A tree exploded, its trunk shattering in a deafening crack, sending splintered shrapnel in every direction. Névé stormed through the Ersatz garden, her breath ragged, her hands trembling with rage. Every step left a trail of destruction—a thrash of water uprooting bushes, an errant shot stripping branches bare. She destroyed indiscriminately, tearing through anything that dared obstruct her path toward her clearing.

  And it was her clearing!

  Hers.

  Not his.

  Not anymore.

  Her fingers curled into fists as she fought the urge to scream. She didn’t have to worry that Scoria might be sullying her private space— she made very sure that he wouldn’t be coming here anytime soon, he wouldn’t be going anywhere any time soon. She was very thorough in their fight earlier that day. If he could even move, it would be a miracle.

  His performance was so pitiful compared to hers it was aggravating. She felt betrayed, he was so weak it wasn’t even worth showing him her secret skill.

  She had been looking forward to their battle for so long. She had been anticipating the moment when she would finally show him the secret technique she had kept hidden for so long.

  But he betrayed her.

  The realization made her stomach churn.

  She had trained, she had pushed herself further than anyone else. She had pushed herself for him. She had honed her secret skill, anticipating the perfect moment to unveil it—to prove to him that she was beyond him, beyond anyone.

  And yet… it hadn’t been necessary.

  He was weak.

  Pathetically, disgustingly weak.

  She lashed out again, a surge of water bursting from the ground like an uncoiling serpent, wrapping around a bristling bush and wrenching it from the garden. Roots snapped. Soil sprayed. She flung the entire thing aside like trash.

  How dare he be so disappointing.

  How dare he make her waste her time.

  She wanted to fight him. The real him. The one who would push her, who would challenge her.

  Not… whatever that had been.

  The air was thick with humidity from her rampage.

  And waiting for her, standing motionless in the center of the space she had claimed as her own, was a woman.

  Névé stopped, shoulders rising and falling with each breath, and took in the intruder.

  Névé had never seen anyone like her before.

  The woman was entirely bathed in white—a phantom of snow. Her long, stark-white hair spilled from beneath an equally white, ludicrously tall wide-brimmed witch’s hat. TThe folds of her pristine robes draped like untouched snowfall, swallowing any hint of shadow. Even her skin was a perfect alabaster, devoid of imperfection, devoid of warmth.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The only thing that broke the monochrome was her eye.

  That single, revolting eye.

  Clouded red, unfocused, it drifted in its socket completely unseeing. Névé could only give out an internal sigh of thanks that the woman’s other eye was hidden under a white eyepatch.

  Her ears—inhumanly long—twitched at the sound of Névé’s stomping feet. Then, with a slow, deliberate grace, she turned to face the child. “Disappointed by your toy?”

  The very mention of Scoria sent another seething rage ripping through Névé, hot and acidic. “He lied to me!” Her teeth clenched so tightly it hurt. “We were supposed to be the same, we were supposed to be rivals!”

  The woman lifted one of her hands—unnaturally long fingers curling with a too fluid motion. She gestured Névé closer.

  “You are special, Névé,” she murmured. “You won’t find anyone else with your talent… at least, not around here.”

  The words felt like ice water poured over the fire of her anger, but it only made the flames sizzle and rage harder.

  “HE was supposed to have that talent! HE abandoned me!” Névé’s nails dug into her palms. “I thought he was different. I thought he understood! But he’s just like the rest of them—just as stupid and weak and pathetic as the rest of them!” Her voice cracked. The fury spilled over and out her eyes, ugly tears streaking down her cheek, hot and humiliating, but she didn’t bother wiping them away.

  Then the white woman moved, swift and soundless, and before Névé could react, she was enveloped in a long embrace.

  It was the first time Névé was ever hugged.

  The white woman spoke with a musically soothing calm. “I heard they barred you from the Elemental Festival,” she murmured. “Too powerful for the Adolescent Bracket, but they refuse to enter a seven-year-old into the main event. How very… small-minded of them.”

  Névé shook her head fiercely, burying her face in the woman’s chest, gripping at the endless white fabric like it could anchor her into stability.

  “I don’t care about that.” Her voice came out muffled, raw.

  “I don’t care about the Elemental Festival, or the Sodality of Rain, or the Sodality of Cinder, or Scoria. I don’t care about any of them. Their obsession with fighting each other is stupid, and their training is stupid and it’s all so stupid!”

  Her body trembled, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

  The woman simply held her, unmoving, as if she had all the time in the world.

  And for the first time, in a very, very long time…

  Névé felt something close to relief.

  The White Woman stroked Névé’s hair gently. She allowed the girl a moment to cry, to let the raw storm of emotions pass. Then, in that same eerily soft voice, she asked, “Well, if you have no reason to stay… then why don’t you just leave?”

  Névé’s breath hitched. She pulled away slightly, lifting her head to stare up in confusion.

  Leave?

  The White Woman tilted her head, her long, thin fingers adjusting the wide brim of her hat. “You are special, Névé, but you are not the only special person out there. I can take you somewhere where we are all special. And together, we are going to change the world.”

  Névé stiffened in disbelief. The White Woman smiled. “The sodalities won’t have to fight each other anymore. And you…” The White Woman reached out, the tips of her fingers ghosting over Névé’s damp cheek. “You won’t have to be so different from everyone else.”

  A tremor of hope, so small and so unfamiliar, bloomed in Névé’s throat.

  She hiccupped between her tears, her voice fragile, uncertain. “Really?”

  The White Woman knelt down, bringing herself face to face with the child. Though her clouded eye drifted, failing to make proper contact. Névé actually found herself thankful she wouldn’t have to face the direct gaze of that horrible eye.

  The woman brought Névé back into another hug.

  It was warm. Comforting. Safe. A hug had only ever been something seen from afar, enacted between two foreign characters. And now, it was something for her.

  Névé hesitated, then, with small trembling arms, returned the embrace.

  She didn’t want to let go.

  She didn’t want this feeling to stop.

  She wanted more.

  The White Woman whispered against her ear. “Really. Just you wait, my little Névé… In eight years, during the Grand Centennial Tournament, we will take all of this pain, this hate—and we will cast it away.”

  Névé wiped her eyes countless times trying to wash them clear enough so that she could properly see her savior. Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “Who are you?”

  The white woman smiled at Névé “I am the White Witch.”