane Defense with Sebastian. Huh. Ironic that nerd teaches defense instead of me…” He muttered just loud enough for half the class to hear.

  …

  …

  …

  Class ended. To her surprise, Fer hadn’t dozed off once. Her notes were chaos—scribbles, doodles, messy lines. One sketch showed Miria sticking her tongue out, annoyed.

  No break. Defense was next. They were herded into the wide halls of Wing B. Professors Romina and Sebastian split the groups by gender, leading them into the locker rooms.

  “Locker rooms? For what?” Fer thought nervously as she followed the girls.

  Inside, the chamber was massive: rows of lockers, showers, even a drained pool big enough for twenty.

  Romina held up a set of light combat armor, dyed in academy colors.

  “Ladies!” she called, friendly but firm. “Your first Defense class begins, and by code, you’ll be properly equipped.” She displayed the gear: knee pads, elbow guards, helmet. It looked more like pro-cycling gear than knightly plate—minus the pentacle emblem.

  “Leather and pearsteel,” she explained, tapping the chest twice. “Takes a soul-bolt without cracking. You’ll be fine.”

  Groans followed. “Ugh, really? No other color?”

  Romina laughed.

  “Better beetles than patients. Now, move!” A snap of her gloved fingers, and the lockers swung open—each with a set of gear inside. “Change. We want spellcasters, not princesses.”

  She left them alone.

  Fer swallowed, heat flooding her cheeks as jackets and ties slid off around her. Hair spilled loose, lips glossed and half-parted, faces too close—especially Annya’s. Her throat tightened as skirts and buttons came undone.

  “Fer? What’s wrong?” Annya asked, tugging at her tie.

  Fer’s eyes darted everywhere. She couldn’t stand how near Annya felt. Couldn’t stand how much she noticed.

  “I—I… uh…” She coughed, staring at the floor. “I’ll change somewhere else.”

  She grabbed her armor and bolted. A few girls shot looks at her as she slammed the door behind her.

  “Guess fire-girl couldn’t take the heat, huh?”

  A couple of giggles followed—half mocking, half mischievous. Annya glanced at the door, worried. She wanted to follow, but knew it would only make things worse.

  Fer slammed it shut. She could still hear them on the other side. She swallowed hard; the heat wouldn’t leave her. She breathed deep, like someone stumbling out of a sauna. Her cheeks burned hotter than her palms when they flared with spellwork.

  “Shit…” she muttered, chest tight.

  She wiped the sweat from her brow, forcing her breath back under control. A classroom door stood ajar. She checked quickly to see if anyone was following, then slipped inside as if she needed a hiding place not only to change, but to keep herself from unraveling.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Click.

  The door closed. She set the armor on a desk and froze, staring at it with something between dread and grief.

  “…”

  Her scarred fingertips traced the stiff leather.

  “Wearing armor again…” she whispered. “Feels strange after these days…”

  She shut her eyes. Gunfire roared in her skull. Orders barked by squads. Artillery pounding buildings. The sulfur stench of powder. Screams climbing higher and higher, drilling into her temples like hot needles.

  “Shut up, shut up, just shut the FUCK UP—”

  She whispered it again and again, until the claws of memory loosened their grip from her throat.

  When she opened her eyes, she froze.

  “…Miria?”

  The silver-haired girl stood half-dressed, skin flushed red as a tomato, clutching her armor against her bare body.

  "... What the fuck are you doing here?!" she noble whispered in both anger and embarrassment, her facade was left shattered by such an unexpected act

  For a heartbeat there wasn’t even breath between them—just stunned silence.

  "F-Fuck, sorry I though-" Fer covered her mouth, adverting her eyes away. "Shit..."

  Her hand scrambled for the doorknob, but her eyes betrayed her and stayed locked on Miria’s. She was about to turn it when—

  “Five minutes, ladies, don’t take too long!” Romina’s voice rang from the hall. “Once you’re out, I’ll guide you to the training yard!”

  “Shit, shit!—why now?! Why her, watching me?!” Fer’s mind spiraled.

  “Blackwood.” Miria’s voice cracked the air, the name tasting like cinders on her tongue.

  Fer swallowed, finally tearing her gaze away. Her fists clenched around the armor.

  “What…?”

  Miria drew a slow breath, exhaling through her nose before she spoke.

  “You can change here, if you want. Just… don’t look at me.” The first words were timid—then she added, firm: “Or I’ll spear you with ice in class.”

  Both pairs of ears burned. The space between them felt unbearable.

  “Tsk, I don’t care seeing you…” Fer snapped back, summoning courage like a shield.

  They turned their backs on each other. Miria fitted the chestpiece. Fer moved with the same mechanical precision. Both pretended the other didn’t exist. Pretended they were alone.

  But almost without meaning to, Miria caught sight of Fer in the reflection of the window. And her breath caught. Her blush deepened—then shifted to shock.

  Wire-slice scars. Knife wounds grazing the heart. Burned-over craters where flesh had been seared shut. Her abdomen was a map of survival, each line a crack in living stone.

  She went wide-eyed, forcing her hands to move as if she weren’t staring. Dressing became automatic. When she pulled on her arm guard, she glimpsed her own scars—thin, deliberate cuts she’d carved in secret, washed away in bathwater before anyone could notice.

  Fer’s body was a battlefield. Scars of war. Scars of someone who should be dead. Yet here she was. Still standing. Still breathing the same air she does.

  Fer finished changing, and glanced at Miria over her shoulder. Outside, the chatter of girls following Romina drifted away. Miria stood expressionless, staring through the window as if nothing had happened. Fer slipped out without a word.

  Miria stayed behind, the glass her only witness. She gripped her left arm—the one she used to scream. For a moment, just for one…she didn’t feel so alone.

  "So you got scars too, huh...?"

  She tied her hair back, fastened the helmet, and headed for the hall. She saw Fer’s silhouette ahead, helmet dangling from one hand.

  “Blackwood,” Miria called again, softer this time.

  Fer barely turned her head.

  “Hm? What?”

  “A moment ago… you were talking to yourself. What was it? You looked… unwell.” Her tone was polite, formal, the voice she used with strangers. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “It’s a huge trouble.” Fer’s reply was dry as bone. “And don’t call me by my surname. I’m not some lawyer or whatever.”

  She quickened her pace, leaving Miria behind again. The noble girl swallowed down her urge to hurl an iceball at her retreating head. The archway opened ahead, sunlight spilling through.

  Miria stepped outside, spotting the professors and the students already gathered. She paused, lifting her face to the sky.

  Pick. Pick. Pick.

  A wooden bird perched on the brick ledge above, hopping in place, watching her like a camera. Its eyes scanned her, then it took flight, vanishing into the distance.

  Miria drew a steadying breath, adjusted the helmet straps, and walked forward with eyes closed, letting the cool air wash her clean.

  …

  …

  …

  In an upper corridor, a woman walked with straight posture beside a well-dressed man.

  “We’re grateful for the cooperation your institute always offers us, Mrs. Birklake,” the man said, bowing his head.

  Mrs.? I’m not even fifty in human years, and less in elven. Damn it—ugh!

  Astera’s brow twitched, irritation flashing for just a second. Barely two decades of service and already everyone treated her like she was three times her age. Even her coworkers asked if she had grandkids, forgetting her eldest son was only eighteen. She forced her voice into the calm firmness that came from surviving countless boardroom meetings.

  “As headmistress, it’s my responsibility to ensure every safety parameter is met, Inspector Vans.”

  They entered her office. Vans sat—awkwardly. His massive frame looked absurd at her modest desk, like a gorilla at a café table. To ignore it, his eyes scanned the room—family photos, old classmates. Sebastian. Romina. Bernt. More coworkers.

  Astera seated herself, removing her rectangular glasses. Her amber eyes fixed on him, steady, unblinking. Fingers steepled beneath her chin.

  “I imagine you have questions,” she said evenly. “About the disappearances.”

  Vans swallowed, straightened his tie. He felt the weight of a lioness watching him in the savanna. He coughed before replying.

  “Straight to the point. Heh, that’s why I like you.”

  He pulled an envelope from his coat and opened it.

  Photos spilled out—children, houses, maps with red circles. His tone darkened.

  “At first, the pattern was only in third-world countries across nearby continents. We assumed it was just the crime rates. But then… it escalated.”

  Astera drew a photo closer: a dark-skinned girl with her siblings, names and dates scrawled above. Her lips pressed tight. Vans went on.

  “In the southeast of the Kingdom, it began in rural areas. Populations under a thousand. What triggered our full concern was the case of Monica William, from Marlow.”

  “Marlow…? That’s barely half an hour from the city center.”

  “And from your school, Mrs. Birklake.”

  I’m not a Mrs.!

  Astera coughed, forcing herself back to focus.

  “How do you know they’re connected?”

  Vans tilted his hand, hedging.

  “Same pattern. No witnesses. Parents with no memory of their children. We were contacted by a second cousin. Funny enough, it’s usually distant relatives who file the reports.”

  Astera gathered the documents. One photo stood out: the disappeared girl among family and friends. One of them next to her had orange hair cut short. Round glasses. Blue eyes.

  “I see now why they pressed so hard for the inspection.”

  Vans nodded once, solemn.

  “We’ve got the press on a leash for now, but sooner or later they’ll bark it across every headline.” He hesitated. “We’ve noticed something else.”

  Astera said nothing. Her eyes stayed on the photographs.

  “The children taken… all from ‘blank’ families. No magic.”

  “That sounds like something The Design would do,” Astera guessed.

  Vans shrugged.

  “There hasn’t been a terrorist act from them in over three decades. If this is their work, you know what that means…”

  Astera exhaled sharply.

  “Yes. Surveillance. More of it. More than he already imposes here.”

  Vans gave a thin laugh.

  “Those clown butlers of his are creepy. Sweet to the kids, but they stare through every adult like hunting dogs. I know he keeps the castle and the surroundings airtight, but… this is different. An enemy that strikes slow. Intelligent. Picking off the vulnerable where his strings don’t reach.”

  “…”

  Vans gathered the documents, tucking them away. He rose, hand extended.

  “We’ll be in touch, Mrs.—”

  Astera stood too, gripping his hand harder than he expected.

  “Miss Birklake, if you please,” she corrected. “We’ll speak soon, Inspector.”

  As Vans strode the corridor alone, he caught sight of a wooden bird shadowing him outside the windows. His frown deepened.

  “Damn puppeteer…” He quickened his pace, ducking down the stairwell to lose it.

  Astera slumped into her chair with a long sigh.

  “He’s gone!” she called casually to the air. “You can stop hiding.”

  Smiley slid through the wall like a phantom.

  “Oh, what a marvelous way to start the school year!” His shrill, clownish voice rang out as he threw up both arms. “Disappearances, ho ho!”

  His tone dropped eight decibels into something almost weary.

  “And here I thought I’d finally take a vacation…”

  Astera stayed sprawled, rocking her chair lazily, chin on hand, gaze drifting out the window toward the students and staff gathering in the yard.

  “First-years,” she muttered, trying to change the subject before a headache bloomed. “More of them than ever.”

  “One hundred sixty-seven,” Smiley chirped, raising a finger. “Counting the afternoon group, of course!”

  Astera sighed. More students. More staff. More footsteps echoing in the halls. More chances for something to go wrong.

  “It’s only a matter of time before they try to snatch mage children too–”

  “They won’t.” Smiley’s voice cut in, sudden and flat. Too fast.

  “I promise you. They. Won’t.”

  Astera closed her eyes. Memories pressed in—her friends, their study sessions, lazy afternoons in the campus woods. Guilt folded her brows. Smiley noticed it in the reflection of the glass.

  “Anyway!” He clapped, snapping her out of it. “What if we enjoy some tea, a few lovely donuts, and watch the show? Hmmmm?~”

  Another clap, and Astera was teleported—chair and all—onto a terrace of the castle. A tea set waited, along with a box of donuts still warm. She didn’t flinch. Just exhaled through her nose. She was long used to her companion’s interruptions.

  She picked up a jelly-filled ring, bit into it.

  “This show isn’t about your fascination with the first-years,” she said, speaking around the bite. “It’s about those two.” She took another mouthful, dropped jelly on her jacket, and cursed under her breath while blotting it with the tablecloth.

  Smiley lifted binoculars, peering down at the yard.

  “It’s more about her, actually. Miss Frostweaver is exactly what one expects of her kind—fantastic, strong! Oh, and of course, I don’t mean to diminish her efforts.” He turned his frozen smile toward Astera. “But she…”

  Astera washed the donut down with tea.

  “I felt chills when I saw her surname in the records. How the hell did her enrollment slip past us?!”

  “Eh, new secretaries. Staff turnover. You know how it is.” He went back to his toy binoculars. “Besides, my little Chappi and Choppi know nothing. Better to keep it that way.”

  Silence stretched. Astera nibbled more carefully this time, determined not to stain herself again. Smiley hadn’t pulled a string since the conversation began.

  “You’re quiet,” she said at last. “What do your little birds see?”

  Smiley tilted his head.

  “Nothing interesting. Sebastian split them by element and conjured practice dummies for them to smash.” He threw himself into pantomime. “Whoosh, splash! Bam, fwoosh! Bzzzt!” He collapsed to the floor, clutching a white rose to his chest. “I perish of utterly boredom,” he sang in fake agony.

  Astera sipped her tea. Stood up next to him. Then, she extended a hand silently. Smiley twitched a finger, and a second pair of toy binoculars dropped neatly into her palm.

  “Honestly…” she muttered, but lifted them anyway, refusing to give him the satisfaction of winning. She peered through—

  And her breath caught. A tremor tingled down her fingers.

  “Gods…” she whispered, swallowing hard. “She looks just like him…”

  Smiley kept talking from the floor, rose still in hand, watching clouds drift overhead.

  “Hmmm. Honestly, I never thought Blake would start a family.” Another wooden bird crossed above him, its shadow gliding over his mask. “Even less that they’d survive…” he whispered.

  Astera’s binoculars tracked Feralynn among a group of young pyromancers, each taking turns hurling fireballs at training dummies.

  “What the hell was he doing in Soleria?!” she muttered, noticing how Fer squirmed under the awed praise of her classmates. “It makes no sense…”

  Smiley vanished and reappeared with a donut, shoving it into the slot of his mask like mail into a box.

  “Hm, who knows? Maybe he ran off to a mountain in the snowy hills and married a village girl, ha ha!”

  “Shut up. Don’t joke about that.”

  “Oh come on! It might be true!”

  He quieted, mask tilting toward the yard.

  “She seems rather taken with Lady Frostweaver.”

  “In the good way or the bad?” Astera asked, still watching.

  “Please say bad. Oh, I adore youthful scandals,” Smiley chimed, pouring himself tea.

  Astera studied the sidelong glances, the subtle orbit the two girls traced around one another—leaders of their little circles.

  “You’re in luck,” she said flatly. “Because they either want to tear each other’s throats out… or hold hands in the rain.”

  Smiley clutched his chest theatrically.

  “Ah, rivalry… such a delightful, tragic dance.”

  Astera rolled her eyes and adjusted the focus. Then she froze.

  “Shit…”

  Smiley noticed the shift, but stayed silent, letting her speak.

  “That girl… the one with the orange hair…” Her voice was iron now, plastic binoculars creaking in her grip. “She’s in one of the photos…next to the missing girl in Marlow.”

  “…”

  Smiley lowered his head. He walked slowly to stand beside her.

  “We’ll be ready, Astie...” he said at last.

  And placed a hand gently on her back.

  …

  …

  …

  ?