Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bloom stared hard at the shifting blur in her mind, her breath hitching as she struggled to hold onto the memory. The sterile, blinding light of the hospital seemed to press against her eyes, forcing them to water, while the distant, rhythmic beeping of machines filled the air like a constant, unnerving whisper. Her vision flickered, dipping between moments of sharp clarity and a confusing, heavy fog. In the middle of that haze, one sound cut through—the faint cry of a baby. It was so small, almost swallowed by the machinery’s hum, yet it seemed to stretch on forever, echoing in her bones.

And then, she saw her . The woman. Her figure was shadowed, as if she existed both within and outside the glaring light, her form blurry around the edges, like she was made of something not quite solid. She wore a thick jacket, heavy and out of place in the cold, antiseptic space of the hospital, and her face... it was almost impossible to make out, except for her eyes. Those eyes gleamed with a strange certainty—something Bloom couldn’t quite grasp, like a resigned knowing. Behind her, a doctor stood frozen, his face disturbingly blank, as though he wasn’t really there, as if the scene unfolding in front of him didn’t exist.

Bloom’s heart clenched painfully. The woman’s smile was small, barely more than a twitch of her lips, and it didn’t reach her eyes. Slowly, she leaned toward the baby—toward her? —and whispered, her voice barely audible yet heavy, like it was meant for Bloom alone.

“When the time comes, find me.”

The words seemed to sink into Bloom’s skin, lingering like a cold chill that wrapped around her heart. They were heavy with meaning, but whatever that meaning was slipped through her fingers before she could grasp it. And then the light intensified—blinding, burning—until everything vanished into white.

Bloom gasped, yanking herself out of the memory like someone being pulled from deep water. She shot upright, her chest heaving, the air burning in her lungs as she clawed for breath. Her fingers dug into the in her sheets, shaking, the world around her spinning in a dizzying blur until Aisha’s voice cut through the fog.

“Bloom?”

Aisha’s voice, usually so steady, was tight, edged with something close to panic. The sound made Bloom wince as she forced her eyes open, blinking rapidly. Aisha was right there, crouched beside her, her dark brown eyes wide and searching Bloom’s face like she was looking for a crack, something broken .

“Are you okay?” Aisha’s voice sharpened, her hands hovering just inches from Bloom’s arm, unsure whether to touch or stay back. “What just happened?”

Bloom swallowed, the taste of that memory still bitter in her mouth. “I—” Her voice scraped against her throat, rough, uneven, like she hadn’t spoken in hours. She swallowed again, harder this time, forcing down the panic. “I think I just saw...” The words tangled inside her, raw and jagged, but she pushed them out before they could settle. “The fairy. The one who left me there... in the human world.”

Aisha’s eyebrows shot up, her eyes flicking across Bloom’s face, trying to make sense of what she’d just said. “What?”

The air felt too thin. Bloom sucked in a shaky breath, her hands lifting to her head, tangling in her messy hair as she tried to steady the storm raging inside her chest. The woman’s face—what little she’d seen of it—flashed again in her mind, lingering like a half-remembered nightmare. “She... she was there. In the hospital. She left me.”

Her voice cracked, the weight of it pressing down like something physical, but she refused to let herself break. She couldn’t break. I’m done with being broken , she reminded herself, gritting her teeth against the rising wave of emotion.

Aisha’s expression shifted, a frown tugging at her lips as she tried to piece it together. Her hand hovered again, uncertain. “Are you sure?” Her voice was softer now, less panicked, but still thick with concern. “What if it’s just—”

“No.” Bloom’s voice came out harder than she meant, sharper. She forced herself to slow down, to breathe. “No, this was real. I felt it.”

She looked up at Aisha, searching for something in her friend’s face, something that might ground her. But all she could see was the woman’s shadowy smile, the way her words had sliced through the air like a promise. Or maybe a warning. “She told me to find her.”

Aisha didn’t speak for a long moment. Her expression wavered between disbelief and concern, her logical mind clearly wrestling with what Bloom had said. Bloom knew Aisha cared—probably more than anyone else ever had—but she was also someone who trusted in things that made sense, that were grounded in reality. Visions and memories that felt more like dreams weren’t something Aisha could easily accept.

But Bloom knew. Deep down, she knew it wasn’t a dream.

Two weeks later, Bloom found herself staring at old class photos, her fingers trembling slightly as they grazed the edges of the frames. Each face, frozen in time, seemed to mock her desperation, their smiles and serious gazes offering nothing but silence. She leaned in closer, her breath catching in her throat, as if willing one of these faded images to unlock the answer she so desperately sought. It was early, just before classes, and she and Aisha had slipped into one of the quieter halls where the portraits of former students stretched across the wall like a forgotten history. The faces stared back at her—some young and bright-eyed, others weathered by time—but none of them were the woman from her vision.

"Can we not do this again?" Aisha’s voice was tight, threaded with the kind of frustration that only comes after too many repeat conversations. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed firmly over her chest. Her dark eyes flicked between Bloom and the rows of photographs, but the weariness in her posture was unmistakable. It wasn’t just fatigue from the lack of sleep; it was the weight of being dragged back into this endless search, over and over again.

Bloom felt a twist of guilt gnawing at her, knowing she was pushing Aisha too far—again. But she couldn’t stop. She needed to know. "I know," she mumbled, her voice distant, her eyes still scanning the faces in the photos. "I know." Her body, however, betrayed her words, her hands already reaching for another frame, her mind spinning with half-formed hopes and possibilities. "There are still a few maybes," she whispered, narrowing her eyes at a faded black-and-white image of a fairy with long, almost translucent hair. The photo was too old, too grainy to make out much more. "It’s hard to tell what someone’s gonna look like when they’re older, but…"

She tilted her head, squinting as if the new angle might magically make the woman come into focus. "See? If I squint and tilt my head just right, this Farrah Fawcett-looking one is almost a dead ringer."

Aisha sighed heavily, the sound thick with exasperation. She peeled herself off the wall and took a step closer, her expression tight with irritation. "Bloom, there are a lot of fairies in the Otherworld," she muttered, her voice low but sharp. The patience she had been clinging to was beginning to unravel.

Bloom straightened up, her frustration bubbling up, hot and raw. "You said the most powerful ones come through Alfea, right?" The challenge in her voice was unmistakable, and even though she didn’t mean to, her words came out sharper than she intended.

Aisha’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t answer immediately. Instead, her eyes flicked toward the photo Bloom had been inspecting. "Technically, Alfea looks for magical potential when they admit students," she said slowly, like she was trying to choose the least explosive words. "But yes, powerful fairies come through the school."

Bloom’s heart gave a tiny leap of triumph. She was getting closer—she had to be. "This woman," Bloom insisted, her voice low and intense, "embedded a memory in my head eleven years ago. That seems pretty powerful."

Aisha’s eyes darkened with concern. "If that’s what happened."

Bloom turned to face her fully now, irritation prickling beneath her skin. "What else could it be, Aisha?" Her voice wavered, just for a second, betraying the deep-rooted fear gnawing at her—the fear that maybe she was wrong. Maybe this was all some twisted trick of her own mind.

Aisha met her gaze, her dark eyes steady, but there was something softer there now, something almost protective. "I just don’t want you to get your hopes up, okay?" Her voice was quiet, laced with caution, and yet underneath it, Bloom could hear the tension. Aisha was always the practical one, always the rational voice trying to pull her back from the edge. But Bloom wasn’t in the mood for practicality right now. She needed answers.

Bloom’s fists clenched at her sides, her frustration twisting tighter in her chest. "The night I opened myself up to magic, I got a memory," she said, stepping closer, her voice lowering with intensity. "She said, ‘Find me.’ She put me there, Aisha. There has to be a reason for it. I know she’s too old to be my mom, but... someone here has to know who she is. One of them has to."

Aisha’s brow furrowed, her gaze shifting back to the photos on the wall. She sighed again, quieter this time, her resistance starting to crack just a little. "Maybe Terra’s dad has some old yearbooks we can look through. After classes."

Bloom’s frustration eased, but only slightly, like a fire simmering beneath the surface. She wasn’t ready to let it go, not yet. "We’re both officially late for class, aren’t we?" she muttered, trying to distract herself, her mind already darting to the inevitable confrontation with Dowling.

Aisha gave a small, tired smile, one of those smiles that carried the weight of knowing what was coming next. "Yeah. And if I’m not wrong, you’ve got Dowling’s class now—you know, the one who gave us two weeks of detention?" Her voice took on a teasing edge, a light attempt to pull Bloom out of her spiral. "So maybe we should get going before we end up washing dishes for another week."

Despite everything, Bloom let out a small, dry laugh. Detention hadn’t been all that bad—just long hours of scrubbing pots in the kitchen. In truth, she could handle spending the rest of her days on kitchen duty if it meant never having to face Ms. Lindon again.

"Okay," Bloom muttered, turning to leave. "Let’s go."

But as they stepped out of the hall, her thoughts lingered on that woman’s face, and no matter how hard she tried, Bloom couldn’t shake the haunting whisper that followed her every step. Find me .

Bloom shuffled into the classroom, her shoulders tense, and Aisha’s hand hovered near her back, not quite touching but close enough to make Bloom feel watched. She didn’t need to turn around to know Aisha’s eyes were on her—tracking her, like always. It wasn’t that Aisha meant any harm; this was just who she was, always protective, always responsible, always watching everyone and everything. But that didn’t stop it from grating on Bloom’s nerves. It felt like Aisha didn’t trust her to handle anything on her own, and deep down, Bloom wondered if maybe Aisha was right.

The classroom felt warm as she stepped inside, a soft glow from the windows casting light over the room. It was a sharp contrast to the biting cold outside, but Bloom still hugged Terra’s oversized sweater tighter around herself. She didn’t like wearing it—accepting hand-me-downs felt too much like accepting pity—but the alternative was worse. Asking her parents for new clothes? Unthinkable. After everything that happened, after the fire… she couldn’t burden them with more. So she wore the sweater, too warm and too soft, and tried not to think about how much it bothered her.

She was late. She could feel it in the sharp look Ms. Dowling gave her when she entered. Bloom’s chest tightened, a flicker of guilt sparking inside her as she hurried to the back of the room, where Beatrix was already seated, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over her assignment. The sight of her own assignment made Bloom deflate instantly. Another exercise in control. Light one stick on fire, leave the others untouched. It sounded simple enough. For anyone who wasn’t broken .

Bloom sank into her seat, dropping her head into her hands as her gaze fell on the pile of sticks in front of her. Each twig seemed to touch the next, daring her to mess up. The arrangement felt mocking, like it was laughing at her. She was used to that feeling by now. In the weeks since the fire, since that night when she almost burned down her entire life, control had become an obsession. How little of it she had, how desperately she wanted it back.

Ms. Dowling’s voice floated across the room, a soft hum that Bloom barely registered. Her mind was elsewhere, trapped in the memory of the woman in her vision—the woman with the blurred face, the one who had whispered, Find me. Bloom’s chest clenched as she thought about it. There was no sense to it, but the memory wouldn’t leave her alone.

Ms. Dowling’s voice pierced through her thoughts, calm but firm. Bloom blinked, sitting up straighter, her attention snapping back to the sticks in front of her. "Your magic connects you to living things," Dowling was saying to an earth fairy nearby, her voice measured and soothing. "Feel how they communicate with you."

Bloom swallowed, her fingers curling into fists under the desk. Feel how they communicate with you . She didn’t know how to feel anything with her fire except fear. Every time she tried, it slipped away from her—wild, chaotic. Untamable. It felt like it wasn’t just fire she was fighting. It was something deeper, something raw inside her. Every time she tried to control it, it reminded her of all the things she didn’t understand about herself.

She lowered her head back into her hands, letting her mind drift. Her thoughts spiraled back to that night—the fire, the panic, the way it had torn through everything so easily. The guilt gnawed at her, and she had to bite her lip to keep from sinking into it again. She was always so close to falling back into that darkness. Why couldn’t she control it like everyone else? Was she really that broken?

Beside her, Beatrix’s magic flickered effortlessly across her desk, small arcs of electricity dancing at her fingertips. The sparks crackled softly, precise and sharp. Bloom hated how easy it looked for her, how Beatrix never seemed to struggle the way she did. Beatrix wasn’t afraid of her magic—she owned it. Maybe that’s why Bloom couldn’t help but be drawn to her. She was so different from Bloom, so fearless, so sure of herself.

“This is impossible,” Bloom muttered under her breath, more to herself than anyone else. “It’s like a trick assignment.” She chuckled, though it came out more bitter than she intended.

Beatrix’s sly smile curled at the edges of her lips as she glanced over at Bloom. “Maybe you’re just not looking at it hard enough.”  she teased, nudging Bloom lightly with her elbow before nodding toward Ms. Dowling, who had drifted closer.

Bloom straightened immediately, trying to keep herself from squirming under Ms. Dowling’s gaze. There was something about the way she looked at her, like she could see past all the masks Bloom wore—straight into the mess underneath.

"A fire that lays waste to everything in its path is instinctual and impulsive," Ms. Dowling said, her voice calm but pointed as she circled the table. "But what about when you need that fire to stop? Can you light a single piece of kindling and leave the others untouched?"

Bloom’s stomach twisted into knots. Could she? She wasn’t sure. Every time she thought she had a grip on it, the fire would slip away from her, leaving chaos in its wake. But something in Dowling’s voice felt different this time. Like a challenge. Like she believed Bloom could do it. That small flicker of belief stirred something inside her.

Taking a deep breath, Bloom placed her hands on either side of the plate,fingers trembling as if the fear might spill out through her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, searching for something to anchor herself, something solid that could hold her together when everything felt like it was coming apart. Her mind latched onto a memory—the one she always reached for when the world felt too heavy.

Nana. That one perfect day after her sixth birthday. The sun had been so warm, the air filled with the scent of flowers, and for just a moment, everything had seemed right . It was the day when possibility had felt endless, even though it had followed one of the darkest days she could remember. The memory sent a shiver down her spine, but it also held the only flicker of peace she knew. It was the happiest she had ever been, a fragile light she tried to hold onto whenever her world started to unravel.

Suddenly, a small flame sparked to life, flickering at the tip of one of the sticks. It wavered for a moment, uncertain, but then it grew brighter, stronger, burning through the kindling with precision. Only one stick had caught fire, leaving the others untouched. Bloom’s heart leaped in her chest. She had done it. She had actually done it.

She looked up at Ms. Dowling, a tentative smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. For a brief moment, the strict headmistress seemed to fade away, and all Bloom saw was Farah—the woman who had brought her into this world, who had believed in her when no one else had. A small, approving smile touched Dowling’s lips, quiet but real.

Beside her, Beatrix hadn’t stopped her display of magic. The small bolts of lightning continued to crackle across the desk, effortless and precise. Ms. Dowling inhaled slowly, turning her attention to Beatrix. "Impressive," she said, her tone even but acknowledging Beatrix’s control. "Keep it up."

Beatrix smirked, her confidence evident as she gave a quick, “Got it, Miss D.” Then, as if catching herself, she corrected, “Headmistress… Dowling.”

Ms. Dowling’s mouth tightened briefly, but she moved on, her eyes scanning the room for the next student. As soon as she was out of earshot, Beatrix rolled her eyes dramatically and muttered under her breath, “Your Grace.”

Bloom couldn’t help but stifle a laugh, though it felt strange—laughing with Beatrix of all people. Beatrix had a way of pushing her buttons, always toeing the line between annoying and entertaining, but there was something about being around her that made Bloom feel lighter, freer. It was like Beatrix didn’t expect anything from her—no sympathy, no pity. With Beatrix, she didn’t seem to be the reckless girl everyone worried about. She could just be . Beatrix made her feel daring, more determined, like the version of herself she wished she could be all the time.

It wasn’t the same as her friendships with the other girls. With Aisha, Bloom felt a different kind of bond—one built on trust, even if Aisha could be overbearing at times. Sharing a room made it impossible to hide much, and Bloom knew she could always confide in her when things became too overwhelming. There was a closeness between them that felt safe, but it came with an unspoken pressure. Aisha expected her to open up, to be vulnerable. Sometimes, that expectation felt heavier than Bloom could handle.

Then there were Musa and Terra. 

Bloom didn’t feel as connected to them, but she enjoyed the easy, relaxed moments they shared. Like last week, when they all watched the Percy Jackson series together, and now Terra was completely obsessed with Greek mythology. Bloom had even made an exception and lent Terra her own Percy Jackson books—something she never usually did. 

Or how Musa had introduced Bloom to her favorite bands one quiet afternoon, and when the Pixies’ jagged melodies filled the room, Bloom was completely hooked. The rawness of it, the way the music felt like it tore something open inside her—it was electric, unlike anything she'd ever known. In return, she shyly shared her love for Taylor Swift. Musa had heard of her, of course—who hadn’t?—but she brushed it off, claiming she didn’t really do pop music. But Bloom had noticed—small moments when Musa was lost in thought, with her headphones, as always, quietly murmuring the words to "this is me trying" or "Haunted" under her breath, as if the music had found a way into her despite her protests.

Those moments were light, full of laughter and warmth, but still, Bloom kept a part of herself hidden, holding back without even realizing it.

With Beatrix, it was different. There was no pressure to fit in, no expectation to share her feelings. Beatrix didn’t ask for vulnerability or sympathy. Being around her made Bloom feel bold, even fearless —like she could act without doubting herself. She felt almost powerful, in control. In a way, Beatrix brought out a version of Bloom she didn’t know she had—someone strong, confident, someone who didn’t need to prove she wasn’t broken. It was the version of herself Bloom longed to be.

The rest of the class passed in a blur, the minutes slipping by as Ms. Dowling moved between students, offering guidance. But Bloom felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time—a small sense of accomplishment. She had controlled the fire. And for once, that felt like enough.

As the class ended, Dowling dismissed them with a nod. Bloom gathered her things, ready to slip out, when Ms. Dowling’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

"Bloom, can you stay for a moment?"

Bloom sighed, already preparing excuses for her lateness. She glanced over at Beatrix, who shot her an exaggerated look of mock pity before sauntering out of the room. The door clicked shut, leaving Bloom alone with Ms. Dowling. The familiar weight of expectation settled over her as she slung her backpack over one shoulder and stepped toward the desk, her heart thudding in her chest.

“Yes, Ms. Dowling?” Bloom’s voice came out quieter than she intended, a hesitant whisper.

Farah sat behind her desk, her posture poised yet somehow relaxed, like she had all the time in the world. Her eyes met Bloom’s directly, sharp but not unkind. It was that odd mix of warmth and distance that always unsettled Bloom. Farah had a way of looking at her—really seeing her—but at the same time, it felt like she was peeling back layers Bloom wasn’t ready to expose.

“I know we don’t have much time before your next class,” Farah began, leaning back slightly in her chair. “History of Magic, right?”

Bloom nodded, unsure where this was going. Her stomach twisted with that familiar knot of anxiety. 

Farah’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. “And we know how much Wrinklezilla hates lateness.” She used the students’ nickname for Professor Tallon, her voice lighter than usual. Bloom couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at her mouth, a small laugh almost escaping. She was so used to the headmistress being serious, almost distant, that moments like these made her seem almost... human. Like she understood what it was like to be a student here.

“If you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it,” Farah added with a soft smile, her tone lighter now, teasing.

This time, Bloom couldn’t hold back the small laugh that bubbled up, though it was still restrained, almost cautious. Farah smiled in return, but Bloom could see the shift in her expression. The lightness faded, replaced by something more serious, more thoughtful.

“You’re improving,” Farah said, her voice smoothing into the familiar calm that Bloom had come to associate with her. “Not just in my class. I’ve been hearing good things from your other professors too.”

Bloom’s face flushed, her cheeks burning with the unexpected praise. “Thanks,” she mumbled, not quite sure what to do with the compliment. Praise always felt awkward, like something that didn’t quite fit. She wasn’t used to it—not after all the criticism she’d grown up hearing. Especially from her mother.

Farah’s gaze didn’t waver. “Today’s your last day of detention, right?”

Bloom nodded, bracing herself for the lecture she was sure was coming—about following the rules, about how detention shouldn’t become a habit. But it didn’t come.

“Good,” Farah said simply, surprising her. “Let’s hope it’s the last one I have to give you.”

The sting of guilt bloomed in Bloom’s chest, sharp and sudden. She had earned her detentions, no doubt about that. Farah was giving her space to learn, but the weight of her mistakes still pressed down hard. She wasn’t used to people giving her that space.

There was a pause. A heavy, uncomfortable silence that made Bloom shift in place, her skin prickling. She knew where this conversation was heading, and she didn’t want to go there.

“How are your sessions with Ms. Lindon going?” Farah’s tone softened, gentle but probing. “She mentioned recommending three times a week.”

The mention of therapy made Bloom’s whole body tense. She hated those sessions. The forced conversations, the feeling that she was being picked apart like something broken that needed fixing. She was trying—giving just enough to seem engaged, while holding back the parts of herself she didn’t trust anyone with. Not after the last therapist her mom had sent her to. That woman had shared everything with her mother, every single word, in a way that just confirmed what her mother already thought of her.

Ms. Lindon was different, or at least she said she was. She promised their conversations would stay private. But Bloom wasn’t naive. Ms. Lindon worked for the school, and Ms. Dowling was, well... Ms. Dowling. Of course, she would know everything.

Seeing the tension in Bloom’s face, Farah quickly added, “I know therapy can be uncomfortable, but I really do think it could help you in the long run.”

Bloom didn’t want to disagree, but she could feel the discomfort bubbling up, threatening to spill over. She shifted on her feet, unsure how to respond without sounding ungrateful. “Yeah…”

Farah stood from her desk and moved closer, her voice softening with a more intimate tone. "Bloom, I know this feels like a punishment, and I admit the way I presented it might have added to that. But this isn’t meant to punish you. After everything you’ve been through, there are some things you need to confront—things that deserve more attention."

Bloom’s defenses went up instantly. How could she see this as anything but a punishment? It was exactly what she despised—being forced to open up, having her mind probed—and nothing could change that. Her back straightened, and before she could stop herself, the words spilled out. "I don’t need a shrink for that," she said, her voice sharper than intended.

Farah sighed, but her tone remained calm. “I do think you do need a psychologist , Bloom. You’ve been through more than you realize.”

The air felt suddenly heavy, stifling. It pressed down on Bloom from all sides, tightening around her. Her mind raced, scrambling for the right words to escape the conversation without crossing a line. “I…” she started, but nothing came. No argument, no escape. It didn’t feel like this was something she had a choice in.

Farah’s expression softened even more, her eyes searching Bloom’s face with quiet care. “I’m not going to force you,” she said, her voice low and deliberate. “Even though I truly believe it’s helping. But if you feel it’s not something you want, I’ll talk to Ms. Lindon. We can stop the sessions next week. I won’t make you go through something that doesn’t feel right for you.”

Bloom blinked, caught off guard. She wasn’t used to adults giving her a choice—especially about things they thought were “good for her.” The idea of having control over this, even just a little, felt strange. Unfamiliar. “Really?” she asked, almost hesitant, like it might be taken away.

Farah nodded gently. “Really. But I’d appreciate it if you went today. Ms. Lindon is expecting you, and she’s already set aside time for the session.”

Bloom glanced down, her mind spinning. A part of her wanted to say what she was feeling—to end the therapy, be done with it. But something kept her from shutting the door entirely, not when Farah stood there, offering her the choice. In that moment, Farah wasn’t just the headmistress anymore. She was Farah , someone who seemed to genuinely care about what Bloom needed, not just what she or other people expected.

“I guess… I can try for a few more sessions,” Bloom said, her voice quieter now, more reflective. “But maybe… once a week instead?”

Farah’s eyes softened in quiet relief, her smile restrained but warm. “Okay. I’ll talk to her.”

For a brief moment, Bloom met Farah’s gaze, and something seemed to click between them—a quiet understanding, maybe even a flicker of trust. It felt unexpected, but real. She allowed herself a small, genuine smile. “Thanks, Miss D.”

Farah arched an eyebrow, her usual sternness flickering briefly before melting into a softer, knowing smile. “You’re welcome, Bloom. Now, go on. Have a good weekend.”

Bloom had nearly reached the door when Farah’s voice stopped her.

“And Bloom,” Farah added, a trace of amusement coloring her tone, “let’s try to keep it a quiet weekend for the Winx suite, alright?”

Bloom smirked, feeling the lightness of the moment. “I’ll do my best,” she replied, before slipping out the door.

Bloom couldn’t help the small, crooked smile that tugged at her lips as she stepped into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind her, the sound fading into the quiet, sterile air of the school corridors. Beatrix was waiting, leaning against the wall with that effortless air of mischief, her eyes alight with something that always felt like a game—dangerous, but thrilling.

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” Bloom said, trying to keep her tone casual as they started walking. Her stomach was still twisting, in a nice way, from the conversation with Ms. Dowling, but she shoved it down. “I know you’re in Advanced HisMag.”

Beatrix turned on her heel, walking backward like it was the easiest thing in the world, her lips curling into a mock-serious pout. “What did the old hag want?” Her voice dripped with disdain.

Bloom shot her a sideways look, raising an eyebrow in warning. “Beatrix…” she began, but there was no real bite in her voice. She was getting used to Beatrix’s way of pushing boundaries—skirting just close enough to trouble without seeming to care. It was irritating, but there was something about it that stirred a strange excitement in Bloom, a thrill that felt new and dangerous.

Beatrix just grinned, unbothered. “Come on, Rusty, don’t tell me you’re going full teacher’s pet on me now.”

Bloom sighed, her steps slowing. “You know you’ll get caught eventually if you keep calling her that,” she muttered, trying to inject a bit of reason into the conversation. But she knew it was useless. Beatrix didn’t do reason, not when it came to authority.

Beatrix stopped in front of her, spinning with a dramatic shrug that said everything about how little she cared. “So? What’s a little trouble?” she quipped, her grin widening. Without missing a beat, she dropped her bag to the floor and started rifling through it, completely unconcerned about the ticking clock or Bloom’s rising impatience.

Bloom glanced down the hallway, her gut knotting. She was already late, and Professor Tallon was infamous for his ironclad policy on punctuality. “If you’ve got time to waste, I don’t,” she muttered, shifting her weight. “I’m already late for class.”

Beatrix ignored her, still rummaging through her bag with deliberate slowness. “And here I thought I was doing something nice,” she said, her tone light as she finally pulled out a small, battered book. “Wanted to give you a present.”

Bloom blinked, the sharp edge of her irritation dulling into confusion. “A present?” she echoed, her voice skeptical. The idea of Beatrix giving anyone a gift felt... off, like there was some hidden angle Bloom wasn’t seeing yet.

Beatrix smirked, holding the book out, her movements slow and deliberate. “Yeah. Found this and thought it might interest you.”

Bloom took the book cautiously, her fingers brushing over the rough, worn leather. It felt old, the pages yellowed and fragile under her touch. There was no title, no markings—just an unassuming, weathered cover. She opened it carefully, her eyes widening as she caught sight of the sketches inside, old, detailed drawings of creatures she recognized immediately—a Burned One.

“Okay…” she murmured, her voice trailing off, unsure what to make of it. But before she could study it further, Beatrix’s hand shot out, snapping the book shut with a swift, precise movement.

“Don’t let the teachers catch you with that,” Beatrix warned, her voice low, serious. The teasing playfulness was gone, replaced with something harder, more real. She grabbed Bloom’s backpack and started slipping the book inside, her movements swift and practiced.

Bloom frowned, unsettled by the sudden shift in Beatrix’s demeanor. “Ms. Selwyn might—”

“It wasn’t in the library,” Beatrix cut in sharply. “I found it.”

Bloom’s heart skipped a beat. Her curiosity flared, sharp and insistent. “Where?”

Beatrix’s lips curved into a sly smile, her eyes gleaming with the secret she held. “Where everything interesting is hidden at this school,” she said, her voice dripping with intrigue. “The East Wing.”

Bloom's pulse quickened. The East Wing. She’d heard the whispers, the stories about it being sealed off, forbidden. A place no one was supposed to go. “The East Wing?” she echoed, her voice tinged with skepticism but laced with curiosity she couldn’t quite hide.

Beatrix’s eyes sparkled with mischief, clearly savoring the suspense. “If Alfea’s a house, the East Wing is the rug where they sweep all the dirt under. Everything they don’t want us to know, the things they hide from us—that’s where it goes.”

Bloom’s mind raced. The East Wing held secrets—could it also hold answers? Could there be something there about the woman from her memory? "Did you see any photos?" she asked, trying to sound casual, but her voice betrayed a hint of eagerness.

Beatrix tilted her head, her gaze narrowing, sharp as a blade. “Why are you asking?”

Bloom hesitated, her stomach tightening. She couldn’t risk giving too much away—not yet. She already faced enough doubt from Aisha, and Beatrix was… different. Unpredictable. “I’m looking for someone,” Bloom finally said, her voice careful, deliberate. “Someone who might’ve been here a long time ago. A student.”

Beatrix’s gaze sharpened, her playful facade falling away for a brief moment. She studied Bloom’s face like she was trying to decipher some hidden meaning. But then, just as quickly, the mask returned. She shrugged, zipping up Bloom’s bag and handing it back to her. “I think I saw some photos, yeah. In the same room where I found the journal.”

Bloom’s heart hammered in her chest, but she forced herself to stay cool. “Would you show me?”

Beatrix grinned, and there was a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Now? I thought you were late for class.”

“I am,” Bloom admitted, her frustration bleeding into her voice. “Not now. Later.”

Beatrix raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the game she was playing. “After classes?”

“No, I’ve got… something.” Bloom faltered, not wanting to explain about the therapy session. She could already imagine the teasing look Beatrix would give her. “Tonight. After my detention.”

Beatrix’s smirk widened, her interest piqued. “Tonight? You do know the senior specialists are throwing a party in the East Wing tonight, right?”

Bloom frowned. That was a complication she hadn’t considered. “For a military school, there sure are a lot of parties,” she muttered, more to herself than to Beatrix.

Beatrix let out a sharp, amused laugh. “Put a bunch of teenagers together, and what do you expect? But that place is going to be crawling with upperclassmen. Maybe we should wait until tomorrow. Or whenever.”

Bloom’s frustration flared. She wasn’t in the mood for more waiting. “What, are you scared now, Miss ‘What’s a little trouble?’”

Beatrix’s eyes widened in mock offense, and she pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. “Scared? Of sneaking into the East Wing during a party? Please, Rusty. I’m just thinking about my goody-two-shoes friend here.”

Bloom rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the tug of a smile at Beatrix’s antics. “So, let’s do it this evening instead, before the party kicks off. And if it starts while we’re there, we try to slip out quietly.”

Beatrix paused, considering, before a thoughtful smirk spread across her face. “Fine. Text me later with the details. But seriously, you better run now—you’re already super late.”

Bloom huffed, but the rush of anticipation buzzing in her veins was undeniable. “Fine,” she called over her shoulder, breaking into a jog down the hall. The thought of finding answers quickened her pulse, making her heart feel like it was about to leap out of her chest.

A quiet tension settled over Farah as she stood by the window, the pale morning light casting long shadows across the room. This view had always been her refuge, a place where she could watch over the specialists’ training grounds below, a silent observer to the world she was meant to guide. Her gaze, sharp but softened by years of practiced restraint, instinctively found Saul. He was there, as always—defying everything. Defying the wound that should have kept him bedridden, defying Ben’s repeated advice to rest. Saul leaned heavily on a quarterstaff, his movements deliberate but slower, more labored than usual.

Farah’s fingers tightened on the window frame, the cold biting through her skin despite the warmth she maintained in her classroom. She knew him too well. Saul would rather risk his life than surrender to the stillness of recovery. Frustration simmered beneath her calm surface, but it was woven with a deep helplessness. Pushing him to rest was pointless; she’d seen what happened when he was forced into inactivity—how his spirit withered. He needed movement, purpose. But watching him now, struggling, she felt the familiar ache of concern claw at her. He should be resting. He should be safe.

Farah’s breath caught in her throat as she thought about how close she had come to losing him. Her mind wandered back to that night, the shadows of it still clinging to her, no matter how much she tried to suppress them. Sixteen soldiers. Sixteen lives taken—so young, too young. She remembered their faces, the way she and Saul had trained them, shaped them into the warriors they had become. And then, in one brutal moment, they were gone. The weight of last Sunday’s memorial lingered heavily—the memorial, the cold silence of the families as they took their children’s lifeless bodies back home. She had stood there, her face a mask of calm, because that’s what was expected of her. But something inside had cracked.

Farah had seen too many losses. Too many times delivering bodies to grieving parents, too many times offering hollow words of comfort. The last few years under her command had been far less bloody than Rosalind’s, but the difference felt insignificant when compared to the pain of those left behind. It never got easier. The faces of the dead were always with her, etched into her memory—their promises, their potential, snuffed out.

Her eyes drifted back to Saul. At least he was still here, she reminded herself. She couldn’t afford to dwell on the past, on the dead. But the weight of their loss was impossible to ignore. The burden of command was one Farah had grown accustomed to, but that didn’t mean it was easy.

She sighed, her breath fogging the window slightly as she continued to watch him. Saul had been cheating death, somehow. Farah knew luck had played an absurd role that day—Bloom, Aisha, Terra, and Musa had no business being outside the barrier. The thought tightened her chest; the recklessness of it all still haunted her. But they had survived. Against all odds, they had survived.

Her jaw clenched at the memory. The idea of those girls— children —facing a Burned One in the dead of night was something she hadn’t been able to shake. She’d spent sleepless nights replaying every moment, every possible way it could have gone wrong. Farah's jaw relaxed, a wave of conflicting emotions washing over her. She was relieved— truly relieved—that Sky and Stella had stayed within the safety of the barrier that night. They were young, only slightly older than Bloom, Aisha, Terra, and Musa, but still far too inexperienced to face a Burned One. Even with their advanced combat training, they weren’t ready for something that deadly. None of them were. The thought sent a chill through her, a reminder of just how close they had come to disaster.

Yet, she felt a twinge of uncertainty. If they hadn’t been there, if they hadn’t acted when they did, Saul wouldn’t have made it. There was no question about that. Sky had spotted the Ironwave Battalion’s jeeps near the path that took the old barn, trying to make contact with Aidan—one of the fallen soldiers. Farah remembered him, remembered the proud smile on his face as he recited the Oathbound Term at his graduation less than a year ago. And now, his name was etched into another list of fallen soldiers.

Farah was caught between gratitude and guilt. None of them should have been out there, yet if they hadn’t been, Saul wouldn’t have survived. The truth gnawed at her—she couldn’t afford to lose any of them, not the girls, not Sky, and certainly not Saul. But in the chaos of that night, their presence had been both a risk and a lifeline. It left her feeling unmoored, unsure of whether to be relieved or devastated by the reality of their survival. Farah’s thoughts tightened around the chaos of that night, the images playing over in her mind like a slow-moving storm. Terra, Musa, Aisha, and Bloom had somehow managed to haul Saul’s limp body to the jeep. Sky had helped, his face ashen with fear but steady. He had driven them back to Alfea in a vehicle meant for trained specialists, not students.

Three hours. Saul had bled out in the forest for three excruciating hours before they reached him. It was a miracle he had survived at all.

Farah closed her eyes, drawing in a long, controlled breath, forcing herself back into the measured calm she needed. There was no room for vulnerability here. She was the headmistress, and the role demanded unshakeable composure. She had worn that mask for years, even when her world teetered on the brink. Not even when Saul had nearly died had she let it crack.

Farah’s thoughts circled back to Bloom, a quiet undercurrent of concern pulling at her. The girl had been at the center of everything—again. A first-year student, yet she had faced a Burned One twice and lived to tell the tale. Farah wasn’t sure if it was sheer recklessness or raw, untamed potential, but she couldn’t deny that Bloom possessed something extraordinary. And that worried her. Bloom’s magic was volatile, unpredictable. A reflection of her impulsiveness, her tendency to throw herself headlong into danger without hesitation. That was just another thing to keep Farah awake at night. She could see the potential simmering beneath the surface, but it was the recklessness that made her uneasy. It was a fire—wild and raw—that could easily spiral out of control if left unchecked. In many ways, Bloom reminded Farah of herself at that age.

The girl had made progress, yes. The wild bursts of magic had become less frequent, more focused under Farah’s careful guidance, but there was always an edge to her. A restlessness. Farah knew that feeling all too well—the need to do , to act , to confront the unknown head-on. But Bloom was still so young, still so naive to the dangers lurking just out of sight. She didn’t see the forces that could exploit her power, the shadows waiting to swallow her whole. The Burned One was only the beginning. Farah had seen where that kind of recklessness led, how it could devour someone entirely, leaving only ruin in its wake.

And then, there was the deeper fear, the one Farah rarely allowed herself to acknowledge. It wasn’t just that Bloom might lose control of her magic—it was that Farah might lose control of Bloom. The girl was headstrong, fiercely independent, and that made her difficult to guide, difficult to protect. Farah had seen what happened when someone with power slipped beyond anyone’s reach. Rosalind had been proof enough of that. If Bloom ever decided to chase after her own answers—if she ever ventured too far—Farah wasn’t sure she could bring her back.

Her gaze drifted to the training grounds, settling on Saul once again. He was still there, standing in the frail light of the cold morning, his body casting long, weary shadows. The infection was draining him, more than he’d ever admit, more than he would allow her to feel. But Farah could sense it, the familiar brush of his pain against her mind—constant, gnawing, like the cold grip of an unseen hand tightening around both of them. It was unbearable. Through their bond, the tether they had shared for years, she felt the sickness creeping through his veins, like ice stealing the warmth and strength.

Her thoughts drifted to their argument the night before. Saul had been as stubborn as ever, insisting she stop trying to pull his pain away, that she let him bear it alone. But Farah couldn’t see it that way. She wouldn’t. This was no burden—it was what she could do for him. The least she could offer the man who had always stood beside her, always carried his own share of their burdens. But Saul was proud, impossibly so, and the infection was making him short-tempered, irritable. It wasn’t the first time they had clashed that week, and she feared it wouldn’t be the last.

The frustration, the helplessness—it had been building inside her for days, threatening to crack her calm exterior. She had watched him closely, seen the changes in his face, the strain in his movements, the way his temper flared more easily now. He was deteriorating in front of her, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop it. The thought of losing him—it was intolerable.

But she couldn’t let herself dwell on that. Not yet. She clung to the small shred of hope she had received earlier that morning: the Sunfire and Thunderstrike Battalions were closing in on the Burned One responsible for Saul’s injuries. Marco, one of their most skilled specialists, was leading the mission. If anyone could take down the creature, it was him. Farah held onto that hope like a lifeline. Once the Burned One was gone Saul would have a chance to recover.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a slow, steadying breath. The weight of everything pressed down on her—more than it had in years. So many lives rested on her decisions, on her shoulders. The students, the specialists, Bloom, and Saul. For so long, she had managed to separate the personal from the professional, to keep her emotions in check. But now, the lines were blurring, and the fear of losing control—of losing everything—was more real than it had been in years.

Farah opened her eyes, the shadows lengthening on the training grounds as the day wore on. Saul was still moving, still pushing himself despite the toll it was taking. She knew he wouldn’t stop until his body forced him to.

Stubborn , she thought, a faint, weary smile touching her lips. But that was Saul—always had been. And it was one of the reasons she cared for him so deeply.

Her eyes flicked down to her phone, silently willing it to light up with news. Any news. The waiting was painful, the helplessness even more so. If sheer willpower could have changed things, she would have torn the Burned One from existence herself by now. But no amount of wishing would speed up the end of this nightmare.

The phone remained silent, its screen dark and lifeless. Farah sighed, the tension in her shoulders tightening with every passing second. She turned her attention to the student reports scattered across her desk, her movements mechanical, precise. She gathered the papers methodically, slipping them into a drawer—anything to keep her hands occupied, anything to distract her mind from drifting toward those darker corners where fear lurked, waiting to consume her thoughts. 

As Farah closed the drawer, something caught her eye—something she had almost forgotten. A small vial sat tucked in the corner, nearly invisible amid the other clutter on her desk. It was the potion Ben had crafted for her two weeks ago. Her fingers hovered over it for a moment, hesitant, before picking it up. The liquid inside was translucent, nearly indistinguishable from water, but Farah knew better. She held the vial up to the light, her mind drifting back to the day she’d asked Ben for it. The Heritage Elixir. She had given Ben hardly any explanation for what she needed, and he, trusting her as he always did, hadn’t questioned it.

Farah stared at the vial, feeling the weight of her intentions pressing down on her. She told herself she already knew the result. It was impossible—impossible to hope for what this test might reveal. Yet, there it was, buried deep beneath her pragmatism and caution. A flicker of hope. Small, fragile, but undeniably present. She knew it was foolish to cling to something so improbable, yet it remained, stubborn and persistent, like a quiet ember she couldn’t quite extinguish.

Her fingers lingered over the vial before she placed it back on the desk with a delicate care. Next to it, a soft handkerchief lay folded—a piece of cloth she had intended to use earlier for something mundane. But now, it seemed to carry more weight, more meaning. Farah’s gaze drifted across the room, landing on the table where Bloom and Beatrix had sat earlier that morning. She unfolded the handkerchief, smoothing it between her fingers as her thoughts turned to the girl who seemed to be at the center of everything.

Bloom had settled into Alfea with a fierceness that Farah hadn’t anticipated. Though she struggled with rules and seemed determined to test every boundary set for her, she was forming bonds, real bonds, with the other girls. Her connection with Aisha, Terra, and Musa was exactly what Farah had hoped for. Bloom needed friends who could ground her, who would challenge her but also support her. Aisha’s steady sense of duty, Terra’s warmth, and Musa’s quiet wisdom—they were perfect influences for someone like Bloom, whose natural impulsiveness could easily lead her down dangerous paths.

But then there was Beatrix.

Farah’s grip on the handkerchief tightened as her thoughts turned to Beatrix. The girl had always been an enigma—brilliant, cunning, and elusive. On the surface, she wasn’t a problem student, at least not in any obvious way. Sure, there were the occasional sharp comments or moments of defiance, like the one in class that morning, but nothing that stood out as overtly dangerous. In the short time Bloom had been at Alfea, she had caused far more trouble, racking up detentions with almost relentless consistency. 

But Beatrix was different. It wasn’t her behavior that set off alarms—it was the way she navigated the school, as though she was operating on a level no one else could see. There was a sharpness in how she watched everything, how she seemed to slip through the cracks unnoticed. She never made herself the center of attention, yet nothing escaped her gaze. It wasn’t what Beatrix did that unnerved Farah—it was the sense that she was always waiting, always playing a game that no one else knew they were part of.

And lately, it seemed that Beatrix had set her sights on Bloom.

Farah’s jaw clenched. She had noticed the subtle shift in their interactions, the way their interactions had become more frequent, more familiar. It wasn’t overt, but it was enough to unsettle Farah. Beatrix wasn’t openly corrupting Bloom, but something about their growing closeness felt wrong, off. Farah’s instincts, finely honed from years of navigating unseen threats, told her that something was brewing beneath the surface.

She reminded herself, once again, that it wasn’t her place to dictate who Bloom befriended. Bloom was her own person—strong-willed, fiercely independent, and reluctant to accept guidance. Farah understood that better than anyone. And Beatrix, despite the quiet unease she stirred in her, hadn’t given any concrete reason for suspicion. Yet the discomfort remained, gnawing at Farah every time she saw the two together. It echoed something familiar—a feeling she had experienced watching Sky grow close to River. River, once a shy, quiet boy, had evolved into a mischievous teenager, always testing boundaries, always on the edge of trouble.

Sky, like Bloom, was his own person, and Farah knew she couldn’t control his friendships any more than she could control Bloom’s. But with Sky, it was different. She had helped Saul raise him, formed a bond with him that blurred the line between mentor and family. She cared for Sky deeply, even if she struggled to show it. But with Bloom... Bloom was her student, nothing more. She had no right to interfere in the girl’s personal life, no justification for the protectiveness that surged up within her towards the girl.

And yet, that gut feeling—that deep, instinctual sense that something wasn’t right—refused to be silenced. Farah had learned long ago to trust her instincts, and they whispered to her now, telling her that Beatrix was a danger lurking beneath the surface. Something about her was off , and Farah couldn’t shake the suspicion that Beatrix’s attention had shifted—from trailing Farah through the halls like a cat stalking its prey, to focusing intently on Bloom.

That shift unsettled her even more.

It was like a slow tide rising within her—a fear born from years of experience with hidden dangers, of threats that often masked themselves in plain sight. Farah had often been able to sense when something wasn’t right, and this… this wasn’t right. But how could she approach Bloom without pushing her away? Without driving her deeper into Beatrix’s orbit?

Farah sighed, a heaviness settling in her chest. Perhaps she was overreacting, letting her protectiveness cloud her judgment. She had to trust Bloom’s strength and resilience, had to believe that the girl could find her way through this on her own. After all, Bloom had begun to open up—tentatively, but undeniably—by agreeing to therapy. It was more than Farah had expected.

When she had first suggested therapy—no, forced it upon her—Farah could now see how wrong her approach had been. She hadn’t given Bloom much of a choice, and though her intentions were good, she wished she’d handled it with more care, more respect for Bloom’s autonomy. But despite her missteps, Bloom had agreed. She had allowed herself to be vulnerable, to try , and that was no small thing.

Bloom’s situation was unlike that of any other student. The Otherworld was entirely foreign to her, an alien realm that defied everything she had once understood about life. Farah had dealt with homesick students before, but Bloom’s case was different—far more extreme. She had been uprooted, thrust into a world of magic and danger with barely any time to adjust. And discovering she was a changeling—so abruptly—had shattered something within her. Farah could still hear the moment Bloom had asked the question, the weight of it hanging in the air.

It was Farah’s choice not to tell her, hoping to gradually ease her into this new reality, to protect her from the emotional shock. She had convinced herself that revealing the truth when Bloom was more grounded, more secure in who she was, would be the right approach. But deep down, Farah knew the truth: part of her had hoped Bloom would never have to face it at all. That perhaps, in some way, Bloom could remain untouched by the cruelty of that knowledge.

That truth had opened doors to too many unanswered questions—questions that hung in the air like a storm cloud. And now, with the immediate danger of Bloom opening another portal behind them—especially after the tense confrontation with Stella over the ring—it felt like they had only just managed to contain one threat, only for another to rise. Farah had confiscated the ring, handling the situation delicately to avoid involving Luna. But there was still so much Bloom didn’t know, so much Farah couldn’t explain. Bloom was moving through a minefield, and Farah wasn’t sure she could protect her from the explosions waiting to go off.

Her gaze drifted to the burned kindling still sitting on Bloom’s station, untouched since the class had ended. A single twig, charred from the precise flame Bloom had conjured. Farah’s chest tightened. Bloom had made remarkable progress, more than she had anticipated in such a short time. The raw power that had once been wild and uncontrollable was now tempered, focused. But even with this newfound control, something about Bloom still left Farah uneasy. It wasn’t fear of her magic—that had faded as Bloom learned to harness it—but something deeper, something more personal. It gnawed at Farah during every interaction, lingering in the spaces between words, in the silences that stretched too long.

Reaching out, Farah’s fingers brushed against the brittle surface of the charred twig, her mind turning over the significance of it. It wasn’t the twig itself that mattered—it was what it represented. The magic Bloom had summoned, the control she had demonstrated. Slowly, Farah wrapped the twig in a soft handkerchief, her movements deliberate, almost ritualistic, as though this small act held more meaning than anyone else could understand. And perhaps it did.

She tucked the cloth into her palm, feeling its weight, her heart tightening with an unspoken, unresolved tension.

Farah knew she shouldn’t be doing this. She knew the results would be exactly what she expected—nothing. No link, no bloodline connecting her to Bloom. Yet despite that certainty, she couldn’t stop herself. Something was pulling at her, something deep and instinctual, no matter how illogical it seemed. This wasn’t idle curiosity. It was a question that had been quietly gnawing at her, one she hadn’t dared speak aloud. If Bloom’s magic, her power, was connected to Farah’s in any way, it would answer something deeper, something Farah had buried long ago. 

She couldn’t shake the sense that there was an explanation for the connection she felt with Bloom, the bond that had come out of nowhere between them. But maybe it wasn’t about blood. This feeling—it was unlike anything she had ever experienced, not even with... No, not there. She pushed the thought away. She would make the test, the results would come back negative, and then she could focus on discovering what this bond truly was.

She knew better than to give in to such foolish thoughts. She had spent too many years carefully guarding herself against this kind of hope, against letting emotions cloud her judgment. Rosalind had taught her that lesson too well. And yet, Farah couldn’t entirely ignore that sliver of longing, no matter how much she tried to smother it. She hated that feeling—the one of being trapped between her own emotions and everything she had built to live under Rosalind’s scrutinous gaze. Even after all these years, she could still hear the whispers in the back of her mind, reminding her that Rosalind’s grip still lingered around her throat.

With a quiet sigh, she placed the wrapped twig beside the vial on her desk. There was a strange symmetry between the fragile glass and the soft cloth—two delicate pieces of an unfinished puzzle she was trying to solve. But no matter what the results revealed, she knew there would be no true clarity. Only more questions, more uncertainty, as she searched for answers that always seemed just out of reach.

Farah sat down slowly, her mind weighed down by thoughts she couldn’t shake. The cold of the room seeped into her, but she barely felt it. Winter was coming, and with it, a sense of something darker on the horizon. The wind outside howled softly, as if searching for answers too.

She glanced once more at the vial, knowing full well that the truth she sought was impossible. But even as logic settled over her, that small flicker of hope lingered—almost absurd in its fragility. A reminder of something Farah rarely allowed herself to feel. And she hated that it was there at all.

For now, she would bury it, as she did with so many of her emotions.

She had been trying—tentatively, carefully—to bridge the distance between herself and Bloom. The girl was a mystery, more so than Farah had anticipated, and every interaction felt like it sent Farah to the edge. Bloom was brilliant, determined, powerful. But she struggled under authority, especially Farah’s. And yet, recently, things had shifted. Their connection had lightened, the tension easing ever so slightly. But even that progress felt overshadowed by something else.

Farah’s bond with Saul had consumed much of her focus lately, the weight of his suffering pressing down on her constantly. She had spent all her energy siphoning as much of his pain as she could. It wasn’t a burden she minded, not in the slightest, but it was all-consuming. The ache, the cold infection—it was a storm she felt she was drowning in, leaving little room for anything else.

The sudden, shrill ring of her phone shattered the quiet, yanking Farah from her thoughts. Her heart leapt, rising into her throat as she scrambled to grab the device, nearly knocking the handkerchief off her desk. Hands trembling, she fumbled for it, her breath catching before she answered.

"Marco?" Her voice was steady—or at least she tried to make it so. She moved toward the window, her eyes instinctively searching for Saul as she spoke. "Any updates? Are you still tracking the Burned One? Where are you now?" She knew she should space out her questions, but the urgency clawed at her. She needed answers, and she needed them now.

“Clatville,” Marco’s voice crackled through the line, tense but tinged with hope. Farah’s pulse quickened. She reached for the maps she had been poring over for days, spreading them out across her desk as he continued. “We missed the last attack by under an hour. We’re right behind it.”

Farah’s mind raced, fingers hovering over the map as she traced the path the Burned One had taken, moving swiftly over towns and landmarks they’d been monitoring. "Use the Vanya River," she said, her voice clipped, focused. "Burned Ones struggle to navigate large bodies of water."

“We know,” Marco replied, his tone firm, confident. “It’ll be cornered by morning.”

Morning. Farah’s heart sank. They didn’t have until morning. The weight in her chest grew heavier, pressing against her ribs like a vice. "We may not have until morning, Marco," she whispered, her voice barely containing the panic she fought to keep at bay.

“We’ll call you when we get it,” Marco said, his voice final, as if there were no room for doubt.

"Marco, just keep me up—" The line cut off abruptly, leaving her standing there, the phone still clenched tightly in her hand. For a moment, all she felt was the crushing weight of helplessness, so suffocating that she nearly gave in to it. She should be out there, with them, hunting the creature, ensuring it was destroyed before it could wreak more havoc. Before Saul reached his breaking point, or the inevitable fate of those infected by the Burned Ones claimed him. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t leave Saul.

Her eyes flicked back to the training grounds, but Saul was nowhere to be seen. A fresh wave of anxiety surged through her, and she closed her eyes, reaching for him through their bond. His mental barriers—stubborn as ever—were weak, flimsy in his condition. She pushed past them, ignoring the slight resistance he offered, and pulled his pain into herself, as much as she could bear. The cold sensation of the infection clawed at her, seeping through her veins like ice, but she gritted her teeth and absorbed it, refusing to let him carry it alone.

Even though it made the room feel colder and darker, the shadows stretching as the weight of it all pressed down on her, Farah Dowling did not yield to despair. Not now. Not ever.

With a slow, deliberate breath, she straightened, forcing herself to move. If she couldn’t be with the battalions, if she couldn’t be there to ensure the Burned One’s capture, she would at least make herself useful here. She moved methodically around the classroom, preparing for her next class with the fifth-years. Every movement was precise, controlled, though her mind raced with the fears she couldn’t allow herself to fully acknowledge.

Her hands trembled only slightly as she adjusted the chairs and gathered the materials, each task grounding her in the present. The familiar ritual of preparation gave her something to hold onto, something steady in the midst of the chaos. But beneath that calm surface, the cold claw of fear remained, unshakable.

When everything was set just right, Farah stepped back toward her desk, her gaze drifting once more to the potion and handkerchief still resting there. They seemed to represent the conflict she couldn’t escape—fragile symbols of hopes she wasn’t yet willing to admit, hopes that felt impossible. With careful, measured movements, she returned them to the drawer, pushing aside the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her. There was no space for those feelings now, no room for distraction.

She knew that in a world filled with impossible things, hope—no matter how fragile—was the most dangerous of them all.

Bloom’s fingers worked the paper with absent precision, folding the small square between her hands as if on autopilot.  

The room’s quiet was overwhelming, almost suffocating. The ticking of the old-fashioned clock on the wall seemed louder than usual, filling the space with its unyielding rhythm. Bloom barely registered it, though, her attention fixed on the small crane forming under her hands. A neat stack of pastel paper sat untouched beside her, its soft colors a blur in her peripheral vision. She couldn’t even remember when she had started folding—only that it gave her restless hands something to do, a way to channel the nervous energy that always twisted inside her during these sessions. Her fingers moved on their own, pressing the folds into place with a kind of mechanical precision, as if her body knew the motions better than her mind did.

A faint, cloying scent of irises lingered in the air, sweet to the point of being sickening. Bloom found it heavy, stifling, like it was seeping into her lungs. The dark purple flowers stood in their usual place on the coffee table, their rich, velvety petals too vivid, too staged, like they didn’t belong in a room that felt so sterile. Ms. Lindon’s office was immaculate, everything perfectly placed—controlled. It exuded the kind of calm that only made Bloom feel more out of place, messier just for being there. This sense of order and control seemed to be a theme at Alfea—everything had its place. Except her. She stared at the half-finished crane in her lap, the edges slightly crooked from her distracted folding, her fingers faltering as the weight of the silence pressed down on her.

"Bloom," Ms. Lindon’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth and calm as always but sharp enough to jolt her from her thoughts.

Bloom’s fingers froze mid-fold, and she looked up, blinking as if emerging from a fog. "Yeah?" Her voice came out clipped, defensive. She hadn’t meant it to.

“You’re quiet today,” Ms. Lindon observed, her hazel eyes watching Bloom with that composed, unsettling stillness. “More than usual. What’s on your mind?”

Bloom glanced down at the paper crane in her hands, tracing the folds with her thumb as if the motion could somehow anchor her. She felt the words rise in her throat, but they tangled there, heavy and sharp. With a hesitant flick of her wrist, she held the crane up, her eyes not meeting Ms. Lindon’s. "Do you know the myth?" she asked, her voice quieter than she had intended, though she wasn’t sure why she was speaking at all. It was like she’d stepped into a conversation she wasn’t ready to have, yet the words slipped out before she could stop them.

Ms. Lindon tilted her head, calm as ever, her gaze focused but unreadable. "No, I don’t think I do."

Bloom shifted on the couch, twisting the paper crane in her fingers, buying herself a moment. "There’s this story," she started, her voice low, as if testing the waters. "About a crane… I don’t remember all of it, but this guy finds a crane with an arrow in its wing. He pulls it out, saves it. The crane flies away, and later this girl shows up at his house, says she’s his wife now." She let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound almost bitter. "Weird, right?"

Ms. Lindon gave a slight nod, not interrupting, her eyes patient, waiting for Bloom to continue.

"They live together for a while," Bloom went on, her hands fidgeting with the crane, "but the girl asks him to build her a room to weave. She makes these beautiful cloths but tells him not to watch while she’s working. Of course, he does." Bloom’s gaze flickered up for a moment, her eyes hardening as she met Ms. Lindon’s for a split second. "He finds out she’s actually the crane he saved. She’s been pulling out her own feathers to make the cloth. When she realizes he’s seen her, she leaves. Just... flies away. Forever."

The paper crane crinkled slightly in her grip, and Bloom’s voice dropped to a softer tone, almost fragile. "That’s it. She’s gone, and he never sees her again." Her fingers smoothed the paper, more a habit than anything else now. "Cranes are a symbol of success, good fortune… at least in Japanese culture." She paused, letting the silence stretch, her voice growing quieter. "Supposedly, if you fold a thousand of them—origami cranes—your heart’s desire will come true."

Ms. Lindon stayed silent, her presence calm, allowing Bloom to control the pace of the conversation. The silence wasn’t oppressive, but rather, it felt open, like it was waiting for her to fill it.

Bloom swallowed, feeling the knot in her throat tighten. "A girl at school told me about it when I was nine… after I found out my grandmother was, well, sick." She felt her breath hitch in her chest, her fingers twitching with the urge to stop, to shut down the words spilling from her. Why am I telling her this? But it was too late to pull back now. "She showed me how to make the cranes. Told me if I folded a thousand, my wish would come true. And I—I thought maybe if I did it, my grandma wouldn’t die."

The room felt smaller, like the walls were closing in, and for a moment, Bloom’s mind swirled in the oppressive fog of grief that still clung to her. When she spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper. "Do people get cancer here? In the Otherworld?"

Ms. Lindon paused, as if weighing her words carefully. Her expression remained thoughtful, detached. "No," she said after a moment. "Tumors exist, but they can usually be controlled with magic. It’s not something we have to worry about."

Bloom let out a hollow laugh, the sound brittle, sharp. "Maybe I should’ve woken up my powers sooner, then. Maybe I could’ve brought her here, and they could’ve cured her."

Ms. Lindon’s face softened just slightly, but her voice stayed steady, clinical. "You couldn’t have known."

"No," Bloom muttered, her eyes dropping back to the crane in her hands. She picked at the edges of the paper, as if trying to undo it, to unravel it all. "But I wish I did."

The weight of everything she wished she could change pressed down on her. She wished she could go back, stop the fire, stop the fights with her mom, stop her grandmother from getting sick. She wished she could control anything . But the truth was, she couldn’t. She could barely control the small flame she’d summoned in class, and it terrified her—how much was beyond her reach, how much simmered just beneath the surface, waiting to break free.

The silence settled again, heavier this time, like a weight pressing down on Bloom’s chest. She could feel her emotions swirling just beneath the surface—raw, jagged—but she was determined to keep them in check. Ms. Lindon’s calm, unwavering gaze was on her, waiting for her to speak, but Bloom didn’t know what else to give. There were places inside her she wasn’t ready to go, places she didn’t think she ever would be ready to visit.

"I’m just… tired," Bloom finally muttered, her voice small, as if it didn’t even belong to her. "Tired of wishing for things that won’t happen."

Ms. Lindon didn’t flinch, her presence as still and composed as ever, like a mirror reflecting none of Bloom’s internal chaos. "You don’t have to feel responsible for things beyond your control, Bloom," she said, her voice steady and deliberate. "What you can control is how you move forward."

Bloom’s hands trembled slightly as she held the origami crane, staring at it as if it held all the weight she was feeling. How could something so small and fragile carry so much? The paper felt rough against her skin, but her mind was too full to focus on it. Every moment she’d spent folding those birds, every wish she’d whispered into their fragile wings, came rushing back in a storm she couldn’t control. Ms. Lindon didn’t understand, but Bloom knew. She was to blame.

Blinking hard, Bloom refused to let another tear fall. She’d already let one slip earlier, and that was more than enough. She wouldn’t cry. “I couldn't do it” she murmured “I didn't wish hard enough.”  her voice barely a whisper.

Ms. Lindon shifted slightly in her chair, her calmness infuriating, steady in a way that made Bloom feel even more on edge. Before she could say anything, Bloom pressed on, her voice tight with frustration that threatened to spill over. "I thought I had control," she said, the words rough around the edges. "I thought… if I just made a thousand cranes, if I worked hard enough, it would fix everything. But it didn’t. All it did was make my fingers bleed."

She let out a bitter laugh, so hollow it barely felt like her own. "A thousand stupid paper birds. And my grandmother—she’s still dead." The words hit the air like stones, blunt and unforgiving. "She was the only person who ever really cared about me, and now she’s gone. So if everyone here thinks I’m broken… well, congratulations. You’re right." Her voice cracked, but she swallowed hard, forcing down the emotion. "I’m broken, and there’s no fixing that."

Her fingers tugged harshly at the folds of the crane, tearing it apart piece by piece. The small, repetitive destruction gave her something to focus on, something to ground her as she slowly unraveled the paper in her hands, just as she felt herself unraveling inside. She didn’t even notice when the small scraps of paper began to fall to the floor.

Ms. Lindon’s voice cut through the fog in Bloom’s mind, calm and clear as ever. "Bloom… in every session we’ve had, you’ve made one of these."

Bloom frowned, confusion breaking through the haze. She looked up, her hands still as the words sank in. "What?"

Without a word, Ms. Lindon stood and moved across the room with that same deliberate grace that always seemed to irritate Bloom. She pulled out a small, unassuming box from a cabinet and placed it in front of Bloom. Opening it, she revealed five perfectly folded cranes, each one neatly arranged inside.

"Every session," Ms. Lindon repeated, her voice soft but firm. "You’ve made one of these."

Bloom stared at the paper birds, her throat tightening as an ache rose inside her. She hadn’t even realized she’d been making them, hadn’t noticed how often her hands had fallen into the familiar pattern, folding and refolding, desperate for something to hold onto. They were neatly placed in the box, five fragile reminders of her quiet attempts to keep everything from falling apart. The sight of them made something stir in her chest—something she didn’t want to feel.

Anger? Grief? Maybe both. Maybe neither. Whatever it was, it was too much.

Ms. Lindon’s gaze didn’t waver. "You told me what they used to represent for you. But what do they represent for you now?"

Bloom couldn’t answer. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the small paper birds in front of her, each one folded with the same desperate care she’d poured into the thousands she’d made as a child. Her gaze lingered on one of them—a crane made from tissue paper. She remembered that one clearly. It was from her first session, when she hadn’t known what else to do with her hands and had torn a tissue from the box on the table beside her, folding it over and over until it resembled a bird. Back then, the box of tissues had sat where the colorful paper now did. The rest were folded from the sheets Ms. Lindon now left there, softly colored squares of paper that felt like a silent invitation, though Bloom hadn’t thought much about it until now.

The memory of it all—the endless hours spent folding, wishing, hoping—made her sick. She hated how clear it was now, how much it meant without her even realizing it. After what felt like an eternity, she finally spoke, her voice quiet but sharp.

"I don’t want to talk about origami anymore."

Before Ms. Lindon could respond, Bloom’s fists clenched, and flames flickered to life, dancing across the paper birds in the box. She watched the fire curl around each crane, consuming them one by one. She made sure to keep the flames controlled, contained to the box—just like in Ms. Dowling’s class earlier. One bird burned completely before she moved to the next, her anger feeding the fire, until all that remained were ashes.

Ms. Lindon didn’t flinch, watching the flames die down before speaking again. Her voice was soft, gentle. "How did burning them make you feel?"

Bloom’s eyes flickered to her, her expression hard. "Like it would’ve been easier if I’d had my powers when my Na—" she paused, her voice catching, "—when my grandmother died. I could’ve burned all the cranes then. Instead, my mother just threw them away."

Ms. Lindon’s face softened. "How do you usually refer to her?"

Bloom frowned. "What?"

"Your grandmother," Ms. Lindon clarified, her tone still calm. "You called her something different just now. What did you usually call her?"

Bloom shrugged, her guard rising again. "Why does it matter?"

"The way we address people often tells us a lot about our relationship with them," Ms. Lindon said, leaning forward slightly, her voice gentle but firm.

Bloom didn’t answer. She just stared at the floor, her thoughts tangled and messy. She didn’t want to talk about her Nana. She didn’t want to talk about anything she’d lost.

Sensing her reluctance, Ms. Lindon didn’t push. "It’s okay if you don’t want to say. I used to call my grandmother Grammy," she offered, her voice softening. "It was our little thing."

For a long moment, Bloom didn’t respond. She didn’t know why, but after a beat of silence, she muttered, "Nana."

Ms. Lindon nodded, her tone still warm. "That’s a very affectionate way to refer to her."

Bloom shrugged again, feeling the weight of the conversation pressing down on her. She didn’t want to talk about it anymore, but the ache in her chest wouldn’t go away.

Ms. Lindon’s gaze remained steady, and after a moment, she spoke again, her voice quiet and understanding. "I think I understand a little better now what the paper cranes meant to you… and why you burned them."

Bloom stared at the ashes in the box, her fingers twitching as if she could still feel the paper in her hands. "It didn’t work," she muttered. "It was stupid."

Ms. Lindon leaned back slightly, her expression thoughtful. "Maybe the cranes weren’t about making a wish come true. Maybe they were about trying to control something… to hold on when everything else felt like it was slipping away."

The words hit Bloom harder than she expected. Her chest tightened, her jaw clenched, and she swallowed hard, her throat constricting. She hated how close Ms. Lindon’s words came to the truth. Hated how much they cut through the walls she’d so carefully built.

"It doesn’t matter," she whispered, barely loud enough to be heard. "None of it matters."

Bloom sat rigid on the couch, her fingers curled tightly in her lap, trying to keep herself steady. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed louder now, each second driving deeper into her nerves, fraying the fragile control she clung to. She hated how exposed she felt in these sessions, like her every word was being dissected, pried apart for meanings she barely understood herself. And today, she had let her guard down too much. She didn’t know how it had happened—how she had let her defenses slip this far.

Ms. Lindon’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts with that same composed, deliberate tone. “Bloom, when I talked about the words we use to refer to others, I wasn’t just talking about them. I was also talking about how we refer to ourselves.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “Today, you called yourself ‘broken.’”

The word landed with a weight Bloom wasn’t prepared for. Broken. It hit her like a punch to the gut. She’d said it without even realizing how much truth was behind it. It had slipped out so easily, so naturally, that it felt like it had already woven itself into her identity, wrapping around her like a second skin that she couldn’t peel off.

She blinked hard, forcing back the tears that threatened to spill over. She wouldn’t cry again. Not here. Not in front of Ms. Lindon. She wasn’t going to give her that satisfaction.

Ms. Lindon didn’t push, just waited in her calm, unflappable way, her voice softening when she spoke again. “That’s a powerful word, Bloom. Can you tell me what it means to you?”

Bloom’s jaw clenched. She didn’t want to talk about this. She didn’t want to say it out loud, to give it more power. But the words slipped out anyway, low and strained. “I don’t know… something that’s not working?”

Ms. Lindon’s expression remained steady, but there was something in her eyes that made Bloom feel exposed, like all the walls she’d built around herself were made of glass. “You feel like you’re not working, then?”

Bloom pressed her lips together, refusing to answer. Heat flushed through her cheeks, a volatile mix of anger and shame burning under her skin. She hated this—hated how vulnerable she felt, like all the pain she had tried so hard to bury was being dragged out into the open under Ms. Lindon’s unwavering gaze.

The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating. Bloom’s mind was a whirlwind, thoughts colliding too fast to make sense of, but she kept her mouth shut, her eyes glued to her lap, where her fists remained clenched as if she could hold herself together with sheer force.

Then Ms. Lindon’s voice broke through again, quieter this time, but still insistent. “You know… I participate in the teachers’ meetings.”

Bloom’s stomach twisted, dread curling tight inside her. Of course she did. Of course, they all knew. She could already picture it—her name whispered among the staff, their eyes on her when she entered a room, as if they all knew she was a mess. They probably pitied her, thought she was fragile, broken. They knew she was a freak .

She didn’t bother hiding the look of desolation that crossed her face, her gaze darkening with the weight of it. It was just one more reminder of how different she was, how out of place she felt.

Ms. Lindon seemed to notice the shift, her voice softening, though her composure remained infuriatingly steady. “I don’t say much during those meetings.” Bloom shot her a skeptical glance, doubt flickering in her eyes. She’d heard enough empty reassurances to know when one was coming. But Ms. Lindon didn’t flinch. “I told you, Bloom—what we discuss here stays between us. That hasn’t changed.”

The words should have brought some comfort, should have made her feel safer. But they didn’t. Bloom knew better. She knew how these things went, how they always went. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, cold and cutting. Her mother had said Claire, the psychologist she’d taken Bloom to, had agreed with her—that Bloom was pulling away too much, that she was withdrawing, sick, broken. That she needed to be more social, to have sleepovers, to act like a “normal” child. And then her mother had started talking about things— private things—things that Bloom had only told Claire. The nightmares. The suffocating sadness that sometimes swallowed her whole, like being trapped underwater, unable to feel, unable to breathe.

How could she possibly trust Ms. Lindon now? Adults always thought they knew best. They justified everything with “it’s for your own good,” wielding those words like a weapon, trampling over boundaries without a second thought. Without ever really understanding.

Bloom’s breath hitched in her chest, her pulse pounding in her ears as the weight of those memories pressed down on her. She knew better than to trust.

Ms. Lindon leaned back slightly, her gaze thoughtful but measured. “Like I said, I don’t have much to add in those meetings. Mr. Carlton, the school counselor, handles most of the discussions around academics. I’m here for the personal side of things. But I do listen.” She paused, watching Bloom with a careful intensity. “And at the last meeting, your teachers mentioned something interesting.”

Bloom’s stomach twisted immediately, the familiar dread creeping in. Her face flushed, heat rising beneath her skin as she stared hard at the floor, willing herself not to react. She didn’t want to hear it—didn’t need to know what they were saying about her behind closed doors.

“They said you’ve made a lot of progress for the short time you’ve been here,” Ms. Lindon said, her voice steady, calm, as if this were just a casual observation.

Bloom’s face burned red. Progress. Again. Ms. Dowling had said something similar that morning, commenting on how she was improving. Bloom never knew what to do with compliments—they felt foreign, like they weren’t meant for her. She sat there, silent, the tightness in her chest making it impossible to speak, to react in any way. The room felt too small, like it was closing in on her, suffocating.

“Ms. Dowling also says she sees a lot of potential in you,” Ms. Lindon said, her voice even, as if this were just another fact.

I knew it. Something snapped inside Bloom. The anger she had been trying so hard to push down began bubbling up, rising beneath her skin like a fire she couldn’t control. She had been trying to hold it back, biting her tongue as Ms. Lindon talked in her calm, measured way. But when she mentioned Ms. Dowling, the tightness in Bloom’s chest snapped.

She continued. “And, let’s be honest here, she wouldn’t have personally brought you to Alfea if she didn’t…”

Bloom’s reaction was visceral, like something raw had been torn open. The words erupted before she could stop herself, her voice a strained scream that tore at her throat. “You tell her, don’t you?”

Ms. Lindon blinked, clearly not expecting that outburst, but still composed. “What do you think I tell her, Bloom?”

The accusation hung in the air, sharp and bitter. Bloom shot up from the couch, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her whole body trembling with anger she didn’t know how to control. “About this! About what we talk about in here! You tell her everything, don’t you?”

Ms. Lindon rose from her chair, her movements slow, deliberate. Her voice remained calm, though a hint of firmness crept in. “Bloom, everything we discuss here is confidential. If I ever needed to share something with Ms. Dowling, I would tell you first. Remember, I explained that in our very first session.”

Bloom’s heart pounded in her chest, the fire inside her raging uncontrollably. "I don’t believe you! You just said—"

“I said what she told me ,” Ms. Lindon interrupted, her voice steady, but sharper now. “At no point did I share anything about our sessions.”

Bloom’s mind spun, searching for something—anything—that could prove the betrayal she felt. “She knows you want me to come here three times a week!”

“Yes,” Ms. Lindon said evenly, “because she’s the one who referred you to me. I’m required to inform her when working with students your age, and Ms. Dowling informs your parents. We discussed this, Bloom. In your first session.”

But Bloom couldn’t remember that session clearly. It had all been a blur—the Burned One, the nightmares, the exhaustion from days of sleeplessness. She hadn’t been paying attention. Now, the edges of that conversation resurfaced, but it didn’t ease the knot of shame tightening in her chest. The fire inside her began to cool, replaced by a heavy weight. She bit her lip, feeling the anger drain away, leaving behind nothing but an ache.

“Sorry...” she mumbled, barely able to meet Ms. Lindon’s eyes.

Ms. Lindon sat back down, her expression softening as she studied Bloom carefully. “You don’t need to apologize.”

But Bloom didn’t sit. She stood there, arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if she was trying to hold herself together. “So… my parents know we’re doing this?”

Her voice was small, hesitant. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Her mom hadn’t mentioned anything in their text messages—not that they really talked. But lately, Bloom has been trying. She’d been answering her mother’s texts more often, even agreeing to a video call that weekend—the one where Aisha would pretend to be the scientist’s daughter who had recommended the “miraculous” ointment. A lie Bloom had weaved out of desperation. They’d rehearsed it for days.

Ms. Lindon considered her for a moment before answering. “They should, yes. But to be certain, you can ask Ms. Dowling. She handles those conversations. Though I was considering scheduling a meeting with them, over the phone.”

No. The thought jolted through Bloom like an electric shock. She couldn’t have that. The idea of her two worlds colliding—her life at Alfea and her life back home—made her stomach churn. It was bad enough that Ms. Dowling had contact with her mother. Vanessa had a way of twisting things, of making Bloom seem like something she wasn’t. She couldn’t let anyone at Alfea see her the way her mother did.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t talk to them,” Bloom muttered, shifting on her feet, the unease creeping back in.

Ms. Lindon raised an eyebrow, curious. “Why?”

Bloom’s eyes darted to the clock on the wall, desperate for an excuse to end the conversation. “It’s already 4:15,” she said, her voice stiff, trying to sound casual.

Ms. Lindon glanced at the clock, a hint of amusement crossing her face. “Yes, it is.”

“It’s past our time,” Bloom pointed out awkwardly. “Don’t you have someone else to... do your psych thing with?”

Ms. Lindon let out a small, soft laugh—a sound so genuine it caught Bloom off guard. “No, Bloom. You’re my last session of the day.”

Bloom blinked, feeling herself flinch slightly. “Oh.”

Ms. Lindon’s voice remained gentle but resolute. “Do you need to leave?”

Bloom fidgeted, her fingers curling into the fabric of her jeans. “Yeah… I need to study.”

She didn’t even know why she said it. It wasn’t true. But the lie felt like a way out, a shield she could use to protect herself from whatever emotions were threatening to surface.

Ms. Lindon raised a brow, though she didn’t press. “All right. Maybe we can continue on Monday—”

“Didn’t Ms. Dowling tell you about doing this just once a week?” Bloom cut in, her voice sharper than she meant it to be.

Ms. Lindon didn’t react to the tone, though. She remained as composed as ever. “Yes, she did,” she replied calmly, folding her hands in her lap. “And I reminded her that when she hired me, she gave me the autonomy to decide the course of treatment for my patients.”

Bloom’s frustration flared again, her chest tightening. “But—”

“I think we should keep it at three sessions a week,” Ms. Lindon interrupted, her voice gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument. “Unless we have a very good reason to change that.”

The words burst out of Bloom before she could stop them. “I don’t want it!” Her voice sounded small, shaky, and she hated how it made her feel.

Ms. Lindon sighed, a quiet sound that made Bloom’s anger spike again. “Why?”

“I don’t like it! Any of it!” Bloom’s hands trembled, and she clenched them tighter, trying to steady herself, but her voice shook with the vulnerability she couldn’t hide.

Ms. Lindon’s gaze remained steady. “I can see that. But I also see how much progress you’ve made.”

Bloom opened her mouth to argue, to push back, but the words wouldn’t come. She stared at the wall instead, fighting the feelings that surged within her.

Ms. Lindon softened her tone. “Bloom, today you’ve spoken more than you ever have in any of our sessions. Ms. Dowling and I both believe these sessions are helping you. You’ve been handling things differently, better.”

Shame stung her, flooding her with embarrassment. She had said too much today. Let too much of herself spill out. She should have kept quiet, kept everything inside like she always did. But today, something had shifted—something in the way Ms. Dowling had made her feel seen, like maybe someone actually cared about what she needed. And she’d let that feeling lower her defenses. Now, the weight of that vulnerability crushed her.

“So I was acting wrong, and now you’ve fixed me?” she spat, the anger boiling back up. The bitterness, the resentment—she couldn’t stop it from coming out, sharper than she’d intended.

Ms. Lindon removed her glasses, cleaning them with a tissue before answering, choosing her words carefully. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. And it’s not what I’m trying to do. You’re not broken, Bloom. That’s what I was trying to explain earlier.”

The words hovered in the air, and Bloom felt something inside her twist painfully. She didn’t believe that—couldn’t believe that. But Ms. Lindon’s calm, unwavering tone made it hard to argue.

“You’re doing well in your classes,” Ms. Lindon continued softly. “Your teachers have noticed the progress. And for the last two sessions, I’ve seen you arrive with a friend. What’s her name?”

“Aisha,” Bloom mumbled, her face burning with embarrassment. She hated that Ms. Lindon had noticed.

“That says a lot, Bloom,” Ms. Lindon said gently. “It tells me that there are people who care about you, who want to be there for you.”

Bloom clenched her fists, her body stiffening. “So, what? Having friends means I’m not broken?” Her voice was sharp, defensive, and she hated the way the words sounded.

Ms. Lindon’s expression softened. “It means you’re letting people in. It means you’re allowing yourself to rely on others, even when it’s difficult. And that’s important. It means you’re not alone.”

Bloom stared at the floor, her chest tightening as the truth in Ms. Lindon’s words sank in. It didn’t feel like her mother’s sharp criticisms, the constant reminder that she needed to be more social, to have more friends, to be "normal." This was different. And she hated how much sense it made. The truth lingered in the air, impossible to dismiss, and as much as she resisted, Bloom couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that maybe—just maybe—Ms. Lindon was right.

The ticking of the clock seemed louder in the silence, its rhythm no longer comforting but oppressive, each second marking the space between Bloom and her thoughts. Words lingered in the air, heavy and unresolved, pressing down on her chest like stones. She didn’t want to think about them—about any of this. Her mind spun in frantic circles, colliding with emotions she couldn’t name but felt all too intensely.

Ms. Lindon finally broke the silence, her voice still calm but with a softness that hadn’t been there before. “Ms. Dowling told me she wouldn’t force you to continue therapy if you didn’t want to. And I won’t force you either, Bloom. This is your choice.”

Bloom’s eyes flicked up for just a second, surprise tightening in her chest. Her instincts flared— don’t trust this, don’t trust her. For a moment, she wondered if this was a trick, a test, some way to see if she’d let her guard down even more.

“But,” Ms. Lindon continued, her voice even, careful, “I want you to think about it over the weekend. Really think about what we talked about today. If, by Monday, you still feel like once a week is what you want, then we’ll talk. I’ll respect your decision. But I’d like you to consider what these sessions have done for you so far. Can you do that?”

Bloom swallowed hard, her throat tightening. The knot in her chest seemed to grow, and she nodded, her gaze firmly locked on the floor. She didn’t trust herself to speak, didn’t trust herself not to say something she’d regret. Emotions swirled beneath the surface—raw, jagged—but she couldn’t let them out.

Ms. Lindon offered a small, understanding smile. “Take the weekend, Bloom. We’ll talk again on Monday.”

Another nod. But in the back of Bloom’s mind, that old, familiar voice whispered its warning: don’t trust her . She couldn’t risk it. Trusting someone meant giving them power, giving them the very tools they’d need to hurt her. And she wasn’t about to make that mistake again.

As she stood to leave, Bloom felt exposed, like she’d been peeled back layer by layer until all that was left was something too fragile to face the world. She hated that feeling, hated the way vulnerability made her weak. She had spent too long building up walls, keeping everything inside, and now, in just a few sessions, Ms. Lindon had managed to slip past those defenses. It made her skin crawl.

Her hand hovered on the doorknob, her heart hammering in her chest. Could she really believe what Ms. Lindon was saying? Could she trust her, even just a little? The question gnawed at her, but she pushed it down, shoved it deep into the same place she buried everything else.

With a sharp inhale, she opened the door. The weight of the conversation clung to her like a damp, heavy coat, refusing to let go. Trust wasn’t something she gave away easily anymore. Maybe she never would again. But for the first time in a long while, that gnawing doubt inside her didn’t feel quite as suffocating, though it still hovered at the edges of her mind, like a shadow.

As she stepped out of Ms. Lindon’s office, the tension still threaded through her thoughts, lingering like an aftertaste. It wasn’t much—just a flicker of something she hesitated to call hope—but it was there, fragile yet present, a small light in the silence as she walked away. The world outside felt just as confusing and dangerous as ever, but maybe, just maybe, something had shifted. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, pulling her abruptly from the spiral of thoughts. Without hesitation, she reached for it, her heart skipping as her eyes landed on the screen.

It was Beatrix.

“So. What’s the plan?”

The message was casually intrusive, just like Beatrix herself. Bloom chewed on her lower lip, her thoughts spinning. The urgency that had been building inside her since the conversation now surged forward, demanding action. She needed answers—immediately.

"Meet me at 5 p.m., at the dorms’ entrance."

Her fingers moved swiftly, almost trembling with the rush of urgency as she typed. Moments later, Beatrix replied with a single emoji—a sly smirk—her way of saying she was in.

Bloom’s heart raced as she pocketed the phone and headed toward the suite. The dimly lit hallways of the school stretched out before her like a maze of uncertainty. Shadows clung to the walls, and the sun was already setting, casting an eerie glow through the windows.Winter was coming fast, the days growing shorter, but it felt strange—wrong, almost—having winter break in July. The Otherworld moved to a different rhythm, its seasons out of sync with everything she’d known. She’d heard of places where this was normal, like Australia or South America, but living it felt... unsettling.

Yet, a part of her wanted to stay here, to avoid going home. She wasn’t ready to face it, not with her powers still feeling wild and untamed inside her.

Her footsteps echoed in the corridor, each one a reminder of how fragile her plans were, how easily everything could fall apart. But she had to do this. She had to find answers. The question gnawed at her, restless, refusing to let her go. Where did I come from? Without that piece, she felt like she couldn't understand where she was headed. And then there was the faint, painful possibility—however unlikely—that she might have a family out there. Somewhere. Maybe?

When Bloom reached the door to the suite, her hand hesitated on the knob. She came here for a moment to breathe, to drop her backpack and wash her face. Maybe then, she could calm the whirlwind inside her. But the second she stepped into the room, Aisha’s voice cut through the air.

“Wow, not digging into old photos today?”

Aisha’s tone was light, but there was an edge to it that twisted Bloom’s stomach. Terra and Musa were there too, lounging on the sofas, their curious eyes immediately locking onto her.

For a moment, Bloom cursed herself for not thinking this through better. She had planned to slip in and out unnoticed, avoiding any awkward questions. She knew they would help if she asked—but after everything, she couldn’t drag them into this. They had already gotten two weeks of detention because of her.

She swallowed hard, forcing a tight smile. “Actually, I...”

Her voice faltered, and she stopped. The lie she was about to tell felt heavy on her tongue, but something inside her recoiled at the thought of deceiving Aisha. The guilt was instant, sharp. So she changed course.

“Can I talk to you?”

The request came out more abrupt than she intended, and she could feel Terra and Musa’s stares intensify. Now, they all knew something was up. Aisha nodded, her expression unreadable but guarded.

They slipped into their shared bedroom, and Bloom closed the door softly behind them. The room was bathed in the cool, pale light of the setting sun, long shadows creeping across the floor.

Aisha crossed her arms, her posture tense. “So?”

Bloom took a deep breath, feeling the knot in her stomach tighten. “I’m going to the East Wing.”

“What?” Aisha’s voice came out sharp, disbelief flashing in her eyes. “Bloom, are you serious? Do you want another detention?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Bloom’s voice was quieter now. She stared down at her hands, feeling the weight of anxiety press against her chest. “I might need you to cover for me. If I’m not back in time.”

Aisha blinked, her voice hard with disbelief. “No. No way, Bloom. You’ve lost your mind.”

“Please, Aisha. I don’t think I’ll need it, but just in case…” Bloom hated the way her voice sounded—small, almost pleading—but she couldn’t help it.

“This is ridiculous,” Aisha muttered, shaking her head, her frustration rising. “What are you even going to do there? Are you sneaking into the specialists’ party?”

“No,” Bloom said, almost laughing at the absurdity of that idea. “There’s something there, Aisha. I think… I think I might find something about the woman who left me in the human world.” Her voice cracked, betraying the emotion she’d been trying to keep down.

Aisha ran a hand through her hair, exasperated. “Bloom, you need to stop and think. You’re going to get yourself into more trouble than this is worth. What if—what if there’s no big secret? What if you’re just… a regular kid, abandoned by someone who didn’t know what else to do?”

Bloom flinched, shaking her head. “No. There are too many things that don’t make sense.”

"Some people would give anything to have the kind of power you do, even without all the mystery," Aisha said, her voice softening but still firm. "You should be grateful."

"Grateful?" Bloom scoffed, the word sour on her tongue, almost a laugh but too bitter to fully escape. She could feel the anger rise, sharp and quick, but she swallowed it down.

"Or, at least a little more realistic..." Aisha pressed, her tone edging into frustration.

Bloom's response snapped out before she could stop herself. "Do you even understand what that means for me?" Her voice was harsh, but she caught herself, breathing in deeply, trying to keep control. She didn’t want to fight Aisha. Not really. She just needed her to understand. Her heart raced as she fought to rein in the flood of emotions threatening to spill over.

"Being realistic means accepting that..." she hesitated, feeling the familiar sting of tears building behind her eyes. But no—she wouldn’t cry. She forced herself to continue, her voice tightening as she pushed the words out. "It means accepting that my real mom didn’t want me."

The admission hung between them, raw and exposed. Bloom’s voice trembled, but she pressed on, meeting Aisha’s gaze. There was a flicker of understanding there, so she continued, softer now, as if sharing the darkest, most vulnerable parts of herself.

"It means she looked at me and decided I wasn’t worth keeping."

It was the hardest truth she had ever spoken aloud, and it burned through her like fire. The idea that no one alive in the entire world had ever truly loved her, had ever looked at her and seen someone worth protecting, gnawed at her soul like a wound that wouldn’t heal. It was the kind of pain that quietly hollowed you out from the inside, the kind you learned to live with because there was no other choice. She had lost the only person who had ever cared for her, and now... now she was utterly alone.

The loneliness wasn’t just an absence of company; it was a constant ache, a feeling of being adrift in the dark without a single point of light to guide her. No map, no direction, no one waiting at the end of the day to say, you’re safe here. Just her, walking through life like a ghost, trying to figure out where she belonged in a world that felt indifferent to her existence. And with every step, the weight of that isolation grew heavier, pressing down on her until it was almost unbearable.

Her voice broke, fragile and frayed, as she whispered, "Do you think I haven’t thought about that every day since I found out I’m a changeling?"

Her chest tightened, and she felt the tears threatening to spill over, but she held them back with a force of will. She had to. "I have to believe there’s more to it," she said, almost desperately. "I have to ."

Aisha’s expression softened as she stepped forward, her frustration melting away. She wrapped her arms around Bloom, pulling her into an embrace, firm and warm. Bloom tensed at first, unfamiliar with the comfort of someone else’s touch, but slowly, the tension left her body. She leaned into Aisha, her defenses crumbling, and for a moment, she allowed herself to be held.

“I have to,” Bloom whispered again, her voice barely audible, as if saying it out loud might make it true.

Aisha held her for a long moment, letting Bloom gather herself. When they finally pulled apart, Aisha’s gaze was steady, determined. “Then I’m going with you.”

“No, Aisha. It’s okay, really,” Bloom shook her head, stepping back. “It’s inside the barrier. I won’t be in any real danger. The only thing I have to avoid are a few upperclassmen at the party.”

Aisha opened her mouth to argue, but Bloom cut her off. “Besides, I need someone to cover for me. Just in case I don’t make it back in time.”

Aisha sighed, her frustration evident, but there was no more arguing. She dropped her arms to her sides, defeated. “I don’t like this.”

“I’ll be fine, I promise.” Bloom smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"Alright then, you’re having the worst migraine I’ve ever seen," Aisha muttered, pulling Bloom into another hug. This time, it was easier for Bloom to return the embrace, her body relaxing into the warmth of Aisha’s arms. When they pulled apart, the room felt still—too quiet, yet somehow heavier, thick with unspoken worries neither of them dared to voice.

Bloom turned toward her desk, her movements deliberate as she gently placed the book Beatrix had given her on top, its weight settling with a significance that stood out amid the scattered belongings strewn carelessly across her bed. She avoided Aisha’s eyes as she began to change, pulling on one of the warmer jackets Terra gave her, the soft fabric offering a small comfort in the midst of her rising nerves.

"Don't worry," Bloom said, her voice steadier now, but not without effort. She could hear the tension beneath her words, the way they trembled just below the surface. "I'll be fine."

For a long moment, Aisha said nothing. She stood there, arms crossed tightly against her chest, her posture heavy with a silent kind of worry. A sigh slipped from her lips, low and weary, and her gaze flickered with an unspoken plea. "Just... text me if anything happens. Please."

"I will," Bloom promised, her smile small, fragile, like a thing barely held together. She could feel how forced it was, how it lingered just at the edges of her mouth but refused to reach her eyes. Still, it was all she had to give. With a final glance back at Aisha, she turned and opened the door.

Bloom stood in the doorway, her breath quickening as she realized, once again, that privacy was a rare luxury in a suite filled with so many girls. She had known, almost instinctively, that Terra and Musa would be by the door—curiosity had always been Terra’s weakness, while Musa’s empathy allowed her to sense tension even from across the suite. She couldn’t blame them for listening. But that didn’t make it easier.

What she hadn’t expected—what made her blood turn cold—was Stella. She stood just beyond the others, her presence a hard and unshakable thing, like stone. Bloom froze, her thoughts stumbling over the sight. Stella being there wasn’t just a surprise; it was a sharp, painful reminder of everything that had gone wrong between them. In the past weeks, their relationship had unraveled, fraying at the seams until only bitterness was left. Now, Stella wouldn’t even look at her without contempt, and when she did speak, her words cut deep, laced with venom. And yet, here she was, staring at Bloom with eyes as cold as polished ice.

Bloom barely had time to steel herself before Stella's voice shattered the tense silence between them, sharp as glass.

"You're not going anywhere," Stella said, her tone colder than any winter wind.

"Stella, I—" Bloom's voice cracked as the words tumbled out, desperate to explain, to somehow smooth the jagged edges between them. But Stella wasn't done.

"You’ve caused enough damage, Strayling," she spat, the word dripping with disdain. She twisted the insult, and it landed harder than Bloom expected. Her mind clung to the word, trying to understand. The word changeling rang in her ears, and she realized that Stella must have figured it out—what Bloom truly was. And somehow, it hurt more than Bloom could have prepared for.

"Stella!" Aisha's voice erupted from behind Bloom, fierce, protective. It was the first time Bloom had heard such rage in her friend’s voice. Musa stood silently, but the fire in her eyes matched Aisha's anger, glowing like embers ready to ignite.

"Don't call her that," Terra added, her voice trembling but firm, a rare strength in her tone. The air in the room felt thick, like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to break. "You shouldn’t treat Bloom like this, not after everything she’s done to get your stupid ring back."

“And what for?” Stella’s voice rose, her composure cracking as the fire inside her blazed to the surface. “Where is my ring now, huh? In some drawer in Dowling’s office? What good was that, Bloom?”

The accusation hit Bloom hard, knocking the breath from her lungs. She opened her mouth to respond, to offer something, anything, that might soothe the rising storm. But before she could, Musa's voice sliced through the air like a blade.

"And whose fault is that?" Musa's words were sharp, and the weight of the truth in them hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. "None of us were in the room when Dowling took your ring, Stella. That was all you."

For a heartbeat, Stella faltered, thrown off-balance by the truth laid bare. But she quickly straightened, lifting her chin in that stubborn way she always did when backed into a corner. "Dowling found out somehow. Someone must have told her—"

“I’ll get it back,” Bloom blurted, desperate to mend the fracture between them, to take the blame and fix things like she always tried to do. “If that’s what you need—”

“You’re certainly not,” Terra interrupted, her voice firm, final. She turned toward Stella, her gaze steady. "There’s a reason Dowling took it from you, Stella. And you should be grateful she didn’t tell your mother. Imagine what Queen Luna would say if she knew you brought crown jewels to school."

At the mention of her mother, something dangerous flickered in Stella's eyes, but Terra didn't back down. "We all could’ve died because of that ring," she continued, her voice growing stronger, more certain. "You can’t just pretend this is all Bloom’s fault."

Stella’s face flushed, her anger flaring brighter. "How can you all defend her?" Her voice wavered, desperation mingling with the bitterness that twisted in her chest. "We’re in detention because of her! Why are you protecting her?"

"You!" Musa’s voice rang out again, cutting through Stella’s words with precision. "We’re  in detention because of you, Stella. If you hadn’t been so secretive, so stubborn, none of this would’ve happened. So stop blaming everyone else and own up to it."

“Musa…” Bloom tried to interject, her heart twisting in her chest. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. None of this was Stella’s fault, not really. Bloom had dragged them into this, had made the wrong choice. They could’ve died because of her. And now she was the reason they were all standing here, fractured and bleeding with words they couldn’t take back.

But Musa wouldn’t relent. “Stella never should’ve given you that ring, Bloom,” she said, her voice softer now, but still resolute as she turned toward her.

“She was just trying…” Bloom whispered, her throat tight, guilt constricting every word.

“Oh sure, let’s blame me for everything,” Stella snapped, her voice a bitter laugh, hollow and empty. She was unraveling now, her fury spilling out in waves. “You know what? Fine. Go. Get caught. I don’t care. No, actually…” Her voice dropped, becoming colder, sharper, the words twisting like a blade. “Why don’t you go beyond the barrier and get yourself killed? That’s what you want, right? Maybe then—maybe then—we’d all be better off.”

The words hit Bloom like a punch to the gut. The room went silent, too silent, the weight of Stella’s fury pressing down on all of them. Bloom felt the air leave her lungs, her heart pounding in her ears. No one moved. No one breathed. And then Stella was gone, her door slamming shut behind her, the echo of it reverberating through Bloom’s chest.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Bloom’s vision blurred, the room around her distorting, fading into the background. She could hear Aisha’s voice, the sharp intake of Terra’s breath, the quiet anger simmering beneath Musa’s silence. But none of it reached her. All she could hear was her own pulse, pounding louder, louder.

Just breathe, she told herself. Just breathe. No tears. No feelings. No thoughts. Just breathing.

She clenched her fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms, grounding herself in the small pain. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe through the hurt. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe through the guilt. Inhale. Exhale. The way Ms. Dowling had shown her that first night. 

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

She didn’t know how long she stood like that, fighting the tears, before she felt the warmth of Aisha’s arms wrap around her, followed by Terra, then Musa. They held her together, their presence a fragile lifeline. Bloom could feel herself fracturing, splintering apart, but they were there, holding the pieces.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, cracked and broken.

“No,” Aisha said softly, her voice trembling with emotion. “It’s not. What she said... it’s not okay.”

"I need to go," Bloom murmured, pulling herself free from their embrace, forcing herself to stand taller, to put on a brave face. She smiled, but it felt thin, hollow. “I need to get back before detention.”

“Bloom, maybe—” Aisha began, but Bloom cut her off.

“No, Aisha.” Her voice was firmer now, though her heart still raced, her chest tight with too much emotion. “I need to do this. I’ll be fine. I promise.”

And with that, she turned toward the door, her steps shaky but resolute. The others called out to her, their voices fading into the background as she reached for the handle. She paused, glancing back at them one last time, offering another strained smile.

“I’ll be fine,” she repeated, as much to herself as to them. “I promise.”

And as she stepped through the door, leaving the warmth of their shared suite behind, Bloom told herself that maybe—just maybe—if she said it enough, she’d start to believe it too.