I woke screaming.
My voice tore out of me, raw and broken, echoing off the walls of my bedroom. My body jolted upright, heart slamming so hard it hurt, lungs burning as I drew in air that felt too thin to be real.
"No!" I gasped, clawing at the blanket twisted around my legs.
The room was dark. Familiar.
My posters. My desk. The faint glow of streetlight slipping through the curtains. No glowing sand. No ocean. No shadows crawling across the floor.
Just my room.
My door burst open.
"Taty!"
My mother rushed in, hair loose, pajamas mismatched, panic written across her face. She crossed the room in seconds and sat on the edge of my bed, hands gripping my shoulders.
"Hey, hey, you're okay," she said urgently. "You're home. You're safe."
I shook uncontrollably, breath coming in short, helpless sobs.
"I… I couldn't breathe," I whispered. "There was… there was water."
She pulled me into her arms without hesitation, rocking slightly the way she used to when I was little. Her scent—soap, fabric softener, something warm and achingly real—wrapped around me.
"It was a nightmare," she murmured, stroking my hair. "Just a bad dream."
I clutched her shirt like letting go would send me back there.
"No," I said hoarsely. "It felt… it felt too real."
"That's what nightmares do," she replied softly, pressing her cheek to my head. "They lie."
Slowly, my breathing steadied. My heartbeat eased from a frantic gallop to something closer to normal.
She leaned back just enough to look at me. "Do you want some water?"
I nodded weakly.
She stood, poured a glass from the pitcher on my desk, and held it for me while I drank, her hand never leaving my arm.
"There," she said quietly. "Try to sleep again."
I stared past her, at the far corner of my room.
The shadows there were wrong. Too deep. Too still.
My mother followed my gaze and frowned slightly. "What is it?"
"Nothing," I lied quickly.
She studied me a moment longer, then kissed my forehead. "I'll be right down the hall if you need me."
She turned off the light and closed the door most of the way, leaving it cracked open the way she always did.
I lay back against my pillows, staring at the ceiling.
My hands trembled as I lifted them into the dim light. For a heartbeat, I expected to see symbols glowing beneath my skin.
There was nothing.
Just me.
Just my room.
Just a dream.
Still… my chest felt tight.
And just before sleep crept back in, I could have sworn I heard a voice—low and distant, threaded through the dark like a promise.
Remember
I squeezed my eyes shut. And I slept.
Next day the sun shone on my face, warm and persistent, and I couldn't ignore it.
I groaned softly and turned onto my side, reaching out for the edge of my bed, muscle memory guiding me without thought.
My hand didn't find it.
Instead, it sank into more layers of mattress, softer than anything I owned, yielding beneath my fingers as if welcoming the touch. I frowned, still half-asleep, and shifted again, expecting to feel the familiar drop where the bed ended.
There was no drop.
Just more softness.
My eyes opened.
Light spilled across the room in slow, golden ribbons, catching on stone walls that curved instead of meeting in corners. Tall windows—too tall—let sunlight stream through glass faintly tinted with color, painting the air in muted blues and ambers. Dust motes drifted lazily, glowing as they moved.
This wasn't my room.
I turned my head too fast, and the world lurched. My stomach rolled. The bed beneath me was too wide, too soft, swallowing me in layers of warmth that didn't belong to me. A heavy canopy rose above—carved wood and hanging curtains of deep green velvet stitched with faint silver thread that caught the light as if it remembered stars.
No.
No, no, no.
The air smelled different, too.
Old. Clean. Like parchment, fire, and something herbal I couldn't name.
My pulse hammered so hard my ears rang.
This wasn't my room.
This wasn't—this couldn't—
My breath caught.
I forced myself upright, hands bracing against the blanket. And froze.
Bandages.
White strips wrapped around both hands, and knee. And someone had changed my clothes; I was dressed in clean white pajamas.
I swallowed, throat dry.
So it was real.
The beach.
The fire.
The pain.
And that meant—
I swung my legs off the bed, bare feet landing on cold stone. The chill shot up my calves—grounding and cruel. I took one shaky step, then another, trying to outrun the dizziness, trying to make my mind catch up.
There was a fireplace across the room, embers glowing like sleeping eyes. Shelves climbed the stone walls—old books, jars filled with dark liquid, a brass instrument slowly turning on its own as if searching for something. Everything looked like it belonged in a story someone told children to make them brave.
But nothing about this felt like a story.
It felt like a trap dressed up as wonder.
My gaze snapped to the chair beside the bed.
Alice.
She was slumped in it, asleep—head tilted to one side, hair loose, face drawn with exhaustion. One hand rested near the edge of the mattress, like she'd been waiting for me to wake and sleep had taken her anyway.
My chest tightened.
Not with relief.
With anger.
With fear.
With that nauseating, crawling uncertainty.
Was she real?
I took a step toward her, then stopped, suddenly terrified of how close I was. I backed away, my breath coming too fast.
No. No. Think.
Home. I was at home.
My mother had held me. Her arms around my shoulders. The smell of her skin, her voice, the thin crack of hallway light under my door.
But then why did my hands hurt?
Why did I remember salt on my lips?
Why did I remember violet eyes in the dark—and a voice that sounded like it knew me better than I knew myself?
My vision blurred, and for a second the stone walls shimmered like heat haze.
I heard noise then—distant chatter drifting through the door. Voices. Footsteps.
Guards?
I walked toward the window.
Beyond the glass stretched towering spires of pale stone, bridges arcing impossibly between them, ivy crawling up walls engraved with faintly glowing runes. In the distance, courtyards opened like living diagrams, people moving along the paths below.
Uniforms.
School uniforms.
Is this… the academy?
The word landed in my mind fully formed, though no one had said it to me yet.
My stomach dropped.
I blinked hard.
Behind me, Alice stirred.
Her eyes opened, unfocused at first, then locking onto me.
"Taty?" she whispered, voice thick with sleep. "Oh, thank God. You're awake."
I flinched at the softness.
It sounded rehearsed. It sounded like the way people talk right before they say something awful.
"Don't," I rasped.
Alice pushed herself upright carefully, as if any sudden movement might set me off. "Don't what?"
"Don't say my name like we're… like you didn't—" My voice broke. I swallowed hard and tried again, louder, sharper.
"Where am I?"
Alice's gaze flicked to my hands, then back to my face. She looked guilty. The kind of guilty that confirms everything.
"You're in a protected room," she said slowly. "You needed medical care. You—"
"I was home," I interrupted, shaking my head. "I woke up at home. My mom came into my room."
Alice went still.
My stomach dropped, because her expression didn't say I was wrong. It said she knew exactly what I was talking about.
"That…" Alice began, then stopped, as if choosing her words could keep me from falling apart. "That wasn't… it wasn't the way you think."
I laughed—one short, broken sound.
"Then what was it?" I demanded, stepping back until my shoulders hit the bedpost. The carved symbols in the wood felt warm against my skin, like it was alive. "A trick? A spell? Did you put it in my head to calm me down? Did you… did you use my mother's face to keep me quiet?"
Alice's eyes widened, pain flickering across them.
"No," she said quickly. "Taty, I would never—"
"You already did," I snapped.
The embers in the fireplace brightened. The air thickened, the way it did right before the firestorm—before the world bent around my panic. I saw Alice notice it too.
Her hands lifted, palms open.
"Okay. Okay, breathe. Just breathe."
"Don't tell me to breathe," I hissed, and the room seemed to lean closer, listening.
My bandaged fingers curled into fists. The wraps creaked. I stared at them, at the clean white lines covering proof I couldn't explain away.
My mind tried to pull me back to my bedroom, to my mother, to normal. But my body didn't believe the lie anymore. And that was the worst part—I couldn't tell which reality I was supposed to trust.
I looked at Alice, voice shaking.
"If you're real," I said, "then you kidnapped me."
Alice flinched, like the word struck her.
"And if you're not," I whispered, "then I'm losing my mind."
The room held its breath.
And Alice, very quietly, said,
"You're not losing your mind, Taty. You're waking up."
"You're safe," Alice said again, voice shaking. "Taty, please—"
"Don't taty me!" I snapped.
I grabbed the nearest thing—a heavy book with a cracked leather spine—and threw it. It slammed into the wall beside her and thudded to the floor.
Alice didn't move. Her hands stayed up, palms open.
"I'm not going to hurt you."
I laughed, sharp and ugly.
"Oh, you already did."
I snatched a glass jar from the shelf. It was warm, like it had been sitting too close to the fire. I hurled it. It shattered at her feet, liquid splashing dark across the stone. Alice flinched.
"You remember sophomore year?" I kept going, words pouring out faster than my breathing. "When I got so angry in the bathroom that the lights started flickering?"
Alice's face tightened.
"Taty—"
"No. Let me talk."
I yanked another object—something brass and oddly shaped—and threw it hard enough that it rang like a bell when it hit the bookshelf.
"You came in like some hero," I shouted. "You took my wrists and you said, 'Breathe with me. In. Out.' Like you'd done it a thousand times."
My bandaged hands clenched so tightly the wraps creaked.
"And it worked," I whispered, my voice breaking with rage. "It always worked. Every time I was about to lose it, you were just there. Like magic."
Alice swallowed.
"I was your friend."
"Was it friendship?" I demanded, sweeping my arm across the shelf again. Books and jars toppled, clattering and breaking. The floating candles flickered violently overhead, reacting to my surge.
"Or were you managing me?" I screamed. "Monitoring me? Keeping me quiet so nobody would notice what I was?"
Alice took a step forward, instinctively.
"Taty, stop—"
"Stop?" I grabbed a candleholder—real metal, cold—and threw it. It sailed past her head and smashed into the stone with a brutal clang.
Alice jerked back.
"You knew," I said, my voice trembling now, the words turning sharper with every breath. "You knew something was wrong with me. You knew before I did."
She shook her head, eyes glossy.
"Not like this…"
"But you still stayed close," I cut in, pointing at her with a bandaged finger like it was a blade. "You sat under the stairwell that first day we met, pretending to be quiet and normal." I laughed again, bitter. "And I dropped my books, remember? And you helped me pick them up."
Alice blinked, confused and pained.
"Taty…"
"You looked at me like you recognized me," I said, stepping toward her without meaning to, the carved bedpost warming behind me as the room reacted. "And you said—" My voice sharpened into a perfect imitation.
"You look like someone who keeps holding their breath."
The tears came without warning.
I flung my arms wide, the bandages stark and bright in the firelight.
"Who says that to a stranger?" I demanded. "Who notices breathing like they're counting it?"
Alice's hands trembled.
"I—I was trying to help."
"No," I whispered. "Whatever that was, it wasn't helping."
The room hummed, low and tense. The fire flared, embers lifting like sparks caught in a held breath.
And for a moment, I wasn't sure if the heat in my chest was anger or power, waking up because it liked being fed.
After the last book hit the floor, there was a pause—a strange, waiting stillness, like the room itself was holding its breath.
Alice stood where she was, hands still raised, eyes never leaving mine.
Then, suddenly, the door opened.
No crash. No rush. Just the quiet, deliberate turn of a handle.
Dreck stepped inside first, slow and careful, like he was approaching a cornered animal. His hands were visible, empty, his expression tight but gentle.
"Taty," he said quietly. "We heard things breaking. Can we come in?"
As if it mattered.
Taylor stepped in behind Dreck, his posture straight, shoulders squared in a way that made the air feel heavier. He wore a fitted black uniform, sharp and unadorned, the fabric crisp as if it had been pressed for ritual rather than comfort. Across his chest, a series of thin silver stripes—three short, parallel slashes—caught the morning light.
His gaze swept the room—upturned shelves, shattered glass, the fire burning higher than it should—before settling on my bandaged hands, then rising to meet my eyes.
"Don't you dare," I warned him.
He didn't answer. But he didn't look away either.
Last came a woman.
She wore a fitted, military-style uniform, dark and unadorned, her insignia subtle but unmistakably official. Her dark hair was pressed straight back from her face, not a strand out of place, the severe style sharpening the angles of her cheekbones. A few strands of silver caught the light near her temples—not weakness, but the quiet mark of experience.
Her movements were unhurried, deliberate, her boots sounding softly against the floor. She carried herself with the composure of someone used to walking into volatile situations—and refusing to let them control the room.
Her gaze moved across the space once, steady and assessing, not searching for danger so much as measuring it. Nothing in her expression was hurried, and nothing was uncertain.
She closed the door behind her gently.
"My name is Professor Ravel," she said, her voice level. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you."
I let out a quiet, humorless laugh.
"That's always what people say right before they make it worse."
Professor Ravel inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the point.
"Fair."
She took one step forward. Then stopped, well outside my reach.
"We're going to slow this down," she continued. "No restraints. No suppression. Just space."
Alice exhaled shakily beside her, relief flickering across her face.
Dreck nodded, keeping his voice steady. "Taty, You're safe now."
"Safe." I whispered. The word scraped.
Taylor spoke without raising his voice. "Your emotional state is creating unstable feedback. If it spikes further, this room won't be enough."
"Then stop talking like I'm a malfunction," I snapped.
His jaw tightened, but he didn't argue.
Professor Ravel's voice cut through the tension like a blade, calm but firm. "Everyone, outside. Now."
Dreck and Taylor hesitated, but a subtle nod from her was enough. They backed toward the door, glancing at me once, uneasily, before slipping out. The door clicked shut. Silence.
Alice stayed where she was, but Ravel's eyes flicked to her. "You can leave too. I need a word with her alone."
Alice swallowed and nodded, retreating without another word. The air felt lighter almost instantly, the oppressive weight of too many eyes leaving behind a strange emptiness.
Professor Ravel took a slow step closer, her heels clicking softly against the stone floor. Her dark uniform was immaculate, her hair pressed back tight, not a strand out of place. She moved with a measured precision, every motion deliberate.
"Sit," she said softly, gesturing to a low chair across from her. Her tone wasn't demanding, but it carried a weight I couldn't ignore. My chest tightened as I obeyed.
She remained standing for a moment, watching me, her hands folded lightly in front of her. Then, finally, she leaned against the edge of the desk behind her, her gaze never leaving mine. "Breathe, little one" she said quietly.
I wanted to scoff, to tell her I didn't need anyone telling me how to breathe, and that I am not that short! But something about her, something in the tilt of her head, the way her dark eyes measured me, made my hands stop trembling for the first time since I woke.
Ravel studied me for a moment, her gaze steady, almost clinical but not unkind.
"You want answers," she said.
"Yes," I whispered. My throat felt tight. "I think… I deserve them."
"You do," she agreed simply.
She moved to the window, hands clasped behind her back, looking out over the distant towers.
"You have abilities," she said. "Unstable ones. Rare ones. They manifest in response to emotion—fear, anger, distress. When uncontrolled, they can be… destructive."
My stomach dropped. "The fire…"
"Yes," she said. "And other incidents before that, whether you realized it or not."
I thought of flickering lights, cracking glass, heat in my chest that had never made sense. My fingers tightened in my lap.
"So what is this place?" I asked quietly.
"The Academy," she said, turning back to me. "A place where people like you learn control. Discipline. Restraint. Without it, your power will eventually harm you—or someone else."
I swallowed. "And Alice? The others… did they know?"
Ravel's expression softened slightly. "They knew enough to follow orders. Nothing more. Your friends were not free to disobey, Taty. None of us are, when lives are at risk."
A sharp, bitter ache twisted in my chest, but it wasn't anger this time. Just… tiredness.
"They brought me here?" I asked.
"No" Ravel said calmly.
"Then how did that I get here?"
"Alice found you in her room. This room." Her gaze moved slowly over the scattered books and broken glass. "I can see you've made quite a mess of it."
"I remember waves… I was at home, and then I was here."
Professor Ravel studied me for a moment, her expression thoughtful rather than surprised.
"Hm," she said quietly. "Interesting."
She clasped her hands behind her back, pacing once, slowly, as if choosing her words with care.
"Well, Taty… this world is not like yours. It is full of secrets—things that stopped surprising me a long time ago." Her eyes met mine, steady and unreadable. "And you," she added softly, "will come to understand them. All of them. In time."
Silence stretched between us. I stared at the floor, at the faint patterns in the stone, trying to make sense of a world that had tilted under my feet.
"Can I go home?" I asked finally.
Ravel didn't answer right away. And somehow, that told me everything before she spoke.
"No," she said gently. "Not yet."
My chest tightened.
"You are now part of this Academy," she continued. "And until you can control what you are—truly control it—you will not be allowed to leave."
The words settled over me like a weight. Not cruel. Not angry. Just final.
I stared at her. "How long?"
"That," she said, "depends entirely on you."
"That answer unsettled me more than any explanation could have."
I swallowed, my throat suddenly tight.
"What about my parents?" I asked. "They'll look for me. They'll be worried."
For the first time, something in Professor Ravel's expression shifted—not quite pity, not quite regret. Something quieter.
"They won't suffer as much as you fear," she said gently.
I frowned. "What does that mean?"
"This academy," she replied, "does not simply take students and leave chaos behind. Measures are taken. Time… memory… perception. The world you came from continues, but not always in the way you expect."
A chill crept through me. "You mean they won't remember me?"
Ravel held my gaze. "I mean they will not be left helpless with grief they cannot understand."
"That's the same thing," I snapped.
"No," she said softly. "It isn't."
Silence settled between us, heavy but not cruel. I stared at my hands, trying to imagine my mother waking up, walking past my empty room… and not knowing why it felt wrong.
My chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with burns or power or fear.
"You will see them again," Ravel said at last, her voice steady. "But not until you can control what you carry. That is not punishment, Tafukt. It is protection for them, and for you."
I didn't answer. I wasn't sure I believed her.
But I wasn't sure I didn't, either.
And somehow, that uncertainty hurt the most.
I looked down at my bandaged hands, at the faint ache beneath the wrappings. A strange, hollow quiet settled inside me, not acceptance, not yet, but something close to exhaustion.
Ravel studied me for another moment, then said, almost to herself, "Still… the timing is surprising."
I looked up. "What do you mean?"
But she only shook her head slightly. "You'll understand later."
That answer unsettled me more than any explanation could have.
She stepped back toward the door, then paused, looking at me one last time. Her gaze was calm, steady—and faintly approving, as if I had passed some test I didn't know I was taking.
"And prepare yourself." she said
"For what?" I asked.
"The Fest," she replied.
The word meant nothing to me, but something in the way she said it made a chill run down my spine.
Ravel opened the door. Alice was waiting outside, tense and pale.
"Miss Alice," Ravel said calmly, "help her prepare. She will need clothing, she can eat after the Fest"
Alice nodded immediately. "Yes, Professor."
Ravel's eyes flicked back to me, just for a moment.
Then she left.
And somehow, the room felt emptier without her.
Five minutes later, The door opened again. Alice stepped inside.
She wasn't in her usual casual clothes. Instead, she wore a uniform, black, sleek, and fitted for movement, but unmistakably a school outfit. A short pleated skirt brushed her knees, paired with a fitted jacket that ended just above her hips. O two range straps ran diagonally across her chest and shoulders, glowing faintly like threads of captured sunlight, a subtle sign of the academy's magic. Her blouse underneath was crisp, white, the collar neatly pressed, and a small emblem embroidered on the lapel caught the firelight, shimmering with an otherworldly hue.
Her black knee-high boots were polished but soft, the kind students wore when moving through long hallways or cobblestone courtyards. The outfit was simple, practical, and clearly meant for study, but there was a poise to Alice I hadn't seen before—an ease and confidence that made her seem both approachable and untouchable at once.
"Well… still hate me?" Alice asked quietly.
"I don't hate you," I said, staring at the floor. "I thought I was losing my mind, Emm—" I stopped myself and corrected, forcing the word out. "Alice."
I cringed as I said it. The name felt strange in my mouth, like something that didn't belong to me anymore.
I saw the flicker of hurt in her eyes.
She sat beside me on the bed, careful, as if any sudden movement might make me pull away. "I am so sorry," Alice said softly.
"It's fine," I muttered, though my voice sounded hollow even to me. "You were supposed to follow orders."
I pushed to my feet and walked toward the window, needing space, needing air.
"No," she said quietly behind me.
I turned slightly.
"It's not just the orders, Taty," Alice went on. She stepped closer, slowly, until she was standing in front of me. She placed her hands gently on my shoulders, as if asking permission without words.
"After the Fest," she said, her voice steady but soft, "we'll be able to tell you everything. Everything. And you'll understand why I couldn't tell you."
I swallowed, searching her face.
"What's the Fest?" I asked.
Alice's eyes lit up immediately, sparkling in a way I hadn't seen since… before everything.
"It's the best day in Aylem," she said, almost glowing with excitement. "I can't tell you more. You'll see for yourself."
She lowered her voice a little, glancing toward the door. "I'm not even supposed to be talking to you about it."
She crossed the room to a cabinet and pulled out a folded set of clothes.
"Here," she said, handing them to me. "Wear this. I'm so excited for you."
I stared at her, frustration rising again. "Oh my God… why is no one giving me proper answers?" I demanded. Then I gestured toward her outfit. "And what are you wearing?"
Alice looked down at herself and smiled faintly.
"It's our school uniform," she said. "Better than school back home, right?"
She hesitated, then added, "And look, I even have one for you. But this one is for candidats. Your color will…"
She stopped.
For a second she just stood there, perfectly still, like time itself had paused.
Then she collapsed.
"Alice!"
She hit the floor hard. Her face flushed deep red, her eyes squeezed shut, her body trembling like she couldn't breathe.
"Help!" I shouted, panic ripping through me. I ran to the door and flung it open.
The hallway outside was crowded—students, voices, movement—but when they saw me, everything slowed. People stopped and stared, whispering, watching me like I was something strange in a glass case.
"What are you staring at?" I shouted. "I need help! My friend is dying!"
A few of them started laughing.
Laughing.
Something inside me snapped.
"What is wrong with you all?!"
Heat flooded my arms, spreading up through my chest, sharp and wild. My skin prickled, like fire was crawling just beneath it. I felt it building, rising, hungry—
I wanted…
I wanted to burn them all.
"Taty!"
I spun around.
Alice was sitting up on the floor, dragging in air, color slowly returning to her face. She looked shaken but alive.
"I'm okay," she said hoarsely, still catching her breath.
I stared at her, my heart still racing, the heat in my veins fading but not gone.
Alice met my eyes, her expression serious now.
"This," she said quietly, "is why we can't tell you anything yet."