Archive of Our Own

Atsushi curled her fingers as snow-white fur rippled over the back of her hand, appearing and disappearing in the light of the moon basking through the window. When the glint caught her nails, they flashed into razor-sharp claws.

Monster, a familiar voice echoed in her head. Abomination. The very manifestation of sin.

“Cool,” someone said beside her, and Atsushi jumped when Ranpo plopped onto her desk, legs swinging as she watched the fur bristle. “You know, it’s hard to believe that it took you 18 years to realize you had magic. Did you think it was normal for moonlight to turn people into tigers?”

Atsushi pressed her fist into her lap and looked away.

“I don’t know,” she said. “We didn’t get outside much at the orphanage.” No. Atsushi’s youth was spent chained to stone floors, thrown against prison-cell bars, and gasping through tears as her injuries were torn and reopened. She didn’t see the sky. She didn’t see the moon. She didn’t even know about magic—when the gaping wounds closed and healed just after their creation, Atsushi didn’t call it a miracle. It was only an invitation for the director to find a new form of torture.

Ranpo scoffed, green eyes glittering as they narrowed in her direction.

“Where I come from, it only takes one tiger to raise alarms,” she said. “I’m sure the director kept it from you on purpose, under the guise of safety or something dumb like that. Adults are stupid that way, y’know?”

Atsushi nodded. Honestly, she couldn’t concern herself with the specifics—she was still processing the fact that magic was real, let alone that she possessed the rarest kind of all: natural transmutation.

“In other words, you’re a weretiger!” Dazai had told her. And the familiar voice echoed once more: Monster. Abomination. For the first time, Atsushi understood why.

“You’re lucky Dazai found you,” Ranpo said. “The Arcane Detective Agency specializes in this kind of thing. In most cities, law enforcement would just call animal control and get it over with.”

“Dazai didn’t find me,” Atsushi mumbled. “I found her. She was floating facedown in the river. I thought she was dead.”

Ranpo threw her head back and laughed.

“She wishes! Nah, Dazai is always pulling stunts like that. You’ll get used to it.”

Atsushi sighed.

“Ranpo, did you need something from me?”

“Yes, actually,” Ranpo said, and her lips curled into a smug grin. “Y’see, I’ve been working on a new case, and I’ve uncovered evidence that an archaic form of magic is back in Yokohama. Have you ever heard of alchemy?”

Alchemy? Atsushi swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “I’ve heard the word,” she said. “But that’s about it…”

“Perfect,” Ranpo said, hopping back to the floor. “Just as I predicted.” She swiped a stack of sticky notes off Atsushi’s desk and scrawled something down.

“What?” Atsushi shrank under the detective’s gaze. “What is it?”

Terrifying images flashed through her mind: bubbling cauldrons of thick, acidic potions burning holes through her skin; enemies sneering as they towered over her, pain blossoming from between her ribs; her tiger paws slick with blood, ribbons of flesh hanging from her claws.

Whatever Ranpo needed from her, surely she wasn’t qualified. She flinched when the detective’s lips parted to say—

“The President needs you at the library. The whole city is depending on you.”

˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°

The library, as it turned out, was not code for a wizard’s tower, or for a spooky moss-covered cemetery. It was actually quite ordinary. A building of cream brick stretched from lamppost to lamppost, and families milled around the glass entryway, where rows of colorful books were shelved on display and the lowering sun reflected in the window.

Atsushi may not have known about magic, but the orphanage did at least teach her how to read. Had she finally been given an errand she was qualified for? As she stepped inside, she noticed a wisp of blue fog creeping around the front of the building, curling like a finger beckoning her in.

Atsushi approached the circulation desk, where a woman with unkempt auburn hair and a cropped green jacket was scanning barcodes. Silver piercings stacked her ears and a bandage covered the bridge of her nose.

“Can I help you?” the woman—Tachihara, according to her nametag—asked. Atsushi handed her the note from Ranpo. “Ah, you have a call number. Let me just-”

Before she could finish, Tachihara’s eyes widened. She raised an eyebrow and squinted up at Atsushi. “This is reference material from our special collection.”

“Oh,” Atsushi said. A moment of awkward silence passed between them. “I’m just supposed to get it for my boss.”

“Well, I can’t let you check it out, but I can take you to the archives if you want to take a look.”

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

Tachihara beckoned Atsushi behind the desk, where shelves formed a pathway into the back of the library. Dust tickled her nose as they passed the holds section and entered the territory of outdated encyclopedias and international atlases, then finally to a heavy wooden door suspiciously missing its knob.

Atsushi watched as Tachihara traced a fingertip in an invisible pattern across the entrance, then knocked twice at each corner. Finally, Tachihara held her palm against the center, and Atsushi flinched when a quiet sizzling sound filled the corridor.

Words were carving themselves into the wood, letters that glowed like embers to spell something out. A thin rivulet of smoke danced above their heads as heat burned into the door. Atsushi’s jaw dropped as the words flashed in golden light.

Library of Incantation, Enchantment, and Sorcery, it read.

So this wasn’t a normal library. LIES, Atsushi thought, literally! What kind of acronym was that?

“I take it you’ve never seen our special collection,” Tachihara said. “Where was it you said you worked again?”

“The Arcane Detective Agency,” Atsushi croaked, stomach turning when the door swung open to reveal total darkness.

Tachihara snorted.

“Good luck, then. Our archivist can point you to the book you’re looking for, but after that, I suggest staying out of her way.”

“What?” Just looking into the darkness made Atsushi feel like she was floating out in space.

“Nothing,” Tachihara said. “Just watch your back, yeah?”

And Atsushi yelped as she was pushed into the void.

˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°

It was a quick but spine-tingling voyage into the archives. The darkness prickled against Atsushi’s skin and swept all the air from her lungs. When she fell to the other side, it was on her hands and knees, gasping to catch her breath. The parquet flooring beneath her was glossy and black, and it was impossible to miss the click of high heels as someone stopped in front of her.

“On your feet,” a woman hissed. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Atsushi glanced up to see a pale sliver of a woman standing over her. Shadows carved the hollows of her temples and her cheekbones, and black hair swept down her back, long and wild with white tips like an early morning fog. A large, black-lace witch’s hat sat atop her head, the brim darkening the shadows of her face.

“What was that darkness?” Atsushi asked, voice and limbs wobbly. She began to stand, but a wave of queasiness had her back on her knees. “I’ve never felt anything like it.”

The woman would have raised an eyebrow, had she any.

“A cloaking spell,” she said. “And a simple one, at that.”

“I see…” Atsushi muttered. “Does it always feel so awful?”

“I should hope so, considering its purpose is to deter unwanted visitors. Though it seems rather ineffective today.”

Atsushi frowned. “I was asked to come here, you know,” she said, but the woman only rolled her eyes. “There’s a book I need to find.”

“If it will get you out of my hair, fine. Library card and call number,” the woman demanded.

“Library card?”

The archivist crossed her arms. “Don’t tell me you were allowed back here without proof of patronship.” Atsushi’s shoulders drooped, and her eyes slid away—her fingers curled around the note in her hand.

“I have a call number, but I don’t- ow!” Atsushi hissed when the woman stomped on her hand, the sharp heel barely slipping between two fingers and pinning the paper to the floor. She pressed her weight against Atsushi’s hand until tiger claws slipped from her fingertips, gauging scars into the parquet floors.

Atsushi’s body moved on its own—her head slammed into the archivist’s gut, nearly knocking her back before black swathes of what appeared to be shadows whipped out, steadying her against the tall bookshelves.

“You-!” Atsushi startled and jumped to her feet. “You have magic, too!”

But the woman had no interest in her shock. Instead, she stared at Atsushi’s hands, which slowly morphed back into something more human.

“Transmutation,” she muttered, and slate-grey eyes snapped up to meet hers. “A rare talent to have wasted on someone like you.”

“Listen,” Atsushi huffed. “I get it. You have a problem with the Arcane Detective Agency. Fine, I don’t care! But I need to find this book. The whole city is depending on me!”

The woman’s eyes flared. “The Agency…” she growled softly. “And the whole city, depending on you?”

Atsushi shrank back when the woman stepped forward. The shadows extending from her back twitched, then rippled wider, arcing towards her.

“Yeah,” Atsushi muttered. “At least, that’s what Ranpo said.” She yelped when the shadow snatched the note from her hand. She skimmed the number and clicked her tongue.

“If the city depends on you,” she said, “we must all be doomed.”

A sudden vibration in Atsushi’s pocket made her jump. She slapped around her hips until she found the phone in her pocket and answered.

“H-Hello?”

“Atsushi, it’s me~” a voice sang, and she couldn’t help but cringe. “Did you make it to the library?”

“Yes, Dazai, but-”

Before she could continue, one of the archivist’s shadows whipped out and snatched her phone away. The woman almost seemed paler—if that was even possible—as she held the phone in an iron grip, lips parting. But nothing came out.

Still, Atsushi could hear Dazai’s voice crackle in the receiver. Having hearing sharp as a tiger’s came in handy, she supposed, as Dazai’s playful tone went serious.

“Akutagawa,” Dazai said. The woman’s teeth clenched. “I see you’ve met my new apprentice.”

“Dazai,” the archivist—Akutagawa, apparently—called out. Her voice became thin and reedy. “It really is you.” Dazai hummed.

“Atsushi is a very special recruit at the Agency, and our newest member,” she continued. “She’s all potential and raw talent. She reminds me a little of you, actually… Only a little less hopeless!”

Akutagawa swallowed.

“What do you want from me?” she asked. Her cold vernacular had softened into something just a bit more desperate.

“Make sure Atsushi finds everything she needs. An alchemist has arrived in Yokohama, and evidence seems to suggest she’s here for far more than a simple goldmaking. This is a very important mission, so I need you two to work together, understand?”

Akutagawa scoffed. Atsushi flushed.

“But-!”

“That’s all!” Dazai said cheerily, and the line went dead. Akutagawa stood still with the phone up to her ear, eyes dull as they stared into space.

“So,” Atsushi said. “You’re Akutagawa?”

Akutagawa grumbled as she shoved the phone back against Atsushi’s chest. “Of course you heard everything,” she said. “Congratulations, you’ve learned my name.”

“I’m Atsushi.”

“I know.” If Akutagawa was annoyed before, this was something new—her lips curled to bare teeth. Her eyes shone with fierce determination. Her knuckles whitened around the crumpled note.

Somewhere beyond the darkness, the hands of a clock clicked into place, and the bell counted out the hours with low, steady precision. With each strike of the bell, Akutagawa’s stare only grew more determined, until the clock struck six and her lip curled in disgust.

Akutagawa spun on her heel and walked away, leaving Atsushi frozen in place. As she walked down the hall, the lamplight blinked and dimmed, only to be replaced as the lights ahead of the archivist flickered to life. The light is following her, Atsushi realized. If I’m left behind, it’ll be in total darkness.

“Well?” Akutagawa snapped. “Are you coming?”

Atsushi jumped and scampered behind her, careful not to get too close to the serrated edges of her shadow magic, whatever it was.

The walk to the alchemy section was thick with tension that prickled Atsushi’s skin. Each step Akutagawa took plunged the world behind her into a darkness so deep that it seemed to spill across the floor like ink. When Atsushi stopped to gaze at a shelf of amethyst whose shards glowed ember, the darkness licked at her heels, and a cold so paralyzing shuddered through her that Akutagawa actually glanced behind her and slowed, at least for a moment.

“Here we are,” Akutagawa grumbled. “Alchemy.”

The shelves were lined with dusty books. Titles ranging from Alchemy for Dummies and So You Want to Turn Lead to Gold? were particularly poignant, but the book that matched the call number was simply titled Alchemy & Abilities.

“What even is alchemy?” Atsushi asked, eyeing the illustration of archaic symbols etched along the spine.

“Alchemy,” Akutagawa huffed. She rolled the word over her tongue like it was equal parts intriguing and annoying. “It’s an irrelevant art, equal parts magic and science. Its singular practice was eradicated centuries ago.”

“Eradicated? How?”

“It’s said that a great and mysterious fog swallowed the land,” Akutagawa said, her pursed lips betraying her disbelief. “Supposedly, all that was left of the alchemists were their bones.”

“But Dazai said an alchemist-”

“I know what Dazai said,” Akutagawa snapped. She pulled the book from the shelf and shuffled through the pages, kicking up a small cloud of dust that made Atsushi sneeze. “Just because it was eradicated centuries ago doesn’t mean it can’t be revived.”

Atsushi fiddled with the hem of her skirt, unsure of her role in all this.

“Magic doesn’t cease to exist when humanity forgets it,” the archivist explained. “People have tried to forbid certain forms of magic since the dawn of humanity, but magic persists nevertheless. Not because of people, but in spite of them. Natural transmutation, for instance, is a technical form of alchemy that exists as a biological impulse rather than a practice.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

“Clearly.” Akutagawa flipped to an illustration labelled ‘The Four Elements’.

“What’s that?”

Akutagawa groaned in exasperation. “Enough of your incessant questions,” she hissed. “It’s my turn. How is it, exactly, that someone so blindingly stupid has become Dazai’s shiny new toy?”

Atsushi flushed.

“I’m not stupid!” she cried. “I’m new. I only just learned about magic, okay?” The admission made her cheeks burn, and Akutagawa’s eyes fixed on her. “I just learned magic exists, and that I have it, apparently, and that there’s a monster inside me.” Akutagawa’s stare darkened. “And the monster is an alchemist, apparently?”

“That is not what I said.”

“It’s not my fault that I spent my whole life locked away! If I knew there was a library… I mean, if I was allowed outside, then maybe-!”

She was rambling now, and she knew it. Shut up, Atsushi tried to tell herself, but the words just kept spilling from her mouth. “This is all new to me. Not just magic. A library!” she laughed. “A magic library. How am I supposed to know? I didn’t go to library school, and this is the only shadow I know how to move.”

She waved her hand emphatically beneath the lamplight. Akutagawa watched unimpressed as the shadow of her hand, with its sharpening claws, blurred over the floor. Atsushi was well-aware that her barely-intelligible rambles weren’t doing her any favors, but what else was she to do?

“So excuse me,” Atsushi huffed, “if I don’t know what the elements have to do with alchemy. You don’t need to be so terrible about it.” She stared at her feet, eyes stinging as tears pricked the corners and threatened to spill. But she wouldn’t give Akutagawa the satisfaction. People pitied her enough, and she hated it. She fixed her attention on the anger bubbling between her ribs rather than the humiliation—hot and reflective, the perfect remedy to pity. She felt the spark of something warm in her palms.

But when she looked back up, it wasn’t with pity that Akutagawa regarded her. It was something different. Something Atsushi couldn’t recognize.

“Well,” Akutagawa settled, “at least you can read.”

“What?”

Akutagawa shoved the book into Atsushi’s arms.

“If you can read, you can learn anything,” she explained, returning her gaze to the shelves. “In that regard, you’re ahead of me when I began my apprenticeship.” She glanced out of the corner of her eye. “Though to be fair, that was almost a decade ago.”

What?

The question was silent this time around. But Atsushi didn’t have much time to ponder it before a second, third, and fourth book tumbled in her direction.

“Get ready,” Akutagawa said. “If you’re to learn the basics of magic and the history of alchemy, we have a long night of studying ahead of us.”

˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°

As it turned out, studying with Akutagawa wasn’t all bad. Between scathing insults, a few dozen eye rolls, and being pushed around by her magic shadows, Atsushi and Akutagawa found themselves in a routine of reading, scrawling notes, and demonstrating basic spells that could almost be described as peaceful.

“To create a protective barrier between yourself and an enemy,” Akutagawa explained, tracing black-laquered fingertips along the darkness, “you must first direct your intention to your hands.” She held her palms in front of her, and Atsushi’s heart fluttered in excitement when white sparks fizzled from them. Soon the sparks flitted away and danced in the air, following the pattern Akutagawa had traced.

“They look alive,” Atsushi muttered.

“Magic is life,” said Akutagawa. “It draws on the life of its user and interacts with the elements around us to manifest into our reality. As we speak, the spell is feeding off trace amounts of carbon dioxide, consuming the oxygen and using the carbon to draw strength for the barrier.”

Atsushi tapped one of the sparks, yelping when a shock of electricity zipped up her arm.

“Idiot,” Akutagawa snapped. “Stand back.”

The sparks fanned out to create diamondlike shapes, each corner dazzling into different shades as the light fractured. Suddenly, the space between them crackled as the air solidified into crystalline shards not unlike glass, but shining in a way she’d never seen.

“Alright,” Akutagawa said. She smirked and cracked her knuckles. “Now try to break through. Use your claws. ”

Atsushi bristled, but nodded. Right now, her hand was astonishingly human—once-pale skin that had darkened a few shades since escaping the orphanage, skin weathered but free of scars despite the plethora of gravel and razorwire she’d picked from the flesh over the last few weeks.

Now! Atsushi flexed her fingers, waiting for the claws to shoot out, for the fur to ripple.

But nothing happened.

“I’ve met kittens more fierce,” Akutagawa teased.

Atsushi flexed again. Nothing. She curled her fingers into a fist, digging her nails into her palm until her arm shook. Her knuckles whitened, but that was it. She groaned and sank her head into her hands.

“I don’t know why it isn’t working,” Atsushi muttered. “I transformed just fine earlier!”

“Perhaps,” Akutagawa said, “your body only knows to transform when faced with a threat.”

Atsushi perked up.

“That’s it! Use your magic shadow on me!”

“My what?”

“Your-” Atsushi waved her hands emphatically. “Your sharp shadow-wing-things.”

“You mean Rashoumon.”

“Probably.”

Akutagawa’s glare might have been less scary were her expression not warped behind the barrier.

“Your disrespect will be excused only once,” Akutagawa warned, “because you already admitted ignorance. But you should know… Rashoumon is not a magic shadow. She is my matron: a deity who has granted me a fraction of her power in return for servitude.”

“Okay…” Atsushi stood on her toes, eyeing the swathes of darkness that rose above. “And she’s made of shadows?”

Akutagawa pinched the bridge of her nose.

“No. Look closer. Aren’t you a detective?”

Upon further inspection, Atsushi noticed a faint texture along the darkness. Lace spiderwebbed across Rashoumon. Her serrated edges were lined with frayed thread, each twitching like something alive. As for their winglike appearance…

“She’s made of your clothes,” Atsushi blinked with surprise. Akutagawa nodded. The black lace shawl draped over her shoulders extended into the bulk of the “shadow”, but skimming the archivist’s outfit revealed that more was at play. The ruffled skirt of her dress curled like a mushroom cap and almost seemed to breathe. Crimson fabric lining made Rashoumon look like she was hungry: like Akutagawa’s very clothes could swallow up her enemies and digest the bones. The brim of her witch’s hat dripped like ink, tiny little droplets that hissed when they landed on her skirt. “That’s amazing.”

Akutagawa smirked. Her smile was a dangerous thing: sharp, cunning, unnerving. Distracting. Because when Rashoumon sliced through the air, Atsushi barely had time to raise an arm and block the lacey blade. Rashoumon slashed a line down her arm, who hissed as fur prickled up to her shoulder, the muscles tensing and her claws poised. Blood soaked into the snow-white fur. Atsushi bared her teeth as her claws tore into the lace and tried to pull Akutagawa closer.

Of course, from behind the barrier, Atsushi didn’t have much luck. A raspy laugh tumbled from Akutagawa’s mouth.

“That’s more like it, weretiger!” she cried. Goosebumps raced up Atsushi’s back, between her shoulders, and she used the body-wracking shudder to propel her forward, her claws catching the magic barrier.

Atsushi’s ears split as her claws shrieked against the kaleidoscopic surface. Jagged grooves carved down, Akutagawa’s dark eyes glimmering as the light of the barrier fizzled. Now weakened, the barrier stood no chance when she followed through with her fist. Shards of something rained down on Akutagawa, and Rashoumon expertly swiped them away, save for one remnant that cut across her cheekbone.

A thin rivulet of blood trailed down to her jaw. Akutagawa waved the barrier away and swiped her thumb across her skin, smearing a bit across her face. She lapped away the bead of blood and hummed.

“I suppose you’re not entirely useless,” Akutagawa said.

Atsushi didn’t quite know what to make of the feeling twisting up her heart, but she didn’t have time to wonder.

“Now, let’s see you do it without Rashoumon’s incentive.”

˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°

Akutagawa ran drills like they were preparing for war: she snapped orders, pushed Atsushi around, and demanded more, more, more, until Atsushi felt like she was about to collapse. Only when she recoiled from Rashoumon’s attack and slammed the back of her head into a shelf did Akutagawa relent, allowing her to drop into a chair beside her desk.

Akutagawa’s desk was painstakingly tidy. Everything had a proper place—pens lined by size and color, documents sorted by subject, and artifacts Atsushi couldn’t begin to name arranged in grids across the back. The only personal keepsake she seemed to keep was a mug adorned with a purple fig pattern. Akutagawa plucked it from her desk, muttering something about tea, and stepped away. The light receded with the click of her heels, but rather than plunging her into cold, staticky, magical darkness, the amber lamp beside the desk cast a cozy glow over the desk.

Atsushi folded her arms across the desk and leaned down. A grandfather clock ticked steadily beside her, its quiet counting of the seconds far more tranquil than its bell. She told herself she’d only close her eyes for a bit, but before she knew it, her thoughts slipped past coherency. She tumbled into sleep faster than she had in a long time.

When Atsushi awoke, it was to a hand gently shaking her shoulder.

“Huh?” Atsushi muttered, sitting up to see who’d joined them—because surely that gentleness couldn’t belong to Akutagawa. But when she blinked past the sleepiness and squinted up, it was the archivist staring back, gaze softer than before. “Oh. You’re back.”

Akutagawa snorted.

“I’ve been back,” she said, gesturing to the clock—how was it this far past midnight?—“and your tea is cold.”

“Sorry,” Atsushi yawned. “I didn’t know I was this tired.” She stretched her arms over her head, her shirt slipping up to reveal a sliver of skin. Akutagawa’s eyes narrowed in her direction.

“You shouldn’t make a habit of exposing your weak points,” she said. Rashoumon lashed out to snap at the bare skin and Atsushi yelped. Strangely, though, it didn’t hurt. Not as much as she expected, at least. She rubbed the tender spot and hunched over.

“How long have I been out?” Atsushi lifted up the mug. She was under the impression Akutagawa had fetched tea for herself, but only one mug sat between them, and the aroma of earl grey with a dash of cream hung in the air. She took a sip—even cold, it was delectable.

“Nearly an hour,” Akutagawa said. “It’s no surprise. Magic draws on your energy, so after practicing that long, your body needs time to recover. Don’t drink that.”

She pushed the mug back down to the desk, and Atsushi furrowed her brow.

“Your next lesson is on elemental magic,” the archivist explained. “You’re free to drink your tea after you’ve warmed it up yourself.”

Apparently, elemental magic wasn’t as straightforward as what they’d learned so far. Unlike protective magic, the impulse to create fire didn’t come naturally in battle, and unlike her transfiguration, it wasn’t an intrinsic ability so much as an untapped skill.

“Fire magic is derived from the breath,” Akutagawa explained. She held up a hand, and Atsushi watched transfixed as she hissed inward. Smoke uncurled from her fingertips. “Oxygen feeds the flame. The steadier your breath, the more stable your magic. But you can’t create fire without a source of fuel.”

“Like wood?”

“No,” she sneered. “We’re magicians, not lumberjacks.”

“I just thought-”

“Enough thinking. When it comes to elemental magic, you need to feel. Water, for instance, draws from feelings of serenity, adaptability, and connectedness. Earth, from resilience and confidence. Air can be propelled from freedom or fear. But fire…”

Akutagawa’s eyes narrowed. She stared into the center of her palm, and Atsushi felt her heart still as the archivist stiffened: she grew tense, her jaw clenched, and the smoke smoldering from her fingertips engulfed into tiny flames.

“Anger,” Atsushi muttered. Akutagawa nodded. She breathed in and out, the flames growing taller with each exhale. Then she closed her eyes, and the flames were gone.

“Fire is fueled by anger and passion,” she said. “But it’s a finicky element with a life of its own. If you don’t control your anger, it will consume you. You’ll be burned.”

Akutagawa pulled the lace hem of her shawl over her fingertips. For a brief moment, Atsushi swore she caught a glance of red scars running down her wrists.

“Shouldn’t I start with a different element?” Atsushi asked. “If fire’s so dangerous, maybe I can start with air.”

“No.”

“But if it draws on fear-”

“No.”

“How about water?”

Akutagawa slammed a hand on the desk.

“This is not a request,” she said. “This is an order.”

Atsushi glared at Akutagawa. The archivist stared back coldly.

“Don’t pretend you don’t have any anger to work with,” she said. “I see that look in your eyes. I felt the power in your attacks.”

“That’s not the problem,” Atsushi grumbled. She turned away, pouting. Memories prickled in the back of her mind. Monster. She felt Akutagawa’s eyes heavy on her expression, the gaze pulling her apart, baring the vulnerabilities beneath. She needed to let go of the anger—the more she felt, the realer the feeling of flesh beneath her nails.

“I see,” Akutagawa muttered. “It’s easy to tether yourself to the past. But if you’re truly as special as Dazai claims, then this shouldn’t be a problem. Your insistence on holding yourself back is a disservice to the Agency.”

“I’m not-”

“More importantly, it’s a disservice to yourself.”

“How’s that?” Atsushi asked. “I know myself. I know I’m impulsive, and emotional, and stubborn.” She hated that Akutagawa nodded without a hint of amusement. “How is it a disservice to myself to know my limits? I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“You might,” Akutagawa said. “And you might hurt yourself. But refusing to learn… Refusing to get to know your powers… That’s a certain path to destruction.”

“I don’t trust myself,” Atsushi said. She hated how small her voice had become.

“Then don’t,” Akutagawa said. “Trust me instead.”

At first, Atsushi laughed.

“Right,” she scoffed. “Trust the woman who wants me out of the way. You’re just waiting for me to destroy yourself so Dazai doesn’t blame you for my failure.”

“I’m serious, weretiger,” Akutagawa growled. “Believe me. If you fail, I’ll be blamed regardless. You don’t have to like me—only to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

“Blaming you wouldn’t be fair,” Atsushi said, turning to peek at Akutagawa. “Dazai believes in you enough to train me.”

“Fool. Dazai does not believe in me. She never has.”

“Then why send me to you?”

“Because for some godforsaken reason, she believes in us,” Akutagawa said. Her eyes were steeled with determination. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t have the luxury to throw such a chance away.”

“What exactly happened between you and Dazai?” Atsushi asked. The archivist didn’t flinch, nor did she respond. But her fist tightened against the wood of the desk. Her knuckles whitened.

“That doubt you feel,” Akutagawa said, “can be used to your advantage. You don’t trust yourself. Why?” Atsushi opened her mouth. “Don’t answer that. Just think about it. Hold the feeling in your gut. Breathe through it.”

Atsushi remembered the metallic stench of blood. She remembered it spattered against rusting bars in her cell at the orphanage. She remembered a cold hand wrapped like a vice around her arm, still a child’s at the time, twisting her wrist. Pulling her forward through the bars. Fear lurched in her stomach. Her jaw clenched and she held her breath.

Monster, a voice said. Look what you’ve done.

“Breathe.” Amber light flickered across the memory. Akutagawa’s voice, quiet yet rough, echoing in her ears.

Abomination.

White crept around the edges of her vision. Heat seeped from her core, creeping down her limbs, writhing in her stomach, pulling at her chest.

The very manifestation of sin.

Who had spoken those words? The orphanage director, eyes narrowed in disgust? It didn’t sound like her voice anymore. It had warped into something smaller: a whisper echoing from the back of her own head. But why?

Why was she blamed for a nature she couldn’t control? Atsushi knew she had destroyed—she’d hurt people in her transmuted form. People were dead because of her. The orphanage attempted to beat the monster out of her, but if Akutagawa was right—if the suppression of her ability only encouraged a lack of control—how was she culpable?

Atsushi pulled ragged breaths through her chest, the sickening heat of anger and realization seizing her body. She squeezed her eyes shut and leaned her fists on the desk. She was nauseous—she needed to ground herself. But when she opened her eyes, everything had blurred. Not from tears, but from smoke, pouring from her clenched fists.

The fists weren’t human.

Monster.

“No!” Atsushi snarled and slammed her hands on the desk, a wave of heat and light flashing from her palms. Flames swept over the desk, engulfing the mug entirely. Too much! Atsushi gasped and pulled her hands back, but the flames followed her, singing fur and trailing up her arms.

Akutagawa’s hands rose, and in an instant Atsushi felt the air disappear from her lungs, the flames dancing as the archivist moved the very air around them. They swirled around Akutagawa, embers sparkling until she dipped her head and the flames extinguished.

Atsushi’s mouth hung open. Steam rose from the mug.

“I thought I was going to burn down the library,” she said.

“You were,” Akutagawa replied. “But you can’t. I refuse to allow it, which is exactly why you’re trusting me.”

The desk was scorched, and the edges of a few documents had browned and curled in the heat. Atsushi’s fur still bristled. The stench of burning fur mixed with the pleasant aroma of tea was strange, but…

“I did it,” Atsushi said.

“Don’t act surprised. I told you you would.”

“I guess, but-”

“Just drink your tea.”

Atsushi sighed but lifted the mug to her lips. The ceramic was hot in her hands, and she took a sip—the rich flavor of earl grey had a burnt aftertaste, but it was still the best she’d ever had.

“I’m sorry I ruined your desk,” she said, trailing a finger through the sooty surface. “Are there any spells that can fix it?”

“Try a wet rag. It’s all superficial. Your arms, on the other hand…”

Atsushi glanced down to see fur smoothing into skin. Where the fur had been singed, burn marks were blossoming over her skin. Angry red patches and tiny blisters stretched up to her elbows. They would soon heal, thanks to the tiger’s abilities, but before she could explain this to Akutagawa, cold fingertips grazed her wrists and Atsushi stilled—frozen in place like she was when Akutagawa drew the breath from her lungs.

“When you drew away from the flames,” the archivist explained, fingertips trailing up her arms, tracing around the burns where her skin had started to swell, “your fear consumed your anger. You invited elemental influences of air and fed the fire.”

“So,” Atsushi said, shivering when Akutagawa’s stilettoed nails pressed into the tender skin, “I managed to summon two elements instead of one?”

“Emotions, like the elements, exist in harmony.” Akutagawa’s hand disappeared to open one of the desk drawers. In its absence, the pain caught up—the sting of fire throbbing with each beat of her heart. Akutagawa unscrewed the vial and poured its contents into her palm.

It was only water. But when those dark eyes of her gazed into the tiny pool, its surface seemed to glimmer. She laid her hands back on the burns and Atsushi released a shuddering breath at the coolness. For a moment, it felt sharp, until a soft glow emanated from beneath her hand.

Atsushi was transfixed. She had so many questions, but she couldn’t let them distract her from the sight of Akutagawa’s head bowing over her shoulder in concentration. It was a stony expression: poised and collected, her pale pink lips barely moving as she muttered an incantation.

This witch, this archivist… She was raw power and sharp edges, but throughout the night, Atsushi’d come to see the grace she kept hidden inside, running through her like veins of quartz in black tourmaline. Not patience, not warmth—but something that felt more real. The ability to understand Atsushi, in all the ugliest ways, and to refuse to look away.

Akutagawa pulled back, and her skin was unmarred.

“Teach me how to do that,” Atsushi said, eyes drifting past the red scars wrapping around the other’s wrists. Akutagawa looked back, eyes narrowed, making no effort to pull the lace over and hide them this time.

The clock struck the hour, and Atsushi yelped when the bell reverberated through the archives. Akutagawa snickered—snickered!—as it counted out six hours once more. Morning. By the time it settled, Akutagawa had as well. Atsushi felt her cheeks burn.

“Loud, isn’t it?” Akutagawa said. “You slept through it before.”

“So?”

“So,” Akutagawa said. “Go home. Sleep for more than an hour. I’ll determine what you’re ready for this evening.”

Atsushi sighed but stood anyway, stepping into the darkness to find that it no longer washed over her like hungry static—the light followed her on her own. A smile split her face as she continued further.

“Atsushi,” Akutagawa called. She turned back to see the archivist slip into her chair, shoulders drooping in exhaustion. Would she sleep there? Atsushi couldn’t help but imagine what she’d look like, dark lashes stark against pale skin and eyebags. She wasn’t the only one who needed rest.

“Yes?”

“When you return, you’d better have your library card.”