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"Rowena Craft," Martha called, her voice echoing from the grand library door. A cold nod beckoned me inside. I stepped through, the familiar weight of disappointment settling in my chest. The scent of aged parchment and wax welcomed the memories of countless hours spent within these walls. Above her, heavy banners of the High Council hung majestically, their deep greens and argent hues casting flickering shadows that danced upon the polished marble floor, where scholars moved about, whispering secrets among the stacks.

I approached her, feeling the weight of the air around us, thick with unspoken judgment. There were only two things my stepmother concerned herself with: death and disappointment. My fists clenched so tightly at my sides that my nails bit into my palms, a sharp pain I allowed to ground me.

"Head Mage," I greeted with a stiff bow, the hem of my apprentice cloak sweeping the floor—one I foolishly assumed I'd never wear again.

"Someone dismissed Juniper this morning," she remarked, beneath it, I sensed the reprimand. Shelifted a finger, and the winds rose to her command, locking the doors behindthem.

"I see." I could muster no surprise at how fast she was made informed. She overlooked the silence that followed and led me into the grand library without further word. The room was every bit as imposing as its name—velvet rugs muffling my steps, polished sandalwood shelves towering overhead, rows upon rows of scrolls and tomes steeped in history. The scent of ink and parchment should have been comforting. This was the king's gift to the mages for their aid during the Siege. A victory my stepmother wore like a crown, though she had borne none of the weight of it.

Martha gestured toward a stool, sitting with deliberate grace, waiting for me to do the same. The sandalwood's earthy scent clung to the air, offering no solace.

" Today is Choosing Day," she said, her voice clipped and formal.

"As I am aware."

She hesitated, a momentary pause, I wondered if I was going to say anything at all. "Your father would have been proud of how far you've come."

Would have. My fingers dug deeper into my palms. "Indeed."

Her sigh was soft, almost pitying. She rubbed her eyes before speaking again. "Then you might understand why you did not pass." her voice was smooth. Calculated. "He would not have wanted that for you."

My heart stuttered at her words. "How would you know what he wanted?" I shot back, my voice barely keeping my temper in check. Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I cursed the flush that betrayed me. My heart hammered in my ears, drowning out the sound of her reasoning. "He hasn't been heard from in months, you nor I would know his wishes for me."

"He left you under my judgment." I could not imagine any remorse in her tone. "You cannot go against my say." Her pale browned eyes lit with sadistic delight. "One step out of line, Miss Craft, will be your last. I'll make certain of that."

"You presume too much," I ground out. "You think you have the right—"

I couldn't finish. The air thickened, pressing down on my chest, making it difficult to draw breath. How could she speak with such ease, so certain that my future was hers to command? The room seemed smaller, suffocating, the walls pressing in with every passing second. I forced myself to remain grounded.

"He would never want this for me," I snapped, my voice low and venomous. My palms throbbed, blood seeping slowly, a harsh reminder of my place. Frustration swelled within me, and I bit back a scream. She needed a reaction from me, to allow her a reason I was not prepared to be accepted as one of them, and I refused to let her see me unravel. "I am a servant of the king, not of you."

Martha blinked, unmoved. "Do you suppose the king would take kindly to you?" The cruelty struck me bare. "He will ask your head. And do you know who he will ask that from?" her stare bore straight into mine. "Me."

The reality of her statement settled as a boulder sinking into the depths. "You could have warned me," I whispered, a familiar knot of helplessness tightened in my chest, "Instead of dangling my freedom as a reward I would never claim.

"Your freedom?" Martha's lips curled into a mocking smile. "It's not a reward, it's a gamble.

"A gamble I'd gladly take," I shot back, though my voice quivered.

Her shrill laugh caught me by surprise. "And what do you plan to do, Rowena? Run into the wilds with no title, no allies, no power? You'll be dead before reaching the border." Her eyes narrowed, the thin veneer of civility slipping as she leaned forward, her voice low and cutting. "The Mages are your only protection; you are powerless next to your peers. If the King or his men find you or about your lack of affinity, your death will offer no significance to me nor the kingdom."

Like Lena, she spoke no lie. I began to insist, "My affinities have grown-"

"Not enough for even a crofter." She regarded me with cold disdain. "Don't mistake my acts for kindness it is a repayment of my debt to your father. If it weren't for Lena and the household name, I'd give you off to the Kingsmen myself. "

I faltered at her words. The notion of handing me over was nothing more than ridding a nuisance. My anger burned brighter, but beneath it, a spark of fear stirred. She was right. Without her, without the Mages, I was nothing. And that realization—that bitter, inescapable truth—was more suffocating than any words she had spoken.

I straightened, lifting my chin despite the trembling in my fingers. "He would never have wanted this for me," I whispered, more to myself than to her, though my voice was steadier now. "Not like this."

For a moment, Martha said nothing, her gaze unreadable. Then, with a finality that chilled me to the bone, she spoke. "He is not here to decide that."

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The heavy doors of the grand library groaned behind me, sealing away the hollow conversation with Martha and muffling the sound of my breaths, shallow and uneven. My heart thrashed against my chest, not just from the rush of movement, but from the turmoil of emotions—all battling for dominion. It took everything not to scream, to let loose the senseless hope clawing at my throat. But instead, my fists clenched, nails digging once again into the tender flesh of my palms.

The corridor stretched ahead, dimly lit by a few wavering torches. Every arch and corner, a place of study and power. Old iron sconces gleamed faintly, casting faded light on draperies that celebrated the kingdom's triumphs, my thoughts became more glaring in their presence. My eyes traced the intricate inlays of gold and silver that ran along the base of the walls, woven scenes of great victories—battles fought, empires preserved. I pressed a hand to my bleeding palm, wincing, but welcoming the pain as a distraction.

A cold prick behind my neck woke me from my pressed daze. Pausing, I turned, my breath seizing. A wisp of white mist—no, a figure—translucent and silent, hovered at the edge of my vision A fleeting shape—pale as fog, formless as mist. Just as quickly as I spotted it, it dissipated into nothing, leaving only the faintest shimmer behind.

I blinked, unsure whether to question my sanity or to pursue what my gut insisted was real. But before I could dwell on it, a clatter of armor and blade drew my attention.

"Stand aside, girl," the gruff order was directed at me.

I turned to see a dozen guards flanking a man cladded in rich emerald robes, the King's sigil embroidered in gold on his chest—a minister. At the sight of them, my pulse quickened. What could they want? I stepped back into the shadow of a nearby column, heart pounding once again, eager to overhear.

"Chancellor Gandalf, here on behalf of His Majesty," He spoke with command. "I demand an audience with the Head Mage." The few chamber servants and mages on duty hurried to his demand.

It was rare to see royal presence in the Westshores, if the mages were required, they were called to the palace in the northlands, lest the royals waste their boundless treasury on worthless travel. The last I caught a glimpse of a royal was the king's Chamberlain in search of spare chamber servants for the annual Iron Wreath fete, a solemn celebration to honor the fallen of the Seige. If the king's chancellor traveled the way here, I suppose it wasn't to bear pleasant news. I strained to catch more, but before I could press closer, a voice interrupted me from behind.

"Well, what do we have here?"

Startled, I whirled around, my heart lurching, to find a broad young man leaning casually against the stone wall, arms folded. His dark blond hair fell in loose waves, framing a face sculpted with sharp cheekbones and a defined jaw that lent him an air of regal arrogance. His dark green eyes gleamed with mischief, the faint torchlight reflecting in them like a hidden spark of amusement.

The prince. The second-born of Hamelin.

"A lowly apprentice skulking in shadows?" he teased, his voice a rich drawl, though it danced lightly over the moment. He regarded me with a lazy smirk, but beneath that veil of jest, there was always a keen edge to his words. His gaze lingered on me longer than it should, studying me as though I were some curious trinket. "And bleeding, no less."

Before I could offer any defense, a guard approached and respectfully inclined his head to the prince, urging him toward the waiting carriage.

The prince's gaze flicked back to the guards before he offered a final, half-smiling glance. "Try not to bleed on the scrolls," he quipped over his shoulder. The prince's eyes lingered on mine for a moment longer, then he allowed himself to be escorted away, disappearing into the night as though swept by the very wind. Fantastic, the chancellor was farther from hearing range and the king's son noticed my snooping. I convinced myself it was no act of treason, and if so, it can't be spying if the hallway can hear their voices.

Above, the massive iron chandeliers swayed slightly, their candles burning low, even the flames were tiring of this place. As the sound of their footsteps faded, I heard another approaching figure. The head healer, a grizzled man with kind eyes, greeted me with a frown. "Rowena," he began cautiously, his voice low, "did you pass?"

I said nothing, unable to muster a response. The momentary conversation with the prince swapped the earlier dejection.

He sighed. "I feared as much. The Head Mage never sent your letter of recommendation to the King. It seems you were never even considered for the ceremony."

My breath caught, the betrayal sharp and fresh all over again. "I—what?" I swallowed, forcing calm into my voice. "I see."

"Do not lose hope," he said, his tone earnest and eyes softening. "I've sent a personal letter to the king on your behalf. I've detailed your dedication, your progress—everything. He will see your worth."

Warmth spread through me at his kindness, yet my doubts remained. Martha would never approve of it. "Thank you," I said sincerely. "But if it's not meant to be..."

"Nonsense," he interrupted gently, sensing the weight of my resignation. "You've worked too hard to let this deter you.

A fragile smile forced itself on my lips. "Surely the Head Mage will rectify this. It must have been an oversight, nothing more."

He studied me for a moment, his eyes searching for a lie in mine. "If you say so," he said finally, though his expression suggested he knew more than he let on.

He sighed but said no more, placing a reassuring hand upon my shoulder before taking his leave and disappearing into the corridor's gloom. I started towards my chamber, the cloak weighing heavier than it did this morning.

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The ascent to the Mage's Quarters was steep and winding, dust caught the air, stirred by my steps and faintly lit by the narrow shafts of light from arrow-slit windows. I could hear the faint strains of distant voices from below, mixing with the soft drone of preparation—a murmur that drifted up the stairwell and clung to the stone.

My hand brushed the cool rail, feeling the heritage of centuries beneath my fingers, carrying the knowledge that this path had been trodden by countless others seeking the honor of magic's higher calling, yet now, it seemed that honor would not be mine.

I paused, drawn to the narrow lancet window carved into the stone, holding me captive for a breath. From this height, the view of the assembly grounds stretched in full grandeur below, abuzz with the final flourish of preparation for tonight's gathering. Chamber servants bustled, unfurling heavy banners in the hues of the High Council, deep greens and argent, so vivid they seemed to cast their own light. Each banner bore the sigils of ancient alliances, wrought in thread so fine it gleamed even from this distance while fountains, newly filled, let blossoms of silver roses drift upon their waters. Statues of the great Mages stood at intervals, their stone forms bedecked with freshly woven garlands, flowers entwined around each, solemn yet somehow watching over the scene.

In the midst of it all, I spotted Lena. She prowled the grounds like a queen over her court, issuing commands to the chamber servants as if the whole gathering were hers alone to oversee. My heart sank as I watched my half-sister assume command of the grounds with a poise that demanded attention. Her every word sent them scattering, it was Lena's moment under the evening's light.

On the opposite side of the grounds, I saw Vae. She stood among the warrior apprentices, their heads bent in hushed conversation. Yet, even from here, I saw the storm in her expression, as grim and conflicted as mine had been that morning. Vae's presence grounded me, and for a moment, my heart ached with a quiet, distant hope—we should have faced this moment together, I had spent years yearning to escape this gilded cage, to break free from my stepmother's iron grip. I had borne my stepmother's hand with little recourse; not even Vae knew the full extent of her tyranny, while Lena took full pleasure in it.

I withdrew from the window, the thought lingering as I ascended the stairs once more, determined not to let my heart be so easily swayed by disappointment, willing myself not to be drawn into regret. This is not my last chance, I resolved. I won't let it be. That day would come, and I would see it through—not for pride or privilege but for the freedom it offers.

The resolution settled in my mind like a flame rekindling from its ashes. When I reached my chamber, I was greeted by an unexpected sight. Juniper knelt beside the hearth, sweeping away remnants of the raven's mess, her face bent and solemn. "Juniper," I started, surprised, "I told you to take your rest."

She looked up, offering me a weary smile. "I know, miss, but..." She glanced aside, as though fearing her words might bear reproach. "The Head Mage... saw fit to remove me from your service. She's assigned me back to the kitchens."

My heart clenched at her confession. "Why? What cause—"

"She claims I neglected my duty," Juniper murmured, barely more than a whisper. I noted the tremor in her hands. "And if I fail to find the spare keys before dusk, I am to be sent to Eastshore—to labor as a crofter."

A pang of bitter guilt swept through me; Juniper had paid the price for my impulsive dismissal— Martha's cruelty spilling into places that had no right to bear its weight. "Don't fret," I said quietly, a vow veiled in my words. "We'll find the keys. You have my word that you won't be sent off to the Eastshores."

She had no reason to trust a promise from me, yet relief kindled in her eyes as she murmured her thanks before rising and bowing out of the chamber.

As the door closed behind her, I let my gaze drift to the solitary portrait on my chamber wall—the image of my father, cloaked in the same robes of the Mages he had once belonged to, his expression severe but his eyes held a warmth that seemed to reach across time. How, I thought, a hollow ache filling the space where his wisdom should have been, could you have left your daughter to the care of such a woman? A flicker of longing stirred within, a yearning for his presence. If he were here, everything might yet be mended. Surely, he would not have allowed his only child to endure such injustices in silence.

With a heavy heart, I turned toward the window. The world stretched out before me, Westshore unfolding in its simple charm. The thatched roofs of market shops jostled beneath the skyline, each hut and archway a blend of old stone and freshly hewn wood nestled close to the Sanctorium's stone walls. Shops of brewers and apothecaries lined the narrow paths, their wares of antidotes and charms bringing life to these crooked streets. Farther still lay the fields of training, where steel met steel in the hands of warriors-to-be, a screech of resolve I longed to wield in my own life.

As I took in the expanse of Hamelin, my gaze caught on a glimmer by the window ledge. Moving closer, atop a raven's nest of woven twigs, lay a small ring of keys bound in leather, glinting in the last light of the day. Near it rested a lone feather—black as midnight, with a subtle iridescence that caught the dimming light, left in a silent gift.

I held the keys in her palm, each one shaped to unlock the chambers of the mages' towers, including the Head Mage's. A thrill of revelation tingling at my fingertips. These keys were more than a simple gift; they were an invitation, perhaps, to the freedom I sought. Maybe fortune did decide to smile upon me. I muttered a soft prayer of gratitude. And wondered, as my fingers tightened around them, if I would miss any part of this life I was ready to leave behind.

"Oh, you wretched bird." I whispered with a smile.

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