Archive of Our Own ^beta

The man stood in his small kitchen, eyes narrowed against the rising steam from the pot. He stirred the simmering stew absentmindedly, the wooden spoon scraping against the metal. Distracted for a moment— damn it! —the liquid bubbled over, a hot drop splashing onto his hand.

"Feckin' hell!" he cursed, shaking his hand, the sting immediate. He rubbed his fingers against the hem of his coat, irritated by the burn. The scent of something scorching filled the room, but before he could address it, a distant, unsettling sound drifted through the walls—a sheep’s bleat, long and distressed.

He froze, shoulders tensing. For a moment, he tried to ignore it. It was almost winter, and the wind outside was bitter, cutting through the trees like a knife. He sure as hell didn’t want to go out in that cold. "Feckin’ sheep," he muttered under his breath, annoyance rising. The night was frigid, and the last thing he wanted was to leave the warmth of the cabin. But the bleating grew louder, more insistent, and he knew he had no choice.

With a sigh of resignation, he grabbed his thick coat from the hook by the door and pulled it on over the layers he was already wearing. The cold would bite no matter what. His lantern in hand, he opened the creaking door, the sound cutting through the stillness of the night.

Stepping outside, the cold hit him like a wall, sharp and unforgiving. He grumbled as he crossed the yard toward the pen, the beam from his lantern sweeping across the ground, where frost had begun to cling. The sheep huddled together, their shadows stretching and shifting in the dim light. He quickly counted them, his breath coming out in visible puffs, but something was off.

"Feckin' sheep," he grumbled again, turning toward the sound of the lone bleat in the distance. His footsteps crunched against the ground as he walked toward it, his irritation growing with each step. "What’s wrong with ya?" he called out, squinting as he approached the isolated sheep. It stood alone, bleating frantically. "Where’s your mate?"

Then, from the nearby woods, came the sound of snapping branches.

He stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowing. "Hmm?" His eyes followed the sound, and he raised the lantern, casting its light toward the trees. Nothing. Just darkness and the occasional glint of moonlight filtering through the canopy.

Another sound—closer this time. His jaw tightened. With a grunt, he pushed forward, crossing the threshold of the trees and the barrier. The forest was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of wind through the branches. Mist clung to the ground like a shroud, and though the moonlight cut through in patches, the darkness beyond remained thick, impenetrable.

He clicked his tongue, calling out for the missing sheep, the sound swallowed by the eerie silence of the woods. As he walked deeper, he could feel the weight of the night pressing in on him, the chill settling into his bones. His breath was shallow, the air so cold it burned his lungs. Every step felt heavier, his earlier annoyance now tinged with unease.

Then something wet splattered onto his coat.

He stopped abruptly, the lantern beam wavering as he looked down. Blood. Fresh and warm. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he tilted his head up.

There, tangled in the branches above him, was the missing sheep—or what was left of it. Its body was torn open, entrails spilling from its belly, its once-white wool soaked in blood that dripped steadily onto the ground below.

"Shit." The word escaped him in a hoarse whisper, his chest tightening with dread. His pulse quickened as he scanned the area with the lantern, the beam darting from tree to tree, his hand now trembling. The woods, once familiar, now felt hostile—alive with something far more dangerous than he had anticipated.

The sound of heavy footsteps. Branches cracking under something much larger than him.

A deep, guttural growl rippled through the air, vibrating in his chest. The stench of charred flesh and decay thickened the air. His breath caught in his throat. He stepped back, his heart hammering against his ribs, eyes wide as he swept the light wildly, trying to see what was out there, what was coming for him.

And then he ran.

He bolted through the trees, the ground uneven and treacherous beneath him. His legs pumped furiously, but the growls behind him grew louder, closer. Whatever it was, it was gaining on him. The cold air sliced at his face, his lungs burning, but the terror that coursed through him was far worse than the biting cold.

The barrier—the safety of the pen—was close. He was almost there.

Then something latched onto his leg.

He was yanked backward with such force that he hit the ground hard, pain shooting through his knee as it slammed against the earth. Panic seized him, and he clawed at the dirt, dragging himself toward the barrier, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. He was so close—just a few more inches and he’d be safe.

But the pull came again, stronger this time. He felt the sharpness of teeth, the pressure tightening around his ankle as he was dragged back into the shadows of the forest.

"No!" he screamed, the sound raw and full of terror, tearing through the quiet night. His fingers dug into the earth, but it was useless. He was being pulled away, further from the safety he had so nearly reached.

The growls grew louder, more savage, the sound of ripping flesh filling the air. Blood splattered against the nearby sheep as the man’s final scream echoed through the forest, swallowed by the darkness.

Bloom sat on the edge of her bed, her phone gripped so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. Her thumb hovered just above the screen, hesitating, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. It felt ridiculous—how could something as small as a text message hold this much power over her? But it wasn’t the phone, or even the words on the screen—it was everything behind them. The glow of the screen illuminated her face, casting a pale light, the still unread message, already carved into her mind. She had seen them before, lived them before. And the guilt, always lurking beneath the surface, began to stir again, tightening its grip on her heart.

Vanessa always had a way of wrapping her words in a delicate veneer, something that sounded soft and caring but felt like barbed wire beneath the surface. Bloom knew the truth. She always knew. But that didn’t stop the guilt from gnawing at her—didn’t stop the voice in her head that whispered, you did this to her .

"How are you doing, honey?"

It sounded harmless, even sweet. But Bloom recognized the undertone instantly. This wasn’t about checking on her well-being; it never was. It was about control, about making sure Bloom was still performing, still playing the part of the obedient, perfect daughter. Vanessa had always been good at weaving a script, one where Bloom should play her role flawlessly, and any deviation was quickly met with disappointment, wrapped up in concern. Every question came with an expectation, every sentence a reminder that Bloom was meant to fit into a mold her mother had carefully crafted. Vanessa’s words weren’t for her—they were about her, about ensuring she stayed within the lines, fixing her like some flawed creation that never quite lived up to the original design.

"I know our last conversation wasn’t the best, but I want you to know that I love you, no matter what."

Bloom’s chest tightened, the familiar knot of anxiety twisting deeper, like a fist slowly closing around her lungs. I love you. It sounded like reassurance, but she knew better. Those words always came with strings, always hung heavy with conditions. They were never spoken without the echo of the argument that had come before them, without the weight of whatever had been hurled her way last time. Vanessa didn’t love her—not really. She loved the idea of her, the version of her that fit neatly into her life, into the stories she told her friends.

Bloom’s mind flickered back to that moment before the fire, to Vanessa’s sharp words that had cut deeper than any flames. “Maybe you should learn to act like someone who deserves to be loved.” The memory of it stung, the words still fresh even though a full week had passed. And now, as she stared at her phone, she could feel it again—the weight of that moment pressing down on her chest. She braced herself, knowing that the sweetness of Vanessa’s words would soon turn, like they always did.

"How’s the new school? What’s Switzerland like?"

Switzerland. The word felt like a joke. Bloom stifled a bitter laugh. Vanessa didn’t care about Alfea, didn’t care about what she was learning, what she was going through, being so far away from home. To her, it was just another story, another chapter to present to the world. My daughter’s at a prestigious school in Switzerland. Bloom could hear the rehearsed line in her head, Vanessa’s voice dripping with pride. It wasn’t about the reality of her life—about how lost and terrified she felt. It was about how Vanessa could spin it, how she could make it sound like Bloom was thriving, like she was doing exactly what was expected of her.

And that’s what hurt the most. It wasn’t just another story to Vanessa, it was her life, and somehow, Bloom didn’t even factor into it. She was just a prop, something to be polished up and put on display. The reality of Bloom’s struggle, the fact that, as far as her mother knew, she was in another country, in another continent, didn’t matter. What mattered was how Vanessa could use it, how she could make herself look good.

For a second, Bloom remembered when Ms. Dowling told her that she’d to convince her father into signing the papers to send her to Alfea, the scholarship and how she supposedly got it because of her grades. She still imagined if it was hard, what had taken for her to convince him, for her father sending her away, to a place he never heard of before, in the care of someone he never met before—she didn’t think it took much work really, her father wasn’t spirited. Your daughter’s special, Ms. Dowling had said to him. Vanessa must have loved hearing that when Mike told her. The word 'special' was like a weapon in her hands—something to flaunt, a way to show off a daughter she never made the effort to truly understand.

"I wish I could’ve met your professor and said goodbye before you left, but I guess it’s for the best, right?"

Bloom’s stomach twisted. There it was, the subtle twist, the way Vanessa always found a way to make herself a victim in their relationship. She should have been there, of course; and it was Bloom’s fault she wasn’t. If only Bloom had played the part better, given Vanessa her moment to shine as the doting mother sending her daughter off to a prestigious school. I guess it’s for the best. The guilt pressed down harder, but Bloom tried to shove it away. She had left. She had escaped. But it didn’t feel like freedom—it felt like exile.

“Let me know if you’ve made any new friends yet. 

I’d hate to think you’re not fitting in.”

There it was—the sting Bloom had been waiting for. Friends. Vanessa always came back to that, as if Bloom’s worth could be measured by how many people liked her, by how well she could fit in. It wasn’t about Bloom’s happiness or comfort; it was about the image. Vanessa couldn’t bear the thought of having a daughter who didn’t fit the mold, who preferred solitude and books over friends and parties. Friends meant Bloom was doing well, meant Vanessa hadn’t failed as a mother.

But the truth was, Bloom had never fit in. She had always been on the outside, trying to blend in, trying to be small enough to go unnoticed. And now, here at Alfea, she was doing the same thing, pretending she belonged in a world that felt so far from anything she’d ever known.

And yet, some part of her, the small, fragile part that still wanted to believe, wondered if maybe—What if this time was different? What if Vanessa had changed? What if she actually cared? Maybe, after everything that had happened, she wanted to know how Bloom was doing. That small flicker of hope squeezed at her chest, making it harder to breathe.

But she couldn’t answer. She didn’t know how. The mess of emotions inside her was too tangled, too overwhelming. Instead, she locked the phone and set it aside, staring at the dark screen, her reflection staring back at her.

Not now, she thought, her heart heavy. Maybe later.

Maybe never.

Her thoughts drifted to something more pressing: the Gateway Ring.

She had spent her first days at Alfea studying portal magic, desperately trying to maintain her connection to Gardenia. Not because she missed home—she really didn’t. But because she needed a place where she could feel safe. After the fire, after what she’d done, she was terrified of losing control again. She was terrified of hurting someone else.

That’s why the portal had to stay open. The warehouse in Gardenia had become her escape—her only place of refuge. But the magic that kept the portal stable had to be renewed, that much she’d learned, and she didn’t know how long it would last each time. Every few days, she renewed it, using Stella’s ring to make sure the portal didn’t close.

Stella had found her late one night in the library, poring over books on portal magic. Bloom had expected Stella to brush her off or give her some snide comment, but instead, she had handed over the ring, assuming Bloom was just homesick. Bloom hadn’t bothered to correct her. It was easier to let Stella think that than to explain the truth—that she was scared of what she might do if she stayed.

“I know the only thing that keeps me sane here is knowing I can leave whenever I want,” Stella had said, her voice casual, Bloom didn’t quite understand the source of her unexpected kindness, especially since Stella had been forced into their shared suite as a mentor, something that clearly bothered her. But Stella had been right—having the ability to leave, to escape, made all the difference.

She had used the ring twice already. The first time, she had waited two days before returning, terrified the portal might close. This time, she had stretched it to three days. Last night, the portal had still been open, but she didn’t want to push her luck any further.

She wasn’t homesick. She just couldn’t bear the thought of losing her escape, of being stuck without a way out.

She hadn’t really slept in the suite with the girls—not truly. That first night at Alfea, she had slept soundly in Ms. Dowling’s guest room, but after that? Everything had felt wrong. The first night in her shared room with Aisha, she had lain awake, staring at the ceiling. The second night, she had snuck out, making her way to the library to bury herself in books until sunrise.

And now, every night, she slipped away to Gardenia, to the warehouse. It was safer there, in the silence, away from the world. No one needed to know. She just waited until everyone was sleeping and snuck out. It was simpler that way. But the truth was, she needed that place—the loneliness it brought was painful, but necessary.

With a determined breath, Bloom stood and walked to Stella’s room. The other girls were busy. Aisha was likely swimming, Musa would be hiding in some quiet corner with her music, and Terra was probably helping with the Students’ Tournament preparations. That meant Stella was the only one around, and Bloom needed the ring.

She knocked on Stella’s door softly before entering.

“Stella?” Bloom began, her voice softer than usual. “Can I borrow your ring?”

Stella looked up from her magazine, her lips tightening. “Again?” she sighed. “Bloom, this is the third time this week.” She paused, irritation clear in her voice. “I get it—you miss home. But you can’t keep doing this. You need to start adjusting.”

Bloom twisted her fingers together, her anxiety rising. “I just… need to check on something. I’ll be quick. I promise.”

Stella pushed herself up, frowning. “You can’t keep running home every few days. Eventually, you have to stay here.”

Bloom swallowed, nodding quickly. “I’ll be back by two. Before the tournament. No one will even notice I’m gone.”

Stella studied her for a long moment, then sighed. “Fine. But this is the last time. You can’t keep relying on this.”

As she handed Bloom the ring, she added one final warning: “You have until two. I don’t want to be the one explaining to Dowling why you’re missing from the tournament. And make sure you close the portal after. If anyone finds out, we’re both screwed.”

Bloom nodded, grateful. “I’ll be back in time and I will close it,” the lies came very easily to her these days “ I promise.”

Bloom took the ring from Stella with a quick nod, her heart pounding harder than it should. She turned back toward her room, catching Stella muttering something under her breath—something about lending a hand and people wanting the whole arm—but Bloom didn’t bother with it. She slid the ring into the front pocket of her hoodie and grabbed her empty backpack. She’d use this trip to pick up a few things from home that she was missing, but she also grabbed something else: an ointment she had made herself from a recipe she’d found in a third-year potions textbook. Supposedly, it heals burns more efficiently. She had tested it, burning herself deliberately to see if it worked, it seems that, even her own fire didn’t burn her, she still got burned from other heat sources, and though it had been painful, it had paid off.

She knew it was a risk to visit the hospital today, and she had no idea how she’d manage to give the ointment to her parents without being seen—after all, she was supposedly in Switzerland—but she had to try. It was her fault her mother was in the hospital.

A rush of urgency seized her as she packed the ointment and pulled her hood up, the familiar weight of her fear pushing her forward. The air at Alfea had begun to cool—a sign of the changing seasons, though the Otherworld didn’t follow the same rhythms as California. It felt like autumn here, her favorite season, while back home she had just come through a summer storm last week. Still, the chill of Solaria’s autumn felt grounding, more intense than California’s mild falls.

Before leaving the suite, Bloom glanced back, making sure Stella had returned to her magazine. Satisfied, she slipped out, careful not to make a sound. She wasn’t supposed to be sneaking past the school’s barriers. Ms. Dowling had made that very clear on her first day. But the weight of keeping that portal open—a way to escape to a place where she couldn’t hurt anyone—pressed on her more heavily than any rule she might be breaking.

The hallways of Alfea were quieter than usual, the buzz of excitement gone as everyone busied themselves preparing for the Students' Tournament. It was something Bloom didn’t fully understand. Terra had explained it to her once with her typical enthusiasm: the sixth- and seventh-year students competed in teams—formed by fairies and specialists—showing off their battle skills in some grand tournament. It was a mix of capture the flag, treasure hunts, and a brutal version of hide-and-seek and tag, all designed to test teamwork and strategy.

The younger students, like herself, were supposed to watch the whole event through a magic screen in the Great Hall. Terra had mentioned that the first-years were supposed to stay well out of the way to avoid getting caught in the crossfire, so usually they had to stay in the Great Hall with their monitors. To Bloom, it all sounded like a toned-down version of The Hunger Games, minus the mortal danger, of course.

But she didn’t care. The tournament felt like little more than an overblown excuse for the older students to show off, and she had no interest in it. She would rather spend the day reading in the library, studying, or even heading back to the warehouse to practice—a thought that had been simmering in her mind for the past few days. She was desperate to gain more control, though Ms. Dowling had warned her against moving too fast. But Bloom couldn’t afford to take things slow, not after the mess she had made.

As Terra had mentioned in passing, the real reason most of the older students cared about the tournament was the secret after-party that followed. A huge celebration thrown by the fifth-years, exclusively for the upper students, where the winners of the tournament would be crowned and then everyone could drink and unwind. Terra had complained endlessly about how Stella had been allowed to attend last year, despite not technically being a fifth-year.

Bloom had to suppress a smile at the memory. Stella had only shrugged off Terra’s frustration with a nonchalant, “That’s just the way things are.”

But Bloom? She couldn’t care less about the party or the tournament. All that filled her mind was the portal. That fragile thread of control she clung to—the only thing between her and the power simmering beneath the surface. Her grip on it was still too loose, too dangerous.

Even though Ms. Dowling had praised her for the progress she’d made, Bloom knew better. Sure, she had managed to keep the fire at bay a few times. Twice she’d stopped it before it got out of hand, once even before Ms. Dowling had arrived. But it wasn’t enough—it never felt like enough. The danger still lingered beneath her skin, simmering like an ember, waiting for the smallest crack to burst into flame. And that’s what scared her most: the fire was always there, never fully gone, always just one wrong step away from devouring everything again.

She could feel it, constantly, like a second heartbeat, a pressure building inside her that she didn’t know how to control. It made her feel like she was walking on a tightrope, balancing between safety and destruction. The worst part? She was doing it blind. She didn’t understand this world, didn’t know anything about its history, its rules, its culture. She was stumbling through a maze, blindfolded, with no idea where she was headed or how to find her way out. Everyone else at Alfea knew everything about the Otherworld. They had grown up with it—its stories, its traditions, its magic. But Bloom? She had been thrown into it headfirst, with no time to learn, no time to adjust. She was an outsider in a place that was supposed to be her home.

And the weight of that ignorance was crushing. Every time she thought she’d figured something out, another layer of confusion would unfold. She was drowning in it, overwhelmed by the sheer vastness of everything she didn’t know. The other students spoke so easily about things she didn’t understand—places she’d never been, knowledge she didn’t have, a past that wasn’t hers. It made her feel so small, so powerless, like she didn’t belong here at all. And she didn’t know how much longer she could keep pretending.

That frustration, that feeling of being out of place, it was like fuel for the fire inside her. She could almost feel it feeding off her anxiety, growing stronger every time she felt lost or unsure. It made everything so much worse. Every mistake she made, every time she couldn’t keep up, it just added to the pressure, until finally, she snapped.

The last time, she had managed to pull it back just in time. She could still remember the heat building in her chest, her fingers tingling as the flames threatened to escape. She had clenched her fists, forcing the fire down, swallowing it before it could spill out and hurt anyone. But the control had felt fragile, like holding back fire with paper. The effort left her drained, her heart racing with the adrenaline of almost losing control again.

But that moment—it haunted her. Because what if next time she didn’t stop it? What if the fire broke free, like it had that night at home, when her mother had gotten hurt? 

Not Yet. No Here. The knot in her stomach tightened as she hurried holding back the tears.

The tournament was mandatory, of course—like so many things at Alfea. Everything seemed designed to press you into a mold, to make you conform. Bloom wondered if "tournament" was even the right word. It felt too formal, too structured for something that was supposed to be fun. It didn’t feel like a bunch of games to her, but  more like a way to train them, to prepare them to become the fighters Alfea wanted them to be.

But not her. Bloom didn’t need the madness of this new world. She just needed to learn how to control the thing that was trying to control her—and then, maybe, she could go home. Be normal again. Be a regular teenage girl. A human teenage girl.

As she moved toward the school’s exit, her thoughts drifted to Ms. Dowling’s lessons. The praise had been nice—comforting, in a way—but Bloom couldn’t let it sink in. Not really. She could still see the flames from that night, burning everything, licking at the walls as her father holded her mother, running for their lives downstairs. No amount of praise could erase that image. No amount of control would ever make her forget what she had done.

That’s why she had to keep the portal open.

Each step toward the old cemetery gnawed at her with that need for control. The portal had to stay. It was the only thing that made her feel like she could keep herself, and everyone else, safe. Hidden away in the forgotten corner of Alfea’s grounds, the abandoned cabin was her lifeline. That’s where she had opened the portal, a door she’d learned how to use. It was the same door Ms. Dowling had brought her through, and it had become her link back to Gardenia, to the warehouse she had claimed as her sanctuary. Her only refuge. The place she could escape to when everything felt like too much.

“The only thing that keeps me sane here is knowing I can leave whenever I want,” Stella’s voice echoed in her mind.

At the time, Bloom hadn’t understood Stella’s words—or her kindness. Maybe she still didn’t. But Stella had been right. Having a way out, a safety net, made all the difference. And now, more than ever, Bloom needed to know she had that.

She reached the cemetery, the grounds overgrown and forgotten. A small clearing in the forest, its ancient graves crumbling and covered in moss, the trees dark and looming overhead. She remembered the first time she’d walked through here, the strange feeling of stepping from one world into another. The door had opened up to a world she hadn’t expected to see—a forest vibrant and alive, though warmer that night than it was now. The smell of damp earth and decay was still the same, the same crumbling stones, the same worn-out stone bench by the biggest tree there. But today, none of it mattered. Bloom’s focus was on the dilapidated cabin tucked away at the far end.

As she drew nearer, her thoughts drifted back to the tournament, the ridiculous spectacle everyone was so invested in. Ms. Dowling and Mr. Silva would be completely caught up in it, the students too busy to notice her absence. Bloom didn’t understand the appeal—battles and challenges to test their powers, to show off their abilities? The whole thing felt hollow. The younger students were expected to watch, to admire, to learn. It all felt like a display of power dynamics. “We’re here to show you what you could be if you trust the process,” it seemed to say.

But Bloom had no interest in that. She’d make her own process.

Finally, she stood in front of the cabin door. Her fingers brushed the rough, weathered wood, her heart thudding against her ribs, the familiar wave of anxiety rising. She reached for the Gateway Ring, slipping it onto her finger. The cool metal felt solid, grounding her to the only place that gave her any sense of control.

With a deep breath, Bloom gripped the old handle, the pulse of magic already stirring inside her. She concentrated, focusing on the energy she needed to renew, and pulled the door open. She stepped inside the warehouse, the familiar dark space greeting her. The air was thick with dust and decay, just as it had been the first and the last time she was here.

But none of that mattered. What mattered was that here, everyone was safe. From her.

This was the only thing she had control over. The only thing she could trust.

For now, at least, they were safe.

Farah stood beside Saul, staring down at the gruesome image before her. The body was twisted, barely recognizable, the remnants of a brutal attack etched into what was left of him. A chill crept through her, but it wasn’t the cold bite of the mid-morning air that caused it. No—this was something far worse, something she had feared for years but had never allowed herself to fully acknowledge. Not to her colleagues, not even to herself.

Her fingers gripped the edge of her coat tightly, trying to anchor herself in the moment. Not now , she thought, forcing herself to remain composed. The students couldn’t know about this. If the truth got out, it would spiral out of control. Panic would spread through the school, and the fragile sense of safety they had worked so hard to build would be shattered. She couldn’t allow that.

The body was fresh, blood still soaking the grass beneath it. Saul stood silent beside her, his usual calm replaced with a quiet tension that mirrored her own. Farah didn’t need to hear his thoughts; the silence between them was thick with understanding. They both knew exactly what this meant.

"It’s fresh," Saul said, his voice steady, though she could hear the tension he was trying to suppress. It wasn’t a question—it was an acknowledgement of the reality neither of them wanted to face.

Farah swallowed hard, the knot in her stomach tightening painfully. She forced herself to speak, though even to her own ears her voice sounded detached, too controlled. "Maybe a wolf?" The suggestion felt hollow, a weak attempt to deny the truth. She knew it wasn’t a wolf. They both did. But if she admitted the truth now, she wasn’t sure she could manage the consequences.

Or a bear?" Saul offered, his eyes still scanning the scene. "Could have gone out to protect his herd, got surprised."

There was doubt in his voice, the kind of doubt that lingered between acceptance and denial. Saul wasn’t naive; he was giving her an out, a way to explain the unexplainable. Part of her wanted to take it. Maybe they could pretend a little longer, she thought. Just until they knew for sure.

Ben crouched beside the body, pulling out his pocket knife. "I’m happy to continue the guessing game," he said, his tone pragmatic, almost clinical. Farah watched as he scraped something from the wound, working with the kind of efficiency that came from years of seeing too much death. He wiped his knife on a handkerchief and held up the residue for them to see. "But this is char."

The world seemed to shift beneath Farah’s feet. For a split second, she was transported back to the field near Aster Dell eleven years ago. The heat of the flames, the screams, the overwhelming sense of destruction. All of them are gone, she had told herself. They have to be. All of this suffering, the sacrifices—it had to mean something.

But the char residue in front of her told a different story. It was unmistakable.

"How long since the last sighting?" Saul asked quietly, as though bracing himself for the answer he already knew.

Ben didn’t look up. "About a decade."

Farah’s breath caught in her throat. The stillness of the morning pressed in on her, making her feel vulnerable, exposed. She fought back the rising panic, forcing herself to focus. No. Rosalind had been relentless. Farah had watched her. They had watched her, been a part of her brutal campaign. There was no way any of the Burned Ones could have survived.

"Eleven years," Farah corrected, her voice sharp, cutting through the fog of her thoughts. She hated the edge in her own tone, but she needed to reassert control, to ground herself in the facts she knew. "Rosalind was relentless." She had to believe it. Rosalind had killed them all. There could be no room for doubt.

Saul shifted beside her, his gaze hardening. "Could’ve been hiding in the—"

"She killed all the Burned Ones," Farah snapped, cutting him off. She couldn’t allow herself to waver. Not Saul, not her own thoughts. "All of them."

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Farah forced herself to breathe, trying to calm the storm brewing inside her. This couldn’t be happening. Not again.

"We thought she did," Ben said quietly, rising to his feet. His voice was gentle, as if he was trying to soften the blow. He wasn’t challenging her, but his words still felt like a punch to the gut.

Farah’s jaw tightened. Thought. The word echoed in her mind, mocking her. Thoughts didn’t matter. Certainty mattered. Safety mattered.

"Ben," she said, her voice icy and controlled. "What we think is irrelevant. The barrier is doing its job. Until we know something for sure, we clean this up before gossip spreads."

She turned, her decision made. She couldn’t let this slip into chaos. Not yet. Not until they had answers.

Farah began walking back toward Alfea, her steps deliberate, even though every muscle in her body screamed for her to run. She felt Saul’s eyes on her, the weight of his silent understanding. He had always known her too well, known the battles she fought inside herself. But he wouldn’t follow. He never pushed when she wasn’t ready. And she wasn’t ready—not for this, not for what it might mean.

If a Burned One had survived...

Farah clenched her fists, trying to steady herself. If that was true, then everything they had fought for, everything she had built to protect her students, was hanging by a thread.

As she moved through the grounds, she felt a familiar tug—Bloom’s anxiety, sharp and almost tangible. The girl’s emotions had become an ever-present undercurrent in Farah’s mind, something she had once found disorienting but had grown used to over time. Blocking it out was not an option, her magic seemed to do nothing against it. Bloom’s feelings were so intense, so unresolved. But they didn’t always signal danger—at first, Farah had followed every pang of anxiety, every surge of emotion, convinced Bloom was in constant trouble. She had quickly learned that Bloom’s intensity often stemmed from other things—studying in the library or navigating her newfound friendships, particularly with Aisha. At least that was one right decision made this week, Farah thought, allowing herself a brief moment of relief.

But right now, she had more pressing concerns.

The Tournament. Or The Students’ War , as it had been called in her day. Farah’s lips tightened into a thin line as she thought about how much had changed. What used to be a brutal test of survival had softened into a mere game, a friendly competition. Back then, broken bones were common—the least worrying injury you could expect. When Farah, Saul, and Ben had attended Alfea, and during Rosalind’s tenure, no one escaped unscathed. Today, any serious injury led to immediate disqualification. Yes, the students still left with bruises, but that was nothing compared to what they had endured.

Farah’s thoughts drifted back to those early years, to her first year in Alfea, as a student at least, also her first tournament. Back then all the students participate. She could still see Saul—young, headstrong—stepping in front of her, shielding her from a fifth-year’s vicious attack. He’d broken his nose that day, blood staining the ground beneath them. Rose had fixed it, of course, with a quick flick of magic that left no trace of the injury. But the moment was seared into Farah’s memory. The pain, the fear, the realization of how cruel their classmates could be.

The students now had no idea. They played their games, held their so-called secret parties after, as if they could hide anything in a place like Alfea. Farah would’ve laughed at their innocence if she didn’t feel so hollow at that moment. Nothing was ever truly secret here—especially not with a mind fairy as headmistress. But that thought brought her no comfort, not today. Not after what she had just seen and the consequences if word of it got out.

Her steps quickened as she crossed the school grounds. Students gathered in small groups, their faces alight with excitement and nervous energy, some busy setting magical and physical traps for the tournament. Normally, Farah would take a moment to observe them, to guide them—but today, she couldn’t focus on that. She couldn’t afford to.

She needed to know. She needed to see her .

Rosalind.

Her chest tightened at the thought of her former mentor—the woman who had shaped her, taught her, and ultimately betrayed her. Rosalind, who had been ruthless in her pursuit of victory over the Burned Ones. Rosalind, who had supposedly brought an end to the terror eleven years ago. Farah had believed they’d killed every last one. But now, doubt had crept in like poison, spreading through her thoughts.

As she neared her office, her resolve solidified. The students could wait. The tournament could wait. The preparations would be handled by the other faculty. She had more urgent matters to attend to.

Her heart pounded as she reached for the door, her hand hovering just above the handle. It had only been a week since she had checked on Rosalind’s prison, but the thought of seeing her again sent an involuntary chill down her spine. She needed to be certain, to make sure Rosalind was still contained, that the stasis field holding her remained undisturbed.

Farah pushed open the door to the front office. Callum, her assistant, was hunched over his desk, scribbling furiously. The sound of the door startled him, and he looked up quickly.

"Headmistress!" he called out, his voice almost too eager, as if he had been waiting for her return. There was urgency in his tone, but Farah wasn’t in the mood for distractions.

"Not now, Callum," she replied briskly, already moving past him. Her thoughts were too tangled, weighed down by what she had just witnessed. She didn’t have time for routine matters.

"But a student came early," Callum added, his words stopping her mid-step.

Farah halted, her hand still on the door to her office. Bloom? The anxiety she had felt earlier from the girl surged through her mind. Had she underestimated how much Bloom was struggling? For her to come to Farah’s office unprompted, it had to be serious. It would be the first time since Bloom’s arrival that she had sought Farah out. Farah turned slightly, narrowing her eyes at Callum.

"Which one?" she asked, her voice firm but laced with concern. She couldn’t let anything slip through the cracks now. If Bloom was in trouble, she needed to know.

"A first year," Callum said, flipping through his disorganized notes. Farah’s patience thinned as she watched him scramble. She knew she hadn’t hired him for his organizational skills—his heart was good, and that mattered more at Alfea she runned. Still, this was wasting precious time.

"Beatrix..." he began, finally finding the name.

Farah’s interest vanished instantly. Beatrix could wait. She was a problem, always following Farah, like a small creepy shadow, a brown-nose, like Callum called her once, but she wasn’t Bloom. If it wasn’t Bloom, it wasn’t pressing.

"Later, Callum," Farah cut him off, her tone leaving no room for argument. "I have more urgent matters to attend to."

Without waiting for his response, she strode into her office, closing the door firmly behind her.

Farah’s gaze lingered on the bookcase that concealed the entrance to Rosalind’s chambers, a familiar wave of dread rolling over her. It wasn’t just the presence of Rosalind down there, frozen in stasis, that weighed on her—it was the memories. The room, stripped of its old furniture, had once been her bedroom—or, more precisely, her prison. Rosalind had kept her close for a reason, manipulating her since she was a child. Farah had always been a pawn in her mentor’s grander plans, even when she hadn’t realized it.

She moved to her desk, her hands trembling ever so slightly as she began preparing tea. She needed a moment to gather her thoughts, to center herself, before she ventured down to that chamber. The ritual of tea—pour, steep, stir—was familiar, grounding. But today, not even the warmth rising from the cup could calm the storm brewing inside her.

Unbidden, her thoughts drifted to Bloom. Eleven years old. The same age as the last Burned One sighting. That can’t be a coincidence , Farah thought. It couldn’t be. The connection, the emotional pull that linked them, should have been impossible. And yet, it was undeniable. Always there, like a thread woven too tightly between them. Bloom's anxiety had become a constant presence in Farah’s mind, a ripple she couldn’t block, no matter how much she tried.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Farah sipped her tea, the warmth doing little to soothe her growing unease. A changeling. Bloom was a changeling—there was no doubt about it. The raw strength of her powers was a constant reminder of that truth. Fairies like her had been sent to the First World as infants, swapped with human children, raised by unsuspecting parents who never knew the truth about their child’s magical nature. Bloom had grown up believing she was just another human girl. But now, that ignorance was unraveling, and with it, her powers—wild, unpredictable, and dangerous—had begun to surface.

The realization had shaken Farah more than she was willing to admit, even to herself. Changelings weren’t unheard of, but the practice had been banned, ostracized for centuries. Bloom’s situation, though, felt different. The connection Farah felt with her—this inexplicable pull toward her emotions, her fear—was unlike anything she had experienced before. Even with Saul, their bond never felt this intense, this intrusive . It was strange. It felt impossible. Then there was also the barrier that prevented Farah from using her powers on the girl, to better understand her. But that was a place she could not afford to go right now, she could not deal with yet another unexplained problem to solve.

She set the teacup down more forcefully than intended, the sharp sound echoing through the quiet room. She could feel Bloom’s fear as though it were her own, the girl’s emotions raw and overwhelming, always so close to the surface. Sometimes, Farah wasn’t sure where her own feelings ended and Bloom’s began. That connection—whatever it was—seemed to be growing stronger, and that terrified her more than she wanted to admit.

What does it mean? Farah stared into the swirling steam rising from her tea. Why her?

Eleven years since the last Burned One was sighted. Eleven years since... No , she couldn’t let herself go there. Not yet. Not again. Eleven years, and now Bloom arrives at Alfea, completely unaware of her true identity, already spiraling out of control. It felt like history was repeating itself, and Bloom stood at the center of it all now—a place Farah knew too well. A girl with unimaginable power, untrained and vulnerable. And if the Burned Ones had truly returned… Farah couldn’t bear to think about the consequences.

Rosalind had plans for me , Farah thought bitterly, her mind wandering back to her own past. Is this the same with Bloom?

The thought made her stomach turn. Rosalind had kept her close for a reason, molding her into something larger than she could understand at the time. Farah had been watched, controlled, even deceived by the woman she trusted most. But how much had Rosalind kept from her? Was Bloom meant for something just as dark, just as manipulated? Was she walking the same path Farah had once walked?

The weight of it pressed down on her, heavier with each passing moment. Bloom needed guidance, needed protection. But how could Farah protect her when she barely understood what was happening herself? And worse, how could she shield Bloom from the truth? The girl was more than a scared first-year—she was a living link to something far more dangerous than anyone realized. And as this connection between them deepened, Farah feared she might not be able to keep Bloom safe—from herself, and from the tangled past they were both bound to.

Farah rose from her desk, unable to sit any longer. Her thoughts were spiraling, the tension in her chest tightening like a vice. Her fingers brushed the edge of the bookcase, but this time, the familiar dread was laced with something deeper—something she didn’t dare name. Rosalind had always been relentless in her plans, and now Bloom was at risk of becoming another pawn in whatever game was unfolding. Whether Rosalind was directly involved or not didn’t matter. The danger was real.

Farah clenched her jaw, forcing herself to focus. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on the mystery of Bloom’s powers. There were more immediate dangers at hand— The Burned Ones. Rosalind. The safety of the school. She straightened her back, her resolve hardening with each breath. Whatever lay below, whatever Rosalind still represented, she had to face it. She would ensure that the stasis field remained unbroken, that the woman who had shaped—and shattered—her life stayed sealed away, where she belonged.

With a final glance at the bookcase, Farah took a steadying breath and made a slight motion with her hand. The bookcase slid aside, revealing the entrance to the spiraling stairs below. There was no turning back now. Whatever connection she shared with Bloom, whatever shadows were rising from the past, it all led back to Rosalind. And Farah would stop at nothing to protect her students from the darkness they didn’t even know was hunting them.

Her heart remained steady, but her thoughts raced as she descended the stairs. She had faced Rosalind before, stood toe-to-toe with the woman who had once dominated her life. But this time, the stakes felt impossibly higher. The air around her seemed to grow heavier with each step, the walls too close, as if they were trying to squeeze the breath out of her. But Farah kept moving forward. She had to.

Each step brought her closer to the chamber where Rosalind lay, frozen in time. Locked away from the world she had once tried to control with such cold ruthlessness. Farah’s pulse quickened, her mind rushing back to memories she’d fought to bury—the cold smile Rosalind had worn when she manipulated her, the calculating gleam in her eyes, the way she wielded power with no mercy. Rosalind had been a force of nature. Unstoppable. Unrelenting.

But I stopped her, Farah reminded herself. I locked her away. I made sure she could never threaten Alfea or the Otherworld again.

Or so she had believed.

When she entered the hidden chamber, her eyes were immediately drawn to the stasis field in the center. Rosalind stood within, unmoving, her expression eerily calm, as though she were merely asleep. Farah’s breath hitched in her throat, but she forced herself to move closer, inspecting every inch of the barrier. It was as strong as ever, the hum of its magic palpable beneath her fingertips.

For a moment, all the fear, all the uncertainty, coiled tight in Farah’s chest. If the Burned Ones had truly returned, then Rosalind’s imprisonment was only a prelude to something much darker. A threat that could unravel everything they had fought for, everything they had rebuilt.

Farah’s fingers brushed the edge of the stasis field, her mind buzzing with a thousand thoughts, each one sharper and more terrifying than the last. But she couldn’t afford to lose focus. Not now. Not when the fate of Alfea—and perhaps the entire Otherworld—rested on her ability to hold things together.

The field hummed reassuringly beneath her touch, strong and unbroken. Rosalind remained sealed, her power contained. Farah exhaled shakily, a brief wave of relief washing over her, though it did little to soothe the lingering dread. For now , Rosalind was still trapped. But for how long? 

She gathered her magic, one more line of defense wouldn’t hurt. So she put one more magical trap forming a circle outside the stasis field. If Rosalind got out, or anyone got in she would know it. She took a step back, the weight of responsibility pressing down on her. Protecting her students, safeguarding the school, keeping the darkness at bay— that was her duty. And no matter the cost, she would fulfill it.

With one last glance at Rosalind’s still, unthreatening form, Farah turned on her heel and ascended the stairs, her mind already racing ahead. The Burned Ones. Bloom. Rosalind. It was all connected. She could feel it in her bones.

And now, she had to find a way to stop the darkness before it consumed them all.

Bloom stood in the ruins of her parents' bedroom, the air so thick with loss it felt like she could choke on it. The charred remains of what had once been home pressed in around her, and for the first time since that night, she allowed herself to step into the wreckage. She had already grabbed a few things from the laundry room and the winter closet downstairs—sweaters and hoodies that wouldn’t do much against the cold of Solaria. But it wasn’t enough. Somehow, she had felt pulled up here, to this room that she had avoided for so long.

The heart of the destruction.

This was where the fire burned strongest. Where her world had ended. She hadn’t been able to come up here before, hadn’t dared to face it. Every time she’d returned, she stayed downstairs, gathering what little remained unscathed by the fire. But she hadn’t had the courage to come up here—where it had all happened. Where the flames had roared to life, uncontrollable, swallowing everything in their path. This was the heart of the destruction, the place she had feared facing the most.

The room was a twisted, unrecognizable shell of what it had been. Her mother’s vanity, once gleaming and pristine, was now a grotesque frame of burnt wood, the mirror shattered into glittering shards embedded in the floor. The bed—where her parents had once shared quiet conversations and laughter—was nothing more than a heap of ash and blackened metal. The cream-colored curtains, which used to sway softly in the breeze, now clung to the burnt rods in brittle, tattered strips, scorched beyond recognition. Her father’s favorite chair, the one he had bought a second of because he loved it so much, was nothing but ash now.

The scent of smoke still hung in the air, thick and suffocating, mingling with the sharp tang of burned wood and destruction. As Bloom stood there, her eyes traced the remnants of the life she had torn apart. Everything in the room seemed to hum with what it had once been, a ghost of a life that had existed before her fire had consumed it.

Her breath hitched as the memories came rushing back, sharp and unforgiving. The fire—her fire. It had exploded out of her before she even knew what was happening, raging with a fury she couldn’t control. She could still feel the heat licking at her skin, hear the roar of the flames as they devoured everything. The panic, the sheer terror as she watched her home become an inferno. It’s my fault. The thought crashed over her, consuming her in guilt. Every charred surface, every twisted, blackened object, whispered the same accusation.

Bloom squeezed her eyes shut, but the images were burned into her mind. It’s my fault , she thought, the words like a weight pressing down on her chest. All of this… it’s because of me.

The guilt surged like a wave, threatening to pull her under. She could feel it in every inch of her body, an ache so deep it felt like it was carving her hollow. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, the weight of her own destruction pressing down on her. Her mother—lying in a hospital bed because of her. Her father—haunted by the hollow shell of their home, because of her. The life they had built, gone in an instant, reduced to ash because she couldn’t control the fire that lived inside her.

Her heart pounded in her chest, a painful reminder of the danger she carried. She was a threat. She had always been a threat, a bomb ticking away inside her, and she never even knew it. Now, standing in the wreckage of her parents' bedroom, surrounded by the ashes of everything she had destroyed, the truth hit her like a punch to the gut. How could she ever make up for this? How could she ever deserve to be forgiven?

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, hot and stinging, but she blinked them away. She didn’t deserve to cry. Not here, not in the place she had ruined. Crying wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t bring back the life she had burned away, wouldn’t fix the damage she had caused. She stood in the heart of her own destruction, and all she could do was stare at the devastation, helpless and guilty, knowing that no matter what she did from now on, it would never be enough to erase what she had done.

Her phone vibrated softly in her pocket, pulling her from the flood of memories. Reluctantly, she pulled it out, the screen lighting up with the familiar message thread. Her thumb hovered over the screen, the same hesitation from earlier creeping back. 

“I guess you must be too busy to respond, which is understandable, of course.

Meanwhile, I'm just here with nothing to do but lie in a hospital bed.

But don’t worry honey, I’ll manage.”

The guilt slammed back into her, fresh and raw. The flames flickered to life in her palms, heat building beneath her skin. But she forced it down, swallowing the fire like poison. She couldn't let it out, not again.

She locked the phone again, the screen going dark in her hand.

Not now. She couldn’t respond. She didn’t know how.

With a shaky breath, Bloom turned away from the wreckage, her chest tight. She couldn’t stay here. Not in this room, not with the weight of her failure pressing down on her like this. She needed to move, to focus on something else. Anything else.

As she turned to leave, something caught her eye—a picture frame, half-burned, lying beneath her mother’s vanity. She knelt down and carefully picked it up, brushing off the ash. The photo inside was still intact, and she recognized it immediately. Her sixth birthday. The memory came rushing back with a clarity that made her stomach twist.

Vanessa had thrown her a big party, insisted on dressing her in a frilly pink dress even though Bloom had hated pink for as long as she could remember.The dark red overall she liked in the store came back to her in a flash now. But her mother liked the dress, it was stiff and uncomfortable, and all Bloom had wanted was to run to the bounce house and play with the other kids. But her mother had refused, worried Bloom would ruin the dress. So there she sat in the photo, frowning at the camera, miserable in the middle of her own party.

She ran her fingers over the cracked glass, tracing the edges of the photograph. It was one of the few pictures they had of the three of them together. Her parents stood on either side of her, smiling, looking so proud. They looked like the perfect family. But even in the photo, Bloom looked unhappy. Has she ever been happy? Really?

The frame was scorched, burned at the edges, but the photo inside was mostly untouched. She pulled it out, carefully folding it before slipping it into her bag. She didn’t need the frame. She just needed the memory

With a heavy breath, Bloom stood and turned away from the ruins of her parents’ bedroom. She made her way down the hallway, her footsteps slow and dragging. She felt the weight of that night pressing down on her with every step, the guilt gnawing at her insides, relentless and unyielding.

Her bedroom was just as ruined, though not as violently ravaged as her parents’. The smell of smoke still hung heavy in the air, the ash coating every surface. Her bed was a heap of burnt fabric, the walls streaked with soot. Her life, everything she had known, was gone. Touched by the fire in some way.

She moved quickly, scanning the room for what she needed. Her old pair of headphones—she found them in the top drawer of her desk, where they always were. Covered in a thin layer of ash but otherwise unharmed. She slipped them into her backpack.

Next, she opened the drawers to see if there were any winter clothes left here. She was hoping, just maybe , there would be something a little more warmer than what she found downstairs that had survived. But there was nothing. The flames had taken them all. She sighed and closed the drawer.

As she turned to leave, her eyes landed on something half-buried beneath the ash—a pair of red Converse, her favorite pair. They were singed, the edges slightly burned, but still wearable. Barely. She smiled, a sad, hollow smile, and tossed them into her backpack.

But there was still one thing left. The thing that mattered most.

She crossed the room to her closet, heart pounding faster with each step. The clothes inside were destroyed, burned beyond recognition. But she wasn’t looking for clothes. She was looking for something far more important. She whispered a silent prayer to any fairy goddess that might be listening as she knelt down, her hands reaching toward the back of the closet. Her fingers brushed against the charred walls, but then—there it was. A small wooden box, untouched by the flames despite the destruction around it.

She let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through her. The fire had spared it.

She didn’t dare open it here, not in this place. Not now. She carefully placed the box into her backpack, zipping it closed. She didn’t need to see inside to know that it was safe. It was the most important thing in the world to her, and as long as it was intact, she could face anything.

Bloom stood up, her legs trembling slightly from the strain of holding everything in. She had what she needed. It was time to go.

She descended the stairs quickly, her heart pounding as her mind raced ahead. There was still one last thing she needed to do before she left—her parents. Her mom. She couldn’t just disappear without trying to help in some way, without making even a tiny step toward making things right. Even though deep down, she knew nothing could.

She rifled through the kitchen, her hands shaky, until she found a FedEx box. Perfect. She pulled it out and brushed it off, trying to focus on the task at hand.

With trembling fingers, Bloom packed the ointment inside, wrapping it carefully as if it had been shipped from far away—Switzerland, of course. She grabbed a pen and a piece of paper, hesitating for a moment before scribbling down a note:

"Hey, Mom and Dad. A friend of mine from Alfea recommended this ointment. It’s supposed to work wonders on burns. She said her father is a famous doctor, and the research shows it heals burns faster than anything. It’s not FDA-approved yet, but they’re working on it. Her family is really well-connected. I thought it might help. Bloom."

She stared at the note, her throat tightening. The lie was terrible. Ridiculous, even. It made no sense, and the words felt cheap. But what else could she say? The truth—that she was a fairy, and the ointment was some sort of magical potion made from plants her parents had never even heard of—was even more unbelievable. So this lie, as flimsy as it was, would have to do.

She folded the note and placed it in the box, sealing it shut with tape. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. But it was all she could do. And right now, that had to be enough.

With the package ready, Bloom stood up and slung her backpack over her shoulder. She took one last look around the house, her chest aching. The home she had destroyed. The life she could never go back to.

She stepped outside into the chilly air, clutching the box tightly to her chest. Her legs felt weak as she walked toward the hospital, each step weighed down by the guilt she carried. When she reached the front entrance, she checked her phone. 1:15 PM.

She knew she was running out of time. Damn it, Stella’s going to kill me. But the need to see her parents— just to leave the package —pushed her forward. She couldn’t leave without knowing. Even if it meant being late, even if it meant more lies.

She clutched the cardboard box tighter against her chest as she entered through the hospital doors. The air inside was cold, sterile, and the faint smell of disinfectant stung her nose, the hospital was buzzing with people. She felt small, out of place, her nerves on edge. Her fingers were trembling as she approached the front desk, trying to act casual, as if her entire body wasn’t on the verge of unraveling.

“Can I help you?” The receptionist glanced up briefly from her computer, disinterested.

Bloom forced a smile, her voice barely steady. “I, um, have this package for Mike and Vanessa Peters. Could you please make sure it gets to them?”

The woman barely looked at her. “I’m not a delivery service, honey…”

Bloom felt her throat tighten. Please, don’t cry. Not here. Not now. “It’s really important,” she whispered. “Please. It’s from their daughter. She’s in Switzerland…”

The woman finally looked at her, “Alright, alright. Just don’t cry on me. Are you sure they are here, right?” Bloom found enough force in herself to nod. ”I’ll make sure they get it.” She took the box with a weary sigh. “Anything else?”

Bloom opened her mouth to speak but hesitated. What was she supposed to say? That she wanted to see them, even if it was just for a second? That she needed to apologize, to explain herself? The words stuck in her throat, and instead, she shook her head. “No, that’s all. Thank you.”

But as she turned to leave, her feet refused to move. She couldn’t just walk away. She couldn’t leave without seeing them.

Pushing her hoodie up over her head, she glanced back at the receptionist, who had already turned her attention back to the computer. Now was her chance. Moving quickly, she slipped away from the desk, keeping her head down as she navigated the maze of hallways. Her heart raced with every step, her eyes scanning for signs pointing to the ICU.

I shouldn’t be doing this. Every nerve in her body screamed at her to turn back, to run. But she couldn’t. She had to see them. Even if it was from a distance.

She reached the ICU floor, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. There, through the small window of the door, she spotted them. Her mother, pale and frail, lying in the bed with her arm wrapped in bandages. Her father sat beside her, looking lost, defeated. He looked older. Exhausted.

Bloom’s heart shattered at the sight.

This is because of me. They’re here because of me.

She pressed herself into the shadows, watching them from the hallway, unseen but so painfully present. Her mother’s lips were moving, talking softly to her father, but Bloom couldn’t hear the words. She didn’t need to. She knew what they would be—her mother putting on a brave face, pretending everything was okay. Just like she always did, so her father would not crumble. But it wasn’t okay. It would never be okay again.

Suddenly, a voice broke through her thoughts. “Excuse me, should you be here?”

Bloom jumped, her heart lurching into her throat as a nurse appeared beside her, grabbing her arm. Panic surged through her, and without thinking, she yanked her arm free and bolted.

She ran, feet pounding against the floor, tears blurring her vision. She could hear the woman calling after her, but she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t face them. She couldn’t let them see her like this. Her emotions were spiraling out of control, the flames simmering beneath her skin, threatening to explode.

She just needed to get out. Out of the hospital. Out of sight. Away from everyone she had hurt.

Once she was a few blocks away from the hospital, Bloom stopped to catch her breath, her chest heaving with the weight of her emotions more than the physical strain. She fumbled for her phone, pulling it out as she started walking again, slower this time, but still with a sense of urgency she couldn’t shake. The screen lit up with the message thread she’d been avoiding all day.

There it was.

"I guess you must be too busy to respond, which is understandable, of course.

Meanwhile, I'm just here with nothing to do but lie in a hospital bed.

But don’t worry honey, I’ll manage."

Her hands shook as she stared at the words, her vision blurring as guilt clawed at her chest, twisting deeper with every second she hesitated. She’s in the hospital because of me. This is all my fault.

With trembling fingers, she started typing, her thumbs moving quickly across the screen as if she could outrun the guilt.

"Sorry, cell phones aren’t allowed during the week, only on weekends. 

Did you get my package?

I sent it directly to the hospital; it should have arrived today."

She paused, her breath hitching as her eyes lingered on the next words she had typed without thinking: I love you too.

The words felt wrong. Too heavy. Like a lie she couldn’t afford to tell, not now, not after everything. Her finger hovered over them for a moment before she deleted the sentence.

"Hope it helps."

That felt safer. Less vulnerable. Less like a lie.

She hit send and shoved the phone back into her pocket, feeling a sharp stab of guilt in her chest. She wasn’t even sure if they would use it. The lie she had written in the note was so flimsy, so obviously untrue, but it was all she could think of at the moment. She needed to do something .

As she made her way back to the warehouse, the weight of everything pressed down on her like a suffocating blanket. Her steps quickened, her hands shoved deep into her hoodie pockets, her fingers fidgeting with the ring. Her eyes stung from the tears she hadn’t let herself cry yet. She knew she had to get back to Alfea soon, but she couldn’t—not yet. Not when it felt like her whole world was falling apart from the inside out.

By the time she reached the warehouse, the tears had already begun to fall. She glanced at her phone—3:00 p.m. She was already late. She pushed open the door and stepped inside, the damp air clinging to her like a second skin. It was quiet here, isolated. No one knew she was here, no one could see her break down, and that was exactly what she needed.

She walked to the small office she had claimed as her own, the place Ms. Dowling had found her in not so long ago. There wasn’t much—just some cardboard laid out as a makeshift bed and a few blankets she had brought from the house. It wasn’t home, but it was safe. Or, at least, it felt like it for now.

Bloom sank onto the blankets, curling her knees up to her chest as the dam inside her finally broke. The sobs came violently, wracking her small frame as the guilt, fear, and pain she had been holding back all day poured out of her. Each sob felt like it was tearing something apart inside her, like her heart was being squeezed so tightly she might never breathe properly again.

It’s all my fault, the thought looped over and over in her head, relentless, crushing her spirit. She’s in the hospital because of me. This is all because of me.

The silence of the warehouse wrapped around her like a cocoon, the only sound was her ragged breathing and the occasional hiccup as the tears slowed. But in a strange way, it was comforting. Here, she could fall apart. She could cry, scream, let everything out without fear of being seen. Without anyone asking questions she didn’t know how to answer.

After what felt like hours, the sobs began to fade, leaving her feeling empty, hollow, like something vital had been drained from her. She wiped her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, her body still trembling from the effort of holding herself together for so long. She checked her phone again—3:42 p.m. Too late. It’s too late for everything, she thought, though she wasn’t sure if she meant for the tournament or something deeper.

She knew she couldn’t stay here forever. She had to go back. Alfea was waiting. But she didn’t feel ready to face it. Not yet. She needed more time, just a little more time to pull herself together before she had to pretend everything was fine again.

Leaning back against the wall, Bloom closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. She could feel the weight of Stella’s ring in her pocket—the only thing tethering her to this place. It was her escape, her safety net, the only thing that made her feel like she had any control left. She wasn’t ready to give it back. Not yet.

But soon, she would have to. Soon, she would have to face the consequences of everything she had done, everything she had tried to run from. But for now, the exhaustion overtook her, and slowly, she drifted into a restless sleep, the weight of guilt still pressing down on her chest like a leaden anchor.

Once Bloom woke up, her heart pounded in her chest, the darkness of the warehouse pressing in around her. She fumbled for her phone, still groggy with sleep. The screen illuminated her face as her eyes adjusted.

5:17 p.m.

Oh no.

Panic shot through her like lightning. She was supposed to be back at Alfea hours ago. No, no, no. Her stomach twisted painfully. Stella would be furious. Worse, the tournament had started hours ago, and Ms. Dowling—Bloom didn’t even want to think about what Ms. Dowling would do if she realized she wasn’t there. Her chest tightened at the thought.

Her hands trembled as she grabbed her backpack, the blanket slipping to the floor. She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her head, trying to block out the chill of the evening. Rushing to the door, her breaths came fast, short, and uneven, a knot of anxiety swelling in her throat. There was no way she’d make it back without someone noticing. I’m dead, she thought.

Bursting out of the warehouse, she sprinted across the cemetery, her feet pounding the ground, her breath sharp and uneven. Everything around her felt too still, too quiet. The fading light of the setting sun cast long, eerie shadows across the ground, but she didn’t care. She just had to get back before it got worse.

Branches snagged at her hoodie and scratched her skin as she tore through the woods, not paying attention to the uneven path. Roots and rocks tripped her, but she barely noticed. Stella’s going to kill me. How could I be this stupid? Her mind raced along with her heart, guilt gnawing at her insides.

The forest was growing darker, the sun dipping lower beyond the horizon. Everything around her seemed to blur—her vision clouded with panic. Just as she reached the edge of the trees, she slammed into something—or rather, someone.

Thud.

She gasped, stumbling back, nearly falling to the ground. A strong hand shot out, grabbing her arm before she could lose her balance.

“Whoa, easy!” The voice was calm, steady, but Bloom was anything but.

She looked up, her breath hitching. Standing in front of her was a tall, blond boy, his features soft yet concerned. He was older, definitely a student from the upper years. His athletic build and the sword strapped to his back made it obvious he was a specialist. He was wearing bright orange armor. She had no idea how she’d managed to run into him, dressed like he was doing a Fanta cosplay.

“I—” She struggled to catch her breath. “I’m sorry…need to get back.”

The boy raised an eyebrow, his face softening as he took in her panic. “Yeah, I can see that. I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be out here, huh? You know that there are traps all over, right?”

“No... I’m not... I’m just...” Her voice faltered. She didn’t want to explain herself, not to him, not to anyone.. “I need to get back, please.”

Sky studied her for a moment, and there was something kind in his expression, something understanding. He didn’t press her for details. Instead, he nodded. “Alright, let’s get you back safely. It’s getting dark, and the last thing you need is to get caught out here alone by one of the tournament participants, they don’t distinguish who to pass over to get what they need.”

Bloom nodded, her throat tight. She didn’t have time to argue. She was already too late. She turned and started walking again, Sky falling into step beside her.

“I’m Sky, by the way. You’re a first-year, right?” he said, glancing down at her. 

Bloom nodded, still too anxious to say much. She kept her eyes on the ground, her fingers twisting nervously around the ring in her pocket. It had nearly slipped from her grasp when she collided with Sky, and she couldn’t afford to lose it. Stella would skin her alive if she did.

“I’m one of the tournament judges,”  Sky said, his tone light, trying to ease her tension.

Bloom swallowed, her chest tightening. Great , now Dowling would know for sure about her little excursion.

Sky’s voice softened. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ll get you back safe, okay? Just… Look you’re a first-year, you really shouldn’t be going out the barrier alone, I mean… I don’t want to scare you or anything, but you know, the rumors…”

She looked at him, confused.

“About, you know…” he looked uncomfortable. “the Burned One that attacked the old shepherd.”

Bloom wasn’t sure what a Burned One was, but she didn’t want to continue this conversation and ended up cornered to say what she was doing outside the barrier, so she just nodded.

They walked in silence for a while longer, Sky leading her through a safer route back to the school, away from the traps and chaos of the tournament. Every now and then, she could hear distant shouts and bursts of magic, but it felt far away, like it belonged to a different world.

As they neared the building, Bloom’s heart sank. Standing just ahead, waiting with her arms crossed and a look of pure fury on her face, was Stella.

“Alright,” Sky said, as they approached the blonde. “You’ll be good from here. Just... maybe avoid Dowling for a bit, huh?” His smile was genuine, the kind that made her feel less like a disaster and more like maybe, just maybe, she could still fix this.

“Thanks,” Bloom mumbled to Sky, her voice small, but sincere.

She looked back to Stella and she was getting closer, clearly annoyed.

“Thank you, Sky!” the older girl shouted, Sky, already walking away, just gave her a little wave without looking back.

“You’re late,” Stella snapped the moment Sky was out of earshot. Her voice was cold, her eyes blazing with frustration. “You promised, Bloom.”

“I—I know,” Bloom stammered, trying to explain, but the words caught in her throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“You promised , Bloom.” Stella’s repeated. her lips pressed into a thin line. “I told you to be back by two. It’s almost six. Do you have any idea how close you were to getting caught?”

Bloom looked down, the guilt washing over her. “I know. I’m really sorry. I just—”

“I’m not interested in your excuses.” Stella cut her off, stepping closer, her voice lowering. “You cannot keep doing this. You can’t just run off whenever you feel like it and expect me to cover for you.”

“I wasn’t—” Bloom’s voice wavered. “I wasn’t running off. I had to... I needed to check something.”

“You needed to check something,” Stella repeated, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Was that something worth risking getting both of us in trouble? Did it ever cross your mind that you’re not the only one involved here?”

Bloom could feel her throat closing up, the weight of Stella’s anger crushing her. She had messed up. Again. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to. I’ll be better, I promise.”

Stella sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose as if trying to rein in her frustration. “You don’t get it, do you? This isn’t just about you . You’re not the only one at risk here. I’m not going to keep sticking my neck out for you if you can’t even keep a simple promise. Besides, it’s supposed to have a Burned One loose in the woods, can you just think about the danger you were in, out there, alone.”

“I’m sorry.” Bloom’s voice was barely a whisper now. “I just—”

“Bloom,” Stella cut her off again, her eyes hard. “This is the last time. Do you understand me? The last time.”

Bloom nodded, her heart sinking. “I understand.”

“Good.” Stella gave her one last sharp look before holding out her hand. “The ring.”

Bloom fumbled in her pocket, pulling out the Gateway Ring. Her fingers were trembling, and just as she was about to place it in Stella’s hand, a voice broke through the tension.

“What’s going on here?”

Both girls froze as Ms. Dowling approached, her expression calm but stern, Bloom closed her hands over the ring again, and put it back in her pocket.

She watched as Ms. Dowling’s eyes narrowed, assessing the situation with sharp precision. Bloom felt her heart sink into her stomach. She could never quite tell what the Headmistress was thinking. All she knew now was this stern, formal Ms. Dowling—such a stark contrast to the Farah Dowling she had first met in the warehouse.

“Bloom,” Ms. Dowling’s voice was steady, but there was no mistaking the underlying authority. “You’re supposed to be with the first-year students in the Great Hall. Why aren’t you there?”

Bloom swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. “I... I needed to get a textbook from the greenhouse, and...” Her voice trailed off as Ms. Dowling raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. Bloom’s resolve crumbled under her stern gaze. “I’m late. I’m sorry.”

Ms. Dowling sighed, massaging her temples. “I’ll address this tomorrow. Go. Now. It is not safe for you to be here.”

Bloom nodded quickly, grateful for the chance to escape.

“And Stella,” Bloom heard Ms. Dowling again, her voice even more stern now. “Make yourself useful. Go with Bloom and assist the other monitors with the first-years.”

Stella didn’t argue. She simply nodded, her lips pressed tightly together as she started to walk just behind Bloom. The two of them walked in silence for a while, and once they were definitely out of Dowling’s gaze, Stella picked Bloom’s arm.

“I have to go help with the Winners’ Party,” she said, her voice still sharp. “Go back to the Winx suite, leave my ring in my room, and then go straight to the Great Hall. Do you understand?”

Bloom nodded silently, the weight of Stella’s disappointment hanging over her.

“Please, Bloom,” Stella added, her voice softer this time, almost pleading. “No more shenanigans.”

Bloom nodded again, watching as Stella turned on her heels and walked away, her words echoing in Bloom’s mind. No more shenanigans. She ran through the darkened hallways, her breath sharp and ragged, as if the walls themselves were closing in on her. Her chest felt tight, suffocating, like every step she took only tightened the knot of panic in her gut. The tears blurred her vision, hot and unrelenting, but she didn’t bother to wipe them away. They spilled freely, as unstoppable as the guilt that surged inside her. It was too much—everything was too much.

The messages from her mother, the haunting image of her mother lying in that hospital bed, bandaged because of her. The burned wreckage of her home, the shame of being late, and Stella’s biting disappointment. It all swirled together, a crushing weight on her chest, suffocating her, squeezing her heart until she felt like it might just stop.It wasn’t supposed to be this way. None of this was supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to have powers. She wasn’t supposed to hurt anyone. But she had. She’d hurt the people she was supposed to love most, and now everything was falling apart.

She stumbled into the Winx suite, barely noticing anything around her, her sobs now uncontrollable. Her throat burned from the effort of holding everything in, and she felt like she was unraveling, falling apart piece by piece. She didn’t even realize Aisha was there until her voice broke through the haze of panic.

“Bloom?” Aisha’s voice was soft but laced with concern. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Bloom tried to push past her, desperate to reach her bed, to collapse and disappear under the blankets, to hide from the world and everything inside her that was spiraling out of control. But Aisha blocked her path, like a wall she couldn’t break through, and the frustration only made her tears fall harder.

“Please,” Bloom choked out, her voice raw and desperate. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

Aisha didn’t budge. Her eyes softened with understanding, but she didn’t move out of the way. She stepped closer, her presence solid and steady, a calm in the storm that only made Bloom’s panic spike higher.

“You’re not fine,” Aisha said, her tone gentle but firm.“Something’s going on. I’ve noticed, Bloom. You’ve been pulling away, isolating yourself, always sneaking off somewhere. You look exhausted all the time. You’re scared… and I can see that. But you don’t have to go through it alone.”

“I’m fine,” Bloom lied again, her voice trembling with the weight of the words that were meant more for herself. She hated how small and broken she sounded. She needed to be fine, to be stronger, to hold herself together, but the cracks were showing, and she didn’t know how to stop it.

Aisha didn’t buy it. “Bloom, please. I can see you’re hurting. We all go through stuff, you don’t have to carry this by yourself.”

Bloom shook her head, the panic rising again. She couldn’t tell her. She couldn’t tell anyone. If Aisha knew—if anyone knew—they’d be afraid of her.

They’d see the monster—the freak— she really was, the threat she couldn’t control.

Aisha, however, didn’t back down. “You want to hear something embarrassing?” Her tone shifted, lighter now, like she was trying to coax Bloom out of the darkness. “Back in elementary school, I totally lost control in class. I was stressed about a stupid test, and... well, I ended up flooding the entire school.”

Bloom blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “What?”

“Yep.” Aisha’s smile was wry, her voice tinged with self-deprecation. “The pipes burst, and everything was underwater. Even the sewage pipes. Let’s just say it wasn’t a great week for anyone involved. Especially me. I smelled like... well, you can imagine.”

Bloom tried to smile, but it felt empty, like she was too far gone to feel the humor in Aisha’s story. Her hands trembled at her sides. “It’s not the same.”

Aisha’s smile faded, her expression softening as she sat beside Bloom on the bed. “Then tell me what’s going on. I’m here.”

The room felt too small, like the walls were closing in around her. Bloom could hear her own heart pounding in her ears, the panic building again. She shook her head, trying to hold it in, but the words clawed their way out.

“I hurt her,” Bloom’s voice cracked, the guilt too heavy to hold back anymore. “I didn’t mean to, but I did. There was a fire... I lost control. Now my mom’s in the hospital because of me. It’s all my fault.”

Aisha’s eyes widened, shock flickering across her face, but she said nothing.

“I didn’t know I had powers,” Bloom continued, her voice trembling as the words poured out of her, raw and jagged. “I didn’t know what I was. But I got angry, and the fire... it just happened. It burned everything. The house, my mom. I couldn’t stop it, I didn’t know how. And now she’s hurt because of me.”

Tears streamed down her face, unchecked and relentless. The guilt was a living thing inside her, gnawing at her, tearing her apart. She could still hear the fire crackling, consuming everything in its path, she could still feel the helplessness of that night. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t escape the memory of it.

Aisha was silent for a long moment, processing everything Bloom had just said. “But... your parents, couldn’t they stop it? How did—”

“They’re not fairies,” Bloom interrupted, her voice hoarse and broken. “Ms. Dowling said I come from some kind of dormant fairy bloodline. That… Maybe someone in my family was a fairy, but... I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I hurt them. I ruined everything.”

Aisha’s brow furrowed, her mind working through the implications. “But... for a dormant bloodline to have that much power? That doesn’t make sense.”

Bloom shook her head. She didn’t care. None of it changed what she’d done.

“It’s rare,” Aisha continued, her voice thoughtful. “But maybe you’re a changeling.”

“A what?” Bloom asked, her frustration clear. She hated not knowing things, hated being the one left in the dark.

“A changeling,” Aisha spoke slowly. “It would explain why your powers are so strong and anyone knew about it. Fairies who are swapped with human babies, raised by human parents who never know the truth... It’s barbaric, and totally forbidden nowadays, but I can’t think of any other explanation...”

Bloom’s heart sank. “So... I’m not even their real daughter?”

Aisha’s face softened. “You are. They raised you, Bloom. They love you. But this... it might explain why your powers are so overwhelming.”

Bloom felt like the floor had just been ripped out from under her. The ground beneath her feet was crumbling, and everything she thought she knew about herself shattered in an instant. She didn’t belong anywhere. Not to her parents, not to this world or the First World. She was something lost between the two, something wrong.

The fire inside her flared, burning hot and dangerous.

“I need to go,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Bloom, wait—” Aisha reached for her, but Bloom couldn’t stay. The fire was rising, burning at the edges of her control, and she couldn’t risk letting it out here, not with Aisha so close.

She bolted from the room, her feet carrying her faster than she could think, her heart racing, the flames building inside her. She ran blindly, barely noticing Terra and Musa’s confused calls as she passed them in the hallway. All she could think about was the fire, the fire inside her that was going to consume everything if she didn’t get away.

The words echoed in her head. A changeling... That would explain...

She ran harder, faster, but no matter how far she ran, she couldn’t outrun herself. The flames continued to lick at her insides, threatening to spill over. She had to get away, she had to control it. Not here. Not yet.

Bloom sprinted across the grounds, her vision blurred with panic, her chest tight with fear and exhaustion. She didn’t care if the tournament was still happening or if anyone saw her. All she could think about was getting to the warehouse, the only place where she could fall apart without anyone watching. Her legs burned as she pushed herself harder, the ache in her muscles barely registering through the storm inside her.

By the time she reached the warehouse, she was shaking, barely holding herself together. She didn’t stop to think. She stumbled into one of the empty offices—the one farthest from where she kept her things, the place she always went when the bad days hit hardest. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps.

And then, the fire exploded.

Flames ripped from her body, wild and untamed, consuming everything around her in an instant. The room was swallowed in a violent blaze, the heat searing, suffocating. Bloom stood in the center, the eye of the inferno, her hands clutching at her head as if she could keep it from exploding out of her. Her screams were lost in the deafening roar of the fire.

She couldn’t stop it.

She couldn’t control it.

For a moment, all she could do was watch as the world around her burned, helpless in the face of the flames she had unleashed. It was like the fire was a reflection of her—raw, chaotic, impossible to contain.

And then, as quickly as it had erupted, the fire died down. She’d managed to pull it back, to reel in the flames, but it left her drained, trembling in the center of the charred room. The last flickers of flame danced briefly before flickering out, leaving only the hollow silence of destruction.

Bloom collapsed to her knees, her hands falling limply to her sides. Her throat felt raw from screaming, her entire body trembling with the aftermath of the storm she’d unleashed. The sobs that escaped her now were quiet, weak, almost swallowed by the oppressive silence that followed the blaze. She was so tired—tired of fighting, of pretending, of trying to fit into a world that didn’t seem to have a place for her.

She was tired of lying to herself. She didn’t belong here. Not in Alfea, not in the First World, nowhere. She was a mistake. A freak. A changeling.

Her mother had been right all along.

Bloom sat on the ash-strewn floor, feeling the weight of her own existence pressing down on her, suffocating her. She fidgeted with the Gateway Ring in her hoodie pocket, her fingers tracing the cool, intricate patterns on the metal. The ring felt heavy, like a reminder of all her mistakes, all the things she’d done wrong. What if she didn’t go back? What if she just stayed here, disappeared, let the world forget about her?

But even through the fog of despair, one thought pierced the darkness: the ring. She had to give it back. She couldn’t add another failure to the list. If she left with the ring, it would be another burden to carry, another mistake to haunt her. She couldn’t take that. She was already burning away in her guilt.

Her body ached, every muscle strained from the battle to control the fire, but she forced herself to take a breath. To think. To focus. And then, in the midst of her thoughts, something shifted.

A sound.

It started softly, a whisper, but it sent a cold shiver crawling up her spine. The air in the room grew heavy, thick with something unfamiliar, something wrong. Bloom’s heart pounded, and she stilled, straining to hear.

The whisper grew louder, disjointed, like a chorus of voices layered on top of each other. They were speaking, but she couldn’t make out the words. The sound crawled under her skin, like icy fingers wrapping around her bones. She turned her head slowly toward the window, the cracked glass from the fire distorting the dim light.

And then she saw it.

A silhouette.

It moved through the darkness outside the window, human-shaped but twisted, unnatural. It moved like something not meant for this world, hunched and feral, like a shadow brought to life. And then, a growl—low, guttural, and menacing—rumbled through the air, vibrating through the walls and into Bloom’s very bones.

Her blood ran cold.

The ring slipped from her fingers, clattering to the ground as she instinctively stumbled back, her heart hammering in her chest. She couldn’t look away from the window, from the creature outside, its shape distorted but unmistakable. It was moving toward her, its steps heavy, deliberate, each one sending a fresh wave of terror crashing through her.

She scrambled to her feet, retreating into the farthest corner of the room, her back pressed against the scorched wall, as if it could protect her. Her breath came in shallow, desperate gasps, her hands trembling violently as she crouched beneath the cracked window.

What is that? Her mind raced, panicked thoughts tumbling over each other. 

The words came to her mind: Burned One .

Her fire was gone—burned out, spent. There was nothing left inside her. She was empty.

The creature was closer now, the sound of its heavy breathing filling the room. The low growl grew louder, more savage, more real. She could hear its footsteps, slow and deliberate, each one a threat, each one pushing her further into the corner.

She was frozen, her entire body paralyzed by fear, her legs refusing to move, no matter how much her mind screamed at her to run. The terror was like chains, wrapping around her, holding her in place.

The growls stopped.

Silence.

The kind of silence that pressed down on her, suffocating, making every second stretch into an eternity.

Then, the whispers started again, so close now, filling the room, filling her head, wrapping around her thoughts like a web. The Burned One’s growl rumbled again, louder this time, just outside the window. It was here.

She was trapped.

And she knew it.

Farah surveyed the first-year students, their eager faces illuminated by the large screen showcasing the tournament. Their excitement crackled in the air, eyes wide and voices raised in cheer for the older students on the field. Yet amidst this palpable energy, Farah felt a profound detachment, her thoughts swirling like leaves caught in a tempest.

Her gaze methodically swept over the crowd, searching. Bloom was absent. So was Stella, her monitor. A tight knot formed in her stomach, an instinctual alarm ringing out. Bloom’s emotions had been a chaotic storm, roiling with fear, anxiety, and a fragile undertow of something deeper. Farah had been so consumed by pressing matters—the ominous Burned One danger, Rosalind’s shadow looming ever closer, the swirling chaos of the tournament—that she had neglected to check in on Bloom. Now, as the absence of both girls gnawed at her, regret settled in like an unwelcome guest.

She fought against the instinct to reach out with her powers to locate them. Bloom’s emotions often served as her only tether to the girl, thanks to the strange barrier surrounding her that rendered Farah’s abilities nearly useless. With Stella, she preferred to respect the boundaries of her students’ privacy, trusting them to find their way. Yet that nagging feeling—something was wrong—grew louder, demanding her attention.

Before she could act, her phone buzzed. It was a message from Ben,

“The Zanbaq you asked for is ready.
I’m in the greenhouse.”

Farah hesitated. She needed the oil, but what about Bloom? With a heavy sigh, she tucked her phone away and made her way toward the greenhouse. She would collect the oil first, then confront whatever turmoil awaited Bloom. Her heart sank at the thought of the girl, hoping against hope that trouble hadn’t spiraled beyond reach.

As she crossed the grounds, Farah caught sight of Sky, flanked by Riven, both clad in their bright orange armor, standing as judges of the tournament. Sky was rigid, eyes darting nervously toward the fairies dormitory entrance. Riven appeared as casual as ever, his focus elsewhere, likely planning some mischief or other. Farah had always felt uneasy about Riven’s influence on Sky. She had been a part of Sky’s life for so long, helping Saul raise him after his father died in… well, better not put one more problem in her mind right now. Though she tried to give Sky space to grow into his own person, her protective instincts were always there, lurking beneath the surface.

As she approached, Sky straightened, his posture tightening in that way he always did when he was nervous. Farah’s eyes narrowed slightly debating whether to probe deeper—using her powers to glimpse what was making Sky so uneasy—but she resisted.

“Sky,” she said, her voice calm yet probing, her gaze narrowing as she scanned his face. “Everything all right?”

“Yes, Headmistress,” he replied too quickly, his eyes flicking back toward the dorm, a shadow of anxiety crossing his features. His fingers drummed against his armor, a telltale sign of his unease.

Farah glanced toward the building. That strange unease in her chest returned, sharper this time. “There’s someone there?” she asked, though a grim suspicion had already taken root. She knew about Sky and Stella’s relationship, a tender thread weaving from childhood friendship into something more significant.

Sky hesitated, guilt flickering in his eyes. “No… just… tournament stuff,” he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

Not fooled, Farah followed his line of sight to the dormitory and extended her senses, searching the area. At first, all seemed normal, but then—something stirred. Not Sky. Not Riven.

Stella. A familiar rush of irritation and anger rolled through her, a storm cloud that always seemed to follow the girl. But beneath that, another sensation prickled at her—Bloom. Her pulse quickened, urgency propelling her forward.

Without a word, she turned toward the dormitories, leaving Sky and Riven behind. Her heart raced, an unsettling mix of protectiveness and dread urging her onward.

She approached the dorm entrance and caught sight of them. Stella, standing tall, her body language stiff and radiating irritation, while Bloom stood across from her, shoulders hunched, her hands towards Stella. The moment Bloom saw Farah, her posture tensed further, and her hands dug into her pockets.

Farah’s eyes sharpened, her instincts prickling at the obvious gesture. She didn’t know what Bloom was hiding, but the girl’s reaction made it clear that whatever was happening wasn’t good.

“What’s going on here?” Farah's voice sliced through the tension like a sharp blade, calm yet authoritative.

Both girls froze. Stella’s expression twisted into something halfway between annoyance and guilt, while Bloom looked like she was about to melt into the ground. Her head dipped, her eyes avoiding Farah’s.

Farah’s concern deepened. This girl was unraveling, slowly but surely, and Farah had to find a way to help her before it was too late. She looked even smaller than the first time Farah encountered her, paler, with big dark circles under her eyes.

“Bloom,” Farah said, her voice softer now but no less firm, “you’re supposed to be with the first-year students in the Great Hall. Why aren’t you there?”

Bloom swallowed hard, shifting awkwardly on her feet. Her lips parted, a lie already forming. “I… I needed to get a textbook I forgot in the greenhouse, and…”

Farah raised an eyebrow, remaining still, her scrutiny unwavering. The girl was a poor liar.

Bloom wilted under her gaze. The words seemed to fall apart in her mouth. “I was late,” she admitted, finally. Her voice barely above a whisper. She dropped her head, looking at the ground. “Sorry.”

A storm of guilt hung in the air between them, creeping into Farah through the bond they shared—one Bloom was blissfully unaware of.

“I’ll address this tomorrow,” Farah said, rubbing her temples, the weight of the moment heavy upon her. “Go. Now. It’s not safe for you here.”

Relief washed over Bloom, visible in her quick nod as she turned to leave. But Farah wasn’t finished.

“And Stella,” she added, her tone sharpening, “make yourself useful. Go with Bloom and assist the other monitors with the first-years.”

Stella’s jaw tightened, frustration barely concealed. Farah knew Stella resented the loss of her private suite privilege in favor of the monitor position, yet she nodded, not daring to challenge Farah openly. With one last irritated glance at Bloom, she followed her out. Farah watched them depart, the tension between the two palpable even from a distance. Bloom’s hands remained buried in her pockets, as if clutching something forbidden. A sinking feeling settled in Farah’s stomach. This was more than mere mischief; something deeper was amiss.

But there were other matters to attend to. Tomorrow, she vowed, she would uncover the truth.

The words “ you can’t protect her forever” oddly in Rosalind’s voice echoing in her mind.

Yet Farah wasn’t ready to surrender—not to Rosalind, not to the encroaching shadows, and certainly not to fate. She had to find a way to help Bloom before the girl’s inner fire consumed everything around her.

Farah made her way toward the greenhouse, the soft crunch of leaves under her boots barely registering in her turbulent mind. The late-night air had taken on a chill, a prelude to the deepening winter in Solaria. Normally, she would savor this—a moment of solitude, a contemplative walk that would be perfect if only Saul were by her side. But tonight, her thoughts swirled in a chaotic tempest. The Burned Ones. The sight of that mangled body had unearthed ghosts she had fought for eleven years to bury. 

Now, doubt seeped into her veins like a poison, tainting her resolve.

Stepping into the greenhouse, she was immediately enveloped by warmth—a stark contrast to the biting cold outside. The familiar scent of damp earth and fresh herbs wrapped around her like a comforting shawl, but it offered only fleeting solace. Her mind remained a whirlwind, burdened by the weight of everything pressing down on her.

Ben was hunched over his workbench, meticulously filling small vials with the bright orange Zanbaq oil. He looked up as she approached, wiping his hands on a rag, his tired smile an anchor in her turbulent sea of thoughts.

"Farah," he greeted, his voice warm yet tinged with exhaustion. "Just finishing the last of this batch."

She offered a small nod, her mind chasing the ever-growing sense that something was slipping through her fingers. But Ben was a steadfast friend, a balm for her frayed nerves. She could afford a moment to ground herself before plunging into the chaos Bloom was either living in or about to create.

“I’ll wait,” Farah said, her voice softer than usual. “It’s been a long day.”

Ben chuckled, though the sound was laced with fatigue. "A long day? More like a long week." He capped a vial and set it aside, his eyes locking onto hers. "You look like you’ve been running on fumes."

Farah leaned against the edge of the workbench, fingers grazing the cool glass of an empty vial. “Haven’t we all?”

He gave her a knowing look, the kind only old friends share. “How bad?”

A breath escaped her, heavy with the weight of unsaid fears. Running a hand through her hair, she confessed, "Bad. I feel like everything is unraveling faster than I can hold it together. And now..." She hesitated, grappling with the gravity of her thoughts. "The Burned One."

The words hung in the air, heavy and unwelcome. Ben’s expression tightened, his jaw clenching as he leaned back, the reality settling between them like a thick fog.

“You finally accepted, then?” His voice was quiet but edged with hardness.

Farah straightened, a surge of defensiveness rising within her. “I don’t know, Ben. I wish it weren’t true, but… Now I can only hope that it is just one.” She exhaled slowly, the weight of her fears sinking deeper. “Maybe one that got lost, one that survived somehow, but…” Her voice trailed off, caught in the tide of uncertainty.

Ben remained silent for a moment, then shook his head. "I don’t like the sound of ‘but.’"

“Neither do I,” she admitted, the unease coiling tighter in her stomach. "But even if it’s just one out there, we need to be prepared. We can’t let ourselves be caught off guard." The sound of her own voice felt foreign, as if she were trying to convince herself more than him.

Ben rubbed the back of his neck, clearly unsettled. "It’s just one, Farah…” he began, conviction fading swiftly. “… right? You don’t think there could be more than one, do you?"

Her stomach churned, the very thought making her skin prickle. She didn’t want to answer. “I doubt it,” she replied, her voice steady yet hollow. “It’s been eleven years. If there were more, we would’ve known.”

But would they ? The thought nagged at her like an insistent specter, whispering that perhaps something had slipped through the cracks over the years, that Rosalind had been less than forthcoming. The unsettling connections—the Burned One, Bloom’s unpredictable gift—coiled tightly in her mind, and she forced the fear back, unwilling to let it take root.

Ben didn’t seem convinced but chose to drop the subject, returning to the vials of Zanbaq. He inspected one under the light. “Well, the oil’s ready. If there’s even one Burned One, we’re going to need plenty of this.”

Farah watched him work, fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the bench. Suddenly, she felt Bloom’s anxiety spike again—sharper, more erratic. Something was wrong. She pulled out her phone, sending a quick message to Ms. Lindon, hoping to confirm that Bloom had made it back to the Great Hall. The last thing she needed was the girl wandering off again, especially now.

Ben glanced at her, sensing the tension radiating from her. "You seem distracted. Everything alright?"

Farah tucked her phone away, forcing a tight smile. "Just… students. You know how it is."

He nodded but lingered for a moment longer, concern etched in his expression. "How’s Bloom, by the way? She’s had a rough start, hasn’t she?"

Farah's heart jolted at the mention of Bloom. Ben, even as an earth fairy, had an uncanny ability to read her, their years of friendship forging an almost telepathic bond.

"She’s... complicated. Powerful but unpredictable." Her voice started steady but grew softer, her worries surfacing. “I’m worried about her, Ben. She’s not like the others."

Ben raised an eyebrow. “You mean her total lack of control? The incident in my class nearly torched my Aetherrose . I still don’t know how it survived.”

Farah managed a small laugh despite the tension clinging to her. "I’m surprised she didn’t burn down the entire school this week." It was true; Bloom’s emotions were a wild tempest, and Farah often wondered how the girl managed to cope.

Ben chuckled softly, shaking his head. "She’s got potential, but you’re right. She’s struggling.” He finished another vial, then paused. “But weren’t we all at that age?"

Farah’s smile faded as memories of herself at that age crept in. "She’s different, Ben. There’s something about her... I can’t quite explain it." She paused, then admitted softly, "And it worries me."

Ben gave her a thoughtful look. “She’ll find her way, Farah. They always do, with the right guidance.”

“I hope so,” Farah murmured, her thoughts still tethered to Bloom. She checked her phone again, anxiety gnawing at her as the silence loomed. No response from Ms. Lindon yet.

Sensing her shift in mood, Ben changed the subject. “You know, Terra’s been having a rough time too. I think she’s struggling to make friends, and I’m worried she’s shutting herself off.”

Farah’s expression softened. "She’ll be alright, Ben. Terra has a good heart. She’s just... growing into herself."

Ben nodded, though worry lingered on his face. "I know. It’s just hard watching them go through it. And Sam… he’s fifteen now and still hasn’t figured out what he wants. He’s smart, but he’s drifting."

Farah smiled gently. "Give him time. He’s at that age where everything feels uncertain. He’ll figure it out, just like we all did."

Ben sighed, leaning against the bench. "I hope you’re right. I just want them to be happy."

Farah’s phone buzzed in her pocket, and she quickly pulled it out, her heart sinking as she read the message from Ms. Lindon.

Bloom isn’t here. I haven’t seen her all day.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath.

Ben glanced up, concern deepening. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing," she lied, standing abruptly. She gathered the ready vials, tucking them into the pocket of her coat. "I need to go. Keep making the Zanbaq. We might need more than we think."

Ben nodded, though his eyes followed her with worry. "I’ll get on it.” As she reached the door, he called after her, “Oh, I almost forgot. About the clothes you mentioned earlier, do you still need them?"

Farah paused, remembering her earlier thought about Bloom. "Yes," she said, her mind racing ahead. "Bloom’s from California. I don’t think she has anything warm enough for Solaria’s winter. Could you check if Terra has any clothes that no longer fit her?"

Ben smiled warmly. "Of course. Terra’s growing like a weed these days, and Bloom is quite small for her age. I’ll see what we can spare."

"Thank you," Farah said, her words rushed. She was already moving toward the door again, her mind spinning with the fact that Bloom wasn’t in the Great Hall. As she stepped outside, the cold air hit her again, but it did nothing to quell the rising panic inside her. Something was terribly wrong. She could feel it—the sharp spike of Bloom’s anxiety, a surge that felt like physical pain, Farah had to stop and focus just on breathing, tears streaming down her face. She hadn’t felt Bloom like this since last week. And then, just as suddenly as it had spiked, it dropped.

Her phone buzzed again, pulling her back to reality. She recomposed herself, glanced around to ensure no one had witnessed her moment of vulnerability, wiped her tears, and read the chilling message from Ms. Lindon.

“Aisha, Terra and Musa came looking for you. 

They said Bloom ran off. 

That she probably has gone to the First World.”

Farah’s breath hitched, the implications crashing over her like a wave. Bloom was outside the barrier. Alone.

She didn’t think twice—she ran.

The wind lashed against Farah’s face as she raced toward the old cemetery, each gust biting into her skin, but her thoughts were elsewhere. The same path she had followed only a week before now felt infinitely more perilous. Then, she had found a frightened girl—lost but alive. Today, the stakes felt much higher, her heart pounding in sync with the sharp, erratic rhythm of her growing anxiety. The familiar pressure built in her chest, every possibility unfolding in her mind as she tried to stay ahead of whatever nightmare awaited her.

When she reached the cabin, her worst fears crystallized. The portal to the First World stood wide open, magic crackling ominously in the air. Dread washed over her like a tidal wave. She hesitated for only a second before stepping through, her breath catching at the acrid stench of burned flesh and rot. No.

And then, a sound. A low, guttural growl.

Farah’s blood froze. The Burned One.

The sound was followed by a scream. Bloom.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Without thinking, Farah moved toward the sound, magic sparking through her veins, ready to unleash the power she held in check. But before she could act, Bloom appeared, sprinting toward her, wild-eyed and panicked, her face a mask of terror.

Farah didn’t hesitate. "Don’t stop now!" she commanded, her voice calm despite the rising storm within her. She pointed to the portal, gesturing urgently, every fiber of her being focused on getting the girl to safety.

Bloom faltered for a split second before bolting toward the doorway, her fear fueling her speed. Farah stayed behind, her senses sharply attuned to the Burned One stalking closer. As soon as she felt Bloom cross through the portal, she flicked her wrist, slamming the door shut with a resounding thud that echoed in the silence.

For a moment, all was still.

And then, the growl—closer, louder.

Farah’s power surged to the surface, cold and sharp like the edge of a blade. The fear and dread that had gnawed at her all day now became fuel for her magic, the calm exterior she had worn cracking just enough to let her power flood in. Her eyes changed to a bright gray, her focus narrowing as she readied herself for the inevitable confrontation. She could feel the Burned One’s rage, the primal hunger that drove it forward. It was a force of nature, but she was no stranger to its kind. She had faced them before. She had survived. 

The Burned One lunged at her, claws outstretched, moving with deadly speed. It had the singular purpose of killing. Farah’s reflexes kicked in—her hand shot up, and a gust of wind blasted the creature, sending it staggering back. It snarled in frustration but kept coming. They always kept coming.

Farah knew she had to be faster. Smarter.

The Burned One charged again, but this time she was ready—after all, she was Rosalind's pride, her sharpest weapon. With a flick of her fingers, a line of searing flames erupted from the ground, engulfing the creature. The fire roared, its heat intense, but the Burned One pressed forward even as its charred flesh crackled and split. It was relentless, driven by something darker than pain or fear. Farah could see its every move before it happened—its claws swiping through the air, missing her by inches as she sidestepped with precision honed over years.

Summoning the earth beneath them, she gestured sharply, and the ground trembled. Cracks splintered the concrete as vines burst forth, wrapping around the Burned One’s legs and arms, pulling it down. The creature writhed, its screams slicing through the night, but the vines held firm. Farah could feel the strain in her magic, the earth itself resisting the dark force that fueled the Burned One. 

She knew—it wouldn’t hold for long.

The creature howled, a guttural scream piercing the night air as its body convulsed violently. The flames on its skin flared even brighter as she tried to use them to make the monster yield, but it fought relentlessly against the vines. Farah's heart raced, her muscles straining with the effort to hold it down. With a flick of her other hand, she telekinetically lifted debris—shattered wood, metal pipes, the remains of a desk—and hurled them at the Burned One. The objects slammed into the creature, knocking it back once more, but even that wasn’t enough.

I can’t hold on much longer, she thought, gritting her teeth as the vines weakened under the fury of the enraged monstrosity.

Sweat dripped down her forehead as she pushed harder, forcing the temperature to plummet, controlling the flames until they snuffed out. A sudden wave of icy air swept over the scene, colliding violently with the creature’s searing heat. Frost began to creep across the Burned One’s skin, steam rising as the cold overpowered the flames. Water droplets, drawn from the air, hovered around the creature, encasing it in a freezing sheath that crackled and hardened, slowing its movements.

For a brief moment, the creature faltered. Farah seized the opportunity, raising both hands and summoning every ounce of control she had over the elements. The water surged upward, encasing the Burned One’s legs in a thick layer of ice, crawling up its body and locking it in place. The temperature dropped further, until the Burned One weakened, its strength drained by the freezing cold.

It was barely moving now, its grotesque form bound in ice and vines.

I could end this right now, she thought, her fingers twitching with the familiar pull of incineration magic. She had killed them before. She could easily burn it from the inside out, extinguishing its existence with a single thought.

But doubt lingered, heavy and insistent. If this Burned One wasn’t an isolated threat, if there were more… She needed answers. Another corpse would provide none.

Farah clenched her jaw and made her decision. She wouldn’t kill it. Not yet.

With swift, precise movements, she pulled a small vial of Zanbaq from her coat. The glass felt fragile in her hand, a stark contrast to the chaos surrounding her. The Burned One struggled, its claws still digging into the frozen ground as it fought the magic binding it.

I have to be quick.

She took a deep breath and moved closer, staying just out of the creature’s reach. With a swift motion, she hurled the vial at its head. The glass shattered, orange liquid splattering across the Burned One’s charred skin. Almost immediately, acrid smoke rose from its body as the Zanbaq seeped into its wounds and coursed through its system.

The creature let out a final, wrenching howl, its body convulsing violently as the sedative spread through its veins. It staggered, its movements growing sluggish, the red glow in its eyes fading. Farah stepped back, her breath sharp and controlled, watching as the Burned One collapsed into its restraints with a heavy thud.

It was still alive, but unconscious.

Farah couldn’t take any chances. She knelt beside the creature, pulling out two more vials of Zanbaq and smashing them against its body, ensuring the sedative would keep it down for a long time. The acrid scent of the liquid mixed with the smell of charred flesh, filling the air with an oppressive weight. She stood, wiping sweat from her brow.

She took a moment to catch her breath and tucked the remaining vials back into her coat, her gaze locked on the unconscious Burned One before her. The fight was over, but her mind was anything but calm. Questions gnawed at her, uncertainty lingering like a shadow in the back of her thoughts. If this one had survived, how many more were out there? How long before they attacked again?

And what in the Otherworld had brought them back now?

She couldn’t shake the dread settling deep in her chest. The Burned Ones were supposed to be gone. Rosalind had made sure of that—they had made sure of that. Yet here one lay, breathing, alive—a grim reminder that the past was not so easily buried.

The creature’s body fell with a dull thud as she released it, the vines that had bound it slipping away, retreating into the earth. She could feel the exhaustion creeping into her bones, but there was no time to rest. Her mind raced, already calculating her next move. With a flick of her hand, she used her telekinesis to lift the creature’s limp form and turned toward the portal, ready for whatever came next.

Bloom stood just outside the cabin, her wide eyes reflecting a mixture of fear and disbelief. She looked so small, so fragile beneath the pale moonlight, and guilt flickered in Farah’s chest. As if everything else she was enduring wasn’t enough, Bloom had already faced something that was a nightmare even for adults. But there was no room for softness, not now. Not with a Burned One lying in wait and the danger still looming on the edges of the night.

"Is it dead?" Bloom’s voice trembled, barely more than a whisper, her gaze fixed on the floating creature.

“Did it touch you?” Farah's tone was sharper than she intended, her words cutting through the stillness. "Did it break your skin?"

Bloom shook her head, eyes wide.

"Are you sure, Bloom? Not even a scratch?"

"No, I—"

"Good." Farah’s response was clipped, her mind already racing ahead to the next task. "I’ll take you back to your room," she said, her voice brooking no argument. She needed to get Bloom to safety; the girl had been through enough. There was no telling what further danger could arise if Farah didn’t stay one step ahead.

She closed the portal, the air shimmered briefly, then the magic faded, leaving only the worn cabin in its place. Farah turned to the Burned One, guiding it into the cabin’s shadows, carefully lowering it to the ground. She glanced at Bloom now and then, aware of the girl’s silent presence behind her. The scent of damp earth and decayed wood clung to the air. The creature slumped, almost lifeless, contorted in the dim light.

Summoning her magic once more, Farah called upon the vines, watching as they snaked up from the ground, coiling around the Burned One’s limbs and torso. She strengthened the bindings until the creature was securely restrained, ensuring it would stay that way, even if it woke sooner than expected. There was no room for error.

Before leaving, she lifted her hand again, this time using the earth to seal the cabin’s door with a thick layer of roots and soil. The old structure groaned under the pressure, but Farah’s focus never wavered. It had to hold.

When she turned back, Bloom stood silently, watching her every move. Farah could feel the girl’s anxiety pressing at the edges of her own mind, a tight, uneasy tension that hung between them. She gestured for Bloom to follow. She didn’t trust the girl to make her way back to her room alone—not after everything that had happened tonight. The forest was still dark, the shadows heavy with unspoken threats, and Farah had already made the mistake of letting Bloom out of her sight once today.

As they walked, Bloom’s quiet voice broke the silence. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, barely audible. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

Farah clenched her jaw, torn between her own frustration and the girl’s obvious distress. She didn’t have time for this right now—there was still so much to do, and so much she didn’t yet understand. But Bloom’s words stirred something in her, a tug at the part of Farah that remembered what it was like to be young and frightened, with powers that felt too big to control.

"What was—" Bloom began again, but Farah cut her off.

“Not now,” her voice, again, away more sharply than she intended. "Let’s just get you to your room."

Bloom fell silent, but the weight of her emotions was palpable. Farah could feel the tension growing between them, the air around them thickening with unspoken fears. She hated feeling like this—torn between her duty to protect and the raw vulnerability she sensed in Bloom. It gnawed at her, a constant reminder that the line between being headmistress and being human was thinner than she let on.

When they reached the Winx suite, Farah stopped just outside the door. Bloom looked up at her, searching Farah’s face as though waiting for a scolding or punishment. Farah hesitated, the words heavy on her tongue.

"Tomorrow morning," she said at last, her voice firm. "I expect you in my office right after breakfast."

Bloom nodded, her eyes dropping to the floor.

Farah turned to leave, but something held her back. She sighed, turning to face the girl once more, her voice softening. “You were reckless, Bloom,” she said, quieter but no less serious. “Leaving the grounds, going into the First World… you put yourself in danger. And not just yourself. If that creature had stayed in Gardenia, it could have been catastrophic. You could have exposed us all—innocent people, your family… You could…” She paused, needing a breath as the weight of the thought stirred more emotion than she expected. “You could have died.”

She saw Bloom’s face crumble beneath the weight of her words, the guilt settling deep in the girl’s expression. Farah felt it too—the heaviness of Bloom’s anxiety pressing against her chest like a vice.

Farah sighed again. “Please, Bloom,” she said, her tone gentler now. “Don’t do this again. We can help you, but not if you keep putting yourself in harm’s way.”

Bloom’s eyes filled with tears, though she held them back, nodding silently.

“Go inside,” Farah urged softly. “Get some rest. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

Bloom hesitated, like she wanted to say something, but then turned and slipped into the suite, the door closing with a soft click behind her.

Farah lingered in the hallway, letting out a slow, measured breath. She had meant to be stern, to make Bloom understand the seriousness of her actions. But now, with the girl’s overwhelming emotions growing behind the door, Farah couldn’t shake the sting of her own guilt. She hadn’t wanted to be so harsh. But the stakes were too high.

Shaking her head, she pushed the feeling aside. There was no time for softness. Not tonight. The Burned One still needed to be dealt with.

With a final glance at the suite, Farah turned and headed back toward the exit, her mind already racing ahead to the next challenge, the next battle. The night was far from over.

Farah moved swiftly, her boots crunching against first the stone floor and then the cold earth as she made her way back toward the cemetery. The night air clung to her skin, sharp and biting, but she barely felt it. Her mind was too focused, racing through her options, trying to calculate the best course of action. The Burned One was still alive, unconscious and bound, but for how long? She needed to find a place, somewhere secure—somewhere far enough from Alfea, from the students, that it couldn’t hurt anyone if it woke up. And it would eventually wake up, she just wished that it took enough time.

She pressed her lips together, her thoughts shifting through a list of possible locations. The basement chambers of the school crossed her mind first, protected by stone and enchantments, just like Rosalind was. But no, that wasn’t an option. She couldn’t risk bringing it inside the barrier, inside the school grounds. It would be too dangerous. If it escaped, the consequences could be catastrophic. The students—she refused to put them in harm’s way like that.

There was a cave system nearby, one she had explored in her youth, when she was still a student at Alfea. Remote, dark, but unstable. It would be a temporary fix at best, and the risk of the creature escaping was too high. She needed something better, something more secure.

Then it hit her—the old barn. It was far enough from the school, abandoned for years. No one went there anymore. If she could contain the Burned One there, it would buy her time, time to gather her strength, to prepare, and then, tomorrow, she could delve into its mind. She needed answers. If there were more of these creatures out there, she had to know. Alfea had to be ready.

Farah quickened her pace, her breath escaping in short, visible puffs in the cold night air. She rubbed her temple, exhaustion settling deep into her bones. The day had pushed her to her limits—magically, physically, mentally, emotionally. She was utterly drained. All she wanted was to go home, make a cup of tea—or better yet, pour herself a glass of wine, sink into a hot bath, and let the silence wash over her in the arms of her specialist. But that would have to wait. The safety of the school came first, as always.

As she approached the cemetery, Bloom’s presence lingered in her mind—a heavy, persistent weight. The girl’s sadness clung to her like a second skin, seeping into Farah’s thoughts. She had tried to give Bloom space, to let her navigate the storm brewing inside her. But it was clear now that Bloom wasn’t going to come to her for help. Farah would have to be more watchful, without overwhelming her. It would be a delicate balance.

She reached the cabin and set to work removing the barrier she had placed. The door groaned open, revealing the Burned One still bound, its grotesque form illuminated by the faint moonlight. Farah let out a sigh of relief—it hadn’t woken.

She knelt beside the creature, commanding the vines to retreat into the earth. With a measured breath, she used her telekinesis to lift the Burned One, its limp body floating above the ground. The weight of it pressed against her magic, but she held firm, guiding it through the cemetery and toward the barn.

The path through the forest was long, but Farah didn’t stop. Her thoughts drifted back to Bloom, the girl’s face a mix of guilt and confusion. How could she have thought it was safe to go to the First World? What had driven her to take such a reckless risk? Frustration simmered beneath Farah’s calm exterior. It wasn’t just Bloom she was frustrated with—she was angry at herself. She should have been more vigilant. Farah had always prided herself on her ability to read her students’ emotions from a distance, knowing exactly when to intervene and when to give space. But this time, she had misjudged. Bloom wasn’t like the others. She wouldn’t simply ask for help. She was too isolated, too guarded, too consumed by whatever haunted her from within.

By the time she reached the barn, Farah felt the fatigue settling deep into her limbs. The structure loomed ahead, its once-sturdy walls now weathered and rotting, patched with sheets of metal to keep it intact, the roof sagging in places. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do for now. Farah pushed the creaking doors open and carefully lowered the Burned One onto the dirt floor near a central pillar.

The creature lay still, its grotesque form bathed in faint moonlight filtering through the cracks in the roof. Farah moved quickly, summoning vines once more to bind it, wrapping them tightly around its limbs and securing it to the ground. She reinforced the bindings by pulling the earth up around the creature, ensuring it wouldn’t break free. Then she approached and used the chains hanging from the pillar to secure it further.

She stepped back in one swift motion, not wanting to stay any closer to the creature than necessary, and surveyed her work. It would hold. It had to.

Farah lingered for a moment, her eyes locked on the Burned One’s motionless body. A nagging sense of dread crept in—this felt like more than just a rogue creature. Her instincts screamed that this was only the beginning. But she pushed those thoughts aside. For tonight, the threat was contained.

Taking a deep breath, she left the barn, closing the doors behind her and adding another layer of vines to keep them sealed. The Burned One would have to wait until tomorrow. Right now, her focus was on getting back to Alfea, making sure Bloom was safe, and finding some brief respite before the storm continued to build.

As she started the long walk back, Farah felt a new resolve harden within her—she wouldn’t make the same mistake again. She couldn’t. From now on, she would keep a much closer watch on the girl.

Later, Farah stood by the window of her office, the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders like an invisible burden. She had come here before returning home, needing a moment to gather her thoughts before facing Saul. Her fingers curled around the teacup, its warmth a fleeting comfort against the chill that had settled deep in her bones. Moonlight poured through the window, casting a silvery glow across the room, turning everything into a tapestry of shadow and light. Outside, the world lay still, indifferent to the tempest brewing within her.

Her mind raced, a chaotic whirl of thoughts she could not silence. Exhaustion crept through her veins, yet she knew she couldn’t afford to collapse—not yet. There was always another decision to make, another threat to confront. All she longed for was stillness, a fleeting moment to breathe. The tea, now lukewarm, offered scant solace, yet she drank the last of it, wishing it could somehow soothe the gnawing unease that clawed at her insides. She grappled with how to explain everything to Saul, the one person she should never have kept at arm's length.

Farah sensed Saul’s presence before she heard him, that familiar warmth radiating through their bond as he approached—steady, unwavering, always ready to lend support, even when she hadn’t asked for it. She didn’t need to turn around; she recognized his footsteps, the way he moved—quiet yet purposeful, never wanting to intrude, but always there. She could feel the imprint of him in her very core, an anchor amidst the chaos.

“You didn’t come home, love,” Saul’s voice broke the silence, soft yet laced with concern. “Is everything okay?”

Farah hesitated, her gaze still fixed on the window, where moonlight danced across the grounds, serene yet deceptive. The calm outside felt like a fragile façade, as if the world were holding its breath, waiting for something to shatter. She wished she could simply stop thinking—stop feeling—for just a moment. But that was an impossibility. The weight of the day’s choices, the truths she had to face, pressed down on her chest like a leaden cloak.

Swallowing hard, she finally spoke, her voice quieter than she intended. “I found it. The Burned One. It had passed to the First World through a portal left open by a student.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. She felt Saul’s sharp intake of breath, the shift in his posture, the tension that replaced his initial concern.

“What?” His voice was low, controlled, but the alarm lurked beneath. “How? Were you alone?”

Closing her eyes momentarily, Farah steeled herself for the conversation she dreaded. She turned slightly to catch a glimpse of his face, shadowed in the moonlight. “I chained it up,” she said, her tone steady, aware of the implications and his inevitable response. “In a barn outside the barrier.”

“You should’ve killed it.” Saul stepped closer, his tone firm, protective.

"And left it in the human world?" Farah faced him fully now, her expression hardening, though her exhaustion was evident in her slumped shoulders.

"You should’ve brought it back here and then killed it.” His voice was harsh, but through their bond, she could feel the worry pulsing from him. “Did it break your skin?" His gaze scanned her for any sign of injury.

"No, I’m not infected," she reassured him. "I've got Ben working on some oil from the Zanbaq flowers in the greenhouse. I've dosed it. It won’t be conscious for hours."

Saul’s brow furrowed as he stepped closer, reaching out to gently touch her arm. "Farah..."

"I need to get inside its head," she interrupted, her voice tinged with determination. "We need to know if this is an isolated incident or something more."

"Something more?" Saul’s voice dropped, the tension thickening around them. "Like what?"

Farah inhaled deeply, feeling the familiar ache of responsibility settle heavily in her chest. “I found a changeling in the First World,” she admitted, the weight of those words pressing down on her more than she had anticipated.

Saul’s expression shifted, surprise flickering across his features. “A changeling? I haven’t heard of one of those in centuries.”

“And yet,” she sighed, running a hand through the one lock of hair that escaped her bun, “there she was. Left eleven years ago, right around the time the last Burned One was spotted.”

Realization dawned in his eyes. “You think it’s all connected.”

Farah’s expression shifted, her usual stern demeanor cracking just enough to reveal the weariness beneath. "I’m struggling, Saul. Rosalind kept so much from us." Her voice wavered, just slightly, as she continued. "I’m worried about the students. The Alfea they know is very different from the one we attended. They have so much life to experience. Even if this world were safe, what they’re going through can feel impossible."

Saul’s gaze softened as he listened, understanding the immense weight she carried. Farah continued, her voice growing quieter, almost as if she were confiding more in herself than in him. "But this world isn’t safe, and I don’t know how long we’ll be able to protect them from it."

She paused, her eyes flickering back to the window, searching for something—perhaps for reassurance, perhaps for answers she didn’t have. "I know you feel it. The... shift." The word hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken fears. "They’ve had order for so long, they don’t know what chaos feels like."

Saul stepped closer again, his presence grounding her, though his expression was grim. "They might soon."

Farah didn’t respond, the gravity of his words settling over her like a heavy cloak.

And, for the first time in a long while, she questioned if she was ready for what lay ahead.